Chapter Text
Astarion smirks at the noise Wyll makes as Karlach massages deep into the risen skin around his horns. He props his head as he lies beside the man, getting a good view from above.
“Good?” she asks, grinning all the same,
“Yes—gods please keep going.” he sighs. Wyll rests his hands on his chest as he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes to lean into her touch.
The night seems to slow from the little frenzy earlier, and it’s still something to take in that this is even happening. That they demanded his attention more than the motions he was drawing upon for years. That he isn’t something to be left on the bedroll when his lovers for the night stay and engulf him in warmth. It makes his head spin a little with how his mind feels stimulated and clear. In that euphoria he traces his fingers across the raised ridges under Wyll’s hands, about to inch into tracing across the faded scars under his chest.
Wyll suddenly jerks under his touch, “Sorry.”
“Sensitive?” he smirks, “I didn’t get to play much around here earlier.”
“I suppose. The touch felt…weird.” Wyll states, closing his eyes to think back on it, “Not good or bad. I just thought I would be used to how everything feels by now.”
Karlach looks down at him, “I mean it’s only been like several tendays since you got ‘em. I didn’t get used to the engine until maybe about a year in.” she admits, knocking on her chest, “It’s not like I’m not comfortable with it either. Still a hunk of metal lodged in me.”
Wyll sits up from Karlach’s lap, his hand rubbing against his neck again.
“If we’re looking at things, could I ask you both to help me with whatever’s with my back?” he asks, “Using Withers’ mirror feels…awkward when the man is standing not too far away.”
Karlach’s the first to touch the raised parts of his skin, “Oh. I see. Whoof, these are way more developed than the ones I’ve seen.”
Astarion traces the same ridges of Wyll’s shoulder blades, they point much further down than at first glance with three thin ridges spanning across until his shoulders.
“Are these wings?” he questions aloud, “Well—they’re more in a vestigial state, dear, if you’re at all worried.”
“Yep.” Karlach confirms, “Most tieflings have this kinda bone structure. It’s pretty normal, Wyll.”
“Though, seeing how developed they are, perhaps it was prevented from growing further?” he offers, “Not to dissuade any thoughts on wings, but Mizora seems to be that type of devil.”
Wyll seems to breathe out a sigh of relief, a hand going behind him to rub between the hardened bones to soothe some kind of ache,
“I was worried a pair was going to sprout from my back some time ago. Just as the rest of the teeth and my claws.” he admits, his tail flicking to the side to hide underneath his legs, “Sorry, perhaps I should have asked way earlier to ease things.”
Karlach gives him a warm smile instead, “Nah, it’s good. Here, lie down on your stomach—I know some places that are sure to be aching for you.”
It’s cute, watching his tail dance at her touch. Even if it brings a flush to Wyll’s cheeks as he attempts to get a hold of it. But it soon dies down and hides between his legs again, clumsily wrapping itself around his limbs.
“I should have known that she would have taken advantage of that part of the contract sooner.” Wyll mutters as he buries his head into his arms.
There’s a look he and Karlach share before he lays closer to Wyll, “You getting turned into a devil was a part of your contract?”
He watches Wyll take in a breath to ease himself, the guilt still laden within him.
“It was when I was younger, maybe my first year after my father sent me away. She sensed I was in a moment of weakness…about my body.” Wyll recalls, “She offered to be allowed to change it, as an addition to the pact, so it wouldn’t trouble my work any longer—I already gave my soul so what more did I have to lose for something more tangible in my reach?”
As if he didn’t need more reason to want to drive a rapier through her skull.
Wyll’s breath shudders, “Of course, devil that she is, she made me choose between having the appearance I wanted or the well…equipment. But afterwards—“ And he chokes a little, only to be soothed by their touch, “…Afterwards was the first time I felt happy, after my exile.”
He shoves his head back into his arms, horns knocking into the ground, “I willingly gave her control of every part of me — and for what?”
There’s a beat of his heart before Astarion realizes he’s opened his mouth,
“...I remember Cazador offering to save me, as I was dying.” he tells him, “I didn’t know the extent of what he was offering—all I wanted was to live. And I accepted it with no question because I was suffering.”
His cold touch grazes across the man’s head, “Two hundred years, and I am given life again just by the presence of the both of you. And while it’s truly over in six months time, Wyll Ravengard we won’t let her take any part of you again—you hear me?”
Wyll’s gaze is watery as he looks up at him, not a second later he rises and throws himself into an embrace. It reminds him again of Wyll’s youth, and yet as he remembers to wrap his arms around there’s an invisible weight within him that he cannot identify. It’s heavier when Karlach’s able to squeeze them both in her arms, and it swells watching their tails intertwine.
His fingers trace across Wyll’s scars, before massaging into places that he knows ache the man everyday.
Godsdammit. These two.
His ears pick up on something as Karlach’s tight squeeze around him breaks him out of a trance.
Footsteps and muttering.
Shadowheart was supposed to be the one on watch. She requested it during dinner, something he knew had some underlying motive towards.
Her speech is too quiet to make sense of, but it sparks the curiosity in him anyway. He deftly escapes Karlach’s grip, which involves him whispering that it’s his turn on watch as she sleepily nods and lets him go. Making sure to not wake Wyll out of his light sleep, he steps over them both with the stealth he’s known for.
It’s not a foot out of his tent that he spots the reason Shadowheart had requested first watch so eagerly.
“I thought Karlach would be holding you like one of her teddy bears tonight.” Shadowheart remarks through a mess of white hair.
He goes to stretch out his arms, “She was until now. Though honestly, not a bad look on you.” he smirks, motioning to his own head, “Take it from someone you know?”
“Let it be known it was the two new ladies in our camp who convinced me on the choice.”
“Our High Harper is setting a new fashion trend I see!”
Shadowheart rolls her eyes and goes back to cleaning up the mess of supplies by the fire.
“So, were you just here to trade verbal blows or do you have an actual reason for bothering me at such an hour?”
“Ah, just to tell you to stop your racket. Honestly, I don’t know how it didn’t wake the rest of the camp up.”
But, something does come to mind to bother her with. He gives her a smile and a wave as he heads back to his tent,
“I’ll grab what I need to take over watch, don’t wake the rest of camp as Lae’zel drags you onto the bedroll.”
“Wait.”
He looks over his shoulder as he crosses his arms, and finally he notices the pair of scissors in her hand. Her other hand running down her face as she seems to mentally go through her options again.
“Can you…help me?” she almost groans that question, “I’ve already messed up once in the mirror, and I hate to say it—you’re probably the only person I’d trust to do this.”
He’d feign the shock if this wasn’t surprising enough already.
“Really?”
“I’ve gone through the list of everyone here at the moment and yes you probably have the eye for this sort of thing anyway.” she admits, holding out the scissors in her hand, “I just—I can’t look at my hair like this anymore.”
He lets out a soft laugh.
“Well first, let’s work with how it’s going to compliment your face shape.”
“Honestly—at least consider some oils to bring around? At least it won’t tangle itself into this mess you have right now.”
His hands are tugging a brush with as much strength as he can, a motion he gives up on as he grabs a bottle from the side table and pours a substance onto his palms.
“I do my best to braid it.” Mira says to justify this mess, “It’s not my fault it got in the way of some spells and—well maybe falling into the bushes was my fault.”
His hands work the substance into her hair, and by the scent he can remember that he uses this for himself too.
“All on the way to my home? How aren’t you arrested by the city watch at this point is a mystery.”
“If I did could I cash in a little favor?”
“I’d bail you out in a heartbeat, dear. Though a bribe doesn’t hurt, does it?”
Mira turns to look over to him, “Honestly I don’t know how you haven’t run into trouble yet either.”
“Magistral work isn’t as dangerous as whatever you’re putting yourself through daily.”
“Just—watch yourself just as much as you worry about me, alright?”
He laughs and waves the remark off, continuing to work his hands through his cousin’s hair. It’s rough work, but it’s satisfying as he finally is able to tug his brush through her hair.
“Now, are you sure you want to cut it all off? It’s gorgeous as it is, you know.”
Mira hands him the scissors, “Trust me, loads of women love it short.”
He blinks as the smell of the campfire reminds him that he was in the middle of something. His hands are relaxed on his lap, the scissors closed and placed on the ground.
“Are you back with me?” Shadowheart asks, still adjusting the new bangs with a hand mirror.
He rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to will his lungs to stop working again.
“…Yes.”
Shadowheart puts down the mirror, “You froze and started breathing, it’s a weird look on you.”
“I can’t exactly prevent my body from trying to remember being alive.”
“Karlach did tell me you were remembering things again. How was it?”
He feels the beating of his heart within him,
“It’s strange, not being a blank slate anymore.” he remarks, “Utterly frustrating that my mind seeks to interrupt at inopportune times.”
Shadowheart seems to revel in the little blunder, but that look turns elsewhere as she speaks,
“I’ve heard before that smells can cause memories to return, as does music. Those minute details the mind can hold onto that connect to greater things.”
She looks upon the night sky, toward the moon shining upon them. A gaze he steals once he stands and motions for her to wait.
He walks back to his tent with light feet, a smile coming to his face to see Wyll’s cushions everywhere and Karlach splayed upon him. But he reaches deep into his pack for something he thought he’d be saving for a rainy day.
He tosses the bundle at Shadowheart’s feet, one she gingerly unwraps,
“Is this noblestalk?”
“Think of it as a sort of—Sharran graduation present!” he says with a flourish of his hand, “And a little something to make sure you do not speak of this night to the others.”
Shadowheart snorts, “Don’t want the whole camp lining up at your tent for haircuts, do you?”
The last memory she has of him is made of watercolors.
She was laughing with him over something, it’s been too long she cannot remember. Maybe it was the books he gave her, or the stories from her first year of traveling.
They shared a glass of wine together. Or was it something else? She assumed wine because it was his favorite, but is she simply misremembering?
She can barely remember his face.
The only reason she thinks to visit her uncle's home is that painting hidden deep in the halls. For as vanity obsessed she remembers him being she wonders how this remains the last portrait of him.
Thirty-nine was far too young, she knows this now.
It’s been a long time since he felt that fear flow through him.
He thought he had lost it, finally lost that fear of his master through all the blood and comforts.
But stepping back into the city again—
It’s all shooting back through his body, but the anger speaks with more of a blazing fury than he thought he had for the past two hundred years.
He’s going to make that bastard suffer.
He promises his siblings that he’ll ascend instead of their master, that he’ll take the power for himself so they won’t suffer at his hand ever again. Of course, Petras is a moron and Dalyria is too broken by the fear that runs through all of them to pick up on his true intentions. Dragging Petras into the sunlight is enough to force her tongue into catching them up on their master’s behavior in the last few days.
“Astarion—you’re not really going through with finishing the ritual yourself, right?” Karlach asks him afterwards, interrupting his thoughts of what to say next when his master sends the rest of his siblings after him.
“Of course not!” he says on impulse, because that’s what they would have wanted him to say, “Well, the power does sound alluring to me still. Even with this tadpole business over with, walking in the sun has been such a blessing.”
“Don’t forget your soul is still tied within the contract.” Wyll reminds him, “Please—Astarion. I know you know this.”
But will we be truly safe?
His stomach aches for blood.
It is Karlach who holds Wyll tight when he shuts his eyes and forgoes his father’s life. He offers a touch of course, one Wyll easily falls into.
But freedom, Wyll! Doesn’t it taste sweet within your grasp? For a father who says nothing but sends you away after you’re chained to a devil?
It’s strange. How much he can’t remember much of his own father, nor his mother.
Mira seemed like the only one who barges into that place he called home on a regular basis. Even then that dinner—was the man that dull to be around?
Nevermind that. He has to figure out his details, his plans for the master—
Cazador.
After his vengeance is done, he won’t be his master anymore.
He won’t have to forget again.
Things move fast over the next few days, dozens of tasks and leads they have on both Gortash and Orin. They stop a serial killer, and he revels in the blood he slices out of the man. He gets more use of two daggers to stab and pull out more foes, his feet itching to get close just to take a bite. He forgot he missed the rush of feeding in the middle of combat, the Shadowlands truly were so barren!
And oh, it makes his head so clear and his limbs so lively.
He missed sneaking upon targets with minds, just hearing their heart skip a beat and then race.
They’re watching Shadowheart’s parents turn into white lights or whatever, the cleric taking in a deep breath watching them go. At least they won’t have Sharrans interrupting their plans anymore.
“Are you alright?” Wyll asks him as they make their way back to the docks under the moon’s light.
“I wish Gale didn’t have to clean all this blood off us, I’d love to take it all off of you, darling.” he says on impulse, putting his daggers away onto his belt and giving Wyll a smile, “Of course, if you’re offering—“
“Astarion. Stop. This isn’t you and you know it.” Wyll interrupts, “I’m sorry we haven’t had time to stop and think for the past few days but I’m worried about you.”
He feigns the surprise easily,
“Worried about me! Oh finally—we can talk about the vampire lord ready to SACRIFICE MY SOUL!” he snaps, “Do you think he can simply wait?! Oh—he’s been planning, possibly tracking our every move so he can find out ways to break you. Get you out of the way so I can finally come back home like a good little boy and stripped of my skin and mind—“
Wyll grabs his shoulders tight, “Astarion, focus on me. Please. You’re letting the paranoia overtake you, you need to clear your head.”
His mind at first scrambles to break free but—
Okay.
Okay.
“Tomorrow. We investigate the palace by first daylight. Shadowheart’s already been sharpening the Blood of Lathander, you know what power it holds, remember?”
“Wyll, I’m not a child.”
“I’m saying so you can have the visual, my love.” Wyll smiles, running a hand through his hair, “Come, we should plan further with the others.”
He takes Wyll’s hand to lead him back to camp and oh, it is wonderful to truly see the Blade of Frontiers at work. To have someone fill in the details of the bare bones of plans that have been racing through his mind with Karlach offering her own strategies as well. Alas, they’re rudely interrupted by his siblings trying to mess with his date of planning their master’s slaughter. And he revels in showing them exactly what he is made of, all until they disappear again. Commanded to return instead of finally getting some mercy from him.
Shame, really.
But tomorrow, tomorrow is a dawn he won’t forget.
Cazador lays at his feet.
He grips the blade in his hands as he finds himself shutting Cazador up with his argument with Karlach and Wyll.
He won’t have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun.
He’ll have the power to protect Wyll, to be able to save Karlach.
Safe. They can all be safe with him.
He won’t have to forget again.
He won’t have to forget again.
He won’t have to forget again.
“Can’t you see? This isn’t going to free you!” Karlach is the one to tell him, and she gazes into his eyes with a sorrow, “This ritual—this power, all it’s going to do is trap and turn you into the same kind of bastard we’ve all been running from.”
Her desperate eyes look over to Wyll, the man who wants to release all these spawn because they’re innocent. He stands firm, holding Cazador to the ground where he belongs and making sure he cannot take anything away again.
“Please, Astarion.” he pleads, “I don’t want you to become something that I can’t recognize anymore.”
He is more than enough, in their eyes. It’s something that’s convinced him from the start.
His hand grips the knife in his hand,
“…I can be better than them.” he admits, “But I’m not above enjoying this.”
And he thought he’d enjoy it. From the second he heard Cazador’s plea to the next where his dagger is lodged deep in his chest and he slinks it out only to stab him again and again and again.
He’ll never be the same again because of this man—
For a split second, he thought he felt it. That joy. That thrilling anger that comes with vengeance.
But it’s overtaken by exhaustion as he screams, as he plunges the knife over and over again more desperately.
And then, he’s tired. His legs are giving out as he drops the knife. Looking upon Cazador’s still corpse lying on the ground. His body is forcing itself to breathe he realizes, the only way it can express what's surging within him right now.
—And that man he used to be, is truly gone.
He cannot stop the grief, but he accepts being embraced in warmth.
There is a fact he can remember however. That these two love him for who he is now.
They send the thousands of spawn away into the Underdark, for they deserve a chance to remember how to live.
It’s a quiet activity, cleaning graves.
Wyll was the one to suggest it, when Karlach mentioned her parents were buried somewhere within the Lower City. They almost forgot about Karlach’s bucket list once they got back to the city through all the Bhaalists and Stone Lord shenanigans. There were few things they could scrounge out of the camp chest that would aid them, but it at least gets the worst of the grime off the stone.
Karlach says a few things to her parents and lets the quiet wash over them as they look upon the graves.
“Hey. If it’s all still here after everything…can you guys bury me over here? Being scattered to the four winds sounds cool and all…but I want to be home. With my family.”
Karlach stands back, tossing the sponge back into the bucket. Her eyes are already watery just seeing the anger in his expression.
“We are NOT leaving you to die!” Not after all we’ve been through.
“I know. I can already sense it from the both of you—but even if we go back to Avernus, the thing we’re looking for might not even exist. You two understand, right?”
Karlach turns her head back toward the graves, her voice warbling, “Even then—Even then if we find something that’ll cure me. It’s not going to be forever.” she takes in a heavy breath, “I’m still going to be mortal compared to the both of you. And—don’t say anything about finding a way again. Just one life is something I want to see through to the end. I want to know that you two are going to be able to still live for yourselves.”
Karlach brings them close as she stands, her own tears streaming down her face,
“If it’s now or in a hundred years when I leave you guys alone, just—don’t forget me, alright?” she asks, buried between them,
“You guys…make me happy.”
“Ah well. Tell the truth, my grave should be around here as well.” he reveals, more nervous than he intended. But he remembers trudging through these paths so long ago they were new, “Some official must have arranged it, I figure I never bought a plot ahead of time at the age I was at.”
He leads them into another part of the graveyard, tracing back steps he never thought he’d walk again.
The grave is as vine ridden and mossy as he would have expected it to be. He takes his dagger and pries away a few vines just to get the face visible.
Astarion Ancunin
1253 - 1292 DR
He sighs, turning to the both of them and dropping the bucket of water.
“Let’s just get to work.”
“So, what are all of your thoughts on just stealing this?” he shoots the question as they’ve finally cleaned the moss off, “I think it would make for a great souvenir.”
“Only if you’re lugging the thing around.” Karlach shoots back, a smile back on her face,
“...Noted.”
“Er—If you want we could get this professionally done we could get a stone carver to look at it?” Wyll suggests as he finally gets a good dash into the stone,
“That means we’re stealing the grave, and if we’re to do that I’d be keeping it, not putting it right back here.”
At least he brought a chisel if the thought struck him to change whatever some carver slapped on his grave all those years ago.
Wyll laughs, “Perhaps we should have placed an order for a pair of glasses.”
“I can read and write perfectly fine!” he grits.
The numbers are legible, to say the least.
Astarion Ancunin
1253 - 1292 DR
1492 - ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
A voice interrupts them however,
“GODS! Get away from that!”
Astarion looks over to see someone dropping a bucket and running over to them from the otherside of the graveyard.
He continues to chisel into the stone, “If it’s another Bhaalist could you two take care of them? I’m almost done here—“ he asks, putting on the finishing touches to the numbers.
“DEFACING A GRAVE! You ingrates! You—you…”
Karlach hasn’t immediately cleaved the person, telling him they’re probably relatively normal. Or at least someone they can shut up with a threat or coin. He goes to stand, dusting off the dirt off his armor.
“Run out of insults already? You should move along now, nothing to see here.” he says, crossing his arms to look at the elf in front of them. Her wild hair is short, a silver he almost mistakes for being gray with age. She wears colorful robes, adorned with embroidery and dirt. Some kind of spellcaster? A bard would be his best guess by the amount of adornments, along with the holster for what looks to be a flute.
She looks upon the grave with an unexpected surprise, “You cleaned it.”
“Yeah! We were around cleaning my folk’s graves so we thought we’d patch up a few more, you know?” Karlach lies. A pretty good one by his standards.
Her tired eyes, a dark green, are analytical, “…And why change the date on it? Rather terrible way to deface such a thing.”
They all give each other a look. They can’t exactly just tell this woman about being a part of the blood sucking undead, can they not? And well, in the moment he says the first thing that comes to mind,
“Ah—The person asked us to change it, a joke on his part of course. Apparently he faked his death or something.” he lies as he stands, checking his nails to get a glance at the woman’s expression.
The initial shock wears off, and her expression wanes into something he’s seen on his siblings many times. First the flash anger, then defeat. Giving up.
“I see.” she mutters, pulling out a flute from her holster, “You mind if I play a tune for the man?”
Questionable, but he backs up with a flourish, “Please, go right on ahead.”
The tune is soft and somber, perhaps a proper burial song for the empty casket underneath.
“I always was suspicious.” she admits, “That his body disappeared right after the burial. I couldn’t even get into the city in time the news reached me.”
“You knew him?” Karlach asks, stepping forward with intent to pull him behind her,
“Yes. We were close.” she lets out a bitter laugh, “Not close enough, it seems. So, where is he? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Another lie fills his tongue, and he doesn’t notice Wyll grab his wrist until it’s too late.
“Right in front of you, darling.”
What?
In a flash Wyll’s drawn his rapier and pushes him back, as if he can’t handle himself! Even if his heroics are quite sweet.
“You casted a Zone of Truth right under our noses—“ Wyll notes, “What do you want with him?!”
The woman puts her hands up at the sudden hostility, “I wanted to know where on earth my cousin’s been for two hundred years!” And he can hear her heart beating through her chest as she looks over to him, “Astarion—why? If that’s even your name anymore—A message, something, just so I would know that you were okay!”
He puts out a hand to motion Karlach and Wyll to stand down. He finally recognizes the parts of her that have aged, her tired eyes, their shared white hair now darkened into the silver he knows his father to have.
“You’re…Mira.”
“What? Yes! It’s me! Why on earth…”
Shit.
What in the bloody hells is he supposed to tell her?!
“Well, since you want the truth so badly—I well, uh…simply forgot you existed! Until recently that is.” The zone’s effect construes his words. His smile is weary as all the practice has left him in the past few days, his hands flourish trying to cover up the chill of nervousness within him.
He watches her blink in confusion, “What?”
“It comes with the mind control, dear.” he admits, and while he was planning to be truthful this zone is pushing his tongue too far, “Happens to do some grave things to the good ol’ brain!”
His eyes shoot over to Karlach and Wyll in a panic, tapping into the tadpoles in their minds,
[ “Before this zone makes me reveal myself as a fucking vampire, make sure she doesn’t stake me until it’s too late!” ] he internally shouts.
“What…what happened to you?” she asks, her fear laden on her face,
Wyll steps in front of them, “Promise you won’t harm him.”
Mira puts her hands up again, her eyes searching across his entire appearance, “I don’t want to hurt him. I just want to know what happened. Please, Astarion.”
“Well, after I went and… died. I just happened to be—er, what’s the best way to put this?” he purses his lips searching for something to ease the whole undead business, “Um—turned into a vampire! Aha…”
His smile is a little more toothy though it quickly turns into a frown upon seeing Mira’s stunned expression. She stares at him for what feels like a minute until her brows furrow,
“The person who sired you, are they still alive?”
“Nah, we killed him like two days ago.” Karlach answers, “Got a knife to the heart as the bastard should.”
“Good.”
He watches her visibly relax, shoving her face into her hands and letting out a heavy breath.
“Fuck—I’m still trying to process that you’re here.” Mira says with a heave, “You’re alive.”
“I’m rather undead, darling.”
“I still don’t know where you picked that pet name thing up. After all these years—Y-You still do it!” Mira’s cry ends with a soft giggle, “Oh gods, you’re still you.”
That’s…new.
“I did this…before?”
Mira gives him a nod as she smiles, he flinches as she steps forward however.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
Truth.
It doesn’t stop his hesitance, but Mira moves forward anyway. Warmth engulfs him, her head burying itself in his shoulder as her breath shudders.
“You’re here.”
“So…who are these two?” Mira gives him a knowing look after wiping her eyes again, “Never really took you to have a…type of person.”
“Hm. Guess all the charm came afterwards then.” he mutters, “But—ah. These two.”
“Hi!” Karlach waves excitedly, “I’m Karlach, nice to meet you!”
Wyll shakes Mira’s hand, “Wyll. I’m glad we all ran into each other—Honestly we were thinking of looking for you once we had the time.”
“You said you just remembered I existed.”
“More than a tenday ago, that is. I began dreaming of memories that were taken from me when I was sired.” he handwaves, “You know the deal that comes with vampire spawn, don’t you? I don’t know why you aren’t running away yet, why aren’t you running?”
Curse this stupid zone!
“Why would I…?”
He waves a hand to his own face, baring his own teeth, “I’m a monster inhabiting the body of your dear cousin. Aren’t you scared? Horrified at all?”
There’s a touch on his shoulder, and he glances to see Wyll’s concerned face.
What does she make of him? Seeing him now?
“I’m sad you’d say that, mainly. But I see you, Astarion. I see the man in front of me, and two people who know what you said isn’t true. And yet…you seem to believe it anyway. I don’t know what you’ve done in the past two hundred years, other than the obvious. But I see two people that accept you for who you are, and spend the time just cleaning your own grave with you.”
Mira shrugs, an easygoing smile coming onto her face, “I think that’s more than enough to pass any sort of judgment.”
And that feels like enough to relax him. That she truly does see him for…him.
A hand comes to her mouth, suppressing the bit of laughter erupting from her, “I realize this is the first time I’ve ever seen you in public with any sort of lover—wait, are you lovers?”
“Back up! Back up!” he calls before his two idiots get to answer, “In public? Thirty-nine years and I never had any partner of the sort?!”
“I remember we talked about your dating life loads of times back then. I suppose the Baldur’s Gate dating pool has gotten better in the past two hundred years?”
He rolls his eyes, “Trust me, it has never been worse. But ah…meeting these two has to do with our current situation at the moment.”
They hastily go through the events of the last months, adding a few funner parts of the tale to ease all the exhausting terrors they’ve faced.
“You know. I thought I was doing good, nearly avoiding the last few crises plaguing this continent.” Mira rubs at her eye bags, “And here I am, right in the middle of one when I thought visiting your grave was a good idea.”
“We could use the allies, if you’re willing to fight.” Wyll says, looking her over again, “If you can. If not, I’d recommend getting far from here before something happens.”
“Oh, I’m capable.” Mira reassures, “I’ve been in several bouts over the years just traveling—oh the stories I cannot wait to tell you, Astarion! I…I never asked if you changed your name, did I?”
He thinks back on it, on why Cazador even let him and his siblings keep them at all, “My name was the only thing I managed to keep. Did you change yours, since I last…knew you?”
“I just shortened it officially. I liked the nickname too much.” she says with a soft laugh, before the joy seems to leave her expression “…How much do you remember?”
“Bits and pieces. I don’t know a name other than yours, tell the truth. I know barely of what my father or mother look like, and anything else about my life other than magistral business.” he recalls with frustration, “But you kept popping up, in what I’ve managed to remember. I don’t know why.”
“Maybe I am just memorable. You said that once to me.”
“Then I’m glad my instincts were right.”
They lead his cousin back to their room at the Elfsong, a place to stay where she can be safe with all the powerhouses that have been lodging in there for the past tenday or so. She gets introduced (rather begrudgingly on his part) to the rest of their party of fools, and welcomed to stay.
(He did not see the Nightsong and her cleric eyeing her with a lusting intrigue as soon as they arrived)
“You know. This is a good look on you, cousin.” Mira comments the next day as they’re all arming themselves to break into the Iron Throne.
He scoffs, “What, vampirism? You can’t be serious.”
“No. I’m talking about adventuring. Saving the day and all that.”
“I’m here for the bloodshed, dear.” But the thought goes through his mind on Wyll and Karlach’s approach,
“However, I’ll think about it. I believe I do have a date with the Hells once this illithid business is over and done with.”
It’s been several months since that battle. Since she returned to a home she never thought she’d return to after inheriting it so many years ago. Two months since she was invited to a clearing in a forest near a druid's grove and a town rebuilding after years in shadow. A reunion party where she spoke to her cousin about adventures through the Hells and progress on curing his partner.
Mira walks down the steps, the sigil she placed on the door alerted her to the lock getting picked. Readying to cast Hold Person as soon as she sees someone through the darkness.
Instead, seeing the soft glow of an infernal engine brings her relief. And a bit of annoyance.
She lights the candles on the end table.
“You could have knocked.”
“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Astarion says, laying across the couch like he always has, “Besides this is still my house, the vampirism says I can come and go as I like.” He crosses his arms with a smirk, as if this is a good argument.
“It’s been mine for two hundred years! I inherited the deed!” she states exasperatedly, “Why did you decide breaking into my home was the best choice? Surely you can rent a room for the night before you come over.”
“We sorta…lost all our gold.” Karlach says from her spot, laying on the floor, “And well, we didn’t expect to land here in the middle of the night. I don’t think we can really wake up Wyll’s dad to get somewhere to stay at this hour.”
Wyll sighs, “Besides, the last impression these two made on my father was rather… heated to say the least.”
“Well Mister Grand Duke’s going to have to get used to the new in-laws.” Astarion calls from her kitchen, already raiding the wine she has racked up, “Come! We’re finally drinking something good tonight!”
Mira sighs, but a smile comes to her face nonetheless as she shrugs.
“I suppose I’ll finally get a use of the guest room.”