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Chapter Text

“Finally. Fucking hells,” a caravaner exclaimed loudly.

Tav noticed the twilight lights of Baldur's Gate waking up in the distance. The caravaners he was escorting spurred the oxen on to no great result. They were attacked earlier but Tav's contract did not stipulate any bonus for heroic defence. He could feel the dry blood sticking to his skin, slithered through the cracks of his plate armour, chafing uncomfortably in what some whimsical holy men called their innermost sanctum. 

Tav could already picture it. On the morrow, lounging in the sun. His large body would somehow fit in a red velvet armchair, and he’d drag through empty mornings at the harbour's terraces, coffee and water pipes, with screeching seabirds slowly circling overhead.

He sighed deeply. Miles still separated him from his fantasy, and hours stood between him and the sun. 

Since the brain fell, time for Tav had seemed to drag on and race by simultaneously. Months had passed on the paladin's path. Staying idle was foreign to Tav's nature : as his companions had scattered, licking their wounds, Tav had jumped head first back into the fray. He paid for it cruelly now, exhausted to the point of mindlessness. He had not planned to stop long in the Gate but the break imposed itself in his mind, inflexible, as he walked his last mile in silence.

Later they reached the gates in Wyrm’s Crossing, and he collected his gold at the caravan stations. Ox shit and sweat permeated the air, and clean, perfumed couriers took on the letters and parcels headed to the marble splendours of the upper town. A belfry rang eleven. Who has need of a letter at such late hours, Tav pondered in all his countryside innocence, before heading into town. The bridge was still buzzing with activity, the sun down but the air warm, lively.

"Hey Paladin, hungry?" beckon, echoed, the voices of many street food sellers. Tav is not hard to miss, towering over most people, and wide as a bull. "I ain't never seen a drow that fucking large, mate" the meat griller says, "Want some roast? You look like you can empty my stand. I'll go get you a fresh pig or two if it ends that way".

"Half-drow," Tav spits, never not resenting his wretched blood. "The best part of me was as huge as I am. Now get me that pork shoulder and tell those wretched street kids around to stop fluttering around my purse, lest you -and them- fancy to see the Chiontar’s bed from closer." Raising his voice, the kids all scuttle away.

The seller just laughs and hands him a hollowed bowl of potatoes and another of meat. Roasted shoulder. Some beer sauce, dark and syrupy. Tav could verily weep at the sight and the smell.

"You'd throw those poor orphans off the bridge, paladin?"

"Absolutely. I'm as big as a Steelwatcher and twice as mean," Tav says, giving greasy pieces of potatoes to a particularly miserable child that chose to sit next to him. The others gawked from afar.

*

Tav pushes the tavern's heavy door, bending his head at the threshold and bracing for the curious looks he always gets. His weary full plate, blood stained hair, heavy travel bag slung over the shoulder and the flail on his back rattling and screeching as he sways: it all paints a very fearsome image. The kindness he knows resides in him doesn't shine through his sombre eyes.

As many eyes turn on him, he walks straight and loud to the counter, thinking, rehearsing: the strongest pint you have my friend, and a room to rest my bones.

"Tav, my dear? Over here!"

Sitting perched on a bar stool, an elbow nonchalantly resting on the beer-sticky countertop, is the familiar figure of Astarion, beckoning him over, a wide smile splitting his usually cruel face, eyes shining.

With him are two dark-clad figures, Tiefling women, and Astarion's white skin sticks out like a patch of snow in spring, surrounded by grime. A feathered hat, tall laced boots with a heel of perfectly androgynous height, a stiff and colourful striped bodysuit. Over it he wears a most peculiar leather jacket tailored with a cropped cut, stopping over his ribs, and padded shoulders, making the elf look comically broad. You look like a pimp, Tav thinks.

"You look dashing," he says.

Astarion slips gracefully from the stool, the iron of his heels loud on the wooden floorboard, offering a slow turn before looking up, down, and up again, in Tav's eyes. Tav embraces him shortly, careful not to send Astarion crashing against his armour as his arm circles his much frailer friend. Astarion wriggles away quickly, equally careful not to nick himself on the metal plates.

"Wish I could return the compliment darling. What hole have you been crawling out of?" he says, taking a step back as he observes Tav.

"Trollclaws. Simple caravan escorting work. Got attacked on the way here. Clueless buggers, but anyway. Are you buying me a drink?" noticing eyes on him, Tav adds, "And introducing me to your charming company."

And so, introductions are made, the two Tiefling girls gawking at his blood-speckled armour, or chivalrous features. It’s hard to tell. One of them extends her hand and he kisses it, expecting a virginal giggle but receiving the crooked look of someone who thinks they just established dominance. Tav's mood sours on the spot.

"The foolish matron that let such a charming drow stallion run away is out of her mind," Joanna says, low pitched, looking through her eyelashes.

"Don't start flirting, you know they keep them caged up," Chim completes, gesturing a cock with the wiggle of her finger.

"You girls are absolutely awful. Please don't mind them," Astarion says, his hand dropping preciously on Tav's gauntlet, clearly enjoying the show with wicked glee, barely disguised as hindrance.

"Half-drow," he mutters, "As for your theory, check for yourself. Show me some lock-picking, little devil," he adds, jesting, schooling his features into stone, split by a half smile.

When the girl does, twinkling eyes under downcast horns, he expects the bit to stop at her hand peeking under the codpiece, but she grabs his cock through the undergarments, assessing it coldly, and he has to catch his breath as the air leaves his lungs suddenly.

"How disappointing, guess those gaudy books lied all along. Free as the winds," she says, staring at him, and removing her hand, at last.

Tav wishes he could still reach for his tadpole and probe Astarion's mind about the demented company he seems to keep, but the look he sends him seems to convey the message as accurately.

"Days on the road, grime, sweat, finally put my ass down. And it's between the three meanest, weirdest buggers I could imagine. Nine hells," Tav laments, his eyes locked on Astarion's, and the elf has the audacity to smirk.

"Now buy me a pint, Fangs, you little rascal, or I'm smiting you," he adds, digging his plated index finger in Astarion's chest, but there’s no air to knock out of there.

Tav does finally get treated to a drink, no beer but two bottles of a white wine that's entirely too good for this shady inn, coming with four dainty crystal glasses. He downs his first in one go and sets it on the table as delicately as one can when armoured in full plate. Astarion laughs and it would almost sound genuine to an untrained eye.

"Thought you favoured red," Tav mumbles.

"You know me well," he smiles, honestly this time.

Time passes and the bottles drain, followed soon by exquisite brandies. Tav starts worrying about going for a piss and coming back to three empty stools and a hefty bill. He's not unhappy about chancing upon Astarion, and certainly entertained by trading enchanting tales and jokes. The two girls are clearly having a great time. You're just the way Star's been telling us about, they say, and Tav can't figure out if that's a great or a bad thing.

"Do they have rooms here? I'm gods damned exhausted. Been on that blasted path for too long," he whines, stretching his long legs and arms in a cacophony of metal screeches.

"Would not recommend them, honey," Chim says, or is it Joanna?

"Dear, you deserve much better. Just come with me, I have myself fixed with a true palace. Uptown, gilded, a velvety nest," Astarion says, pantomiming opulence with wild flourishes of his hands.

The two girls start giggling. Tav sighs and laughs along, assuming his firm position as the butt of a joke, staring hazily at his glass of brandy and expecting the worst.

"I'm so coinless I might just take the offer. Provided you're not messing with me," he swirls the alcohol in his glass, a purple blush blooming on his pale blue skin.

"I would not dream of abusing my favourite travel companion's trust that way..." Astarion says, and the peculiar mixture of honesty and sarcasm he's demonstrated throughout the evening has Tav feeling restless.

*

Astarion does end up paying, to Tav's relief. The paladin's pockets are as good as empty. Chivalry, courage and goodness of heart have not been paying well. As a hired sword, he barely makes ends meet.

They bid the Tieflings good night, and Tav follows Astarion, his heels snapping on the pavement, -how very unstealthy, he ponders- as they go through the city.

"I'm quite happy to see you, my friend," Astarion says softly.

"That's sweet of you. Where's the trick."

"That comes later."

"Alright. I'll ready up."

The elf turns around, his red eyes two strange beacons in the dark.

"I have not complimented you enough on that outfit, I feel," Tav blurts out. "Please tell me you're not peddling silkroot to unruly rich kids."

Astarion preens at the compliment and at the insult. Tav could swear his ears perk up.

"Gods below, no. I've been living an absolutely honest life since that all nasty business ran its course. My dashing looks are the courtesy of those two ladies you met. Joanna deals in leather, Chim in clothes. I think I’m not much more to them than a breathing, prancing, oh-so-pretty mannequin, but aren't those rags just worth it," he says, basking in the attention.

"So that's what those two wenches do? Quite the company you keep there."

"I'm just smitten with how, pardon the language, bitchy they are. Could not imagine anyone else in Faerûn taking a look at you and proceeding to stick their fingers through the enclosure. They treated me so, too. Directness has its virtues."

"That Chim she-devil certainly was direct."

"Hope no oath of chastity got broken tonight, dear."

"Do shut it," Tav mimics Astarion's voice, honeyed and poisonous, "dear”.

They keep walking, light smiles ghosting on their lips, feeling some form of giddiness. Tav blames it on the drinks. Astarion probably just lets it happen, thoughts scattered.

Tav is first to break the silence:

"Can't wait to change. Don't think I’ve been out of that armour in a while."

"I can smell that."

"Your poor vampire senses. Apologies. Just toss me in a tub when we arrive."

"We're closing by, by the way. I'm afraid I might, however, have played a practical joke on you. My abode is far from a palace."

"I can still find some other place if it's a bother. We can meet tomorrow night. Got some catching up to do. And I need a couple days of rest."

"No, by all means, do come. I own a deviously large bed, you can take it. I trance at days anyways."

"Your insistence worries me, Fangs, how hungry are you?" Tav jokes.

"Not at all, mind you, but I'm... Hard to put it in a non-pathetic way, truly, but I'm quite lonely."

"Oh," Tav casts his eyes down, and a strange silence stretches between them.

*

Astarion gestures to a narrow back alley. Only then does Tav notice that they are definitely not in the Upper City. It’s more a slummy part of town. Deducting from the smell, there must be an abattoir nearby. Convenient, Tav thinks.

They enter a building where Tav has to bend down at every doorstep. A tight staircase leads them to the last floor, where small apartments lay under the roof.

"Give me five minutes to put that place into order. I've been living... A very celibate life, to put it mildly. Would not force a mighty paladin to debase himself so."

"I've seen your tent in camp Astarion, how bad can it be?" Tav chuckles, trying to peek through the door as Astarion stands stubbornly in front of him, stretched on tip-toes to block the sights.

"Bad. Please consider my poor, fouled feelings and comment not. A second, dear".

Tav hears a few muttered ignis , glass clinking, furniture rattling and Astarion muttering in elvish what he assumes are words he would not want his company to hear, were they in common tongue. How very considerate, Tav thinks with a smile.

"Alright, alright, do come in".

As Tav enters, his eyes drop on the bed, and he bursts out laughing. The place is modest, a single room with a paravent and a tub on a corner, a wardrobe, a small table and two chairs against the curtained wall, a ceiling window impeccably covered in light proof fabric, but the bed is somehow twice larger than any Tav has ever seen in his life.

"What kind of- of fucking orgy den even is this," he says through wheezes.

"It's not, gods, gods ! Stop laughing, you towering brute. I just... Saw that gargantuan bed frame at the carpenter and blew my coin away like an imbecile. Wanted comfort, something a bit decadent. After, after, you know..." Astarion gestures, hands waving in fluttering circles.

Tav sobers up quickly at the implications. His eyes roam the room. The biggest part of the mess is gone, empty glasses and vials piled on a crate under the table, clothing probably tucked away in the wardrobe. It's still dusty and sinister, odd shadows cast from every direction where half melted candles stand.

"Can't blame you my friend," he says, dropping a heavy hand on Astarion's shoulder. The elf immediately squirms away and again Tav feels awkward. He stares at his feet where the floorboard is stained with what he assumes is blood.

Astarion's living quarters are marginally better than the rag-covered bloody plank he slept on the road, but it is still quite miserable.

"Privy chamber you'll find in the floor below. Water, lucky you, comes with the basin from some magical nonsensical faucet. As for breakfast, I'm afraid you'll have to go get yourself one on the morrow."

"Thanks," Tav says, running the water and heading downstairs. Coming back, he strips, arranging his armour neatly on the chair and table, and folding his under things with a frown - making a mental note to have them follow suit on the water once he'll come out.

"Soldier boy, weren't you," Astarion remarks, lounging with his head on his crossed arms, his colourful bodysuit a vibrant stain on the fresh, black bed sheets.

"I was, I was. I'm not sure I ever mentioned it back then," Tav says, sinking in the hot water with a pleased sigh, his head resting on crossed arms on the tub's edge.

"Oh, I could not have known from our adventures. I thought you some birthright paladin. But now that I see you stripping with not a care in the world and folding your things that way, all so neat, it just seems impossible to not have noticed your military training. Silly me. Even your tent was always impeccable."

"Well, some things do stick. Been quite some years now," Tav says as he rubs the grime of the miles away from his skin- was it always such a light shade of bluish grey?

"I can even teach you how to properly make your bed. It's wrinkled there,” he adds, pointing at the faulty sheet.

"Don't make me regret opening the doors of my abode to you, boy,” Astarion says, rolling his eyes up.

*

They end up chatting for some time, Tav resisting sleep in favour of discovering new facets of his former companion. Astarion questions and questions: what missions he took after the brain, what set of armour and weapons he's currently using, what type of parties happen in paladin chapters and many other harmless pursuits. Tav dares not return the attention, not knowing how to tread around the elf's past and somehow aware of the bleakness of his present, all manifest in that dismal room he must hide in so often. All enquiries seem so intrusive, or plain depressing. He manages to keep his curiosity under control, though devoured by the desire to ask all the silly things regarding Astarion's vampiric nature that he bottled up during their travels.

So Tav answers and answers, feeling a certain kind of warmth a mercenary seldom gets. Hot water and fragrant soaps, the haze of the earlier drinks, and the thrill of company. Tav is no pondering man, and usually doesn't inspect his feelings too closely. Perhaps had he been a bit lonely too since their merry group disbanded.

When he finally exits the water, navigating his large body through the cramped space - hitting his head on the inclined ceiling -, dressing up in wide inside pants and making use of his host's many perfumes, he feels like he's been moulded all anew for the first time in months.

"Most decadent crash house I've ever been to. Fits you," he says, laying down on his back and stretching his massive body on the bed with almost feline grace.

"Shut up," Astarion growls, sitting up.

"That was a compliment."

"In your limited mind, maybe."

"Can't argue with that. But enough enquiries about me," Tav says, shifting to sit on the bed's edge, indenting it, "what have you been up to? Since that all shit ended."

"Well, I bought this place for a start. And what's inside. Been trying to play the hand I've been dealt, dear," Astarion softens. Tav gets the feeling that his prying will be enjoyed until cut short at the whim of his host.

"Good fortune cheating?" Tav quips.

"Gods, no. Only the fairest," he shuffles closer, "most honest", and he slips into his sly, suggestive tones, "of activities. A paragon of virtue, I've become. This being said, I've been living on the coin we made on our little adventure, and it's running low already."

"I'm glad you're walking the good man's path now. Surely no lies would come out of those lips."

"I've never lied in my entire existence. Quite the performance, I'd say. I'm getting pretty antique," he grins.

"Sorry, I'll pry, but any family, relatives you could get back to? Get some coin, place to stay, hells, an occupation," Tav asks bluntly, then continues: "I'm in the shit money wise. But I got the paladin's quarters to crash in, in dire cases. Anything of that sort?".

"The ones I knew, dead I presume. I've searched a bit actually, found some distant descendants in Baldur's Gate. Haven't worked up the courage to meet them. Don't think I ever will."

Astarion gets up and starts acting.

"Hi, oh, oh so very sorry to interrupt. I'm your long gone dead relative. Don't mind the eyes, or the teeth, please let me in, please do invite me in, I beg! What, oh, yes, I do look pretty young, thanks darling. Well, I do use face creams. Now that we're acquainted, got a couple thousands of gold coins for me?"

Tav laughs, watching the theatricals unfold, the coquette looks, the hair twirling.

"Yeah, I get it. And I suppose you don't have gold in the bank from your years of employment,” Tav tests the waters, trying to assess if the whole Cazador part of the story is to be avoided or not.

"On the good side I don't have debts either." Good sport, then. "I've had quite the years stretching on and on and on without any break, any off-days or sick leave, ever. Unruly hours if you ask. Plain dirty work. You know, according to the law of this town… "

"Oh yeah, you were a lawyer weren't you. Never pried past that," Tav interrupts, Astarion's grandiloquent speaking style allowing plenty of time between verses to jut in.

"Magistrate. A bit different."

"Crooked or honest."

Astarion rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically.

"Crooked. If you want to give me your paladin's judgement and scold me, I feel like I've served enough years of sentence already, dear."

"Please continue, I'm so terribly rude," Tav grins.

"Well, as said, according to the rules of the town, a worker is owed a minimum two days of rest per tenday. I've accumulated quite the years of ungiven days in my previous occupation . I've decided to do absolutely nothing for the following years. More accurately, I refuse to do anything.” Astarion says, raising an imperious finger, “I could do with a mountain of gold. I think I deserve it, don't you? Hero of the Gate, saviour of the Coast, and all of that, urgh , do-gooder business. Every day I rot in this attic, when I should be a Duke, covered in gold embroidered silks and rose petals, with an army of blood servants crawling at my feet, bent to my whims." Astarion is petulant, as always, but it doesn't take a lot of wits to notice the ugly undertones. He flops back on the bed.

"And about the whole vampire business. Faring well?" Tav asks sheepishly.

"No. If I wasn't dead already, I'd kill myself," Astarion dramatically fans his hand over his face, then continues, "This whole business as you say is quite hard to tolerate after the tadpole gave me a glimpse of normality. I miss the sun, I truly do," he sighs.

"For all that's worth, I'm sorry for you about all that".

"It's not worth much, but I'll accept it." A small smile, the ghost of kindness on his pale face. "If you knew how silly I feel when asking for permission to enter places. Oh, it's utterly humiliating."

Tav does not really know what to add. Sleep seizes him slowly, and he lays against the back-rest, head cushioned in a pile of soft velvet pillows.

"As for the blood, well, it's not the worst ordeal. Little difference between it and eating meat. I fare well..."

Their eyes meet and Astarion's, impulsively, lower to stare at Tav's neck. Tav sees him swallow, his pale throat constricting.

"Don't give me that look. Creeps me out," Tav softly says, with a half-smile he hopes conveys a light-heartedness about the matter that he does not particularly have.

Astarion's eyes go up again, finding Tav's, and he shuffles closer and grins, making a special effort to show as much fang as he can.

"Prefer this one?"

"Gods below, no," Tav pushes him off gently.

"There's no pleasing you, darling."

Astarion notices Tav's heavy lidded eyes and sits up on his haunches.

"I'll go enjoy the rest of the night with the scum of the Gate. Do rest, my sweet knight. There are still many things I need to touch upon with you. Some that will surely catch your interest," Astarion gets up, quickly rummaging around for his boots and jacket and grabbing his keys from a skull hanger on the wall.

"Have fun."

"Likely at those late hours. I'll be there surely when you awake, and if I'm trancing, do be a sweet thing and refrain from opening any window. If I'm not there..." He opens the door, hand on the threshold, head thrown back in mock agony, "I probably just met my sad, sad fate. Help yourself to my meagre belongings. See you."

"Thanks, little rogueling," Tav says, reclining, "Truly. This is all quite sweet."

"Oh, do shut up, you'll make me tear up if you keep on going..."

One last flourish of the hand and devilish wink and the door closes. Tav barely has time to tuck himself under the sheets before he passes out, a slumber as heavy as death claiming him.

*

Chapter Text

Eventually Tav wakes, the room drowned in perfect darkness. He gets up on instinct, reaches for the curtains and remembers about the sunlight situation before he fucks it all up. A mild headache blooms and he recalls the past evening, looking at the quiet body of Astarion on the other side of the ridiculously large bed. The elf trances, a vague form that Tav perceives roughly in undulating shades of grey. He doesn't breathe, not a single noise escapes him and his torso remains perfectly still. Tav shivers, confronted with the grim reality of this undying corpse, puppetted by the strangest of curses.

A pained moan, high-pitched and pathetic, escapes Astarion's mouth. Tav huffs a breath of relief. He no longer feels like he’s assisting a funeral vigil. Astarion's brows furrow and his eyelids flutter, the underlying eyes wildly agitated by bad dreams, or whatever plagues the reveries of elves. It's all weirdly intimate in a devastating way, and Tav feels his cheeks warming as embarrassment sets in.

He tries to rummage through his pack in silence, grabbing a tunic, breeches and sandals to make a stealthy exit. The keys are where he looks for them. As he carefully opens the door, testing for daylight, he realises he has no idea how late it is. 

He slithers out.

*

It's exactly as he craved, as he pictured : the Mermaid's terrace, the cup of coffee and the endless sea mirroring the sun. Turns out it's late already, a little past noon. The dockers around are eating quick lunches between shifts. Tav feels a bit smug, surrounded by this buzzing activity as he snacks on breakfast fritters and hides his huge face behind the latest edition of the Baldur's Mouth. Tiny glasses sit on his nose, and the bright sun reflects on them, casting little specks of light over the journal's pages.

He hasn't felt so relaxed and rested in months. He remembers laughing at that decadent bed, large enough for an entire paladin phalanx, and sets a note to apologise later. Thinking of Astarion, he wonders how he could be a half-decent guest and bring him a gift later. Black pudding, perhaps? 

*

Tav knocks on the door, softly, and gets no answer. He silently sticks the key in and moves in, catlike. 

He puts the pig blood bottle on the table. What’s the best blood you have , he had asked the butcher, and the broad dwarf had raised an eyebrow quizzically.

He prepares to leave again, surprised that his host would still be out cold. How long do they trance for, again? No point in laying there in the dark.

A little groan compels him before he makes his exit.

"Well, hello, dear," Astarion salutes, waving his hand flabbily then slicking his hair backwards and sitting up, cross legged.

"Hello. Got you breakfast," Tav says, turning on his heels to flop on one the chairs, closing the door behind him.

"You can open those, it's late enough," Astarion waves towards the curtain.

When Tav slides them open, following with the window, the room's orientation manifests in the absence of direct light.

Astarion gets up and trots to the second chair, grabbing the torso piece of Tav's armour and dropping it unceremoniously on the bed. Tav cringes as it lays on its side, the closures bending in an uncouth way, but he decides to ignore the little body shiver he gets and shuts up.

"Breakfast you said, " Astarion touches the bottle and his pointed ears perk up, "Great. Oh. Oh! Still warm, even. Gods, darling, you treat me," he beams up, somehow forgetting to poise his speech in sarcasm or to be annoying just for the sake of it.

"A thank you. Best sleep in ages."

Tav knows it's coming but can't help his gut turning just a little while Astarion drinks from that blood, then carries on talking with dark red stains interlining his perfect white teeth.

"I do hope I did not wake you when I slipped in. I left the hours run a bit too far, had to dash through the town as dawn broke. Almost got a sunburn."

"No worry, I sleep like a stone when I‘m off-duty. Can’t you just prance about in a veil and umbrella, like some mourning widow?"

"Tried, tried. I sometimes have too, for urgent concerns. Recently got a burn though…" and he lets his arm fall on the table, showing a nasty little scab on his wrist, "just here, where the glove and the sleeve meet and separated briefly. Only took a couple of seconds. And somehow the attention I get when fully cloaked under the summer sun is embarrassing, even to me. There is such a thing as too many eyes on one’s self." 

"Fucked up shit," Tav says, still observing the odd stone-like quality of the scab.

"I’d try and put it more politely, but yes. Fucked up shit," Astarion adds, mimicking Tav’s gruff tone. 

Astarion sits on his folded leg, the other extending under the table, lounging in a graceful way that feels as innate to him as breathing is to all others. Tav eyes fall briefly on his abdomen, bared between the sagged indoor pants and the slightly cropped shirt he wore to bed. Out of instinct the elf stretches, exposing more of the pale underbelly where dark hair should be, in a gesture that’s so practised it drips pure poison. It’s only a fraction of a second, but when Tav looks up again, red eyes are waiting for him.

"So how do you spend your days?" Tav deflects, staring out of the window at some providential bird.

"Brooding, lamenting, decaying? Can’t think of any other ing at the moment."

"Loaded agenda."

"More seriously, I read. I try to plan my nightly escapades, go through the papers, Baldur’s Mouth, Undercity Spittle, Gnome Poetics, Weave Compiled : Research Papers From The Sword Coast. I’m waiting for the Definite Solution To Undeath Curses Such As Ghoulification Or Vampires," he says, adopting a scholarly tone that’s clearly a mockery of Gale’s cadence, "I don’t like the cuts of the time so I sew some of my own things. Have you seen how negligent the seam work is on some of those modern garments ? Such sloppiness would have a honest man vilified back in my days." 

"Great. Make me a shirt one of these days. No one ever makes anything pretty for big guys." 

"What’s your budget? Astarion grins, head resting on his hands.

"98 gold coins. Add a magical crossbow that shoots stinking bolts to it."

"Quite the loot. How come you’re in such dire need? I do remember you mentioning gold woes, yesterday."

"I gave away all the coin we made in our travels," Tav says, bracing for the talk.

Astarion’s mouth drops and his eyes round up a bit. He actually keeps silent for a couple of moments, furrowing his brow.

"You have me speechless. Explain."

"Heard they’re building an orphanage. For the victims, Absolute’s army raids. Gave them everything I had and hopped on a caravan mission to Neverwinter. I don’t really know what compelled me. I felt squeamish about resting after the Brain. Needed my mind elsewhere."

"That is the most idiotic thing I have ever heard. I had not imagined you to be that far down the zany path. What’s next? Kittens? Next time money burns your hands, I’ll remind you I’m an orphan as well. And - not to flatter myself - the next best thing to a kitten too."

"Silence. The judgement of the amoral does not stain the paladin’s banner," Tav quotes.

Astarion does not look convinced. His eyes do get a nasty shine to them as the cogs of his mind obviously start rolling.

"Wait. You mean that Tiefling thing right, that Old Bridge House initiative," he says.

"Yes. Was everywhere in the papers before I left."

Astarion starts cackling, and Tav gets mad immediately, his fist clenching on the table.

"Speak. Up," he growls.

"Silence, speak up, make up your damn mind at once," Astarion fires up, his hands agitating. "Well, bravo ! Congratulations on falling for the most tired war-time scam of them all, my friend. You’ll find the construction work by the Old Bridge, as advertised. I think there must be a grand total of fifteen bricks over there. Your gold is far, far away, scattered in the Isles. Making the fortune of some heroic scoundrels. I always wondered who fell for such tricks. Pains me – but doesn’t surprise me - to know it was your type." Astarion says, with an uncharacteristic wariness. Tav immediately wonders if the rogue is afraid of him.

"Who would do such a thing?" Tav laments, feeling completely dumbfounded.

"I would," Astarion immediately spouts.

"Would you really?" Tav straightens up, baffled.

"Ah. Maybe once, Maybe before I met all of you. I think I’m happy those days with the, ah, so to speak, mundanely nefarious . I suppose some personal growth has barred me from the blatantly evil.” 

"I’m trying to ascertain if my presence in your bloody den is a violation of my oath or not."

"You have my word. Cross my dead, dead heart. I am not currently actively engaged in any illegal organisation or criminal group, nor participating in the preparation or carrying out of said unlawful activities. Article 3, addendum 21 bis," Astarion quotes, raising his pale hand next to his face with a toothy grin.

"Great. I would not want to apply the hammer of justice on your puny frame," Tav concludes.

*

"Don't feel forced to keep me company, you know. Go be a day-dweller in peace, we'll catch up later," Astarion resumes after a quiet while, as Tav was fiddling with his left gauntlet, trying to bend back into shape a faulty knuckle.

"I do enjoy your company, though," Tav answers. 

"I'm sure you'll get to enjoy it way more thoroughly in the night time."

Tav’s eyes narrow a bit. 

"Actually, would you mind," Tav gets up, reaching for his bag, "if I stayed and slept some more? I really have not been getting a lot recently. I could lay in bed for a tenday," he adds, yawning. 

"Aww, you want to nap?" Astarion mocks. 

"Yes, and?" Tav says, innocently. 

"Nothing, that's positively adorable. Would you like me to get you a hot glass of milk, read you a fairy tale, perhaps?"

"Sure. What about The Spectacular Paladin & The Aggravating Little Rogue?"

"Oh dear. I've read such stories before, but more often than not, they lay on the upper shelves," he grins. Tav can't help but briefly wonder if Astarion would combust into flames if prevented from flirting for more than a couple of minutes. 

"Hmm. Alright then. Maybe wake me up in a couple of hours, I would not want to become a nocturnal beast myself," Tav says, laying down, changed out of his city wear and down to his briefs as the summer heat peaks. 

He quickly slips away, vaguely aware of Astarion grabbing a book and settling on the other side of the mattress. 

*

When Tav wakes he feels even more tired than before, and he's now completely famished. He stretches, bones and muscles aching. He whines for as long as there's air in his lungs. 

"Sounds like someone had one too many sips from the Elixir of Hurting Bones. How old even are you, my boy," Astarion says from the chair by the window. He's just out of the tub, wearing only his indoor pants and letting his hair dry where a warm late afternoon breeze of air blows. 

"Kind of old… Oh, but you look just so cute right now, with that wet hair. Like a little kitten out of a ditch," Tav says, his tongue once again running before his brain. 

"Gods, just go back to sleep if you're going to spout such inane things at me," Astarion pouts. 

"Can't. Too hungry." 

"Well aren't you lucky, I'm taking you out for dinner tonight. I should be good to go in about…" Astarion turns his head out, studying the sky's colour intently, "a little hour or so." 

"But I don't have any fancy clothing," Tav whines, staring at the ceiling. 

"Who said I'm taking you anywhere fancy? Darling, this is not a date, I have business to discuss with you of the utmost importance. And you don't even seem like you'd enjoy being dragged to any high-end dinery, I mean, frankly, can you even tell the difference between a snail fork and sugar prongs? We would just embarrass ourselves. And what with me not eating, hum? I will not sit there and overhear the attendants’ snide remarks, thinking I'm some kind of neurotic aristocrat dieting to woo his hot muscle-bound bodyguard," Astarion monologues, neurotically. 

"Now you're just being mean. I'll have you know I'm a very delicate and refined man," Tav says, scratching his balls through his briefs for emphasis. 

"Despicable," Astarion rises, moving the towel around his neck to a rack by the tub, "Do eventually get ready, though I suppose to you it does not mean too much effort," he adds, teasing, haughty. 

Tav watches him walk by, pale chest on display as he grabs a white silken short from the wardrobe. Tilting his head a bit, he catches a glimpse of Astarion’s mangled back.

"No need to snap your neck for a peek, they're still there," Astarion blurts out dryly, before quickly putting on the garment and looking out at the city roofs, hands on the window post. 

Tav feels himself warm up a bit, embarrassed, and wisely decides to stay silent for a while. 

*

Chapter Text

As soon as the sun sets, Astarion bounces out of his chair like a coiled toy. 

"Alright darling, let's head out, I'm itching for a good night crawl." 

Tav follows through, bending carefully at every threshold as the elf just hops outside merrily. 

Tav is dressed as well as he could piece from his belongings, having removed for inspection garments after garments from his bag of holdings like some circus clown performance. Astarion had looked on, and tutted, tsked and oh-noooo, - dear endlessly, but he had barely even watched : Tav had quickly figured he was doing it for the sole purpose of being annoying. It had taken some resolve and deep breathing not to flatten the elf on the spot. 

He's not really inconspicuous, but in truth he never is, towering effortlessly over most people. Still, he immediately wonders why he did not go for a completely mundane tunic and breeches combination. It's a hot summer night, quite sweaty, and the wind on his bare arms is the only silver lining he can think of. 

"You got under my skin with all of your snickering, and now I look like some trophy boy," he growls, the heat on his cheeks lingering. 

"But Tav, sweet thing, you look positively splendid. I'm upgrading us to a far better place as we speak."

Splendid he does not feel, histrionic more like. He's wearing ankle boots, high waisted pants of some rough undyed cotton that balloon lightly at his thighs. On top, a piece a girl friend once offered him and he never had the guts to wear : a very revealing sleeveless turtleneck, deep black with dark grey embroideries one only sees when truly paying attention. Why did she even buy me this, he ponders. 

"Who even got you this? No way you'd get something so… Special on your own. Though I'll always lament turtlenecks. It is a shame to hide such a fine neck," Astarion says, light on his feet, walking backwards as he observes Tav. 

How does he know, Tav thinks, then, of course he'd fucking know. 

"A friend." 

"Give her my finest congratulations on her impeccable taste, then." 

"How would you even know it's a her!" Tav blurts out. 

"Could only be," he winks, turning around. 

Astarion is dressed in a rehash of the last evening, having only forfeited the bright overalls for a white shirt and hellishly tight leather pants. A smaller hat, more dainty, and a silken handkerchief around the neck, hiding the bite marks - with style. 

"We look like criminals, just take us down there to Nine-Fingers’ shithole already," Tav laments, wanting to turn tail and run home. 

"Oh please dear, quit whining, I know they never taught you manners and social graces in the army but it's never too late to start. We look perfectly normal," Astarion says and there's never been a more abnormal pair walking that street ever, Tav thinks. 

"You’re lucky I'm fucking starving or I'd flee. Where are you even taking me. Hells!" 

"Soon there. It's a regular tavern so please, do calm down. I can't believe you of all people would overthink like that. It's already mind-blowing you can regularthink."

"Ok. Are we there yet?" Tav immediately adds, but Astarion does not answer. 

*

When Tav pushes the tavern door, he slips in and walks himself slowly to the counter, trying to catch a waiter's attention. As he seeks one, eyes roaming the smoked up place, he realises something is missing. A whistle startles him, and Tav notices Astarion, still standing at the threshold, eyes shooting daggers. He beckons him over with a finger, silently, like you'd gesture to a dog. Tav quickly trots to him, embarrassed as he understands. 

"Sorry, sorry. Please, milady, do come in," Tav says with an exaggerated bow. 

" Thanks, love," Astarion spits out, pitch highered in a great courtesan accent. 

It is, indeed, a normal tavern and after downing a beer and some nuts Tav already feels much better. Astarion has been humouring him to some memories he has made here. The stories are fun and skillfully dance around the fact they end up in him dooming his unfortunate night mates. Tav decides to ignore that detail and laughs along, though also anxiously waiting for his food to come with furtive looks at the kitchen’s swing doors. 

"This one was quite the night. I actually ended up getting so drunk I missed the sunrise, and had to hide in the wine cellars - down there - for the full day," Astarion points at a wooden hatch, rounding up a wild story of gin revelry that somehow featured a wild menagerie of animals. 

"So you can get drunk? With all the bottles I've seen you nursing at camp, never saw you tipsy," Tav says, curiosity piqued. 

"Takes me awful quantities, but I can. Quite the party trick, you'll imagine. Though, dear, that would make for quite the pricey habit were I to knock myself out cold every day," he says, swirling his own glass of brandy. 

"Would love to witness that eventually." 

"Oh, no, no, you don’t. I get awfully touchy. I would have sucked everyone dry in this inn, if it had not been for Cazador's hold on my instincts," he says with some malice in his eyes. 

Tav’s food arrives then, some mess of fried things, nips and tatties, thick gravy, topped with another beer. 

"Speaking of him, he was not happy to see his little spawn missing. I assume he got so, so very worried. When I made it to the palace a little after nightfall, he had me tied upside down and whipped for days. Lesson learned!" he sing-songs, head bobbing from side to side, "I don't think I got drunk ever again after that," he adds with a grin, and the malice in his eyes has grown all the way to cruelty. 

Tav has his nose stuck on his food and does not immediately react. The glee Astarion shows from involving him in such an awful tale disturbs him. He blows hot and cold, waiting for Tav to relax before sticking the dagger in. It's a wound that always threatens to reopen, and Tav feels nauseous at being at the end of that trick. 

"Do you want to talk about all that?" Tav looks up from his plate with a harsh look on his face, knowing very well how rude he can appear when he doesn't rule his features into friendliness. 

"Not really, no. There's nothing to talk about, anyway." And there's some vulnerability on Astarion's face, but Tav feels too wary now to be moved by his mood jumps. 

He just keeps on eating, stuffing his face proving a great way to avoid talking. 

"Regardless, that son of a bitch is dead on the ground," Astarions spits out, rare swear words always so sharp on his tongue, "and now, I am free," he adds this with devastating irony, as if it was burning a hole through his tongue. 

Having gone through a flurry of emotions, he finally calms himself down. Tav allows him, remaining silent, compassion and mistrust battling in his mind. 

*

Dessert has arrived when Tav feels like talking again. Astarion had been sulking a little, his face on his left hand, playing with the table candle's wax with the right one as he observed the tavern's guests. Tav's eyes are well trained on barracks’s rowdiness and the holy links of brotherhood. That's how he notices Astarion's eyes nonchalantly following the remarkable backside of a waitress. 

"That's a nice one, I salute your taste," Tav conspires under his breath, teasing. 

Astarion startles, eyes rounding up as he turns to look at Tav, an expression that would certainly come paired with a blush if some hot blood was pumping through his veins at that moment. 

Tav turns back to his plate, a pile of choux drowned in whipped cream and currant sauce, and he can't help but smile. 

"You said earlier that you have business to discuss, rogueling," he says, doing his best not to chew with his mouth open. 

"I see, you're clearly on borrowed time, love. Alright, I'll get to it then, since evidently you have places to be," Astarion answers, theatrical. 

"Don't start getting bitchy on me now, gods," Tav snarls, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms behind his head.

"No, no, evidently Saer Ambassador here has a busy schedule. And don't raise your arms like this, I don't want to see those hairy pits, you ape," he immediately shoots back, hiding his eyes with exaggerated gestures. 

"We can't all be as smooth as a little girl's cunt," Tav retorts. He's trying to look pissed but failing. 

"Yuck. You're just plain nasty now. I knew you were a half-drow, did not assume the other half would be ogre." 

"I'm not above grabbing you and folding you into a bretzel, you know," Tav informs him with a raised finger. 

"Of course, of course you'd threaten violence. Ogre,” Astarion cries out, hand on his chest. 

Tav bursts out laughing, his companion's wild mood wings proving contagious. Astarions follows suit, and Tav starts wondering what new bullshit he'll come up with to ruin the moment, ultimately ruining the moment for himself. 

"Alright, alright, I'll stop teasing dear," Astarion starts, looking into Tav's eyes, "You don't have money, me neither. Luckily for the both of us, I devised a plan," he adds, tapping his head with two fingers. 

"Hmm."

"Curb your enthusiasm," Astarion retorts, exasperated, Tav not proving to be as captivated an audience as he probably fancied. 

"Let me rephrase : hmm?" Tav squeaks and Astarion rolls his eyes, squirming in his chair. 

It's so easy to piss him off, but then Tav is also easy to piss off, and he wonders when they'll actually flip their shit and go for each other's throat. Surely that the vampire would enjoy that, he thinks, amused. His pondering ends with a light boot nudge on his shin. 

"Ow!" Tav winces. 

"I know I'm just so very attractive but don't get all lovestruck like that, as I said, business."

"Proceed." 

"So : money issues. I happen to know a place in the Gate where an almost infinite amount of precious things and magical trinkets are gathering dust. And I would like, mind you, to undust them and trade them for a mountain of gold. And I need a strong and courageous hero to carry those treasures for me, because I'm very delicate and can't afford to break a nail. What say you, darling? Have I piqued your interest?" Astarion lists, skillfully picturing many things with yet abstract movements of his slender hands. 

"It awfully sounds like robbery. Pretty dumb to ask for my help though, of all people," Tav frowns, mood souring. 

"Ah ha!" Astarion victoriously points, "Knew you'd say this. Well here's my rebuke, the place is empty . Dead owner. No family. A victimless crime. Surely this fits alright in your moral worldview."

"No. I'm no thief." 

"The dead owner was a very bad person, who did a lot of damnable things," Astarion throws his most seductive smile, the last weapon he possesses before speaking the truth. 

"Still not a thief," Tav crosses his arms sternly. 

Astarion sighs and finds Tav's eyes. 

"The dead owner is Cazador and I feel quite entitled to claim everything from his palace."

"Oh. Damn, should have figured. I'm silly," Tav relaxes, shoulders sagging before tensing again, bracing. 

"Your words, not mine, dear. But yes, we sneak down there and we loot everything that we find. Fill a full crate of holdings, sell the things, cash out. Might find a key to his bank safe : would be ideal. I'm not overjoyed to go down there, you'll imagine. But it feels like a proper ending to this whole gruesome chapter. Rags to riches, in a way."

Tav leans back on his chair, thinking the whole thing over. It’s acceptable, morally. He's needed: his heart warms up. The prospect of adventure is always thrilling. One concern remains:

"Why are you doing this now? Been months."

"Well, as I said, I needed some muscle to lube up," an evocative hand gesture follows, "that whole process." 

"Bullshit. Plenty of muscle in the city. Why me?" 

"What's better than the muscle you don't know? The m-" Astarion starts pompously mimicking Raphael, but Tav cuts him with a finger to his own mouth and a hush. 

"No, stop. Am I just convenient? Give me the honest reason and I'm in."

"The honest reason is providence indeed, dear : my oversized miracle in a tin can, that's you . I had been devising this plan for some time, but could not find the courage to do it on my own. And gods below, the mere prospect of facing this alongside a stranger…” he shakes up from a disgusted shiver, ”Lo and behold, you're there, with me: I gathered my forces and I am now asking. I'm not too proud to beg," Astarion seems to have rehearsed some of those lines, delivering them in an uncharacteristic tone. 

"You don't have to. Beg, I mean. I'll help you. All quite important to you, and I can't spit on the money."

"You're a sweetheart. Let's get out of here," Astarion rises, heading to pay. 

Tav slips outside, waiting, enjoying the fresh breeze on his body after the hot and smoked up inn. As soon as Astarion exits, his shape still comically enhanced by his odd jacket, Tav starts talking. 

"Let’s get to the harbour. Want to walk a bit. Digestion. Sit my ass in front of the sea and settle that whole adventure properly. Deal?" he holds his hand for the sealing. 

"Alright," Astarion says, shaking his hand briefly, but enough for Tav to notice anew the otherworldly cold quality of his skin: it's like touching leather, he thinks, and represses a shiver. 

*

"Ah yes, the sea, the blood-red sea. My second worst enemy, another element determined to bring me a timely demise. How bitter," Astarion breaks some lengthy silence as they arrive at the harbour. Astarion takes a look down the dockside and Tav secures his seat on the marble stairs, observing the moon's fractured reflections on the water's dark surface. 

More time passes as Tav loses himself in shapeless thoughts, a varied and wide emptiness. Eventually he answers, far later, unsure Astarion will even remember the topic at hand. 

"That curse of yours makes no sense at all."

"Hmmmm…" Astarion sighs, a long complaint as he gathers his ideas, "I've spent countless hours from countless years pondering the exact same thing. Would you like to have my conclusions?" 

"Yeah."

"It mimics nothing of nature, follows no logic. Well, nothing that I know of. But one thing is sure : I’ve never heard of a bat having to ask politely to enter places. Gods, I can’t even turn into a bat. Rubbish,” he rambles a bit, before stopping to concentrate. 

“I couldn't possibly paint an exhaustive portrait. Beastly features, social features... Hunger becomes addiction, but I don’t need to eat. The sun burns me, but so does running water," he enumerates, recalling thoughts oft committed to memory. 

"This collection of nonsense has led me to this conclusion: the very first cursee knew the curser ... It all seems designed to punish a very specific man, or woman, or whatever bug-people of ye olde times . Each detail is an insult, a jeer at some strange quirk. Well, that's my theory."

"Makes sense. But who?" Tav finally comments.

"No idea. A sailor? Condemned to stay on land and forfeit the days. A tad rough on his love-bites, maybe… A robber? Used to the unlawful entrance of houses and now forced to ask for permission. Maybe some childless husk, now spreading his diseased offspring around. Forever. Rounds up quite the portrait, doesn't it?" With each point comes the tilt of the head, the weighting of options on imaginary scales and the red eyes looking, scanning, aiming at Tav's. 

"Have you shared those ideas with scholars?"

"Why? Is my spit wasted on you?" 

"No. It's interesting, my friend, but a scholar would help. Maybe find some work-arounds. I can only listen."

"Well, that's good enough to me. Gods , I'm getting sappy, am I not?" 

His hand is on his chest, a wicked smile devouring his features once more. "Let's get back to the looting: preparation and course of action."

"When, how long, enemies expected. I'll prepare accordingly."

"Tomorrow evening, probably three days, whatever underdark creature might have found its way in. Enticing?"

"Sure. Always happy to go on an adventure. You're a good fighter. Makes things easy." 

"Thought it was the handsome looks and immense smarts that won you over, my sweet knight."

"Oh no, not at all… Want to know what really did? The quips. And the lock-picking talents. Who needs keys, after all."

"A clown with clever hands. Great epitaph, I suppose. I feel like I should get upset," Astarion actually chuckles, turning towards Tav with a boyish look. 

"More seriously, you'd make some good coin in some of my dispatches. Traps, doors, chests, all that dirty stuff. You’re good. Not half-bad with your daggers either. Such skills are in demand, you know."

"I've always been highly in demand."

"But it wasn't for your skills, though," Tav answers too quickly, getting pretty good at recognising dangerous lines, but not good enough to keep them on the inside. 

Astarion just shoots him a weird look. Tav expected anger, expected him to get up and start arguing but had not expected the fleeting hurt on the pale face, as Astarion looked down to his feet, slowly turning pensive. He sits next to Tav, folding his arms over his drawn up knees and resting his head on that throne. 

"You're not wrong but I don't like hearing that," he says flatly, "But anyway. It's getting quite late, isn't it? You can have the keys, here, take them," he says, retrieving them elegantly from his breast pocket and dropping them into Tav's open palm, "Go get your sleep, I need to do a bit of night shopping, prepare some supplies, get my side of that plan of ours rolling." Getting up, Astarion looks down on Tav. Covered by worried brows and clouded moonlight, his eyes look almost black. 

Tav just sits there, onlooking, reminded of his own fatigue and somehow coerced to act upon it. He says his thanks, then watches Astarion get up and vanish through the shadows as they exchange a few formal words of goodbye. 

He remains as time flies by, contemplating the slow roil of the ships, ears perked up to wooden masts and husks creaking, distant shouts, cats screeching. The liminal quietness of the evening seaside slowly grows enormous in his mind. 

Later Tav gets up and walks back, piloted by sleep, with a tightness in his throat that he carries into bed. 

*

Chapter Text

Tav groans himself awake. He gets up, eyes heavy, and carefully opens the curtain. No sun gets in - at least not where it would matter. Tav quickly gets ready: a splash of water in the face, a set of ordinary garments. Exiting the room, he takes a look at his host and has to stifle a fit of laughter.

The elf is trancing face down, head buried in a pillow, and somehow fully dressed safe for his boots. Tav has fully integrated by now that no , he isn't dead, and so he contemplates with some amusement that lacking the need to breathe makes for quite the comfortable looking sleeping position. As for the fully dressed part of the equation, he decides it's a concern for later times and slips out. 

It's a special day in Baldur's Gate, or maybe market day is always that busy in a coastal city. Tav is a road man, raised in distant farmlands. He always considered cities to be transitory places where one rests between actual concerns. He walks around, gnawing through the last of his savings. It's pretty messed up how close to empty his pockets are, with all the good he rains all around. He ponders that and it seems a satisfactory excuse at that instant. His eyes roam on decadent charcuterie stalls, before settling on for much more affordable products. Some mystery meat paste in a jar, dried breads that he buys pre-stale: at least this way, they're already a disappointment. Should have borrowed some coin from the rogue, he thinks. Maybe the full purse, to observe a thief's panic at getting thieved . 

If there's nothing in Cazador’s wretched mansion, Tav is good to go join the beggars at the Basilisk's Gate and quickly learn juggling. At least there's always plenty of work for a big guy, with hopefully enough coin into balance to feed such a big guy. He finally adds some dried nuts and fruits to his purchases, bags it all on a fabric pouch and heads to the harbour. No point in being stingy with the little coin he has left. He sits at the very peak of the Mermaid's terrace, overlooking a three masted frigate. Coffee and a truly decadent breakfast platter arrive at his table. He’s also served some odd cocktail, sparkling wine and fruits, from what he can tell. I could get used to this, he thinks with a lazy smile, sagging in his chair. 

*

When Tav comes back, sun at its zenith, Astarion is still in the exact same position. He gets on to organising his kit, and realises with shame that his armour is still blood speckled. He runs some water, grabs a sponge and gets to the cleaning. He has moved to his flail, carefully rubbing at the stained metal and oiling the chain, when Astarion's little groans grow in frequency, comically muffled by the pillow and culminating in rapid fire elvish curses, finally shaked up fully awake. 

When he turns around, his hair is fucked, his face is grey and the general impression is more corpse-like than the usual. Slowly, Astarion blinks himself into existence. 

"Hellooo, my dear," he draws out with a messed up smile, fangs out and bright, and heavy lidded eyes that barely seem to focus correctly. 

"You look like shit," Tav says flatly. 

"Oh, but thank you , I'm happy to see you too, you charming beast. Excuse the get up," he sniffs himself, nose wrinkling, and even Tav can smell the smoke, booze and sweat on him, "I went to some debauched sewer party. Positively naughty. Truly indulged myself. Our little talk yesterday reminded me that I can, in fact, get drunk. A step back into the ordinary! This being said, I don't think I care to repeat the experience too often. Some consequences," he adds, rubbing his temples and sitting up, woozy. 

"Personally, I packed up for tonight's great mission," Tav answers, chin held up high. 

Astarion puffs and tsks, eyes seeking Tav's, holding his gaze intensely. 

"Well I don't need food or water, dear, I'm very low maintenance, you should know this by now. Perish the coquette accusations. I'll jump in my armour come nightfall : we'll get to go and thieve our way to fortune just as planned," Astarion mimics the walk to Cazador's mansion with two fingers, hands colliding at the end in what, absurdly, perfectly pictures abundance. 

"Don't say this word, thieve , makes me regret my choices."

"Retrieve the considerable inheritance of a poor bereaved boy from his sadly departed relative."

"Too many big words, I'm getting tricked," Tav smiles. 

“Ah! Easy.”

Astarion changes into his inside wear, as one normally doesn't as they wake, and lays again, grabbing a book from his bed table and settling comfortably back into silence. 

*

Once Tav’s entire equipment is pristine, he thinks of allowing himself some relaxation, sitting on a chair, staring at the wall, fiddling with the rosary he retrieved from his pack: he quickly gets awfully bored with it. 

"Mind if I exercise a bit. I skip it for two days and I feel like an ooze. Unbecoming of my status," Tav ends up saying. 

"Uh, sure, help yourself. Try not to sweat all over the place, this room already has more than enough musk," comes the disinterested answer. 

“Have you tried cleaning? Works wonders.”

“You're welcome to leave at any time, you know,” Astarion pouts, offended. 

Tav ignores him and stretches, turning his head slowly, his limbs bit by bit, in a highly codified order he learned as a paladin and usually performs in the morning right after waking, when his mind is still dazed by sleep. 

It's meditation, it's reflection. A window into one's own soul. Tav vaguely thinks about his journey to the Gate, about what still is to come and how the path had rewarded him recently. Deep breathing : the air comes in wicked and comes out radiant. He had been taught to believe his core should be as pure as the sun, and serve as a prism between darkness and light. 

All of those rehearsed thoughts block the world around him, offering a respite where he tries to push his body beyond, further, unburdened by material concerns. 

After the stretching and the controlled displays of flexibility comes the strength training. He silently counts every move from every series, slowly, timing it to what he imagines is the beat of his second heart, the holy one. Empty blood vials clink as he sticks his feet under the bed to secure his grip for sit-ups. Planks follow, eyes closed in concentration, mouth closed because he doesn't want this training session to turn into the groaning concert it used to be in barracks. Finally, he starts doing push-ups, and he's a couple in when he feels a nudge on the middle of his back. 

"Uh?" Tav grunts, twisting his neck backwards. 

"How strong are you? I'm curious, my dear. Keep going," Astarion's voice comes from behind as he settles comfortably, knees digging on Tav's strong back and grabbing his wide trapeze for support with one hand. 

"Sure, you're not exactly big. Count them for me," Tav says, mildly surprised but resuming his push-ups as nonchalantly as he can. Some lewd thoughts do cross his mind for a couple of seconds, which is probably the intended result, but he's too focused on his training to indulge them and somehow, the added weight proves to be an enjoyable challenge and he catches himself grinning deviously. Up and down, his arms start to hurt from the considerable amount of weight balanced unevenly on his back. He feels his face dipping always closer to the ground, resisting gravity at the very last inch, and pushing again to go up with those smirking dead pounds clawing at his back like lice. 

"Fuck, that's getting fucking hard. Fuck!" he groans through gritted teeth, sweat running down his nose . 

"Good to know. I'm getting quite impressed. Seventeen!" Astarion sounds gleeful, a bit manic around the edges, " Eighteen ! How spectacular, paladin…"

Tav’s head starts buzzing, exerted beyond what's reasonable for a daily training, but he keeps on going, the muscles on his arms shaking as his entire form weakens. His breath gets laboured, pained little huffs of air, and the world around him gets smaller, pinpointing around the cruel voice narrating his prowess. 

He finally flops down, completely out of breath. His torso is shaken by violent intakes of air, arms laying demurely at his sides and pierced by an acidic feeling, shrill as it can get. His mouth lays open, head on its side against the cool floorboard. Astarion is still kneeling on him, cold hand hooked where neck and shoulder meet, and he laughs a bit, somewhere between mean and amused. Tav sees him from the very corner of his eye. 

"Thirty-two, then. That's truly quite the achievement," Astarion says, dismounting him and sitting on the bed, observing from the top as Tav struggles to catch his breath, head gone almost purple with effort against the pale blue rest of him. 

"Fuck. I'm dying. Gods, that was really fucking fun…You weird bugger. We could try this again… An-another day…" Tav pants, still flat on the ground. 

"Sure, darling. Next time we can swap," his curiosity sated, Astarion settles on the cushions, burying himself back into his book. Tav chuckles twice against the floor, his laughter crushed under his heaving chest. 

Tav eventually heads for the tub, quickly shimmying out of his briefs and running the hot water in the tub, dripping over his aching body. 

*

"How long ‘till nightbreak?" Tav asks, pleased and smug in the warm basin. 

"Four hours, five? I suppose. It's quite annoying to wait for the moon, isn't it?"

"Hmm. How do we proceed. In the palace, I mean."

"We get in, we secure a base camp, we try to start digging for valuables. Eventually you'll start whining: I’m tired, I need sleep, I'm hungry, mother, mother . Then you'll snore like the little piglet you are. And I’ll watch over you, like this ." Astarion says, fangs out in a comical expression of hunger. 

"Alright, weirdo."

"Then we repeat the process, my sweet Tav. Until all has been st- retrieved ."

Some time passes, Tav still sponging himself intently, before he asks:

"How do you feel about going back there?"

"Utterly miserable."

"Yeah," Tav whispers out, starting to wash his curly hair, soap dripping in his eyes as he remembers, "And how are you gonna feed down there?" 

Astarion just puts his book on his lap and stares directly into Tav's eyes, his face splitting in a wide stupid smile. Tav raises an eyebrow, before actually getting the idea.

"No fucking way. I'm not camp supplies." 

"Shame. Guess I'll just perish then."

"Please do."

*

When Tav finally gets dressed, he smells and looks far too nice for whatever stinking mess awaits them at the Szarr's mansion. He sits himself at the table and Astarion joins him, producing a deck of cards out of thin air and doing a cool shuffle trick that has Tav cheer him on, before dealing the cards swiftly. 

"Rummy?" he asks while grabbing a pen and some paper from a drawer, and Tav nods quickly. 

"Cheat and you're dead. Dead, dead ."

"Sweetheart, why would I do this? We're not even betting anything..." Astarion says with mock hurt, his favourite face to wear. 

Turns out he does not really need to cheat, dear, I have quite the experience, but Tav endures bravely and wins the third round by a single point difference, making Astarion whine for a bit. 

They're a good number of games in when a soft meow startles them, a fat striped cat making its way into the room by hopping on the table. Astarion's hand shoots fast, grabbing it by the scruff and holding it at eye level. The cat meows pathetically but stays calm, where Tav expected hissing and desperate clawing. 

"Wrong flat to trespass on, my furry friend," Astarion says with a stern expression, eyeing the beast curiously. 

"Hey, leave that poor thing be," Tav asks as the tabby cries a little. 

"Uh? Not everyday does a snack deliver itself to my place. Praise the gods, bon appétit ." 

Before Tav has time to react, Astarion opens his mouth, quite wide, fangs flashing as his lips curl up, and bites down on the cat's neck. Tav eyebrows shoot up, mouth agape, surprised beyond any other emotion. 

As Tav collects himself, uttering a singular what in the gods damned fuck under his breath, Astarion's eyes seek his, lower face covered in the soft whimpering mass of the cat. The red gaze is hard to withstand, but Tav faces it, defiant. Time stretches thin until Astarion's eyes narrow as he smiles, dropping the unharmed cat from both hand and mouth. It immediately sprints through the window with a hiss, disappearing on the surrounding roofs. 

"That's a lot of hair in my mouth for such a short-lived prank," he spits out, coughing up grey fur and wiping it away with the back of his hand as he leans back on his chair. 

"Gods damn you, you devious cunt," Tav nervously laughs, his shoulders relaxing. 

"Aw, darling, don't be so harsh. I'm just messing with you. You really thought I'd devour this beast? Didn't you see it was collared ?"

"And?"

"And I only eat strays. This fat creature belongs to the neighbour over there," he points at the opposite wall, "and I certainly would not want any issues with them. Ah! They already think I'm some kind of pervert,” Tav thinks well, they're not wrong , and it must show plainly on his face because Astarion immediately rolls his eyes. 

“Could you imagine, dear? Saer Flaming Fist, I beg for your help, my pale recluse neighbour seems to have eaten my cat, please send a patrol and throw him in an oubliette, Saer ," Astarion imitates a high pitched voice, face transformed into a comically sad expression. 

Reorganising the cards on the table after the cat's entrance shambled a few melds, he continues. 

"I don't think it will forgive me too soon from scaring it so, though. We keep similar hours after all, hunt at night, lounge at days. Testament to how irresistible I am: I befriended the beast without ever providing milk or fish, and it clearly isn't enjoying any warmth from my lap. My very first friend."

"Gotta start somewhere, I suppose. Little steps. First base: cat lady," Tav answers, thinking that they are also friends, but he does not say it: surely Astarion would deny it, just for the pleasure of creating friction. And Tav can't be bothered with more bickering. 

"That does not sound awful," Astarion preens, with a tilt of the head.

They finish the round, a new hand gets dealt, all in waiting for the sun's descent. Tav is reorganising his hand, trying to decide if he should split his sequences or not, taking probably too much time to think his plays over and feeling observed as he does. 

"The stray thing. It was the same with Cazador, you know," Astarion says, his mind obviously still busy with their precious conversation. 

"But you weren't a stray?" 

"Oh, not me, Tav. I meant my marks. We were forbidden to hunt locals. Had to be strays. Or lower class, barely people. Urgh. The smell … But, yes. People whose disappearances would go unnoticed, or uncared for."

"So, runaway kids, whores, drifters?"

"Whores I avoided. Hum, don't hunt where you eat?" he laughs bitterly, continuing to look at his cards, eyes averted from Tav's. "But yes, drifters. Adventurers, foreigners, lonesome tourists. Sailors and caravaners, here only for the night. I tried to vary the provenance of this particular livestock, up until it became a game. And dear, I was good at it."

Tav lets him speak. It's fascinating after all, the pinnacle of morbid curiosity, spoken from a morbid need. Maybe all that pestilence needs to come out eventually. 

"I needed to be exactly what they wanted. Easy, right? Takes a tad of talent, though. A pretty face is not enough. Well, sometimes it is. But it needs to be that pretty,” Astarion jokes but Tav just cocks an eyebrow. ”Pliant, moulded to their desires. Sexual or not, but mostly the former. I slept on naked stone, fed from vermin, yet I played the haughty aristocrat for burly sailors, faraway merchants and other nefarious types. They took revenge on me for their pitiful lives. I wore their master's face, you see. They liked to claw at it." 

Astarion works himself into anger and discomfort, moved by incomprehensible whims. Tav has only truly known him for a couple of days. Back at camp, around the fire, the elf had never shed his persona around him for a single second. Losing his countenance as he confronted and slew his former master, the mask came off : for fleeting moments he had only been blind rage and despair. And Tav had not cared to look further back then, mind far more preoccupied with other matters, few speckles of attention divided equally between his campmates. Tav was friendly to all, and a real friend to none: it was, according to him, the way of a leader. It's clear Astarion is just droning on, not particularly interested in a dialogue, and Tav does not have anything to add to this logorrhoea, being a man of few words. 

"Good thing is, I did not particularly care about those . Impotent vengeance fantasies, always the same. Easy prey, sadists. They think they're in charge, ha! Some I'd seduce but fail to bring to Cazador. Or, they'd reconsider, on the way. I often killed such, how to say , ah, complicated types. Gods, how I enjoyed it.”

Astarion grins for a second, fangs out, recalling murders with unmasked glee. Tav sinks deeper into his chair. 

“Now, sweet adventurers, innocent wizard so far away from home, wide-eyed country bumpkin on their path to a new life, poor street orphan : they needed it sweet, dangerously soft, and I was exactly that for a night - ah, kids I lured with treats, not sex, don't look at me like this , gods. I felt a bit guilty then, sure, who wouldn't? Oops. They had bumped into the wrong person."

The light returns to his eyes, cold fires brewing. 

"I gave myself to all, did not really have a say in the matter. But I never hunted for your type. They hunted me. My bosom enemies… Clerics, monster hunters of all shapes and sizes… And you, of course. Mighty paladin. I did not try my luck, even though so many of your kind are utterly alone."

"You were at least wise," Tav juts in quickly. 

"In a normal life I'd just be your… Urgh, your prey . An undead monstrosity to add to your tally mark. Darling, I'm quite glad we met under better circumstances. You still scare me quite a bit," he finishes, limply pointing a finger at Tav's chest. The last sentence is added in jest, but doesn't ring false at all.

It's curious, the need for cruelty, for an honesty as total as that, but maybe it's contagion that compels Tav to start talking. 

“You’re right to be. Well, were right. A blight like you, I’d have hunted down. Ah, gladly. You would have cried and begged, maybe. I would not have cared. Cosy gold, a vampire spawn's head. I'm no monster hunter, but you were a parasite. A pest.”

"Blight, pest, parasite. My dear, you have such a way with words," Astarion says, clearly a bit taken aback by Tav's speech. 

"I will flatter you, just this one time. You’re fine, you know. Great ally. Don’t give me that look - really . I'd say I'd rather have you around than sit on a couple hundred gold coins. You're a questionable character, a manipulative blood-thirsty freak - and I don't even mean this," Tav mimics pointy teeth with his fingertips, “But, ah… What kind of lousy, good-for-nothing paladin would I be if I did not believe, at least a bit, in redemption." 

Astarion looks at him in silence, face impenetrable. Tav sees on it the feelings he'd imagine should be there. He personally feels a pang of pain in his chest, a profound disgust for most things he heard and said today, and an irrepressible wave of kindness rising, nestling in his chest. He gets up, holding his hand to Astarion. The elf tentatively grabs it, apprehensive, and Tav softly pulls him to his feet. 

"Are you gonna squirm like a worm on a hook if I hold you," Tav asks, putting on a stern face.

"Gods, do you also ask fair maidens before kissing them? Way to spoil the moment." 

Tav decides it means sure, hug me, I'm just being a cunt about it and brings him closer, all but flattening Astarion against his chest. He just holds him there, his muscular arms around his friend's thinner body, so very careful not to crush him. 

"The freak part might be a tad too rude for my tastes, but, uh, for the rest. Sure. You're nice. Thanks, I suppose," Astarion says, hesitantly. 

Eventually the hug is returned, Tav noticing moments later. He's thinking, wondering what he could say. His hand snakes its way into Astarion's soft hair, all but forcing his head deeper into his chest. 

"I'm out of nice words, ah... Please don't fear me. I'll help you."

"I'm devoured by guilt, it's almost quite novel to me. How mundane," Astarion says out of nowhere, shaking his head so as not to be muzzled by Tav's chest, "Most of the people I doomed are down there, in the Underdark. I'm not just refusing to bury myself there. I'm hiding . In plain sight, under that damned sun," he gestures outside, one hand leaving Tav's side, though by now the sunset is imminent, warm red tones invading the room, "I don't want to even see them. What if some are out for revenge? I get bloody paranoid when I see red eyes." 

"What are you gonna do, then?" Tav can't help but ask, not particularly sure what he's actually enquiring about.

"I do not know, boy, I do not. I'm in the proverbial pickle." 

The storm has passed, Astarion having slipped back into his own parodic self. His head is still nestled at Tav's chest, arms limply circling him. Tav’s hand runs down from his scalp, coming to lay at the nape of his neck. A shiver runs through Astarion, and he softly frees himself at last. 

"Well, if this wasn’t adorable. I hope you feel better now," he says, his chin tilted up, and Tav can't help but huff a small chuckle. Astarion is doing his best impression of himself, but the rounded eyes, serious, are betraying some inner concerns. He aims for the water basin, pushing the paravent behind him as he prepares to wash briefly. 

"Sun looks almost down. Help me with my armour when you're done," Tav asks, looking at the complicated back closures on his heavy breastplate as he starts equipping himself methodically.

Chapter Text

"I see you're back in that dreadful drow armour."

"Dreadful! Gods, the things you say. It's devious. I love it."

"It looks evil."

"Darling,you wore Ketheric Thorm's armour for most of the time we've known each other. It had skulls on it. You are the villain. I'm just fashionable."

"Well, I got rid of it. It scared people. I got a contract refused, mind you, don't work with that guy, gods, can't you see he's crazy?" Tav imitates, shoulders hunched and conspiratorial, "so I went to a smith and traded for a custom piece. At least now it's more fitting. Those killers," he loudly kisses his left bicep on the armour, flexing both arms, "need breathing space."

"How vain," Astarion side eyes, and Tav bursts out laughing, not needing to elaborate on the feeling. 

They had only been walking through Baldur's Gate for a quarter hour, the summer night still so very bright, when they reached the city wall and swiftly climbed to the entrance of the Szarr palace. One by one the city lights awoke, a myriad of blinking eyes. Astarion sighed deeply. 

"Oh dear. Guess I can't really back down now, can I?" He says, pensive. 

Tav nods, already feeling mildly tired from going up the stairs when he wishes he was having a little drink and preparing for bed. He pushes the wooden door and it doesn't budge. Astarion produces a key out of nowhere and opens it for him . The first thing Tav notices inside is that there is nothing to notice. 

"I had expected at least the entrance to have been looted already. Weird," he says. 

"Me too. That's why I came back after the whole, ah, you know," Astarion gesticulates, "and locked back what I could. Still expected anyone handy to slither through, ha. Guess the thieves of the Gate read too many scary tales about the palace. Good for us."

Astarion stops in front of the imposing engraved door. He digs in his bag for the Szarr’s signet, looking it over for a few seconds before pocketing it, changing his mind to pull out a strange roll of fabric instead. He unfolds it, revealing a square of maybe eight feet width and length. A couple of seconds later, the corners rise, forming some huge burlap crate. It's humming with the Weave, and the centre seems blurred by the potential it emits, appearing mirage-like.

"Alright, dear, the cat's out of the bag. Or looking at it. Urgh. Anyways . Hop, come closer," he beckons Tav with his hand, "impressive, isn't it? Borrowed this from Ramazith's tower. They use it to move loads of things around. See," he throws a candelabra, and the shifting surface swallows it like quicksands, "pretty practical."

"Such a convenient item for a thief. Oh! Alright. That's pretty fun," Tav beams up, throwing a small goblet in the bag-crate's chasm and observing it shimmer and vanish, "how do we get those things back, though?" 

"No idea."

"Uh?" 

"Forgot to ask. Oops, I suppose? They mentioned some hocus pocus. I stopped listening. It was so tedious."

"Very smart." Tav says, raising an eyebrow, arms sternly crossed. 

"Thank you, my sweet." Astarion preens with a grin. He grabs the edge of the crate and the corners flop down. Quickly, it’s folded anew, taking little time to deploy or gather back.

They go over the first layer of the building in silence, empty of the few valuables they had found on their first crawl here. It’s not like their mind was on money back then: and so many things remain. Vermin have picked clean the various corpses they had found -or put- there. There’s a distinct smell of rot permeating every corner, and mould stains the walls and carpets in constellations of green and black. 

Though Tav cannot assume anything would be in this miserable cell, Astarion’s steps take him to the kennel. He stands in the middle, silently looking at the dirty mattresses and the cruel hooks and chains hanging from the ceiling. Blood has dried up into dark dust. Whatever comment he wants to make seems to stay stuck in his throat. Tav looks around for any object worth taking, and gives up after a moment of bending, lifting, opening, rummaging. There is nothing here, save for Godey’s pile of bones laying undisturbed near the threshold. After a while Astarion walks out, Tav closely following. Quite the mood, he ponders, and that little interlude did nothing to cheer things up.

The next rooms Tav recognizes as the sleeping quarters.

"Let’s settle here. Two beds, a basin. For decades I imagined this place as a luxury outside of my reach. I forfeited my decency many times, hoping to become Cazador’s most precious little spawn."

Tav lays his supplies at the bed’s feet, keeping only the bare essentials. Astarion sits on the other bed, also getting rid of some unnecessary burden, and his eyes linger on the two stuffed animals near the pillow. Tav sighs. 

"Need some rest already, gods. Let’s explore this floor, I suppose we can split. I have not felt any presence around," he speaks, slow and deliberate. 

"Oh, my sleepy, sleepy knight. Sure, we’ll get to the thick of it tomorrow."

In the next room, the pitiful little bones of a child lay scattered around by rats and time. Astarion unfolds their crate, and they start picking through the silverware, paintings, clothing, candelabrum: an abundance of little things, that should surely amount to some gold in the long run. 

"Some of those doublets look truly fantastic. Shame that they reek of despair," Astarion complains with a sniff, piling up beautifully embroidered clothing, not subject to fashions and trends in their elegant atemporality. 

"I could keep a few. This one, here – my size, somehow," Tav adds, holding a fantastically luxurious jacket, gold chains adorning the whole chest piece, buttons of precious stones.

"Just be a darling and don’t wear them around me, then," Astarion spits out, throwing his pile in the crate with disdain, watching it get sucked into oblivion.

Shortly after they are back in the corridors for the last little brushstrokes of pillage. Some of the paintings don’t fit in the crate, and so they focus on the smaller ones. Tav considers one, trying to assesed its quality, its value. It looks good, for sure, though he’s not sure he’d decorate his own living space with such gruesome scenes. Skulls, demons, witches. Tav thinks it's quite embarrassing, but keeps the opinion to himself. 

It’s hard to determine what should or should not get picked, and Tav suddenly feels very zealous. In the face of abundance, showing restraint is not easy. He thinks of that one time, as a child, where he gleefully sat under a tree, picked and ate cherries until he got sick. It is the same here, except there’s nothing to limit his greed. Is it how robbers feel? Have I missed my calling, he thinks and smiles to himself. Balancing on a chair, he takes a painting from the wall, one that lays many feet above Astarion’s grasp : Tav expects at any time to be asked to investigate the top layers of the many bookshelves that line the rooms. 

"Tav, my dearest, what’s your understanding of art history?"

"Take a wild guess," Tav grunts out, feeling exasperated before the demeaning sermon he expects even has started.

"I see. And to think I had such high hopes. Well, I’ll share a simple trick with you, that has saved me much time pondering over antique market values. I will phrase it simply for you: old good, new bad." 

To illustrate his point, Astarion handles two pieces of silverware. A silver platter: elaborate and abstract engravings that elegantly repeat and its shine dulled by a black patina. It somehow seems to be made of condensed dust. The other one, a drinking cup, is shinier, a simple object made for convenience that bothers not with any embellishment.

"My point, in the flesh. Every year they just make things uglier and uglier. What a sad era we live in, my friend," Astarion laments, ever so dramatic. Gods, you truly are an old cunt, Tav thinks, but does not dare say, "In a thousand years, when everything has crumbled to ruins, at least I will still be beautiful. Silver linings…"

"Aren’t we taking both anyways?" Tav asks, eyes lingering on the silver platter, not willing to say out loud that he thinks it’s quite tacky.

"Clearly you’re not the one that will have to sort through that trash."

"Clearly you’re not the one that will have to sort through that trash. " Tav mocks, having achieved excellence in imitation, manifested in raised chin and offended hand gestures. It’s childish, but he’s quite sure it will work just fine.

"How dare you - Alright! Just pick whatever you want. I don’t sound like that. You ruffian." Astarion is appalled and proceeds to work on his corner of the vast entryway, his back turned to Tav. After all, not that hard to make him shut up, Tav ponders with a smile.

Returning to the favoured spawn’s dormitory, they keep a monastic silence, both seized by different types of fatigue. It must be late, hours have passed since they left Astarion’s attic room at nightfall. Tav yawns, considering the grim look on the elf’s face as he asks him for help getting out of his breastplate. He rummages through his pack for water and food, and Astarion startles him, producing a bottle of wine from behind his back:  the serious expression transformed into a grin, and the act crowned with a charming ta-da ! 

"Ice wine, from Exeltis. Vintage… Ah, no idea. Old, I suppose? I’m pretty sure it’s corked, not that it makes a difference to me, but if it isn't, oh, you’re in for a treat, my sweet knight," he beams up for a while, popping off the cork with his teeth and frowning at once after, looking inside the bottleneck, "Look at me all happy and carefree, lapping up those old vinegars from Cazador’s very hand. I’m a wretch." 

He goes back to sulking with a face fit for a burial, sitting in front of Tav in silence and watching him eat. Tav does not know what to add and drinks the fine vintage straight out of the bottle. It’s unbelievably delicious. Astarion does not seem insulted when Tav keeps his mouth shut. Is he enjoying his own bursts of anger, does the discomfort of Tav pleases him, is it all calculated or the result of storming emotions he does not rule over anymore : it’s quite hard to tell, but it feels cruel. 

"I do have an idea, you know. Work prospect. Get your ass out of the Gate," after some more silence, Tav imagines that the relief he’s always felt on the road could verily extend to Astarion’s own life.

"I’m all pointy ears, dear," Astarion says, looking very disinterested, pointy ears quite blunt. 

"Underdark caravans. There's commerce down there."

"Superb. Eternal darkness."

"As opposed to?" 

"Oh, damn you, Tav. At least my living room gets a tad of sunlight. Allow me just a little pleasure in this bloody stain of an existence."

"I'm not telling you to move with the myconids. Just work. Then go home and brood for a month in your shithole. Then work again, easy," Tav says, rolling his eyes a bit. 

"My what ? Don't you slander Lord Ancunìn's palace like this. Oh, how the mighty have fallen…" Astarion takes it with more grace than Tav expected, but lays his head on the table, defeated. 

"Back on topic, underdark, caravans."

"Thought I was done with escort gigs," Astarion pauses to shoot a look at Tav, but Tav doesn't get it, "also why in the world would you work with drows and duergars. I took you for a good boy."

"I am a good boy. I happen to know of a few routes between Underdark human settlements and the Gate. They mine some precious rocks, pick rare mushrooms. Nothing exciting, but they need help moving the goods around. Perilous, but" Tav raises a finger, happily, "pays pretty well." 

Astarion considers it, head on his hand, humming to himself, worrying his lip under his fangs. 

"And well, you're your own man, my friend. Working for drow cities is lucrative, I just won't come along. Do as you please, roll yourself in the soot, go live in Menzoberranzan. You've already got the red eyes for that job."

"Urgh, gods below, no. I'm not trading a life of darkness for an even worse life of darkness."

"Listen, my precious faerie boy. Don't be afraid of our dark city, great riches await. Lolth will supply much spider pussy ," Tav utters, shoulders hunched, in the evilest tone he can assume. 

Astarion just chuckles, and starts playing with his dagger, spinning it around the thumbs, balancing it on the tip. He watches Tav stuff food in his mouth, then clean the sides of it with a small dainty handkerchief, the vision of the tiny cloth in such huge hands always proving to be a delight. 

"I suppose it's not the worst idea you ever had. Yes, do count me in next time. I can't possibly not have fun stabbing whatever lurks down there, anyway."

Shortly after, Tav excuses himself, dropping into bed like a stone. He gets his rosary out, playing with the beads for a little while, mind turning blank immediately. It does not take him long to sink into sleep.

*

When Tav wakes, slowly turning around and letting his arm drop heavily on the mattress as he stretches, he does not expect to hear a squeak. He wrestles his tired eyes awake, looking sideways at Astarion, crushed under his right shoulder.

"Uh? What in the hells are you doing there?" Tav startles.

"Reading. Sorry for the surprise, can you move? I’d choke if I could right now," Astarion says under his breath, all but flattened against the bed.

"Hmm. Oops, sorry. Am a bit slow when I wake," he says, shuffling on the side to free Astarion’s small frame.

"When you wake. Hum. Gods, you made me drop my book and now I’ve lost my page. Bravo, dearest."

"What the fuck are you even doing in my bed. Piss off, will you," Tav grunts out, nudging him on the arm with his elbow.

"But you are so very warm, and it is so very cold in this horrible, horrible place," the grinning starts.

"Am I just a hot brick to put under the covers to you? Wait, no, don’t fucking answer. Gods." Tav rolls his eyes, robbed of a peaceful awakening. 

"I’d have asked but you looked so peaceful in your sleep. Like the grotesque chimaera of an angel and a boar. I could not find it in myself to wake you up from such idyllic slumber," Astarion says, his smug little smirk an impossibly irritating thing.

Tav gets an overwhelming urge to grab and wrestle him into a headlock, as he’d do with some more substantial friends when confronted with such hindrance, especially at the crack of day. He is however aware this would probably break Astarion in hundreds of shards like a porcelain teapot, or make him freak out. No need to try and get stabbed that early in the morning. 

Or perhaps it would go south, which on the one hand could be good fun, but on the other would only add to the pile of bullshit those few days with Astarion had already been. As some instructor once told Tav and his fellow bunkmates, do not lie with the wicked, and this had quickly been translated among them into the more vulgar don’t stick your dick in crazy. And the putting of one's holy lance inside the undead would be quite the faux-pas for a paladin. Tav does get a fleeting image in his mind of Astarion’s smug face flipped down onto the mattress, held by the nape, pointed ears ripe for the biting.

"Alright, alright, on to adventure, let’s go," he gets up abruptly, Astarion bouncing out of the bed like a fat cat pushed out of one’s knees – even hissing the bit.

Tav quickly equips his gear, eating a handful of dried fruits and nuts to last until mid-day, and they are back on the crawl. Astarion slots the Szarr’s ring into the massive haunted door. It opens, and they are immediately met with the stench of the rotting party-goers. The place still buzzes with flies. Astarion douses a black handkerchief in perfume and ties it around his nose, eyes watering. Proper rogue look. Even without breathing, this pestilence bothers, he explains. He unfolds their crate, and they get to work.

By now Tav has his own firm method: everything that’s remotely shiny goes in the crate. All the paintings that are small enough follow. And as for books, he takes some wicked pleasures pushing them all to the ground, and picking the ones that look old enough, or somehow pulsating with dark magic. He hears Astarion loudly struggle carrying a very heavy looking reliquary across the room, and Tav picks it effortlessly off his hands, don’t go strain your precious muscles, silly rogue, he says, and the said rogue shoots him a weird look. It works too well, and he is now beckoned over when something proves itself to be too heavy, or just a tad too heavy, or not even that heavy at all.

They fold and pick their crate and climb to the attic, where objects of all kinds seem to pile up all the way to the low ceilings. It’s dark, awfully dark, and after lighting all the candelabrum they resume the looting once more. Time flies, in silence. Most of the things here are worthless, but it’s a treasure hunt, and Astarion has an eye for gold and valuables, sorting through the shambles with a robber’s efficiency. Tav feels like chatting, getting bored with the whole adventure: it lacks excitement, and he regrets the heavy armour that weights him down cruelly. 

"Did you cheat, be honest. Yesterday. Rummy," he starts with the lightest topic that comes to his mind.

"Darling, first of all, you hurt me with such slander. Secondly, I know I'm devilishly pretty, but you certainly did not forget I'm quite old. Got experience . And I never, gods forbid, sat behind a weave, a counter, a sword or an ox. Spent my long life either tied to torture racks or running tables in shady inns, waiting, prospecting. I'm great at suffering, but amazing at Three Dragons Ante."

Astarion does not need to breathe, safe for the air he must take in to speak. Tav notices how his voice lowers slightly, at the end of long sentences, before taking in enough for the next blabbering. Must he do it consciously, Tav wonders, considering with a frown that it would be truly maddening. 

"Lastly, I'm pretty amazed you can count to fifty-one without using your fingers. So, winning a few rounds against me is already quite the achievement, my beloved friend."

"All this bragging, yet I've never seen you win a single round of lanceboard against Gale. Curious," Tav objects, smirk hidden behind a crate of golden lamps. 

"Oh, piss off, will you," Astarion groans, voice deepening, dropping the act. 

Having successfully killed the conversation in the egg, Tav laughs a bit to himself, preparing more topics to engage Astarion in. As of now, the rogue seems to be pouting, focusing on a gilded chest filled to the brim with an abundance of little trinkets. But it’s him that eventually breaks the silence, as they’ve moved to another dusty cobwebbed room.

"Tav, my sweet, do you ever think about settling down?"

"I don't ever think, period."

"Hilarious . Oh, sorry, were you not joking?" comes the faux-peevish answer.

''Hey Fangs, look, I don't really know. Back home I'm the only pointy-eared," Tav wiggles his fingers around his head, two elongated ear effigies, "bastard around. Gives me the creeps when I visit and see them growing old. Faster, I mean. Settling in town, uh, I don't know. Tav of Riverbottom's Road, my full name, real countryside boy I am. Silly, right? Okay, so, to sum it up, I don’t know much about much. Hope that answers it," he finishes, a bit pensive. 

"Poor little mayflies. How come though. The drow part," Astarion asks, oddly sympathetic. 

"Hells, no idea. Horrible one night stand decision from my mother. She was quite the giantess, I can't see the appeal some evil little drow manlet could have had on her. Thank the gods, she then married someone normal," Astarion flinches, "and gave me normal siblings." 

"Yeah, I truly could not imagine the appeal," Astarion says, dripping with sarcasm, eye roll to boot. 

"But to close things up. It's the path for me. If it eventually leads me to hang up my sword and pick up a ploughshare, so be it," Tav concludes, hoping for the subject to die down before too many thoughts surface. 

"Oh? So, back to the fields, planting carrots and what-not? Waddling in ox dung?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Disgusting."

"Shut up."

"No, but really. How… Ordinary. Thought you would only settle for some glorious pursuits."

"You don't know me that well, it seems," Tav grunts. 

"How could I? You're barely articulate, boy. A mystery wrapped in groans. And soon to play house-husband, slaving away the hours in the kitchen, making stew or whatever edible thing you people eat. Urgh. But now that you said it, I can see it, you know. You'd look dashing in a flower apron."

"Of course I would. Too bad my current profession is still Undead Slayer ."

"Interesting. And you're good at it?"

"Come here, I'll tell you," Tav beckons him over with his hand, imbued in radiance for emphasis. 

"Oh, how very, very threatening. I quiver in my boots, dear," Astarion mocks, his eyes tracking the faint glow with feigned disinterest. Tav dissipates the spell with a twinge of guilt. 

It’s hard to tell the time in that underground maze, but Tav’s belly reminds him with grace that it must be around mid-day. He sits, unpacking some food, and eats quietly, eyes glazing over the pages of a book he found laying around. The writing style is antique, and he has to ask Astarion about some words he has never heard in his life: strumpet, kerfuffle, clodpoll, dispiteous, callipygian. The last one is met with a smile, that would be you, darling, and a refusal to elaborate.

*

An hour later, they're done with the attics, having had no real luck finding anything of value. As they reach the main hall anew, Tav walks to the dais that would take them underground, but Astarions grabs his attention with a whistled tune. 

"We’ve not entered this place last time, have we?" Astarion says, pointing at an ordinary wall.

"Don’t know what you’re talking about," Tav says blankly.

"Good then. Follow me Saer, I’ll be your host for the evening ," he says, activating a mechanism under the carpet with a stomp, the force of it triggering a low rumble. A door manifests and slides away.

Behind it is a simple squared antechamber. Two doors lead left, and two doors lead right. In the centre, there's a particularly tacky statue, depicting the master of those grounds au naturel . 

"Good heavens," Tav erupts with a nervous chortle. 

"I know, right?" Astarion says, lip upturned in disgust, "Tav, my hero, give me a little show, will you. You're a big guy, aren't you?" 

"For sure. I am. As for the show… I know naughty dance moves, if that's what you mean," Tav says, moving his armoured hips from left to right in a loud but most unimpressive way. 

"Truly horrific. Please dear, refrain from such vulgar displays. No, I meant, I'd love to see that abomination smashed to bits. I've fantasised about it for longer than you've breathed air." 

"Oh… I suppose I can try. Sounds fun."

Tav gets his flail out, prowling around the stone Cazador, assessing its weak points. A dainty arm, a crooked leg, a gracile head. Astarion follows his every move with his eyes, a predator observing another predator, assessing his competition. How can something so stupid become so intense is beyond Tav's grasp, but he preens under Astarion's fiery gaze, proud and cocksure of his strength. Like a strongman at the circus, he hits and hits and hits under the silent cheers of an absent crowd. At some point Astarion shouts harder, spurring Tav on with manic glee, and Tav obliges, head warming up from the effort. A few wild swings of his flail later, most of the statue has been reduced to ruin. The torso lies in one bit, its shape too sturdy to damage further. There's debris and powder suspended in the air. Tav moans, panting, as he sends the spiked ball crashing one last time against Cazador's decapitated head. 

"Fantastic!" Astarion chants, going for sarcastic but landing on amused, as he applauds for only a handful of claps. 

"Thanks, Saer," Tav concludes with a bow before sitting down to catch his breath. 

"You're a proper battering ram, dear," Astarion smiles, inviting. 

"As I've been told," Tav can't help himself, effectively falling into the trap as Astarion gives him a little toothy smirk that makes him feel like a mouse for a second or two. 

"Oh, truly? I can't just take your word for it. Anyway, you dirty boy, up, I must show you around," Astarion clicks his tongue, opening the second door to the left. Tav trots behind him, dismissing some mental image as he walks into a small cupboard with a couple of brooms and mops. 

"Not everything can be exciting in life," Astarion laments, thriving on a small laugh from Tav, "here in front is a dining hall. Here, a great dungeon for all kinds of fun. And here…" he ends, pointing at the first door to the left. 

"See that door here? We were not allowed in there. I once lingered in front of it, for I suppose a couple of minutes. Curiosity killed the cat," he says pointing at a large wooden door with elaborate locks, a grand total of 7 keyholes piled one over the other, all with different styles, some engraved, some plain, gold, silver, iron. He trembles, anger clear in his tense posture. "Cazador saw me and had Godey tear out my eyelids. Took weeks to heal properly. And I had to kneel there, keep my bleeding eyes fixed on the door. I could draw it perfectly from memory, maybe one of the few things I actually remember from that time," his voice is flat, free of inflexions, and deeper than his usual.

Tav’s gut turns a bit and he tries his luck with touching Astarion’s shoulder: he allows it, so Tav pulls him closer to his side, arm around his body. It’s comforting but probably not much comfortable, even though Tav’s armour is not of the spiky sort. For once he does not feel strange or inadequate about having no words to say. Tav can tell how unpleasant the contact is for Astarion, his body visibly tensing between the panicked urge to flee and the desire to stay, to lean even closer. They rest this way for a bit, Astarion rummaging through his bag for his lock picking tools. He finally frees from Tav’s hold, and tackles on the first lock of many.

"Now I realise seldom those tortures were punishments. I suppose it was just fun to watch me suffer. Reasons be damned."

Tav watches him at work, his dexterous hands manipulating the pick, tickling at the lock’s teeth with the pin, turning, testing, a careful back and forth. His ears perk up, tuned to the metal’s screeching song, clicks and snaps, a peculiar secret that reveals itself at last when the deadbolt slides. He goes on to the next one, eyeing it, selecting the correct tool size. Tav’s mind wanders, imagining a rogue school akin to his paladin’s barracks, where dubious and shady characters sit in silence, learning such skills. The idea proves amusing, and he smiles, still captivated.

"But it’s not like, ah, it’s not like I can't see the appeal. Suffering can be quite funny. When my siblings were punished, I gawked and I grinned and I squirmed. And I still love the sight of blood. From a professional angle, of course. But also personal. Maybe I deserved some of this plight, what do you think, Tav, my dear?" 

"Sure. And even more. You are, after all, such an evil little creature," Tav spits out, his rough voice dripping with irony. 

"Ha! Oh, gods below, how very painful to hear. Tell me Saer Paladin, what wicked punishments are in store?" 

"Oh, shut up already. You’re smart, aren’t you? You surely boast enough about it. Then you’re smart enough to conceive that you like all those awful things because it’s all you’ve ever known. Let’s leave it at that."

"Good heavens, that is quite the novel concept! Quick, find me an orphan to adopt, I'm feeling benevolent. Or a dog to pet. I must be such a tender, gentle, kind person underneath all the grime. Urgh . You really suffer from unreasonable hopes, paladin."

"Hope has never made me suffer."

"Well, that’s all it has ever done to me," Astarion snarls out, tilting his head away from his lockpicking.

"Your master is dead, Astarion. Move on. You don’t have to trade the whip’s end for the whip’s handle," Tav says, remembering a line he once heard and that immediately stuck in his mind. As he speaks, the corniness of it assaults him and he tenses up. 

" Move on ," Astarion cackles, his grip on his tools going shaky for a second, "go on, enlighten me, how do I move on ?"

"You already did." 

"No, not really. Hmm. Gods. You… You are correct, you know? But when I rest, when I meditate, I’m still firmly here, in that very palace, on a hook or on all fours. I wonder when it will go away," he finishes, starting on the fourth keyhole already. It seems like he’s now conversational, Tav notices, and actually interested in his input, rather than concerned with the sterile lining up of horrors.

"The most beautiful time of my life was knowing you, the others, walking under the sun as everything went to utter shit . Gods, how I miss it. I’d doom the very world to see us covered in gore again. I even miss our little worms," Astarion adds with longing in his voice, a stark contrast to more bitter inflexions.

"Ah…To some extent, I can relate. A great party, we were. I’m always on the path, no home, no address. I let them all slide away. I regret it," Tav sits cross-legged, eyes still following the lockpicking intently. 

"Oh, are you lonely, Paladin?"

"Sometimes, yes," Tav answers, proud of his shortcomings, as he always thrived to be.

"Well, you did it to yourself, love," Astarion retorts, and Tav takes it, unflinching.

"You graceful being, you. Were my ass firmly glued to a bed for most of my existence, I’d pen some letters, I think," Astarion just grins, not lifting his nose from his work, apparently enjoying Tav’s slander, "You got along well with Shadowheart, didn’t you? Why not write her?" Tav concludes. 

"I think she has more pressing concerns… – tch, stop staring at me like this, I’m getting performance anxiety –, well, I did send a letter to Waterdeep. I don’t have a clue where that silly wizard resides, addressed it to Gale Dekarios’s Tower . I had asked for help, about the whole, ah, sunlight matter. Got no answer, sadly." The sixth lock pops open with a satisfying noise, Astarion clicking his tongue in triumph.

"Might be worth trying again," Tav considers with his head on his hand.

"Might be, yes. Well, darling, up, up, that’s enough bickering for now. On your feet," he holds his hand out, having to balance backwards on his heels with all of his might to pull Tav off the ground. He then proceeds to finish picking the final lock, and the heavy door opens, at last.

It’s a long corridor, endless really. It’s basked in perfect darkness. They light a torch. Even with their elven eyes, they cannot judge its length with precision. A long carpet lines the ground, with repeating patterns of bats and snakes, intertwined. 

Echoing footsteps and the distant sound of water dripping barely cover the constant clinking of Tav's armour. He feels alone, with how perfectly silent Astarion prowls behind, and he expects at any time to turn around and realise he's been abandoned there. 

"Gloomy," Tav shivers. 

"Vampire chic, you mean," Astarion deadpans. 

The corridor stretches on and on, and Tav somehow gets the unpleasant feeling that the ceiling is slowly lowering, and the walls closing in. No candelabra lines the wall, nothing breaks the purity of the stone masonry. 

Tav suddenly feels a horrible cold seeping through the cracks of his armour and biting at his naked skin. He opens his mouth to gasp for air, and a thick liquid enters, drowning the sound before it even surfaces. Blind panic sets in as that gelatinous matter enters his nose, dripping down his throat. 

He feels more than he hears, ears perking up to vibrations behind him. The gelatinous cube around him is unflinching, ungiving, and as he suffocates he still somehow thinks of the aspic meals he used to eat in barracks, and he'd laugh if he wasn't actively and seriously dying. 

He struggles, but nothing moves, and he knows Astarion is behind him and can't walk around as the cube has filled the full width of the corridor. No hands reach him, no spell shakes his body free from that viscous bondage, and his panic turns into fully fledged terror when he feels his lungs filling up with goo. 

It seems unthinkable, but Astarion is leaving him to die there. His vision blurs out with tears, the pain in his head unbearable from the lack of air, but finally he feels something grabbing at his arm and pulling, far too weakly. The fresh air hits his hand like liquid night. The pull resumes, painfully tugging at the socket, but Tav fears that Astarion simply can't pull him out. His armour, his gear, hells, himself, it's all too heavy, and the cube proves awfully resisting. Something tinkers at his gauntlet, and it's suddenly removed from his hand. Horror only grows hotter when he realises his body isn't even cold and he's already getting scavenged, like some vulgar foaming corpse picked clean by vultures. 

"Hhhh… Hhhh…" It all becomes darker and darker, he can hear his heartbeat pulsing between his ears, his chest tightening. 

The last things Tav truly registers, and it adds to the terminal dread he's feeling, are fangs digging on his wrist. They burn and freeze at the same time and feel like polished chrome. Tav wishes he could embrace what's to come, utter silent prayers to gods he doesn't follow, reflect one last time on the pillars of his oath, but all he feels is betrayal, a pain beyond description. Where the wounds are, the pain retires, and the feeling slowly snakes up his arm, through his heart, ending in his head. The tide has fully receded, leaving behind a wide immensity of nothingness. 

*

Chapter Text

"Hey? Hey, you're in there? Come on, hello sweetheart, shake it off." 

Tav can't see, only hears the distant voice. His lungs hurt and his throat feels like sandpaper, nose burning up from a caustic stench. His cheek gets slapped, increasingly harder, but it's a harsh tug on his ear that gets the air moving. 

"A-a-aarn…" he moans and is at once seized by a coughing fit. 

"Groan twice if you're alright. Gods, I hope you won't turn up even more brain limited than before. Tav?" Astarion asks, his nonchalant tone tainted with stress. 

"Grr… Grgrr," Tav manages. 

"Great. Walking head first in that cube, quite the misfortune. Odd that we both missed it so. Perhaps a bit more attention is to be had, later on."

"Yeah." 

Tav tries to sit, slowly, noticing the top half of his armour is missing, leaving him in his damp and gooey undershirt. His wrist feels numb. He is slick, sticky. There's not an inch of his body free from that weird sensation. 

The memory comes back to him, the feelings first, the pain second. The questions finally follow, and he turns towards Astarion. Tav's eyes are bloodshot, hard as stone, his face pulling in every direction and therefore settling on a neutral frown. 

"I had to blow air inside you, you know? Disgusting, it was. Like kissing a dead fish. I hope it was just from the cube, and that your pitiful lovers don't always feel that way."

Astarion eyes him, and it's clear that he's bracing for what's to come. His jokes fall a bit flat, and he's failing to actually be aggravating. He sits on his heels, demurely, hands on his knees, observing Tav's large body slowly expanding and retracting. There's some relief, some apprehension on his pale features. And blood on his neck, where it trickled down his face. 

"Why did you…" Tav whispers out. He feels too weak for anger, for anything truly. Laying down and going back to darkness feels more enticing. 

"Oh, darling, I'm quite sorry for the fright. I did not manage to pull you out. You're heavy, my friend, and I'm, well," he flexes his arms, but not much shows despite his soft, body hugging armour, "you know. Let's politely say my talents are elsewhere. I knew your blood would make me stronger, if only for minutes. I'd have asked permission, you know how polite I am, but I felt a bit pressured by your, ah, perishing," Astarion explains, and there is actually some shame in his face, though he tries as hard as he can to just look his usual mix of haughty and disinterested. 

"Fuck, Fangs. I can't say it felt great. Scared me shitless."

"Hope you can forgive me," Astarion softly says, grabbing Tav's wrist and rubbing his thumb over the twin puncture marks. It doesn't feel good, but Tav feels soothed nonetheless.

"Well, you did save me. Of course I can," Tav smiles, weakly. 

"Yes. I'm quite the hero. Majestic. Now that we're done with sentiments. Took me quite some time to slice and dice that awful cube,” he points at the defeated pile of jelly with a disgusted frown. ”Your armour is gone because I had to hit you on the back, repeatedly, to get all that slime out. Fed you a healing potion, one of my good ones. Not only did I blow air in your lungs, I also had to suck goo out of your windpipe. That is far out of my usual range, you'll imagine," Astarion enumerates the offences, raising fingers, voice grown back into his regular confidence and swagger. 

"Eww. That's nasty."

"Sure was. You owe me, my sweet."

"Hmm. Alright, I think I need to rest and clean myself. Gods, my fucking cock is stuck to my leg," Tav whines, shaking his leg around, armour rattling on, goo squelching loudly - lewd sounds, he ponders. 

"Charming."

"Just give me a quarter hour break, I'll heal myself and we'll finish walking down that stupid corridor. Then camp. Must bathe. Urgh," Tav concludes, applying his hands to his neck, healing magic penetrating his airways. 

*

“Feeling better?” Astarion asks after a short while. 

“Not really, no. Feels awful, inside. Acid,” Tav grits out, pained. 

“Ah. Well, tough luck. Tav luck,” Astarion chuckles nervously and Tav too, both horrified to actually be amused by such a pun. 

“Ha ha. Missed your calling as a bard.”

“I should have kept track of all the limericks I unleashed in the Gate, you know. I still hear some of them, those days. When revisiting shady places.”

“Such as?” 

“Inns, pubs, brothels? I'm still on good terms with some of those people, somehow…” Astarion recalls, before adding, ”I thought you of more dignified stock, but you're just as sleazy. Seems I just can't part with grimy company, no matter how much I try. What can I say, it's where the fun things happen…” 

“I meant the limericks,” Tav smiles, focusing on his breathing as the pain washes away. 

“Oh. Well, it's all quite vulgar, you know. I thought them over and over, in here, as Cazador toyed with me one way or another. Kept me sane. Well, sane. Big word.”

“Come on, spit it out.”

“Gods below, no.”

“Please? For a wounded man?” Tav playfully begs, a grotesque performance from his strained voice. 

“Oh, don't give me those pathetic wet eyes, you fiend. It's irresistible. Well, you asked, ah, just which one… ” he clears his throat, "I hear sob and moan and cry - from the elf's room oh so nigh - as I observe through the door - long tears falling on the floor - i notice his eyes are dry.” As he recites it, he seems to flush just a bit. Clearly it’s something he's proud and ashamed of at the same time, which, Tav ponders, makes good sense. 

“Fuck, I've heard this one before, I think. Hadn't pegged you as a smuggler of naughty rhymes," Tav grins, delighted. 

"A bored mind does wander."

"Glad to meet the guy behind the artwork.”

“You flatter me, boy. Now that I'm utterly humiliated, surely your spirits are lifted, hmm? Onwards?”

*

They light another torch, not trusting their nocturnal vision anymore to see through whatever lurks around them. Tav utters some prayer and the fire grows much stronger, its light almost blinding. He sees Astarion probe the fire discreetly with his hand, probably worried about the magic animating it affecting him in new and depressing ways. Nothing happens, at least nothing more than the expected outcome of such an act - ouch , he whispers. 

At the end of that corridor, they come across a door. They're both on edge, and this time Astarion leads the way. No other traps manifest, and he lockpicks it slowly. Takes some time, uh! I need more than a little crooked touch here , but it eventually gives way. 

"Oh. Hum. Gods below. All hands folded, jackpot," Astarion says, voice a bit trembling. 

When Tav walks himself in, he gets the sentiment. There's a lot of gold in there. It all dances under the undulating lights of Astarion's torch. He's inspecting the pile for traps, but there's none. 

"Well, that's quite the birthday present there," Astarion is all excited, kneeling in the gold, toying with strange and luxurious objects. 

"Is it? Your birthday," Tav answers, unfolding the crate-bag.

"No."

Tav just shoots him a puzzled look, fed up with the whims. 

"Oh, don't give me that dumb look. Tedious living concerns. But I can pick today, for sure. That, here? The climax of the rogue's path."

They get lost in the shimmering gold. It's easy to. They scoop the gold with full hands, then get on to lining the objects, taking wild guesses at some of their uses. Astarion is positively giddy: Tav realises he's never seen him that carefree. 

''Olifant ivory, inlaid wood - gods, there's even diamonds here, near the keyhole," Astarion handles a small box, looking it over as Tav comes to observe. "Now, just what in the planes could be inside," he sing-songs, fiddling at the tiny mechanism with a hair pin and his smallest metal pick. It comes open with a click. 

"Ah! Oh. Too bad," Tav sadly concludes, when the box proves to be a make-up container - very fancy, but still a mild disappointment.

Astarion mumbles something, dipping fingers in the coloured powder and painting his eyes and mouth. He looks into the box's mirror, though there's nothing there. He then turns to Tav for inspection. The air rushes out of Tav's nose at once, an ugly snort impossible to keep on the inside. Bright blue eyelids that smudge in every direction, ruby red lips on that pale face that looks powdered: the looks of an old decrepit whore, and a very drunk one. 

"So, darling, tell me? Am I, stop laughing! Am I not beautiful?" he beams up with a wide grin. 

"Finest priestess of Sune, there, cross my heart," Tav laughs along, hand on his chest. "Please swear you'll wait to show up in mirrors to do this ever again."

*

It takes them an hour to pick through the rest of the Szarr’s treasure trove, a motley collection of objects that seem, for some, to even predate civilization as Tav knows it. Magical tomes, scrolls inscribed in long dead tongues, trinkets buzzing with potential. A tall object puzzles Tav. It seems to be made of the most peculiar metal, a dark shine to it as if copper had been turned black. It is layered with hooks, with holes : the structure repeats, thinning around the top. When Tav tries to touch it, he finds that he simply cannot lay his hand on it, repelled by some dark magic. He beckons Astarion over for further inspection, and bursts out laughing when the elf seriously walks up to him, his face still caked in that awful make-up. Astarion, however, can touch the strange thing : and so he painstakingly carries it inside the crate’s chasm. 

"Fucking cube, man. I feel like I’m covered in seed," Tav blurts out suddenly.

"Elegantly put," Astarion answers with a haughty snort, not bothering to pick up his nose from his current dig.

It repeats a couple of times, Astarion trotting up to Tav, preciously cradling in his hands a fantastically painted antique vase, a golden figure, only to have Tav start giggling hysterically to his face - stop that! - the elf whines.

*

Back at the dormitory, Astarion rushes to the basin to clean his face, having been tortured by Tav’s stupid fits of laughter for the entire walk there. Taking one look at Tav, covered head to toe in gelatinous goo with his hair sticking to his face, he reconsiders, and silently invites him to go first. 

There’s only cold water in that palace. It’s not that Tav isn't used to the hardships of the vagrant life, but the cold hits differently under there. It seeps through to his bones. The cube’s gelatin proves awfully resistant to the old rotten soaps and after deeming his body clean enough, he's not stupid enough to waste time attempting to remove it from his curly mop of hair.

Astarion innocently asks, - are you done, my dear? - and Tav just starts laughing again at his face, exiting the basin quickly with his body shaken by shivers and half-formed giggles.

*

"You don't follow any gods, right my dear? How come," Astarion says, having finally wiped his face free of all the persistent colours. Clearly, the question had been crystallising in his mind, just waiting not to be dunked in water to come out. 

"Ah, it's long. We never were too devout back home. I mean, we did become a tad more devout when our fields yielded no grain for three years straight. Gods probably sniffed out some disingenuity."

Astarion comes to sit on the bed's edge, Tav shuffling away to allow him to lay. But he stays upright, producing from his back a small mahogany box etched with golden foreign inscriptions. He slides the top off playfully, so very slowly, and Tav rewards him with a theatrical ooooh as the content reveals : very thin cigars, with a pleasant and strong smell of faraway tobaccos and spices. Cazador was the worst piece of shit in Faerûn, but i can not deny him some taste, how depressing, Astarion grumbles, lighting two cigarillos at once with a small muttered ignis , and sliding one delicately between Tav's lips, one cold fingertip resting on the upper one for a second too long. 

"Back in topic. The gods. Never answered my pleas either, and Tav, my dear, I can assure you, I was persistent. I think they just don't really care. Of course, of course, save for exceptions, heroes , or miserable fucks like Gale or Shadowheart. Served them well."

"Yeah. Then, in the army I met my first fanatics. Made my skin crawl, hells. When I joined a chapter, to train as a paladin, I met many more."

Tav inhales, exhales, takes his sweet time to recall as elegantly as he can a tale that he feels in his bones, in his heart, but has rarely committed to words. 

"One day, I was in an inn - Bryn Shander, that’s where I trained -  when two of my elders, Tyr bound, were discussing, uh, phlilo…thelo…"

"Theology."

"Uh-hu. Yes. Of course I had to get some lessons on that subject during my training, but I was not particularly talented. Always was kind of abstract to me. I was much better at the physical arts."

"One can tell," Astarion says, raising an eyebrow, corner smile, inhaling from his cigarillo with all the grace of a noble man, or woman. He holds it in the most delicate of ways, hand bent at the wrist, which would amuse Tav on every other occasion, but here it just really suits perfectly. Tav does notice the quirk he expected : Astarion inhales, but does not bother with exhaling until he really has too, pressed by talking. 

"Pssh, shut up. Anyway, those two guys are discussing symbols, meanings, I can’t remember, wanker shit. Some noise breaks out in the street, I get up, they tell me not to mingle. They were so busy, you know. I go anyway, and I stand between a poor couple selling fish and two scoundrels trying to steal their wares, openly, mind you. I was not expecting more to come out of the shadows, and I got the living shit beat out of me. Got me this nasty one, there," Tav says, tilting his head and pointing at his scarred lips, split vertically from nose to chin on his right.

"Anyway, you see what I mean, right? I woke up in the healer ward, could barely open my eyes with how swollen they got. I’m lucky I still got both of my peepers in there," Tav chuckles, blowing some smoke circles - one of them fits through the previous one, a trick he had never managed to pull. "But yeah. I was bitter for months. That’s when I swore off that holy rinky-dink trash."

"A bit extreme, but I suppose I can understand the sentiment."

"Can you? Thought you'd side with the bandits on this one.” 

“Oh dear. You have me all mixed up. I don't pick sides…”

“But yours?” 

“But mine,” Astarion grins, boyish. 

“Well, anyway. My concept of good is naive, maybe. Hey, what about it. I’m very much a climb the tree to save a cat guy. A help that peasant repair his cart, protect food merchants from highway bandits type. I try to trust my wits."

"You're looting a vampire torture den, dear. In bed, lounging with the nastiest cat in Baldur's Gate. Your moral compass has lost its north, hasn't it?"

"Sorry to hurt your ego, but you're barely a minor evil these days," Tav crosses his arms for a second, cigarillo balancing on his lips, before taking one last drag and snuffing it out on the wall.

"Darling, I'm hurt! Let me cling to what I can," Astarion pretends to pout, getting up to snuff his on a small portrait of a nobleman, defacing it. 

*

As Astarion was toying with a rapier he had found - disdainful snorts, as it probably was not making the cut - Tav was trying to get the most jelly out of his armour and flail as he possibly could. He had changed into his night pants and had laid out his day clothes to dry after some rudimentary laundering. Miracle if that shit dries, he thinks, frowning. A menial meal puts the pathetic final touch to a truly awful day, and he lays in bed, boneless. Astarion silently appears in front of it, clicking his tongue rudely to catch Tav's attention. 

"Mind if I stay here?" he says, pointing at the bed with a limp finger. 

"No. It's cute that you're so cuddly, kitten." 

"Urgh. I'm not cuddly, I'm cold. Remember? I'm a corpse," Astarion remarks, acidic, as he lays down on the bed, separated from Tav as much as space allows. 

“You're more than a corpse,” Tav says innocently. 

“Are you flirting dear?” 

“First time I use this line, actually.”

“It's working. Good one, I'm impressed,” Astarion flirts back, voice dropping low. 

"Well, anyway. Don't be so dramatic, you'll get over it," Tav jests, wondering if he's lighting any fuse right now. 

Astarion just rolls his eyes and picks up his book. Tav closes his eyes, arms under his head, relaxed by the metronome of shifting pages and the appreciative little hmms of Astarion as he stumbles upon interesting lines. 

“What are you reading?” Tav asks, curious.

“What was I reading.”

“Uh?”

“What was I reading, before you interrupted me,” Astarion clears up. Tav recognises the tone : it’s the one where Astarion is trying to be as irritating as possible solely to satisfy his own strange brand of sadism. He grits his teeth and resists dark urges.

“Alright, forget I ask.”

“No, you already broke my immersion. Ruined. I’ll never get back into it now. Happy?”

“I’m so very sorry, my liege,” Tav drawls out, sycophantic.

“So. The book is called The M-”

“Ah, I don’t care anymore. Changed my mind. Just read in peace,” Tav interrupts with supreme effort to conceal his amusement.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, rogue.”

“Is this your concept of conversations now? Spurring me on, building me up? To deny me? Oh. Oh, you utter minx. You slimy, slimy bastard. Alright, you got me good. Stop grinning!” Astarion fires up, defeated.

Tav can’t help but laugh, as he figures that Astarion is completely defenceless against his own weapons. Astarion’s face contorts into a strange expression that is probably a smile.

“So, what’s the book?” 

“The Missives of Sshamath.”

“And? What is it about?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would like to know.”

“Well, it’s some little epistolary tale, gods , your face, that means letters. Drows killing and plotting and lying and being generally delightful. Right now, I’m besotted with that Elpragh lady. She just weaves the most cock and bull stories, and all her recipients gobble it up like fine slob. She’s after my dead heart. Ah…” Astarion sighs, hand on his chest as he smiles blissfully.

“Come on, mean drow ladies? Did not expect you to have such… Basic fantasies,” Tav cocks an eyebrow.

“What? Gods, no. I don’t like her like that. You naughty thing. This is an intellectual book, not self-abuse fodder,” Astarion whines, scandalised for the length of the bit.

“Sounds fun, I suppose.”

“Oh, it is. I’ll stuff it in your pack, once I’m done. Your paladin friends will be so impressed when you get it out at the campfire. It’s quite erudite. Look, it’s printed in small letters. No drawings either.”

“Sure. I do know how to read, you know,” Tav says, closing his eyes again as he comfortably reclines.

“I never doubted it, dear thing,” Astarion lies.

Astarion goes back to reading, and Tav decides to be nice on a whim.

"You can shuffle closer if you like, you know. Got heat enough for two."

"Thanks, you are very hot, but I get enough of that from afar. Were I any closer, only the smell would be more intense." To Tav's constantly renewed amazement, Astarion truly can convey a grimace, a pinched nose, with only a twist of the tongue. 

"So much for peace," Tav grunts, turning around, offering his disdainful back side as a complementary answer. 

"If I said yes, what would you get from it anyway?"

"Is this some political intrigue, or am I just suggesting a comfortable sleep. A brotherly cuddle. Remind me."

"Answer."

"I don't know, man. A big pillow. I would just have to flip you over once in a while to lie on the fresher side." 

"You're a weirdo, you know? Truly," Astarion says, some humour in his voice. 

"Good night to you too," Tav concludes, yawning with great power. 

As he cascades into sleep, painful sensations arise of the cube, of his lungs filling out as the air got pushed out. He still feels sore. There's some guilt too, with how quickly he had assumed the worst. Tav rules his thoughts over into oblivion, tumbling at the edge. He does however clearly feel when Astarion scoots closer, forehead resting against his warm back. Tav decides politely to save the snarky comments for another time. 

Chapter Text

Tav wakes with a weight digging on his chest. Astarion is laying sideways, head resting on Tav’s breast, cheek flattened against the warm skin. He’s reading but closes the book as he feels Tav awake. 

"Making yourself at home, I see," Tav says and politely lays still, as Astarion shifts his head a bit to look in his eyes.

"That is unbelievably relaxing, you know. A heartbeat. Hardly ever had the chance before to consider it." The contented answer comes with a fangless little smile.

"I’m glad I can provide."

"And yours is so strong. Like a bull."

"Moo."

"Too bad it’s going all erratic now. Such a fiddle little thing," Astarion laments, rubbing the side of his face against Tav, desperately trying to soak more of its heat. "Well then, up, you sleepy beast. Do ring a bell in an hour or two when you’re done putting on that wretched armour of yours," he adds, bouncing off the bed gracefully, holding his hand to his cheek, mourning its warmth as it dissipates.

Tav just breathes out deeply, already pissed off with everything before he’s even on his feet.

*

Walking back to the antechamber, Astarion leads Tav in front of the first room to the right. He pushes the door, inviting Tav inside with a butler's poise, and starts explaining. 

"And here, my sweet, is where the most blasé of aristocrats came to spend their putrid seed. On the ground, in silken handkerchiefs or inside unfortunate people who would have much preferred being elsewhere." 

The crude comment rattles Tav's mind. He feels heavy, again, as if his entrails had petrified. 

The huge room has beds, cushioned floors, all sorts of comfort for the coupling. Yet half of it is more sinister, torture racks, chains and a myriad of tools of pain. The two compartments seem to bleed into each other, leather meeting velvet and furs embracing metal. Where most of the crosses and bondage implements are, there are no carpets, and the stone ground is brown with dried blood. Tav feels sickened. He thinks the dungeon is an insult to life itself, a desecration of some of the holiest bounds of existence. 

At the edge of his sight, Tav sees Astarion toying with golden manacles tied to a bed's column. His face becomes sombre and he pinches the bridge of his nose, massaging the skin there as he leans against the mahogany pillar. 

Tav unfolds their crate of holdings and starts picking the things he now favours, candelabrum, paintings, silverware. Some object catches his interest, perfectly out of place in this nest of sins. 

"That's a strange rosary," Tav says, fingers rolling over prayer beads. There's ten beads, each of increasing size. A golden chain links them, ending on a wide silver ring. The first one is the size of a small lemon, the last merely a marble. Tav wonders which oath the rosary serves. Ten tenets don't seem like much. 

"You're joking, are you?" Astarion asks, baffled.

"No. Why?"

"Alright. I might have to start a bit uphill with you. When two people like each other very much, they som-"

"What the fuck are you talking about now?"

"It goes in your rear, it's not a rosary. Gods." Eyeroll, sigh, gesticulations : Astarion's act is pitch perfect, as always.

"Oh. Oh. Hmm. Alright," Tav says, putting the unsavoury item back on the desk with a frown.

"Tav, my darling, you can't possibly be that innocent."

"I don't need orbs in my ass to come, thank you very much," he grunts, ears blushing just a bit.

"Oh dear, would be quite enticing though," Astarion grabs the toy, mimicking the beads entering some imaginary hole one by one as he quotes, "Duty. I'll obey any, any orders. Honour. I'll be a very good boy. Compassion. I'll give all my money to handsome Astarion hereby present. Courage. I can fit this big one in m-"

"Shut up, shut up. No one talks about my oaths in such words, you heathen little freak," Tav interrupts, but he also can't keep a chuckle from erupting as he has to pretend to be mad harder than he should.

"How tragic, that's as good a fantasy as any other. Oh my, come look at this one. This will bag a lot of gold with the proper clientele," Astarion grins, picking out some beautiful leather cock, embezzled with smoothed out precious stones replicating the ridges of a cambion's anatomy. At least this one's use is no mystery to Tav, though the sheer size of it seems a bit unpractical.

"Well then. Let's bag all of those debauched toys then."

"Let's. I'll enlighten you to the purpose of any you can't decipher yourself. I do enjoy seeing you squirm."

"None of those grotesque things are making me squirm, Astarion," Tav sternly says, chin tilted up, the elf disappearing from his sight from their substantial height difference.

"Ugh. Party-pooper," he sighs, deprived of the little fun he expected.

*

On the wardrobes, Tav finds an abundance of costumes, some alluring, some clearly serving the purpose of roleplay. There's a mannequin on one corner wearing a beautiful plate armour. Tav approaches, Astarion on his heel. Inspecting it, Tav notices how the thigh pieces are flared, revealing the entire midriff, back side included, and the strange details don't end here. The breastplate has a huge hollowed out window that must reveal the wearer's chest. It's also engraved with the markings of a follower of Tyr. The helmet is an archaic jousting model, but where the metal should be perforated to allow sight, it's plain. Only the mouthpiece is opened. Tav gets a mental image of how such an armour is used, and how it would look on him were he to try it on with no under clothes. Maybe this implement is making him squirm, after all.

"You're quite the subject of fantasies boy, you know. The brave, brave knight in shining armour. Though I've only seen the ugliest, sleaziest people wear this thing here. Your type doesn't end up in the awful parties Cazador held. Pity."

"If my type had ended here, it would have been to take his head. How your master was allowed to thrive in the Gate is beyond my understanding," Tav says, too loud, too angry, making Astarion flinch a bit.

"Well, I've serviced quite the generations of officials, dukes, marshalls, diplomats and whoever powerful in town. Cazador had them by the throat. Pun intended," he says, eyes thin, mouth pinched. "Got raped by entire litters of blue-blooded mutts in those halls. Surely you can understand my disdain for rightful order."

"Yeah. I can," Tav says, severing the armour from the mannequin and swallowing around unspent spit.

*

"I don't want us to gather those horrors. Do you mind if I smash it all to bits," Tav says, looking at cruel iron pliers, covered in rust or dried blood, most likely both.

"Shame. Would be pretty easy to sell. Some are quite elaborate, and those patinas..."

"Well maybe I don't want those things to be used ever again," Tav dryly says, unsheathing his flail from his back. 

"People use those for pleasure, you know, for fun," Astarion adds in his practised seducing voice, a tone deaf move as Tav sours on the spot. 

"Well did you? Have fun? Was it fucking fun?" he growls, stepping closer to Astarion, resisting an urge to grab him by the collar.

"No, I did not, thanks for the concern. But others did. Others still could," he answers, moving back, fleeting hurt on his face.

"Gods, how can you be so- fuck, so!... I'm not doing that," Tav gestures widely with his arm, sending some of the torture tools tumbling to the ground, iron screeching on cold stone ground. 

"So what, maybe it's my turn to sample the fun."

"You want to be your master that bad, you lunatic?" Tav snarls. 

"How dare you say this," Astarion hisses, hand hovering over his dagger instinctively.

"What else am I to think? I did not come here to feed into whatever the fuck this is," Tav walks away and starts pacing, trying to calm himself down. Flinging his flail at a torture cross proves to be a relief for a couple of seconds, shards of woods sent reeling from the impact. Tav then immediately feels stupid. 

"You came here for the gold, so simmer down and go back to work," Astarion bites back, his own posture overflowing with anger. He bends down and pretends to pick some spiked pear-like item, but it's more performative than efficient.

"You- You think I'm here for the gold?" Tav answers, dumbfounded. 

"What else?"

"Are you dense, or pissing me off on purpose? I don't give a shit about gold," Tav shoots back, getting meaner by the minute.

"I repeat : why else?" Astarion says, but he sounds different, weaker, pathetic. When Tav meets his eyes, they look raw, light dying out like quenched metal. It's rare, but he's actually asking a question. 

"I don't fucking know. Guess I'm stupid too," Tav selects his answer quickly, probably not as eloquent as he could muster were he a bit calmer. He hopes whatever he means isn't lost in translation.

Astarion just laughs once, bitter, looking left and right at the torture tools for a sickly long moment, then digging in his bag of holdings.

"There, don't go and ruin your precious flail. And then, let's go take some rest," he whistles once to startle Tav, and throws him a smoke powder bomb.

As they leave the room, crate-bag folded and tucked tightly under Astarion's pit, Tav lights and throws the bomb. They scuttle away, and as it explodes the ground shakes briefly, the explosion impossibly loud among the echoing wastes.

They walk out of the corridor, into the hall, and finally back to the dormitory where each flop in their respective beds, in complete silence. Tav doesn't trust himself to keep calm were Astarion to say anything poisonous right now. 

As he lays, he gets his rosary out - shedding a short thought for the most peculiar one he encountered previously -, thinks of his oaths and of a meditative routine he learned years ago. He pictures himself on a busy path, shedding worldly concerns with every bead, and progressively the path empties. Ultimately he's walking in a perfect void, an infinite white space where nothing can reach him.

*

After a short while, they decide to enter the entrails of the palace. The dais shifts into motion. They go down, slowly, a rumbling sound that carries them into the abyss. 

In the underlayers, they find gold, bones, stones, empty crates and trash. As if the sewers of Baldur's Gate had puked their foetid streams here for centuries. 

On the walk to the ritual chamber, there are seldom things to pick. Tav insists on taking some of the fluorescent vases. No one would decorate their home with such horrors, Astarion says. Tav would, finding the green light soothing, but he keeps it a secret. 

The cells where Astarion's victims were piled still stink of death. He averts his eyes as they walk by. 

Finally, in the echoing wasteland of the chamber, they reach Cazador's body. 

"I’m surprised none of my siblings came here," Astarion comments. 

"What do you mean?"

"To lay here, join him. I felt a certain pull myself." 

Tav sees it, for a second, Cazador’s rotproof corpse surrounded by his spawns, entwined at the tail like a rat-king. At his feet even in death. Would Astarion look even paler, grey tongue sticking out? 

"Tav, my friend, can you spare some magic still? I think you could destroy him, for good. With your silly little, ah, holy-man tricks," Astarion says, holding his right hand in front of him, clenching his jaw in a skillful imitation of Tav.

"Sure. Step back," Tav answers, darkly enthusiastic about the prospect.

Tav digs inside of him, thoughtful. He picks his flail, allowing it to soak in magic. The second sun sets, the holy fires roar and rain on Cazador’s prone body. The corpse consumes itself, light dances on the marble floor. Tav stokes the radiant flames until all that’s left in front of him are smouldering ashes. The calm immediately returns as he stops.

"No going back now. Thanks," Astarion fiercely says, putting his hand on Tav’s shoulder as they observe the crackling pile of unnatural dust.

There's nothing in that grand chamber, truly. Golden etchings pave the ground, but Tav can't find any way to rip them out. Would take ages anyway, he considers. Undercity winds bite through the empty hall, and Astarion freezes as the ashes of his master pass by his feet. He notices a key where the corpse once laid and bends to pick it, turning towards Tav to show him. 

"Providence," Astarion whispers, observing the key with reverence. 

They turn back, crossing the platform under the hisses of freezing gales. Tav stops for a second, observing the hundreds of cages dangling from the ceiling, a cacophony of rattling chains that pierce through his skull. 

They walk past the cells, and turn to the right where they remember the macabre display of Vellioth was arranged. The skull still sits there, demure on his velvet cushion. Tav goes through the desk, finding nothing but some small golden inkpot. The chest they had opened months ago is as empty as they had left it. Astarion stands in front of Vellioth, lost in thought, his posture uncharacteristically stiff. Tav kneels on the bed, flips the mattress, rips out curtains, turns over furniture. There's just nothing down there. Astarion has not budged an inch. 

"I still don't know if I should thank you. You convinced me not to go through with this blasted ritual. Truly testament to how… pliant I still was, back then. You'd have talked me into anything, I guess. Fetch the ball, beg for scraps, show my belly. Maybe you still can?"

"I don't want to try. Plus, I never had to order you to preen. You know your own tricks," Tav says, side-eying Astarion’s unmoving frame.

"Woof," he barks, on a mean streak. 

"You were not yourself. I mean, you're always a fucker. But it felt strange. Different," Tav softly says. He wishes he could leave it at this, but he feels the imperious need to elaborate, "but I could not let you do this. If not for your sake, for the city. The spawns. Would not have wanted to call such a creature my ally." 

"I see. I'm tolerable as a little lapdog, kneeling in the dark. Pray Tav, tell, you would have enjoyed killing me, right? Had I done it."

Tav does not have to think it over, knowing the answer perfectly, but he still takes his time, composing himself, and looking into Astarion's red eyes. 

"Yes. Yes, I would have."

"Great. I like knowing my worth, dear. Low," Astarion says, pinching his fingers together in a diminutive fashion, looking directly into Tav's eyes as if trying to provoke a mutt into biting. 

"I would have missed you. Honest. But keep on being a bitter cunt if it amuses you to be… - hells, ugh - to be so obtuse," Tav starts getting heated, nerves tingling under his skin. 

"Sure, you'd have missed me. Oh, I'm tearing up, boo-hoo," he snarls, rubbing his eyes with a grimace, "no one would have missed the thousands of spawns down there. Great job, freeing them. Truly impressive. Lots of work for your kind! You could start with me, so very easy, here, just here," Astarion blabbers on and bares his throat, throwing his head back in an inhuman way. He points at his chest, where his dead heart rots. It's too dramatic, even for Astarion, and Tav can’t stifle a nervous snort of laughter.

"Fuck off. I would not be in this shit hole if I did not care. Hells, Cazador is dead. You're here with me, gods, you're fucking free," Tav spurts out, hoping to cut short the argument. Astarion's bad faith quickly riles him up, and Tav knows of his own breaking point, having had in the past many people taking out their frustration on him. It comes with the job, but it does not mean it's any fun.

"Free, free, some grand fucking freedom. You'll die and rot and I'll still be free. It's gods damned lonely, that's what it is. Free," he spits out, blood pearling at his bottom lip, bit in his wrath. His chest heaves, preparing the next volley. "I used to have purpose. I was given one, I was thoughtless. There's little left now, better, there's nothing left. I don't know who I am, I don't know what I want. Gods. You know what's funny? I miss all this ," Astarion gestures furiously at nothing in particular, his voice strained and tight. His eyes are wet, but it seems to be from frustration, anger, and not from any kind of sadness. He looks more mad at himself than at Tav. 

Tav freezes, speechless as he understands, as the irrational starts to make sense. Of course Astarion would miss his old life. That's all he's ever known. And it carved him out with years, a hollow figure contained in vaguely fancy doublets and speeches. Tav truly has nothing to add, and doesn't find it in him to answer with banalities. Good sentiments are just oil on that particular fire. He just awkwardly stands there, offering in his sustained gaze the promise of a nonsensical compassion. 

Astarion turns back, and resumes the picking, the pillaging, the methodical reclaiming of things he considers his. Tav follows the lead, creating distance between them. Wordlessly they leave, having at last emptied the gloomy room of its meagre treasures. 

*

It all repeats, a truly vicious cycle. The bickering degenerates into arguments, the poisoned jokes a sad excuse to deliver half-formed truths - half-formed lies too. Astarion is sweet, charming, as sharp as a dagger's edge, and Tav likes it, loves it, until some ugly gears start turning and it all grinds to dust. He pushes Tav, pushes him to the end of his wits, and then seems so giddy when the air sours. Does he provoke me on purpose, Tav wonders, does he enjoy my discomfort? Will it end violently? Maybe it's what he wants. 

Tav sits on the bed as they finally make it back to their improvised camp. One thought crystallises in his head. This is all beyond his reach. It's as liberating as painful, to see Astarion as a lost cause. It lifts considerable weights off his chest, but they linger on his mind. He gets his rosary on instinct, throat tight with anxiety. A short look at Astarion on the other bed proves to be a mistake : he looks perfectly normal, at peace, face schooled in his usual resting arrogance. How can it be so, Tav wonders. 

Tav tries to meditate, but can't focus enough. He eats, his supplies running low. The dry bread and meat spread are no feast. At least the wine is plenty, but he does not feel like drinking. He settles for water, and goes back to lay on the bed, changing to his nightwear, hoping that that antique book he kept will bore him to sleep quickly. 

"Sorry about that earlier outburst," Astarion says, his knees sinking in the mattress, towering over Tav. 

Tav startles, dropping his book on his face, his small spectacles digging on his nose cruelly. He knows Astarion can move in perfect silence, but it's never a fun trick to be on the receiving end of. Tav looks up at Astarion, refusing to sit up and meet his gaze eye to eye. 

"Yeah. Accepted. Sorry too," he grunts out. 

"I'll have to add saying sorry to my skill set, it works wonders. I love how easy we make peace, you and me," Astarion grins from above, meanly, prodding Tav's face with his eyes to make sure the path is cleared up for whatever comes next. At least that's how Tav feels. 

Tired of peering from above, Astarion's body vacillates, flopping on the pillows at Tav's side almost without a sound. Tav decides to ignore Astarion's awful lines. 

"I'm starting to feel like shit too, Fangs. This mansion truly has something, ah… Evil doesn't suffice. Gods, I feel it in my bones."

"Oh, it sure is, darling. We're almost done though. Tomorrow, back in the sun, fresh breaths of air," he smiles, but he's so bitter he might as well not. 

"Come to leech off my heat again?" Tav invites him softly to get closer, but Astarion stays at the bed's edge, over the covers. 

"Is anything else on offer?" Astarion retorts immediately, looking at Tav from the corner of his eye, hooded by half-closed lids, and with a wicked little smile, almost invisible. 

"Not really," Tav answers, manoeuvring around the trap, not even fully sure if Astarion means what Tav thinks he means. 

"Disappointing. Guess I'll have to use my words, instead of my charms. Tav, my dearest companion, my most valued friend?"

"Oh." Now Tav knows. 

"Could I feed from you?" 

"Tst, I had told you not to rely on me for this." Tav pouts. 

"I can take no for an answer, you know, I'm civilised. And it's not like I could force myself on you. This being said, I don't ask out of hunger, nor of lack of options. I've been miserable since we set foot here," Astarion explains, delaying and pacing around the point, stretching his words, "as you've been too. I remember you said no months ago, by the campfire. Quite adamantly. And it's not like I need it, but I f-"

"Okay."

"Ah? Sure, love?" he beams up. 

"Yeah. Gods, Astarion, I've done weirder things for my barracks's brothers back then."

"I'm not sure letting a vampire drink your blood is on the same level as giving your friends blowjobs in the top bunks."

"Well, all sucking business after all. Just friends, reaching out for friends. I hope you'd let me suckle if your tits made ale."

Astarion's eyebrows raise, eyes rounding up and for a second, Tav sees a truly novel expression on his face.

"What in the hells is the matter with you?" he says, baffled.

"Nothing, I'm a run of the mill lad."

"How you hid being such a weirdo for all of our travels is beyond my comprehension."

"Had other things on my mind. Keeping you guys alive," Tav frowns, his overcast eyes hard, face as tense as a crossbow string, "saving the world," he adds, voice dropping deep. 

"You jester."

Tav can't help but settle back comfortably into the comfortable chat, the animated tug and pull. Yes, it will go to shit, he has learned his lesson by now, but he's intent on enjoying each little joke, each chuckle they share. Giving up feels great, though bittersweet. He kind of expects the Oathbreaker knight to show up at any moment. But it does not happen. 

Astarion moves to straddle him, but Tav stops him, grabbing his thigh. 

"Wait. I can't be arsed with the whole seduction, kiss on the neck, cocks rubbing together part of the deal." Somehow Tav does not feel like giving him that little satisfaction, unflattered with picturing himself as a prey. He also is reminded of many fantasy stories going on at length about how arousing it supposedly feels. True or not, getting stiff would be truly embarrassing, he'd certainly get teased to no end and Tav simply does not want to face this right now. 

"But that's the fun part, dear," Astarion tilts his head, smirking.

"Maybe, I don't care. Can you feed on my wrist instead ? Or forearm."

"How sad. But sure. Hum. Logistics," Astarion says, trying to arrange Tav's arm in a practical way. Raising his arm would pull the blood down and numb it painfully, but it's evident in Astarion's offended mannerism that laying flat on his belly or ass up and face down to drink from Tav's prone body is out of the question. He somehow settles for something that Tav had not expected, falling on his knees by the bedside and pulling at Tav’s arm to let it dangle off the mattress. 

"How humiliating," Astarion playfully says, holding Tav's hand, thumbs intertwined, and he makes no further grand gestures, no further comments, and sinks his fangs in Tav’s forearm, on the smooth and soft underside. 

Tav barely remembers the feeling from yesterday, having been all but numbed by the excruciating pain of suffocation. It doesn't hurt much, but he's a sturdy guy after all. It does feel strange, for sure, as Astarion's fangs seem to be coated with cold metal, that won't heat up at his contact. 

The angle prevents eye contact, and Tav just observes Astarion, sometimes feeling his tongue lap at the tender skin there. Kneeling, holding Tav's hand preciously with his head hunched over it, Astarion strikes a very devout image. That of a cleric kneeling at Ilmater's feet, their hands intertwined like the bleeding ones of the martyred god. Tyr's worshippers on the ground, eyes cast low in worship as they whisper hymns. Once the most holy considerations are out of Tav's thoughts, he's forced to notice how gut-turningly arousing the scene is. So long for having tried to avoid it. Kneeling at Tav’s feet like a hound begging for scraps, Astarion makes not a sound but for soft laps. He rubs his thumb against Tav's, trying to hold his arm still. There's disgust and horror mingling with the excitement. How much blood has been taken from him, how long will this still last, Tav wonders. A wave of something he cannot place entirely rushes through him, and he needs it to stop, to pause, to get a second of reprieve from it and from the overwhelming bleakness of blood loss.

"Slurp," Tav emotes loudly as he tries to break that spell, cringing hard immediately. 

Astarion, does he chuckle, does he forget what he's doing and tries to speak : hard to tell. The result however, is that he unlatches abruptly, right fang painfully ripping through skin, and spits blood all over Tav's forearm. 

"Ow," Tav winces. 

"Stop," Astarion says, shooting up a glare at Tav from pupils so dilated his eyes look almost completely black. An odd mixture of intoxication and felines prowling at night. 

Astarion licks the spilled blood clean and Tav again feels quite some stirrings going through him. Then, it's the fangs again, finishing the work. It stretches for a bit longer, until Tav feels light-headed and tightens his grasp on Astarion's hand, softly asking him to stop. He obliges, without trying to see how far he could push his luck. 

Astarion stays down, kneeling. He catches Tav's eyes and they stare at each other for a moment. Astarion's eyes are still black as tar, and the glare he shoots is quite feral, looking up through his lashes and hooded by his brow. The beast kneels at Tav's heel, but is a beast nonetheless. 

"Thanks," Astarion whispers. 

The serious expression softens, gaze losing all focus and he then rests his head for a long while on the bed's edge, face digging in the mattress. It's strange to not hear him pant. Tav has stayed still, passive, but still has trouble catching up his breath. He's never been so proud of his soft cock as in this moment, having dodged what would probably have been an added insult to a minor injury. 

"Me curo," Tav incants, closing the small puncture wounds before they would heal and scar naturally. 

"No souvenirs, then," Astarion says, climbing on the bed and stretching lusciously after having observed Tav's arm, unmarked. 

"Feel better?" Tav asks, curious. Is it just like a good meal, or anything more, he wonders. 

"Feeling absolutely amazing, paladin. It's almost too much, to speak frankly. You're absolutely packed with blood. Gods, you're worth almost a hundred rats. Maybe more…" Astarion is flushed, and he never looked that drunk. He looks like he's one charming tale away from twirling his hair, batting his feet and giggling like a schoolkid. 

"Flattering, thanks," Tav laughs along. 

"You're alright? I drank quite a lot from you. I suppose," Astarion gestures at Tav's large body, picturing a huge torso and chest with a flourish of the hands, "you've got more ressources than most."

"Calling me a fat fucker, again?" Tav grins. 

"Yes?" 

"Fair," he laughs, "For your question, I'm good. Well, that was quite the novel experience. I will not share this story with other paladins, I think."

"Brother Tav shunned and ostracised : found consorting with the undead," Astarion giggles, "this would be a bestseller book, you know."

"I'm truly losing my mind," Tav wheezes. 

Astarion reclines, the vacant hazed look on his face and bloodied underlip making him look a bit silly. Tav can't help but notice the tent on his tight velvety pants - the things a fashionable man will suffer to ride the whims of trends.

"Is my blood truly that succulent?" he asks before thinking, and immediately regrets it.

Astarion groans, shuffling his lower body under the blanket and digging the heel of his hands over his eyes. Most remarkably, he actually blushes, the red tint on his cheeks looking almost artificial. 

"Why are you even looking?" he snarls. 

"Sorry. Tried hard not to."

"It's vampire physiology, physiological, do you know that word, that means it just happens, you insufferable sod. I'm not aroused, hells. Don't flatter yourself, you taste like, urgh, like… Oh, nevermind. This always happens when I feed. Has something to do with blood pumping up."

"That's how it usually works, yeah," Tav grins.

"Shut up."

"Crazy to think my blood is in your cock," the quip is out before Tav can think it over, again, "and under your cheeks. How adorable," he adds, pointing at his own face with both index fingers. 

"I'm going to fucking kill you."

There's something so amusing about pushing Astarion's buttons, but Tav chooses to leave it at that, for now. Somehow hearing him swear is the most amusing thing he can conceive of. And he thinks of how much distress the elf rained on poor, gentle Gale or Wyll, too well mannered to tell him to fuck off, and he thinks them vindicated. Tav's thoughts take him to some pleasant memories of the team, of his team. 

"I'm disgusting. This is disgusting. Don't let me do this to you ever again," Astarion says abruptly, low yet intense. His voice cracks, pathetically. Their eyes meet. Surprised, Tav does not know what to answer: again, as always. Astarion just chuckles once, bitter, with devastating sadness. Tav tries to look friendly, understanding. It cohabits with the fact that deep down, he agrees. Astarion averts his eyes and picks up his book as an awkward silence sets. 

Tav tries to resume reading. His focus is low, his mind clouded. The words are blurry. Tav notices he forgot to put on his glasses. The words are still blurry. Astarion is all but bouncing around next to him, stretching, groaning, turning right and left, equally inefficient at reading his own book. Combined, they must have read ten sentences in the last half hour. The elf whistles a little tune. Tav turns to the wall with his back to Astarion, trying to hide with his bulking shape that the book has been firmly stuck on page 34 for way too long. Astarion, out of nowhere, starts reading along to a dialogue, hamming it up into the grotesque. 

"You're tweaking. Stop it," Tav groans. 

"Uh, gods, Tav. I'm bored. Restless. Like a silkroot fiend on a night out." Astarion whines, agitating in the bed, making its frame wiggle with loud wooden creaks. 

"I can put you to sleep, if you want," Tav says, raising his fist menacingly, hoping the playfulness of it won't go unnoticed.

"How horrifying!" Astarion flinches with amused exuberance. 

Tav picks his book again, reading the same paragraph for the third time and none the wiser to its content. Astarion gets up and back to his bed - I'm warm enough on my own, now - allowing Tav to try and fall asleep as fast as possible before the next hindrance begins. With the blood loss and the exhaustion, it happens almost immediately. 

*

Tav wakes once at night to go and take a piss. He looks over at Astarion who's deep in his rêveries. When he doesn't rule over his features, they always look pained. Tav is a big guy, but it doesn't solely explain why he finds Astarion so small in those moments. He recalls the earlier pitiful crack of Astarion's voice and feels a grim emotion wash over him. 

Chapter Text

"Ignis. Ignis. Ignis, ignis, ignis…" 

Tav wakes up to Astarion's singing voice, going through a melody with a flurry of firebolts. 

"Should I run," he grumbles, loudly announcing his awakening. 

"Go back to sleep dear, I'm bathing. Ignis, ignis, ignis…" Astarion continues, standing fully dressed by the basin, some steam finally crowning his efforts. He strips and gets in. 

Tav gets up, walking to the basin and observing it for a couple of seconds. 

"Yes? You need anything, or are you just here to stare?" Astarion raises an eyebrow, sitting cross legged in the steaming water, submerged up to his nipples. 

"Hum. Considered joining, but there's no way we'd both fit in there," Tav says, disappointed. 

Astarion starts laughing, one arm dangling out of the basin as he grabs for soaps and oils. 

"You really flatter yourself, darling. It's actually a charming thing about you."

"Hmm?"

"Thinking I'd let you join."

"I see… Would have loved to see you try and prevent it," Tav grins, sitting by a nearby stool. 

"It's dawning on me that you're innocent about this matter. Oh, I'd have preferred you a blushing virgin, rather than a hardened veteran," Astarion whines, head foaming as he scrubs whatever's stuck in his pretty hair. 

"Ah, well, in your words Astarion, don't flatter yourself. I was interested in the hot water, not the pale bugger inside," Tav snickers, digging a piece of cloth in the water to clean his face.

He quickly walks to his pack, getting a razor and a brush. He grabs a mirror on the wall, and sits again by the basin. 

"Ha-ah! I had noticed you getting uglier and uglier since we met. Now I finally realise. How humiliating, to have one's body betray you so." Astarion notices, as Tav wets his scruffed lower face intently for the cream to foam. 

"Think I should grow a moustache? Would take me ages though. My drow blood fights the process with all its might." 

"Gods, no. Don't abandon dignity like this."

"I think you're wrong, and quite silly."

Tav unfolds his razor, carefully going from the top of his cheek to his jaw, pinching his mouth, shifting his features around. Astarion observes the many grimaces on his face with childlike fascination. 

"That interesting, or are just you waiting for me to nick myself?" Tav grunts, eyeing himself in the mirror. 

"Ah. Both, I suppose?" 

"Hmm."

Shaving under his jaw as he bares his throat, Tav feels stared at even more thoroughly. Little freak, he thinks, but keeps his hands steady and does not hurry one bit. Tav even lingers, side-eying Astarion with a smirk, but Astarion doesn't notice, too entranced by the dangerous slide of the razor’s edge. 

"Any good baths in the Gate? Could go for something a bit decadent. We did find gold, after all. Quite a fucking lot, if i might say so," Tav asks before quickly sinking his head in the basin to rinse, Astarion squeaking in affront.

"There's some shady ones around the harbour. If you mostly want your naughty bits clean, of course. In the Upper City, there's some Rashemaar place. Very great, from what I've been told. Hot baths, massages, steamed rooms and whatnot. A noble lurk."

"Great. We're almost done here, right? Could visit those soon."

"They're expensive."

"We're loaded, Astarion. And that's just from the little gold we found."

Astarion sighs, digging his nose on his knees as he draws them to his body. 

"It's quite tempting, truthfully. I'm not one to shy away from perfumes and pampering - don't grin like this! But, ah. My back. Stupid, but I’m not too happy about it."

Tav crosses his arm on the basin's edge, a little knot tying in his chest. 

"Turn around, let me see," Tav asks, and Astarion shifts around instantly, stopping mid action as if surprised by his own obedience, then resuming slowly. A shiver runs through him, shoulders hunching, as he offers his back to Tav. His head sags on his knees, circled by his arms. 

"Mind if I touch them?"

"Why?" 

"Trying something."

"Don't linger," comes the strained answer. 

Tav focuses his energy around his hand, and touches the scar on the top of Astarion's back as he concentrates on blessings. Astarion winces.

"Feel anything?" Tav asks. 

"Not really. At least, I think you could heal me with those spells. They normally should not work, undead abomination, rotting corpse, and so on and so forth. Another quirk," Astarion sounds frustrated. Tav feels it too.

"Hmm. And now?" Tav continues, this time focusing on a stronger magic, the ailment of curses and hexes. 

"Still nothing," Astarion mutters, fluttering with nerves. He leans against Tav's hand until Tav withdraws it. 

Tav imbues his hand with holy energy, as he'd do to smite a foe, and touches the ridged skin with two fingers. 

Astarion's scars glow red for an instant, illuminating his whole back even through the turbid water. He moans and falls back against the edge, his head tumbling against Tav's chest and staying there. He shivers, as if freezing. 

"Hells below, what- what was this," he pants, face flushed from the remnants of Tav's blood in his system. 

"A clue, I suppose. Your scars got bright, for a second. Used radiance. Did I hurt you?" Tav worries. 

"A bit. Not much."

"Whatever magic was in that blade… Could maybe be undone? I know clerics around. I'm sure they would not mind your little condition. You're a hero, after all."

"Yuck," Astarion spits out, performative, before falling silent and pensive, "I…I'd enjoy that, you know? Those scars, they're ugly, aren't they," he whispers, leaning his head back against the edge, shadowed by Tav’s form.

"Yes. Circles, claw marks. Infernal looks like shit. Chicken scratches."

"Well, I'd rather people not get too distracted when bedding me."

"Could be worse. A list of clown jokes and puns, etched back there. Would certainly kill the mood."

"Tav, my boy, please don't go and summon more calamities," Astarion laughs bitterly, getting up and wrapping himself in a large embroidered towel. 

Tav smiles at him, the sun itself with a freshly shaved face. He then heads to his gear, bracing for the crawls.

*

"Oh, what a day," Astarion whines, sagging against the wall and sliding down on the ground.

"Astarion, we just left. Up," Tav sighs, holding up his hand. 

"No." 

Tav sighs loudly,  rolls his eyes and sits next to his friend - clonk, goes his armour. 

"You’re alright?" he asks. 

"What, am I looking a bit pale?" Astarion quips, and Tav snorts out an awful laugh, "Arson. Any experience?" Astarion continues, resting his head on his knees, hands clasped at his heels. Oh boy, Tav thinks, bracing. 

"I can start a campfire in record times," he jests, careful.

"That's not what I meant, you idiot." 

"Then what the fuck do you mean?" Tav bites back, upset. He's pissed off at being called an idiot, even in jest, but he'd rather die than admit it which, he ponders, is quite idiotic.

"I want this shit stain of a palace incinerated. Scorched, burned. Ashes."

"Not in my skill set."

"Neither in mine. Fuck!"

Astarion looks serious for a second, the gears in his mind obviously turning. Tav can tell his thoughts are probably completely fruitless. He’s seen that dumb look on some of his paladin brothers. Trying to come up with a plan, only to resign oneself to hitting things as hard as possible until the problem is, quote end-quote, solved.

"Alright, perish the complete annihilation thoughts. It should become something awful like an orphanage, or a Flaming Fist outpost. In loving memory of Saer Ancunín who gave his life to reclaim this palace. I'd look splendid as a taxidermy mount in the entrance halls," Astarion blabbers, on one of his exuberant manic spells. 

"His Last Stuffing."

"Tav," Astarion growls. 

"Oh, not sorry. Gods. Ask the Gondians, they're probably still sitting on dozens of runepowder kegs. Maybe they’ll spare a few. Surely the city would not collapse if this place got bombed?"

"Urgh. Gnomes."

"You're sick."

Astarion cackles once and lays his head against Tav's shoulder, nudging it to stuff himself under it, against the armpit where there's no armour. Tav lets him and tries to arrange his arm around him as comfortably as possible.

"And then, there's a couple of patriars and high-ranking people I still need to visit. The Cazador party type."

"Not for an ale and a round of Ante, I imagine."

"My darling, how I adore you, ever so discerning," Astarion croons, half-honest and half-mocking "For my daggers up their arses. Gods, I'm going to twist, twist and twist again," Astarion says, sounding unhinged, "I'll bleed them dry," he digs his face in Tav's armpit like a mutt lays by the chimney, "take my sweet, sweet time to make them squeal."

"Simmer down a little," Tav tuts. 

"No. Fuck them. Political unrest be damned, they're getting what they deserve."

"I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"Oh, sure. Revenge is overrated. But I'm going to live forever and I need a little fun along the way."

"Eternal remorses?" 

"I'm doomed anyway, Tav, gods. Just be a sweetheart and say I'm pretty and right, we'll call it a day."

"You know I won't." 

"Hmm," he purrs, content. 

Tav doesn't really know what to think. No one would weep if the Szarr palace burned down. Can't blame Astarion for wanting the head of his tormentors, and Tav's oath only asks of him to follow the lead of the wise. From what he picked up of Baldur's Gate recently, it's not a town worthy of him, as pretentious as it sounds. It still all feels wrong,and he doesn't want a part of it. 

"I'm not your m- uh? Huh?" Tav starts and stops, realising that he does not have an audience anymore. 

Astarion had drifted off into a trance, still tucked under Tav's arm. Maybe he skipped most of the night, Tav wonders, remembering how agitated Astarion had gotten last night as fresh blood coursed through his corpse. Would explain the situation. 

"Fucking hells," Tav sighs, resigned. 

*

Some time passed. Tav was buried in thoughts of the Absolute. In his dreams he often saw images of the Apostle of Myrkul emerging from noxious fumes. It had made an impression on him. Hanging with Astarion those few days had had the great comfort of not needing to bring those stories up all the time. People were curious about Tav's heroics, but Tav had memories of death and rot that he had trouble coating in gold and quips. As most devout paladins, he took responsibility for all that died in his vicinity. He felt a heavy guilt around him. He knew it made little sense, but his feelings had never bowed to his mind. 

Tav felt Astarion move in his trance, jolt awake suddenly and thrash about, hissing like a cornered beast. Panicking, trying to free himself with unorganised hits and pushes, limbs heavy with sleep, face contorted into simulacrums of human emotions. Tav raised his arm and Astarion slithered away, sitting on his haunches, staring at Tav : two gleaming red eyes - berries in the brambles. 

"Pleasant dreams, I wager," Tav said, unmoving. 

"Oh, yes. Pastures, bunnies, the usual," Astarion answered with a dry snort, fixing his face into a more palatable expression and running his fingers through his hair, calming down. 

They get up and get going again, coming across some cache in the corridor that proves to be filled with trinkets and valuables. Endless, truly endless, Tav exclaims, whistling as his fingers thread through pearl collars and golden necklaces. 

"What comes next for brave Saer Tav?" Astarion asks as he lets all that liquid gold kiss his hands clean. 

Tav feels an ache in his throat. The topic had been on his mind for many a tenday. Where he'll be in a year is as foreign to him as where he'll be in a couple of days. Tav feels compelled by the road. It flows through him like steam through automatons. None of his thoughts ever seem to crystallise into well-formed ideas, plans or greater understanding. 

"I don't know. Some more rest. Then I'm off again. You should tag along if I find any mission down there," Tav answers, reasoning to himself that going nowhere with company is better than doing it alone. He's at least self-conscious enough to know to keep this particular thought to himself. 

"Gods, you're really intent on making me sweat. Let that fair maiden in peace, will you."

"Indolence is a sin, you know," Tav utters in his deep voice and Astarion just starts laughing. 

"The ever growing list lengthens up then - shocker! I do need to sell all that garbage though, before I'm off gallivanting in the Underdark."

"Oh, it can wait, can't it?"

"I might have contracted a couple of debts," Astarion sighs, rolling his eyes. 

"Man, those should not be concerns for a hero."

"I know, right? How humiliating!" Astarion loudly whines, hands fluttering before settling as fists on his hips. 

"But yeah. I'm staying for a couple of days, then I'm off. Hope you'll wine and dine me a bit, before I'm back on travel rations."

"You precious thing."

"Am I?" Tav grins, preening, gesticulating just enough for his armour to rattle amusingly. 

"Sure, babe. I'll take you around."

"Yippee," Tav deadpans.

Off but to do what : Tav does not know. His missions blur together and pale compared to the intensity of the Absolute. There’s an infinity of good to make, a bottomless task always renewed by the easy whims of wrong-doers. Tav is not particularly inclined to discuss whatever ails him with Astarion. Whether the rogue would mock him, be disinterested or feign compassion is a mystery. Maybe it would go well, but that's quite the risk to take. 

Tav needs time, thinks of his family, thinks of taking the long due break he needs from his adventures. It's been so long for him, so many years of adding things to a pile he can't remember the name of. 

"I think I'm homesick or something like that," he blurts out. 

"Then go home," Astarion answers, cocking an eyebrow. 

Well, Tav thinks. Simple, efficient. The thing is, it's not really what he feels, but what he feels eludes him perfectly. He decides to entertain his friend in other ways than the truth - or more accurately, in harmless truths. 

"I’d enjoy some sparring in the coming days. This wasn't the most exciting of dungeon crawls."

"I'm sorry this wasn't fun to you."

"You know I did not mean it like this," Tav grunts out, shoving Astarion lightly, "Old Tav is feeling rusty." Astarion still looks bitter, and Tav adds a sheepish little sorry. 

"Hold on, wait. You want to spar me?"

"Yes?"

"Me?" he points at himself. 

"Yes?..."

"Hmm. You've got quite the reach advantage. Weapon? I'm not putting myself in your flail's range. I do value my bones."

"Rapier, shortsword? Dussack? I know, I'm longer, but you're faster. Deadly."

"Continue."

"Swift? Uh, elegant?"

"Keep going."

"Piss off."

"I'm actually curious now. Could be fun, I guess. Not draining a bandit dry or decadent orgy fun, but well."

"Yeah, I'm not into that."

"I did not ask, but noted," Astarion grins, and Tav grits his teeth a bit.

They walk some more. Tav is excited. Part of him is looking forward to the workout, it’s been a while since he’s been in barracks, training, sparring. Those days, he’s mostly a wall of meat. Better with a shield than with a sword: healing, protecting, taking the hits others would not endure. There’s another part of him, sizable to be honest, that really wants to make Astarion eat the ground.

"Alright, I must admit, I’m now mortally intrigued. I’d say let’s spar here and there, but I only have my daggers around. And I’m not letting your dirty paws on any of them," Astarion sniffs out, pointing at Tav's hands and then resting his hands on his twin weapons. 

"They’re too dainty anyway. Would not survive the experience."

"Let’s do this tomorrow. Gods, paladin, I will thoroughly enjoy bringing you down."

"Oh boy. Getting cocky already, rogueling?"

Astarion grins and makes some cool trick with his dagger. Tav whistles mockingly.

"Why are you even good at fighting? I’ve been wondering," Tav asks. 

"Do you really want to know why I'm good at killing things?"  

"Well, I can imagine. But still."

"Cazador sometimes sent us to do his dirty errands. Or adventurers would find their way in the castle. Happened a lot, when I think of it. Pleasant distractions."

There’s something depressing, Tav ponders, with how Cazador lurks at the end of each and every of Astarion’s thoughts. It’s all cul-de-sacs. Who he is, what he does, the way he speaks, the inherent charm of his ways. All artificial and tainted.

"Guess you learned on the job."

"I have vague memories of fencing. From before Cazador."

"The pretty aristocrat, with his make-believe toothpick sword. Cute."

"Muscle memory, darling. I could still skewer you, I'm sure. And look absolutely dashing as I do," Astarion says, assuming the fencing posture and wielding an imaginary foil. His back straightens and the off hand flutters at his side for balance. He lunges and feints, parries and ripostes with impeccable footwork. There’s an elegance to it that is clearly elven in nature, with a bit of viciousness that is just Astarion. "Well, I still got it, don’t I?" he brags.

"Oh, you do. Quite the little dance. Wish we could wrestle a bit, too. Shame you're such a wimp."

"Tav, Tav, Tav… Feed me blood, I'd mess you right up. Maybe an elixir to make up for our size difference? You’d stand no chance, sweetheart."

Go on, yield. Give up or I’m breaking both of your arms, Tav thinks, amused, picturing himself grappling Astarion in one of the submission holds he’s particularly proficient in. The elf has no idea what he’s getting into. Tav grins.

"That’s cheating. Clearly vampiric strength pales compared to farm-boy form," Tav brags, flexing his bicepses, "Fuck, I wish Karlach was still around. We need a witness. I don't trust you to play fair."

"Oh dear, charming and wise? I need to put a ring on you," Astarion laughs, holding Tav’s armoured hand and kissing its back, wet and loud. Tav recoils in playful horror.

Tav gets up, picking Astarion up swiftly and dusting himself. They set for the great hall. They’ve done quite some work in the corridors, paintings are missing, all the desks and cupboards are opened and pillaged. Tav notices all of the remaining paintings have been defaced, and there’s long and angry slashes on the wallpapers, baring the cold stone beneath. The strange smell of Alchemist’s Fire lingers in the air, coming from the side rooms. Clearly Astarion had busied himself in healthy ways as Tav slept. He does not mention it.

"Who were you really, before? Apart from some foil-swinging," Tav brandishes an imaginary sword, "vaguely blue-blooded kid," then preens with pinky up, back straight and chin upturned.

"Ah. I don't really remember, you know. When I got buried alive, the past just slipped away," Astarion says, wagging his hands around, "All I knew was beastly hunger. I’m a bit more civilised those days, I hope."

"A bit," Tav smiles.

"I’m not sure it really matters, honestly. I’d rather just play my current hand. Admittedly, the perspective of playing it forever is a tad depressing, but who knows, things might just get exciting again. Next time an oversized organ decides to ravage the Swordcoast, for instance," Astarion says, always sounding tender as he remembers the horrors they fought through, "Now, I'm pretty sure I already was abrasive as a regular elf, if that's what you're asking."

"I was thinking cunt, not abrasive." 

"Of course you'd think in such crude terms, you fiend. I’ll buy you a thesaurus."

They reach the great hall at last. Astarion looks at Tav, piercing. He understands something, sighs, looks elsewhere. There’s an air of exasperation around him, something sharp and arresting.

"You will not defang me, Tav. I won't play nice. I'll keep on biting."

"I'm not trying to," Tav says, and as he says it he realises it’s true, in some strange way. 

"You're quite odd, for a paladin."

"Yeah. I suppose I am," Tav concludes. It all really has nothing to do with being a paladin, he thinks. 

*

There’s only one room left that they haven't explored. Tav hopes they’ll be done quickly, and piss off, fast and far from that hellish place. Circling the ruins of the Cazador statue, Astarion pushes the last door.

"The banquet room. For more private parties. With, often, more remarkable guests. Of remarkable tastes. You’ll notice how close to the wretched sex dungeon it is. I’ll let you link the dots yourself." 

"How rotten is this town," Tav spits out. 

"Beyond your imagination," Astarion mumbles, hiding his face in his hands and standing still for a while, "I hate this place. Gods, I truly do." 

"We could leave. We found enough gold already. Not to count all the… All the things…Things, and stuff," Tav says, arms drawing circles in front of him, gesturing at the clink that litters the whole dining room.

"Might as well finish."

"We really don't have to," Tav adds, walking up to Astarion and laying his hands on his shoulders. Whatever torments Astarion in that room is making him jumpy, and he swiftly slithers out of Tav's touch. 

"Get to work," he just commands.

*

tav voice: boy i do hope he wakes up fast, i need to go out of this shit palace and eat fried chicken

Chapter Text

Tav observes the room. A long table lays in the middle, dressed in a crimson tablecloth. Again, embroidered with gold thread : rats, bats, serpents. The table is set in the aristocratic ways of old. In the middle are porcelain vases, filled with wilted flowers. Dry petals cover the table in the miserable fashion of autumnal streets.

Tav approaches, dusting the piled silver plates with his finger. Two forks, three knives, two spoons. Four glasses. A small bread plate, a butter knife: each guest presented with a decadent maze of cutlery. Now it's all dusty and nothing shines anymore. 

"There was always, always something wrong when I had to do this. I’m pretty sure I was not that stupid, though," Astarion recalls, closing his eyes and quickly reciting as he blindly arranges imaginary wares : "fish-table-big-flat-soup-plate-table-fish-soup-bread-butter-cheese-cake-water-red-white-sparkling. I think Cazador broke the very rules of etiquette just to pin imaginary faults on me."

Switching the position of the fish fork and the normal one, he continues. 

"Sometimes I wish I could have seen it from the outside, see what was so funny. Watching me get flayed can not possibly be that entertaining. Not for decades, at least. I know, of course, I'm beauty incarnate,” he spits out in a foreign accent, “but even perfection would lose its charm, given enough time,” and finally he asks, innocent, dangerous, ”what do you think?”

“Don't ask me this,” Tav grunts. 

“Maybe you'd have had good fun handling the whip. Everyone did!”

Tav feels a sudden and scorching rage bubbling under his skin. He clenches his fists, notices, unclenches them. Turning towards Astarion, he can not control his face. He knows he must look murderous : Astarion flinches, taking a step back. 

“Simmer down, gods. I'm just messing with you, must you always be such a sour puss?” Astarion says, batting a hand at the side of his face. 

Tav has to turn around to not do something stupid. He breathes hard, once, twice, then retrieves his water flask from his pack and takes a few sips. He knows what he looks like, tall, broad, menacing, trembling with anger. It disgusts him. 

Astarion probably realises it's wise not to try and goad him any further. Some time passes. Tav walks out of the room for a couple of minutes, pacing. He returns, presenting a calm facade that must look truly unconvincing. And Astarion, logically, isn't convinced. They go back to the table and pretend nothing happened. 

Where Cazador throned, at the head of the table, only one goblet is set. In front of it lies a skull. Tav curls his lip, cringing at the display.

"Gods, Astarion. Your master was ridiculous," he says, grabbing the skull in his hand and pondering its orbits. 

"That’s the great part, isn't it? Ridiculous, pompous. Yet he bent me to his every whim. What does it make of me?"

"Pompous you sure are. It comes with the fangs, I suppose." 

"And ridiculous?"

"No. This, you’re not," Tav turns to the rest of the room, cutting the conversation short before it spirals out of control again. 

The walls are lined with furniture. Mirror cabinets, bookcases, desks and a great framed mirror. Two huge récamières and a couple of armchairs. The most remarkable thing is a properly enormous showcase. The shelves are covered with antiques, work of arts, rare stones, taxidermy mounts, weapons and helmets. Tav stares, in awe, fully aware that most of the items here are probably priceless. In the back of his mind, he also remembers that they likely all fester with dark magic. The stones seem to have nefarious properties, the small statues all appear hexed. Beauty and evil mingling.

In a dusty corner, Tav finds a framed painting. He unhangs it. Some strange idea blooms in his mind, a sick way to release the overwhelming pressure. He knows it's out of place, he's still mad at Astarion, but he feels compelled to go with it. 

"Tell me Astarion, has your vampirism shrivelled up your bladder?" he shouts, voice booming across the room.

"Gods, why are people so fascinated with my bodily functions. You want the full run?" Astarion pouts, trotting to Tav.

"No, just the piss part."

"If I drink a lot, yes, some excess has to be evacuated," he snarls, upset and somehow embarrassed. He looks inwards for a second, pensive, resigned to his shame. “Hells, the hex you placed on me that has me surrendering such trivia, I swear…”

"Great. Indulge me?" Tav says as he flips the canvas, revealing a quite lifelike painting of Cazador Szarr. 

"What do y- oh. I'm not doing this, love, that's just crass."

"Come on, come on. We get to destroy it after, have a bit of fun."

“It's awful. No.”

Tav tilts his head, oh so cute, and looks at Astarion. The coquette act is perfectly incongruous on him. Pretty please, Tav begs, and it looks so grotesque it's hard to tell if it's amusing or completely uncanny. Astarion eyes round up in almost horror. 

"Gods above, you're insane. I, uh. Alright. I am a common elf now after all, better get used to the ways of plebeians. Should I drop the aristocratic facade ?" 

"Oh, it suits you. I'd miss your silver tongue." 

"Well, I'll keep it wagging for a while more, then."

"Don't tempt me with idle gossiping," Tav says, observing the top of his friend's head. 

"Oi mate, let's stick our c- No, no, I simply can not talk in such a way. Damnation," Astarion sighs, head thrown back, shielding his eyes with the back of his hand. 

Tav chuckles a bit, untying his codpiece and freeing his cock. 

"What's wrong with you? I feel like I'm getting introduced to a fraternity I don't really belong in, Tav, my dear… Cazador isn't there to hold my leash for a couple of months, and I end up doing such things," Astarion starts cackling neurotically as high-pitched as it gets, getting his own dick out, having to bare his upper ass in the process. Of course there’s no fly on his fancy drow pants. Seems like a liability in combat scenarios, Tav thinks. 

"Great. See this as a holy ritual. You're my brother now, for years to come," Tav says in his best paladin voice, deep, serious, hierophantic. There's a second before the act starts where Tav wonders what in the hells he's doing. 

They start pissing on the canvas, the oiled surface repelling it in an acrid mist. Astarion is intently aiming at Cazador's neck, where the bite scars are. Most surprisingly, his piss is light pink, Tav notices with curiosity. He is cruelly tempted to take a look and loudly exclaim: nice cock, but what is fun banter with other lads would just make the elf fume and whine. Astarion finishes first, turning around preciously to shake himself clean. Tav ends later. 

"Nice," he just sighs, readjusting his codpiece. 

“Absolutely terrible,” Astarion whines, before swearing once in elvish under his breath. 

“Don't you feel absolved?” Tav asks, looking at Astarion's stiff posture. 

"Gods, no, I feel ashamed," he answers, a nervous smile devouring his features. 

"Loved your rosé wine stream. You're full of surprises."

"Couldn't you notice in silence, instead of gawking at my quirks. Urgh ."

The watering was playful but the igniting gets mean. Ignis, Astarion says once, observing the canvas slowly consuming itself. Ignis, ignis, IGNIS, he ends up shouting, a flurry of firebolts reducing the painting to ashes as he trembles from anger.

Tav fleetingly regrets having stoked such flames. 

*

They go through the great showcase together. Astarion remembers some of the artefacts in display : ah, a gift from a northern oligarch, I forgot the details. This? Thenodrum Enver. A token of appreciation, as we saved his position as lead jury, with a clever disappearance of his main rival. This albino stuffed rat here, Lady Moljaviej. She liked me a lot, and gave this to Cazador, saying the beast reminded her of my ugly little paws. Nature had made her without a cock, and she made me pay this affront cruelly. This magical tome here, Saer and Lady Tranbette. To thank Cazador for his political meddling. This mask here, a gift from Mallow the Great, of theatral fame. For years he flayed me, burned me, whipped me. It seemed to be great fun to him. Oh, and this, here… 

Tav does not really want to hear all those things. He feels a weight in his stomach, pulling him down with each new bit of wicked trivia. But it seems like the more treasures they unearth, the more appear in unseen corners, and they all come buried in dust and horror. 

Astarion eyes change, slowly, slitting into thin and mean slashes of blood. He does not answer when Tav comments on things, only breaking the silence to spit out disgusting tales. Running his fingers through his hair and pinching the bridge of his nose, nervous tics escaping his grasp so badly that Tav actually notices. Even his voice shifts, from suave and charming to small barked out bits. The very air around him throbs with a malaise of no common proportion.

Among the last objects, finally, is a dog muzzle made of solid gold. When Astarion leans in, intoxicated with his cruel desire to share, Tav begs him to keep silent. Then, it goes in their crate. The magical object still swallows and swallows, filled to the brim with nightmare apparati. 

Only the table remains untouched, and they head for it. Surely a quick job. 

"During banquets, I'd crawl around. Naked, always. I did not deserve clothing. My hands were tied at my knees. I shuffled. It was pathetic."

Tav wants to leave but can't. He feels trapped. 

"I'd leave trails of blood after a while, circling," Astarion gestures with his finger, around and around the unending banquet table, "the full place. Cazador dressed my siblings. They deserved it. Silk, velvet, suede. Only for our guest's eyes, then later back in rags. I still don't know if I was Cazador's favourite, or if he hated me the most."

He's always had such an expressive face, Tav observes, shocked silent. Right now he's all fake little toothy grins, extravagant displays of emotion, subdued glares under coquette eyebrows, explosive anger barely bottled up. It all shifts from one to the other, with no logic, or all at the same time, Tav can't tell. But his eyes keep the same manic expression, filled with a pain that runs so deep it fronts as pure violence. It's the only genuine thing there. 

"Astarion..."

"He always made me feel special, you see. The most precious little boy, ripe for the plucking. A pale offering. Food for his wicked patrons."

Astarion drops to his knees, the daggers at his sides clinking against the patterned marble floor.

"I was collared, in one of those contraptions," he raises his head, looking up, gesturing at his neck, "that would force my chin up. Ah, dearest, the pain! Mind-shattering."

"I've heard enough, get up. Let's leave. This place is messing with you," Tav says, holding his hand out to help him up.

Astarion ignores it and scoots forward to a chair, eyes rounded in adoration, begging at the feet of an image he conjures up in his mind.

"Good evening, Saer, and welcome to Master Szarr's abode. May I be of any service, Saer? I insist, Saer, I only aim to please," Astarion says, looking up vacantly through his eyelashes, in a sycophantic tone that's just the logical conclusion of sarcasm.

Tav startles and then freezes, his mouth parting.

"Would you like to use me, Saer?" Astarion flattens his tongue out, upper lip hiding the top fangs, and he turns to stare at Tav, his eyes unblurring into a piercing gaze as he opens his mouth as wide as he can.

It happens quite fast, outside of the scope of Astarion's reflexes. Tav bends and grabs him by the front of his armour, picking him up and on his feet in one swift movement. Tav is strong, frighteningly so, pulling Astarion closer, off the ground for a second, forcing their eyes to meet as he holds him still by the collar.

"Stop this shit," he growls.

"Let me- fuck! - let me go. Let go! Let fu-" Astarion howls, fighting against Tav's grip with wild abandon.

Tav's instincts kick in faster than his eyes could ever do, sensing the rogue reaching for his dagger. He releases him, pushing him hard as he does. Astarion stumbles back, tripping and flattening himself on the table.

"You utter bastard," he says, sitting up, dagger in hand, fangs out, more beast than man.

"Put that dagger away," Tav orders, reaching for the flail on his back.

"Or what, exactly?"

"Or nothing," Tav deflates, feeling nausea rising, their voices echoing loudly in the banquet hall as his heartbeat rings in his ears. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I lashed out so," he lowers his weapon, the spiked head bouncing at his side with screeching force.

It should not come as a surprise but Astarion just drops his dagger, reclines on the table, and starts laughing, two manic trills, high-pitched and strained. 

"You're such a coward. I can't believe you'd actually apologise, can't believe you'd grovel that way. Gods below, you truly disgust me," Astarion is petulant again, as if they were bantering over any old light topic.

Tav is left speechless for a moment that stretches sickly. There's not much to say, and he settles on the mundane, the easy, the reasonable yet uncomforting.

"You're not yourself right now."

Another fit of laughter, and Astarion lounges, extending his prone body on the table, his arms spread wide, pushing away jewelled goblets and elaborate silverwares. It all comes crashing down.

"Oh, but I am. I'm exactly where I belong, on my back, at someone's mercy. On the table, bloody food ."  

He slowly spreads his legs in what would look inviting in some other context, and brings his hands together on his chest, mimicking bondage.

"They took turns on me, it was a game, you see. Make the boy cry! Make that stupid, pathetic little boy wail! He loves his own voice, look how hard he is, look, kick, cut, make him sing, make him scream. Then my master would come slithering at my ear,” he says, imitating the scene, tilting his head,  “You failed me, stupid boy. You always disappoint. Your punishment shall be doubled," he adds, imitating Cazador’s awful delivery with disgust. 

Tav can’t help but notice how aroused Astarion is, head thrown back and cock hard along the top of his thigh, obvious through the tight breeches. It's probably been that way for some time - an horrifying kind of muscle memory. Tav feels his own gut turning, in an opposite direction entirely.

"Decades of fun! New ideas, new tortures. I thought I knew of every way to bring one to tears. I was wrong. I kept on being wrong. Always wrong, always failing, always stupid, always weak, always weeping. And they made me beg for it, please Saer, please Saer, thank you Saer…Thank you master. I'm yours, master. Fuck me, master. I love you, master."

Now Astarion bares his teeth, in pain, his eyes shut close. His voice fluctuates from whispers to shouts. His hands still obediently bundled at his own chest, fingers scraping at each other, red lines appearing. 

"For years, I'd actually try, really try you know, to be a good boy, to endure, to make him bloody proud,” he says, covering his face after looking at Tav for a beat, “Oh, but you look so surprised. Thought me dignified? I can’t fucking live with this shame." It's not a sob because there are no tears, but it comes out strangled and definitive. Astarion hands falling at his side, his chest only ever rising for the sharp intakes of air he needs to speak up.

There's just nothing to say, and Tav waits, not knowing for what, holding up a breath he shudders to take. There's raw panic coursing through him. It would be much better to vanish, simply leave. But it’s like stepping on a wolf trap. The iron jaws only close once the pressure is released, and so Tav stays still, paralyzed. 

“I can't think anymore, can't think of anything else other than him. He was right. He won, I’m broken, I miss him, I crave this, I’m nothing without him.”

“Bullshit, you know that. Come on, rogueling, let's go,” Tav says, spurred on by a painful kindness. 

"The dogs, the whips, the chain. Over and over and over again. The stupid boy, covered in blood, seed, piss. Each fucking tile. Each fucking inch of this place, a tale I could delight with."

"They don't delight. Please. Let's leave," Tav begs, unable to even look at Astarion's prone frame. 

"Lead the way, friend," Astarion sits up and smiles, chin tilted impossibly high, and it comes out so ridiculously fake it could almost be amusing.

Tav's throat is parched and he remains mute. A whirlwind of blurred thoughts are pooling in his head, the nausea still grasping at his guts, and Astarion, he just gets up, his face schooled again in his usual nonchalant expression, all traces of his breakdown seemingly vanished into thin air.

Tav folds the crate-bag, hurling it on his shoulder and heading silently to the corridor. Astarion follows, dusting his pants. The silence between them is thick as tar. Footsteps resonating. They aim for their makeshift camp. 

It happens fast, sudden, cruel. Tav feels the air behind him displacing, and the tip of a blade under his jaw. It sinks in. His eyes jolt wide open. A burst of radiant energy violently erupts from his body and from his holy weapon. The dagger is sent tumbling away, having ended its dive short before reaching Tav's carotid. Waves after waves of golden light surround him, pumping like the heartbeat of the sun. 

Astarion is sent reeling back, turned, his undead nature reacting to radiance in the swarthiest of ways : his eyes greying up and his features distorted, as if illusory veils were lifted from this ugly, withered down corpse.

"Fuck, fuck. Fuck," Tav pants, on his hands and knees.

Panic sets in as Tav can't piece out what to do. The blood runs scorching and wild from the slit of his throat and he sticks his hand on it, muttering the healing prayers on instinct before heading for Astarion's body, unconscious on the ground.

He grabs the second dagger at his side, throwing it as far as he can before feeling Astarion's boots and inside pockets for any other blade scoundrels would usually store there. He finds a knife and casts it away as well. The twin weapons he bears in his maw are unfortunately his to keep. 

"Hey. Hey! Do you hear me? Are you alright?" he says, shaking the still body back and forth.

What am I doing, what's fucked with me, Tav thinks. The blood is still hot on his neck. He focuses on his oath to try and calm himself down. Compassion. Blind compassion in the face of death would only be the tenet of a fool. Courage. Honour. Nothing helps, nothing applies. He's at loss, disturbed and sickened to his core. And he can't seem to breathe just right. He frowns, swallows around the knots on his throat, and places his hands on Astarion's chest.

"Te curo," he mutters, and feels immediately mistaken as he observes the pale blue lights dancing on the irregular surfaces of the drow gambeson, painting the air around them in worrying hues.

Astarion groans, sitting up, seemingly completely unaware of where he is or what had just transpired. He catches Tav's haunted gaze. It all comes back to him. Tav sees the red eyes widening in panic. Astarion's hand shoots for Tav's throat. Tav could not explain why, just why he lets such folly happen. There's no more weapon to fear but it's still unwise, unreasonable, insane.

But he does let it happen. Cold fingers run on the closed wound, through the sticky drying blood. The touch lingers. Astarion seems to lose himself for a minute, feeling Tav's pulse racing into concerning speed, and the nauseous heat covering his skin with damp sweat.

“Well, fuck,” Astarion whispers, casting his eyes down. He sounds disappointed,  "I… Ah, darling, Tav, darling, I swear, I think, I didn’t want to... Gods, I… I really messed it all up," Astarion stutters, making very little sense, his composure somehow contained and calm as only his eyes betray deep horror. Tav feels his gut clenching as he rises.

"Get up. We're really leaving, this time," he says harshly, his voice painfully wrangled into order. He forces Astarion to lead the way. 

*

*

Tav knows everything about silence. The paladin's path he walks is silent, his thoughts often are, his nights too. As he and Astarion walk to the exit of the Szarr's palace, the only thing he hears are his footsteps and the rumbles of his armour. It's something he has come to associate with silence too, like waves, birds, winds and rain. It feels comforting. 

Sometimes it's a presence, sometimes it's an absence. Right now this silence is far too loud for Tav's tastes. But he could not break it. 

Reaching the door, Tav opens it carefully, the evening sun immediately flowing inside and Astarion shrieks under his breath, taking a step back. 

"Let's wait, then," Tav says, sitting down. 

"You should just leave," Astarion says, sitting against the wall, lurking in the shadows away from Tav’s eyes.

"I left my things in your room."

"There, then," Astarion snaps, retrieving and throwing his keyring at Tav, "go and get it. Leave the keys under the mat." 

"I can wait a bit."

"To what fucking end?" he snarls, way too loud, far remote from his usual persona. 

"Good question," Tav answers bitterly, cutting the conversation short as he plays with the keys, worrying at them like he would his rosary. 

Some minutes pass, Tav getting up to pace a bit as he feels uncomfortable. Astarion has his face dug into his raised knees, hands clasped together in the front. They're covered in angry red marks, bloody plough lines he gave himself, fiddling with his nails nervously on repeated occasions in those last few days. Tav considers gifting him a rosary, later, to take the brunt of thoughts off of his paper thin fingers. 

"Hold out your hands, will you. I'll heal them," Tav says, bending to sit on his heels. He extends his own palms up, on his lap.

Astarion silently offers his in front of him as he shifts to sit cross legged, eyes fixed at Tav's throat. 

"Te curo," Tav incants, watching the wounds be reabsorbed by the white skin, devoured back into normality. Astarion removes his hands and lowers his head instead to rest on Tav's hands. Blue light on pale skin, the magic wanes, deprived of its target. 

"Thanks, my sweet," he whispers, remaining like this, back bent uncouthly. After a while he lies on his side, eyes closed, Tav’s hands still shielding his head from the hard surface of the armour's thigh pieces. 

Tav doesn't have the mean spirit to push that particular cat away from his lap, he just shifts a bit to cross his legs. Time flies by. Eventually, they both get up, having correctly guessed the sun's downfall. 

*

Astarion is walking fast, light on his steps, and Tav tries to keep pace behind him, encumbered by his gear. Suddenly Astarion stops, turning around to talk. 

"Will you stay? The night?" he asks, red eyes slitted, defiant. 

"No."

"Why?" he hisses back. 

"Are you joking? Astarion," Tav shivers, lowering his voice as the night streets are still busy, "you tried to…" he whispers, definitive, unable to say the words. 

"Well, that is also how we met, remember? Won't happen again. I swear," Astarion says, holding his pale hand at his chest, smiling bright with his fangs out. Tav wishes he could remove that mocking expression, punch it away, a short burst of anger born and dead in a heartbeat. 

"I'm not sure I trust you."

"Oh, my dear, you either do or you don't. Which one is it?" 

"I don't trust you," Tav says, sheepish. Why am I feeling like the bad guy here, he ponders. 

"Liberating, isn't it?" Comes Astarion's cruel answer, and he turns on his heel to carry on. 

When Astarion stops again to strike conversation, a minute later, Tav wonders if he needed that time to go through his faces, to pick the next act. A moment in the lodge, changing his mask for the upcoming farce. 

"I don't want to be alone. Would you please stay the night?" Astarion pleads with rounded eyes, arrogance gone from his features and replaced with sadness. He's begging, with some honour to it, but the result is still pathetic. Tav isn't sure there's even a crumb of the genuine in this performance. 

"No," Tav answers again. There's something serpentine growing in Tav’s chest, coiling from his throat to his guts. A glimpse in Astarion's eyes tightens those knots, and he averts his gaze. 

They walk in silence again, quickly back under the roofs. 

*

Astarion sits on the bed as they come back, and silently removes the dirt and grime from his nails as Tav packs his belongings. Military instinct kicks in. Remove the armour, bag it. Quickly wipe the flail, bag it. Dirty clothing, folded, bagged. He dresses quickly, closes the strappings on his bag of holdings and arranges his travel bag. He ties his purse to his belt, newly heavy with gold. And then his mind clouds once more. 

"Well, if you’re ready, I won’t hold you back," Astarion says. Only then does Tav realise he had been observed intently for all of his packing.

"Ah. Sure. Alright, I - I’ll leave. But what about the gold?"

"The gold you don’t care about?" Astarion immediately goads back.

"Yes, this very gold," Tav slowly says, trying to keep his cool.

"Give me some time. Thanks to your careless harvesting, I’m in for a world of sorting, classifying, estimating. A grand catalogue of utter crap. Urgh! I’d rather melt it all."

"Do you have buyers?"

"I have contacts, some who may or may not owe me a favour - owe us a favour. And before you start whining about your morals, I’m not talking about Nine-Fingers or other unsavoury types. I don’t deal with other crooks," Astarion says, petulant again. 

Something stirs in Tav, the ghost of a smile blooming on his face. Just like this, the mood brightens. He tries to remember: don’t open up again, don’t fall into that trap .

"But anyway. I’ll need a month, I suppose. It’s not like I have anything better to do."

"Thanks."

" Thanks. How enthusiastic!"

" Thank you Lord Ancunìn, for that invaluable gift you bestow upon me, a miserable commoner," Tav mocks, bowing and kissing an imaginary hand. 

"Oh. You're almost getting civilised. Soon you’ll woo me with such vain words," Astarion paces a bit, then his face darkens. 

Tav looks at him. He feels like they're both torn by the same mistrust yet pulled into each other, waiting for things to sour. Astarion looks at him with a sorrowful expression. Whatever's ailing him is of the very same nature, Tav assumes. 

"I think it's better if you leave now, Tav," Astarion says under his breath, looking at the door. 

Tav gets up, thinking, trying to phrase his goodbyes. 

"Remember what you said? To Cazador," he finally says, regretting it as it passes his lips. 

"Not sure what you mean. I remember the gurgles his throat made as I stabbed him. Hilarious," Astarion frowns at Cazador’s mention, his eyes thinning and lips pinched. 

" I'm more than what you made me," Tav recalls, unsure of the precise quote, "that was it, I think. I remembered it."

"Surely you've noticed by now I tend to speak before I think, pretty frequently, dare I say! Haven't you, Tav?" 

"Right, but… I don't know, I believed you back then. Hope it makes its way back into you,” Tav bluntly blurts out, staring at the dirty floorboard.

"I'm less than what he made me, you mean? Less has a better ring to it, thanks. Your cruel honesty always delivers, my dear."

"I’m not trying to be cruel," Tav says, bashful. 

"If you say so. Please," Astarion gets up, opening the door and gesturing for Tav to leave. 

"Wait, my friend…"

"I'm not your friend. Never have been, never will be."

"You lie," Tav snarls, getting angry to not get sad. 

"Do I? Please, enlighten me. Am I lying?"

Astarion growls and pushes him, hands fisted at Tav's chest. Tav hits the back of his legs on a chair and sinks down on it. Astarion is pulled down too, straddling him, his legs spread wide to fit around Tav's bulk. One hand stays at the collar, the other snaking behind his neck and threading through Tav's curls, pulling. 

"Go on, tell me. Your choice! Hold my leash, darling. Tell me what to do. Whatever you want," Astarion purrs, venom on his tongue, pressing himself flush against Tav, his hands clawing where they lay. His face hovers over Tav's. His red eyes gleam with mania and cruelty. It spreads to his features. Astarion’s cold body covers him like blizzards would: frostbite sets in. There’s heat too, a confused poison that wells deep inside Tav. He feels them collide, physically, as time muddies. 

There's destruction too,  rushing through him, a brutal desire to hurt the both of them. The awful arousal is just a mechanical answer to a mechanical friction. It feels like an extension of violence anyway. Tav's body, working against his mind. Animal thoughts that threaten his oaths. Such duress he can not deal with. 

"Get off," Tav begs, paralyzed, his arms limping at his sides. 

Astarion spits on Tav’s face, and the spell is broken. 

Tav acts on instinct, getting up and grabbing Astarion's head, his wide hand draped over his mouth, jaw, nose. 

His anger deflates almost immediately, staring through blurry eyes at Astarion struggling against him, too weak to free himself and too numb to cry out. Tav wipes the spit off his face with the back of his other hand. 

"So strange," Tav remarks flatly, his hand still holding Astarion's lower face, fingers digging in his skin and thumb hooked under his jaw. All emotion has drained from Tav, leaving a grey waste as he observes himself from the outside. He could apply force, imbue himself in radiance and crush undead bones under his fist. But he doesn't, and it rattles him profoundly. Tav feels Astarion's tongue dart out, wet tip slotting at the root of two fingers, slowly. Then a fang rips through his palm. He struggles and pushes, backing Astarion against the wall with a soft thud. 

"Sorry" Tav says, realising what he's doing at last, releasing Astarion's face and lowering his hand. He feels a drop of blood crying from his palm.

"Fuck off," Astarion hisses, cornered and without escape. 

"No, I mean it, sorry," Tav steps forward and grabs him roughly in his arms, holding tight with no concern for his feeble struggling. Most of the fight has already leaked out of Astarion, and he is just a straw dummy in Tav's strong grasp. 

"You're insane. This - this is completely hysterical," comes Astarion’s muffled answer, high-pitched and frantic. 

"When I'm back in the Gate in a handful of months, I'll come to meet you. We'll go somewhere expensive, your pick. Then, those Underdark missions. Together," Tav says softly, unprompted, voice strained by emotion. He buries his chin on Astarion's white curls. He’s baring his throat that way, offering it in front of Astarion's eyes in what must be a tantalising sight, the most peculiar of peace offerings. 

"Thought you did not trust me anymore." Astarion says, and Tav wonders if it applies to his words or deeds. 

"Let me circle my pasture a couple of times. I'll have forgotten by then," Tav jests through his tight throat, though it's not too remote from the truth, "I already forgave you, and the reason has not changed. I'm like this." 

“Oh, you're definitely a strange one. And don't get it wrong, I do mean you're completely mad, my sweet. But in a way, it's endearing. I suppose some thanks,” Astarion spits out the word, ”are in order. Thanks for not killing me back there. Would have been most regrettable. Thanks for the helping hand,” he pauses for a beat, and adds, “Thanks for the nice few days.”

"Ah, hum- you're… You're welcome,” Tav stutters out, disturbed, “Take good care of yourself. Please. I'll miss you," Tav says, freeing Astarion at last from his embrace, kissing his forehead as he does. He feels the urge to leave now, to put distance between them as fast as possible. They’re always on the edge of the next fight, the next exchange of snarls and bites, the next painful words. Tav can not deal with it anymore. Hysterical, Astarion said. It’s how Tav feels too, like he’s on the brink of going completely crazy.

"I think I will, too. As odd as it sounds. Oh, and, I suppose, while I'm at it… Sorry about the whole, uh, well. You know," Astarion jests, slitting a finger under his throat. It falls flat, of course, and Tav feels like holding Astarion tight, really tight, and snuffing him out like you'd do to a lame animal. He just grunts once, acknowledging the apology.

Astarion sits on the table, back hunched a bit, his piercing eyes staring through Tav's own, "Until next time then, my boy," he concludes, with a smile. And for all that Tav has learned to know him, whatever emotion that could convey remains a complete mystery. 

“See you, rogueling.”

As Tav leaves, closing the door behind him, he retrieves from his bag the weapons he had confiscated earlier in the palace, and leaves them on the doormat. He drags his knuckles on the door once, twice, and walks down the stairs. The last things he hears are a door creaking and muffled thanks. Tav breathes out what feels like ten breaths at once. 

*

After securing an inn room with the coin he kept from the palace and leaving his bags there, Tav walks himself to the harbour, pulled there by longing. A few people are sitting around, young couples, lone merchants, all gathered here in the stench of salt and sea. A tall fisherman runs a food booth, and Tav approaches, ordering what’s marked on the slate as the "Special", uninterested in its actual content.

"Alright, coming ‘yer way." The dragonborn shouts. Handling his wares in haste, he burns his hand deeply on the grill. His shout slices through the dock's quiet atmosphere. 

Tav takes a few steps forward, grabbing his hand and healing it on instinct. 

"Oh. Thanks, Saer, uh…" 

"Paladin," Tav grunts. 

"Thanks, Saer Paladin," the man says, sheepish, spurred into conversation, "How's the path been treating ‘ye?" 

I'm not gonna start crying in the docks with a mouthful of sardines, Tav thinks as his throat tightens painfully. 

"It's going," he simply says. 

"Oof Saer, won't pry then. Enjoy ‘yerself," the man concludes, handing Tav a greasy coned up edition of the Baldur's Mouth filled with fried whitebait. 

Tav walks to the end of the small dam circling the harbour, and stray cats follow. Waves break upon it, the night being much louder here than in the sheltered marina. 

It was a divisive topic with his brothers in arms, if showing emotion made you brave or if it made you a pussy. Tav always felt like it made others brave, but did not extend the courtesy to himself. 

Tav felt awful. He kept his composure, his measured thoughts, his serious face. Not that the waves or the crabs down there would care a bit, but well. Tav looks at the infinite sea, pitch black. Tomorrow he'll be back on the path, and the concerns will fade. He's tired again. So long for the rest he craved in the Gate, he thinks, sighing profoundly.

*

Chapter Text

Tav's steps take him to the slums on their own. Three months have passed. After the first few caravans were successfully escorted, he got tangled up with a vermin extermination gig. It quickly grew out of the ordinary, other paladins and clerics having to be dispatched, culminating in a long Underdark crawl where Tav got a brand new scar, a necrotic burn on his flank that healed ugly, courtesy of a death tyrant.

True to his words, for once, Astarion had stashed his book in Tav's belongings. Still feeling a bit sombre about their ugly split-up, Tav had decided to read it instead of participating actively in campfire revelries, as he usually did. It was, as advertised, a tale of cunning plots, treasons, cruelty. Awfully fun too. Tav would find himself chuckling at truly devious stuff, and felt a bit evil for it. Looks like for once, he thought with a smile, it's the undead that turned me.  

As he rested on evenings, Tav sometimes fiddled with his rosary and thought of his friend. Was he having good success swindling all the things they had taken from the Szarr's mansion? Did he sometimes think of Tav, did he look forward to meeting again? Of course those were sterile things to think about, and Tav chastised himself for wasting his time on such constructions. Rolling the beads under his thick fingers, his thoughts would dissolve into abstraction. 

On the way back to the Gate a fellow paladin had walked with Tav and they travelled slow, helpful nature distilled left and right with little consideration for coin or time.

*

Through the shady pathway, bending at the threshold, the farcical sounds of a large armoured man going up a narrow flight of spiral stairs: Tav reaches his goal on a rainy afternoon.

Tav's hands hover in front of the door. Quick thoughts erupt, of Astarion's awful outbursts, apologies, of Tav’s own messy way to handle the whole situation. He somehow hopes the elf will pretend nothing ever happened, and they'll go eat somewhere and talk about whatever, who's the prettiest waiter in that tavern, have you heard of that boat capsizing, and Tav gets to show Astarion the gilded onyx dagger he found down in the Underdark and kept, for him.

Tav has a preferred course for how their reunion is gonna go : Urgh! Darling, I can’t believe you actually did this to yourself, Astarion will bark before he even says hello, looking at Tav’s newly grown moustache. And Tav will have to pretend to be upset. It seems like the best case scenario. 

His courage slips out of him as worse thoughts surface. Tav is tired, as he so often is, and he wants the dashing rogue, his petulant monologues parsed with streams of quips, the sometimes honest displays of friendship in lively eyes and the long ears perking up when listening to ill-sounding plans. He wishes it would not come wrapped in the bloody mess Astarion is, remembering the knife at his throat with ice cold clarity. Of course he knows they come together, won't ever divide, a side of the coin that's as ugly as it gets. Tav knows his own kind nature is tainted, as everyone else in that wretched world. But the rot doesn't run that deep for everyone. He shakes himself out of his thoughts with something akin to disgust. The brooding dragon gets no gold, an instructor voice rings on his head, buried there many years ago.

Tav swallows his pride, common sense, anguish - everything, truly. He pushes his soaked hood back and knocks on the door.

"Yes?" A woman's voice, clear and loud.

"Oh," Tav's brows furrow, "Is Astarion around? I- I can also come back later? If it's any better?"

"What in the hells are you droning about?" The door opens, revealing a tiny halfling lady with a scared look, "Oof. I'll need a stool to talk with you, big man."

Tav chuckles politely and sees the room is completely different, luminous and clean, the rotten smell is gone and so is the gigantic bed. It's silly and he had considered it but his heart still gets tight.

"I'm looking for the previous owner. He probably gave you a fake name," he says softly.

"Oh, can't help you, he didn't say where he was going. You are the paladin I presume? He described a large drow."

"Half-drow," is through Tav's teeth instantly, "Yes. That would be me."

"He left some letter for you. Quite the sad tale, lover vanishing so. I'm sorry."

"Would be less ridiculous, but it's nothing of the sort. He owes me gold. Nasty bugger. Fucking little liar," Tav grits his teeth, getting upset, "Give me that letter," he asks harshly and immediately feels guilty when the lady hastily trots herself to the desk to retrieve it.

"Please Saer, do." She hands him the brief, and Tav realises how loud he just got. He then tries to simmer down but his anger only grows hotter. Tav sees something in the lady’s eyes that says : whatever happened there, that pale elf was wise to hit the rocks.

"Thanks, and my apologies for the scene," he salvages the mess with a forced smile and turns heels quickly. 

Once out, he sits by the sidewalk where the rain does not fall and takes the brief. It still reeks of Astarion's perfume. Tav unseals it, taming his shaking hands for a second to put on his spectacles.

Pretentious flourishes of ink greet him, the antiquated penmanship unmistakable as he reads.

Darling,

You'll find your share at the Counting House, under your full name. I devised some clever password; I fully trust you'll know it when they ask.

Yours truly,

A

He reads it again, the meaning so clear and the content so little. It's insulting in its shortness, wasting its last gasp on the most trivial of concerns. Tav breathes out, assaulted by prickly emotions of too many natures, proving too much for him to understand or rule over.

"Fucking idiot", he sighs, resting his head on one hand.

*

Chapter Text