Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He opened his eyes in a field of green.

Astarion blinked, his eyes squinting against the warm, bright touch of sunlight. He felt as though he was rising from the gentlest sleep of his entire life, so long and undisturbed that he didn’t even feel tired.

In fact, he was sure that he had never felt better. Wasn’t I a vampire? He vaguely remembered the last time that he had walked in the sun, something about a terrible mission. But it felt so long ago, as though it happened in his dream and the thought of it slipped away.

Everything was fine. The sharp edges of his memory were gone, although he could still sift through them if he chose. They just didn’t hurt him like they had before.

He remembered asking for death.

Am I dead?

Astarion looked around. He was lying in the thick grass of an ancient, quiet meadow, enormous trees surrounding him, a soft mist falling from above. It was warm, light filtering down through a canopy of leaves.

If this was the Fugue plane, then it wasn’t so bad.

He was naked, which made sense. He’d never thought that you would take your clothes with you in death…but at least it was warm here.

The mist became heavy, and within moments turned to rain. Astarion frowned, wincing slightly at the colder drops on his skin.

Alright, that's pretty unpleasant.

Blinking through the chilly onslaught, he looked around himself. There was thicker coverage closer to the trees, better protection from the increasingly heavy rain. Pushing himself up, Astarion stumbled out of the field, noticing that he was short a pair of wings.

Oh, good, I’m not a devil here. Reaching the base of the trees, he wiped the water from his face. Rain was coming down considerably harder now, and he watched it for a while from the relative safety of the trees. It was beautiful; he had never seen a summer shower before.

Astarion watched the rain, breathed in the fresh smell of it. He closed his eyes and smiled, feeling peace for the first time since…well, maybe ever. Hunger was gone, thirst was gone. Dread was gone, too. Everything was beautiful and calm, his memories soft and distant like dreams.

He wondered if Raphael could have sent his soul somewhere kinder.

Still, there must be more. Astarion looked around, seeing no indication of other life nearby. But he set off into the forest anyway, curious to see what else was nearby, if anything. Perhaps there were other souls around who could tell him where he was.

Astarion walked through the forest for some time. He didn’t like the mud that began to build on his feet, but was sure that something must come along eventually.

After a while, he began to notice something strange. A dull, demanding pain began to throb in him, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

I’m hungry.

He stopped and blinked slowly. Am I supposed to be hungry? What does a soul eat? He had never eaten in Raphael’s house, although devils certainly ate differently from other beings. He didn’t seem to be a devil anymore. Neither did he feel like a vampire. What do I eat?

Hoping that it might be something better than blood or…well, blood, Astarion continued walking.

If he were the same person as before, suspicion would probably have been bothering him; something too good was not to be trusted. Astarion felt only a calm, collected peace.

After some time, he saw smoke in the distance.

He headed towards it. Fugue plane or not, Astarion far preferred civilization to a forest. And he was growing hungrier as he walked. Smoke would mean people, who might be able to tell him where he was and what was going on. It occurred to him that the smoke could be dangerous, but somehow he just knew that he was safe.

As he neared the smoke, the forest began to reflect the signs of life. Cleared areas, water mills, and log piles appeared, sheds filled with stored goods, and fire pits for cooking.

Astarion slowed at the edge of the trees, hesitant for the first time. He could see people in the distance moving logs and loading carts.

Why the fuck am I naked?

They were clearly all wearing clothes. Astarion frowned, looking around himself. Perhaps it was entirely normal here for people to walk nude from the treeline. But he wasn’t going to risk being the first person to do that so…he skirted the shadows instead, examining the small collection of houses as he passed them. There was one that had forgotten to take their laundry in, and although they were damp from the rain, Astarion slipped from the cover of trees to pluck a shirt and pants from the line.

Feeling a jolt of guilt, he looked back at the house, etching the unique carvings around the doors into his mind, little curled fern leaves cut with an artistic hand. If he had somehow lucked out into being traded up to a nicer realm, then he wasn’t going to ruin it by getting himself kicked out.

Promising silently to come back and return the clothes, he quickly pulled them on. They were plain and well worn, which suited him fine for not garnering too much notice.

Now with somewhat more confidence, he crept into the small village.

As he approached what seemed to be the center of the scattered buildings, people stopped and turned to him with surprise. Astarion froze, but an elf walked towards him with a kind look on his face.

“Hello, friend, are you trying to find Noanar’s Hold? You seem lost.” He smiled, and Astarion returned it with a shaky laugh. The name was unfamiliar to him…but he was glad that he had grabbed a set of clothing. They certainly weren’t acting like lost souls stumbled on their outpost very often. “We don’t see many strangers come out to the logging site. Most who do are looking for the village; it’s just north up the road.”

“I…thank you,” said Astarion. He opened his mouth to ask where this forest was, but felt it would be an odd thing to say; they could have more information at the hold. And if he was trying to stay out of the hells, then lying was not a good foot to start on. Trying to explain who he was and how he got here would be even more difficult. “Do they have something to eat there?” His growing hunger was becoming pressing.

The elf gave him a strange look, his eyes scanning Astarion more closely. After a pause, he nodded.

“How did you end up out here?” he asked, his voice still kind. Astarion huffed a laugh and shook his head; there was no explaining the journey that had taken him to this forest.

“I wish I could explain it,” said Astarion honestly. It was hard to believe it himself, especially with the edges of his memories as misty and dull as dreams.

Rather than treat him with suspicion, the elf reached into his pocket and drew a few coins. He gripped Astarion’s hand tightly, pressing them into his palm with a gentler smile. “Go to the White Hart, tell Nona that Afeli sent you. She’ll give you a room and something to eat for a good price.” Astarion shook his head, confused at the kindness of a total stranger, but the man only squeezed his hand tighter. “Take it, you’ve clearly had a day. It’s nothing, friend.”

He smiled and returned to his work, leaving Astarion standing there in surprise.

I guess there could be money in the Fugue plane. But…logging?

Increasingly confused, Astarion had nothing to do for it but start walking north.
____________________

The actual village wasn’t too much farther, which he was grateful for, as the sun was starting to go down. Astarion saw it within only a few hundred meters through the trees, more smoke and the peek of some chimneys just above the canopy. It was very small, just a little hunting village sheltered in endless green forest. Antlers decorated the larger lodges, carts of fur for processing sitting at the corner of a tanner. A blacksmith sharpened arrows at the other end of the wide dirt road, a gaggle of large, joking men and women just outside. They were armed with bows, mostly elves, with a human and a halfling among them.

Hunting? Astarion turned to one of the larger buildings, a wooden structure with a thick thatched roof. A sign hung outside, marked by a sign with a faded, leaping deer: the White Hart Inn.

Pushing through the doors, the very first thing that Astarion noticed was how good it smelled.

Freezing at the entrance, he breathed in deeply, his head spinning at the aroma. It twisted his insides terribly, and yet he continued to breathe it in, dragging long-forgotten memories up from the furthest graves of his mind.

Stew, cooking in his mother’s hearth. Bread rising. Long, soft fingers kneading dough, pressing and rolling it around his small hands. Light laughter, as warm and welcoming as music. A kiss on the top of his head.

Shuddering, Astarion broke free of the memory with a gasp. It washed over him in waves, a moment that he had never been able to recall before. Trying to catch his breath, he quickly moved away from the door before anybody could notice.

He leaned against a wall, heart hammering, looking around to see what he had walked into. There weren't many people. It was a quiet tavern, but the large and well kept dining area made him believe that it was often more populated than it appeared to be in the early evening. From the parties outside, it seemed people would travel here to hunt and lodge, and some were just arriving for the night.

There was no denying his suspicion anymore; Astarion began to wonder if he was in fact in Faerún.

Impossible. It’s the middle of the day…that man greeted me like I was anybody. I feel like…me. I can’t be alive again…can I?

An elderly woman approached him, offering a kind smile as she saw how skittish he was. She stopped a few steps away.

“Can I help you, child?” Her voice was rough but warm. She was a half elf, her ears notably short and pointed. And like the man before, she had no suspicion in her eyes. “Did you get separated from your group?”

“I, ah,” Astarion stammered, looking around him in wonder. Her brow knit with concern, and he cleared his throat, realizing that he was making her nervous. “A room. Uh, Afeli sent me.” Remembering the money, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the coins.

“Oh! Of course my dear, come along. Let me get you something hot, too.” She smiled again, reassured by the referral, and began to walk towards the back of the large tavern.

He followed her, trying not to look too overwhelmed by something as simple as a tavern. But he couldn’t help glancing around them, trying to see anything that would indicate whether he was dead or alive. Could it be an extremely elaborate version of the hells? Raphael had told Astarion to trust him, which...probably meant that he was still in the hells.

He followed her up the stairs, trying to tell if the creaking stairs were a sign of the infernal plane. Looking around discreetly for wings and tails.

She opened a heavy door, allowing him to pass her into what appeared to be a simple but comfortable room. There was a large, low bed, a stone stretch of chimney that seemed to pass up from the kitchen and warm the room, and a washroom off to the side. It was pleasant enough accommodations for a night.

“You get settled in, dear, and I’ll be back with something to eat,” said the woman. “If you need anything, just ask. Name’s Nona, ask any of the boys in the kitchen if y’can’t find me.”

She closed the door, leaving him alone in the room.

Astarion sat on the bed, although he wasn’t tired. He could hear people talking outside, birds singing, the rain picking up again. Looking down at his bare feet, he saw how dirty they had become from the long walk…but the rest of him seemed clean and new. He could still smell the food downstairs, in wonder at how something that had been repulsive for centuries could make his mouth water.

His mouth.

Astarion’s hands flew to his lips, confirming something that he had not noticed before. He sat in numb disbelief, feeling the smooth ridge of his teeth with the pads of thumbs. Surprise choked him, distracting him from wandering thoughts about his family, and he scrambled to his feet.

Running to the washroom, he saw a small mirror mounted on the wall.

He almost slipped in his haste to reach it, slamming his hands on either side of the mirror. Astarion’s heart pounded desperately, hope and fear strangling it in equal measures.

They all fell silent at the image staring back at him.

Me. It’s me.

Astarion stared into the opalescent eyes, a soft, silvery blue surrounding bursts of gold. His lips were parted in surprise, revealing smooth, straight teeth, his hair falling in silver curls in a frame around his face. Two small moles, one above and one below his left eye.

His breath grew heavy and ragged in him. Neither vampire nor devil…the man who stared back was an elf. Just an elf.

Astarion stared into the mirror for what felt like hours, drinking in every small line, every hair that fell across his face, every freckle and spot and curve of cheekbone. He examined his teeth, his tongue, the long ears, the windswept hair, as though he would lose them forever again. No scar on his back, nor brand on his neck.

I have to be dead. This is not possible.

What realm could this afterlife exist in?

There was a sudden commotion from down the stairs, jerking Astarion out of his silent reverie. Some yelling, screaming, and heavy thuds of bodies quickly gave away the nature of the interaction.

A violent skirmish didn’t seem sufficient proof as to where he was. But Astarion walked to his door anyway, feeling oddly like it had something to do with him.

The sound grew louder and more angry as he approached, several voices yelling in unison. Astarion, concerned, turned the corner to stand at the top of the stairs, looking down into the tavern.

Alright. This can’t actually be happening.

Wondering if he was stuck in some insane dream, Astarion watched as a large group of men beat Raphael, Lord Raphael, the son of Archdevil Mephistopheles, human Raphael, into near unconsciousness.

He stood and took in the commotion for a while. Nona was yelling at one of the men without much effect, two kitchen boys were trying to split up the group, and Raphael was…naked. His lip was split and bloody, and he would likely be on the floor if not for one of them men holding him by the neck.

Astarion watched for a little longer, wondering what kind of afterlife this could possibly be happening in, as the fight continued. One more punch, and Raphael stopped moving.

When another drew a dagger, Astarion dashed down the stairs, suddenly realizing that if anybody might know what was actually going on, it was probably the man about to get stabbed.

Lunging towards the knife, it was only a quick twist for him to disarm the man. He grabbed the handle as it flipped, well aware that he didn’t want to be empty handed in the middle of this fight. The angry men were outnumbered in the bar though, and likely would have culminated soon regardless.

“Hold on,” Astarion said, pointing the dagger up toward the ceiling to diffuse the tension. “Let’s not be hasty. You got yours, there’s no need for more blood.” The group growled angrily, but seemed to be simmering down.

“He a friend a’yours?” snapped the largest, and nearest, man. Astarion glanced down at Raphael and grimaced.

“…depends. What did he do?” Astarion asked, shrugging.

“Bastard found our camp and drank all of the wine, tried to steal our horses, set them loose, and almost set the whole bloody forest on fire. We barely put it out, and he’s still blind drunk off of our last bottles. We chased him here,” the stranger snarled. Astarion winced. That certainly didn’t sound like the Raphael he knew, but there was no doubt that the man on the floor was him. “Are you paying for that?”

Could he know anything worth getting killed over? If this was the Fugue plane, then from what he’d seen it wasn’t so bad. But if they were in fact in Faerún, Raphael could be worth keeping alive.

“No, but how about, uh, you let me take him up, and…” Astarion set the dagger on the ground, slowly crouching to grab Raphael under the arms, trying to lift his dead weight without much success. Holy hells, how is he so heavy? One of the boys who worked there jumped forward to help.

“-And the rest of you can simmer down with a round,” interjected Nona quickly, seeing an opportunity to stop the fight. “C’mon, let’s have one on the house for a good hunt. Nobody got hurt, you gave the fellow a lickin’ for the wine, let’s call it a day. If you have any horses still running around, they’ll probably be right back by morning.”

She cast a small smile towards Astarion as he struggled up the stairs, grateful for his interruption. The men settled down at the bar, still muttering angrily but somewhat pacified. One put in a food order, and the others eventually followed suit.

After helping him get Raphael onto the floor in his room, the boy left to help Nona in the kitchen, leaving the two alone.

Perhaps he should have been afraid. Up until that day, Raphael had been his slaver…and an astonishingly cruel one at that. But something was clearly off; if this was actually the same devil, there was simply no way that a group of mortal hunters could have beaten him unconscious.

And looking closely, Astarion was sure that it was him. Or at least, his human form. Under blood and bruises, his dark, rugged features and catlike eyes were easily recognizable. He breathed slowly, blood running down his chin.

Why is he naked?

…why was I naked?

It seemed too much of a coincidence to overlook. So he waited.

There was a knock at the door, and Astarion quickly threw a sheet over Raphael’s bare body before opening it. Nona stood there with a very generous tray.

“Thank you for stopping them,” she said quietly, handing it to Astarion. There was stew, fresh bread, cut apples and pears, a thick wedge of cheese, and a canteen of water. “Some of these hunting parties get rowdy after a long day, and they’re partial to breaking my tables and chairs. A few beers doesn’t cost me as much, and it gets them sat and hungry. So here’s a little extra for your friend, the poor fellow, when he gets up. Seems to me he had a long day too.”

“Thank you,” said Astarion, staring down at the food. Nobody had been so unnecessarily kind to him in…well, maybe since Tav.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked, her eyes curious. Astarion shook his head. He might not know where ‘here’ was, but he was certain that he wasn’t from it. “There are a fair number of high elves in the High Forest, I assumed you had family nearby. Do you two need help getting home? I have a friend who runs a convoy out west towards Waterdeep every few weeks.”

Astarion stood in silent shock. We’re in Faerún.

“Well…just let me know,” she said in his silence. “Eat up, and have a good night dear.”

She closed the door.
____________________

As Astarion set the tray on a table, he heard Raphael stirring on the floor.

The cambion sat up slowly, one hand rising to touch his face with a wince. He groaned in pain, wobbling slightly as he looked around. Astarion watched from across the room, his eyebrows raised, vigilant of any sign of danger. His memories of Raphael might be soft and distant now, too far away to hurt the same, but he knew better than to believe that they hadn’t actually happened.

But this man was not the devil from his memories. He dabbed at his face, seeming mostly just shocked to see blood at his fingers. Astarion was curious about that too; Raphael’s blood should have burned the men who had attacked him.

With a sigh, Astarion walked to the bathroom, the sound of his feet drawing Raphael’s attention. He returned with a bowl of clean water and a cloth, stopping several feet away to place them on the floor closer to Raphael. Their eyes met, and he knew immediately that something was wrong.

“Astarion,” whispered Raphael, pain flooding his features. He sat almost perfectly still, as though he might scare the elf off with any movement. But there was a distinct disorientation to his balance, to his gaze, that Astarion recognized too. Is he…drunk? While the devil had often imbibed, he had never actually seen Raphael get intoxicated. He didn't know that Raphael could get intoxicated.

“What is going on?” asked Astarion out loud. He had a thousand follow up questions, but the ability to put them in order of priority was simply beyond him. Raphael shook his head, his dark eyes still fixed on Astarion’s face.

“Blue,” he said faintly, one hand reaching towards him slowly, tentatively. “Your eyes were blue.” Raphael’s jaw clenched tightly with emotion. Astarion slowly crouched, until he was almost eye level with Raphael on the floor.

“Raphael,” he said seriously. “Where are we? Why are we here?”

After staring for several seconds, Raphael lunged towards him.

Astarion fell back, gasping, as shock raced through him. The bed hit the back of his knees and he fell onto it, hand grasping for a dagger that wasn’t there out of instinct. As soon as he realized that he had left the dagger downstairs, he felt arms thrust around his hips, fingers tight in the back of his borrowed shirt. Astarion’s hands immediately braced against his shoulders, ready to fight back, but to his astonishment Raphael buried his face in his lap, and was shuddering with muffled tears.

What. The. Hells.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, words slurring from drink and cloth. “Astarion, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t mean to break you. Please don’t go, I’m so sorry.” He was shaking all over, a complete wreck who was dripping blood and tears into his clothes.

Astarion could only stare in wordless shock. Eventually, as Raphael quieted, Astarion pushed his shoulders back again, detaching him enough to get his attention.

“Raphael. What. Happened,” he said more firmly, utterly at a loss as to what was going on. The last thing he remembered was asking Raphael to kill him.

“I was thirsty,” said Raphael softly. “Walking in the forest. I saw th’ wine.”

“Not the fight,” Astarion groaned, resisting the wild, unexpected urge to laugh. “Why are we in the High Forest!?”

“Corellon,” Raphael muttered, smearing blood as he wiped his face off tears. “I went to bloody Corellon, t’ask for a body. For you. He said he’d trade, wanted every soul that I had to be freed. Slaves, contracts, coins. I gave th’m up, because he didn’t ask for the crown. I thought, I could make that all back up with the crown. Damned fae god tricked me, said I was redeemed and he…he…”

Raphael fell silent then, the tip of his nose dripping blood, his eyes dark and distant. Beneath the bruises and the haze of drink, there was a deep, mortal agony.

“He took my father’s blood.”

Raphael swallowed hard, staring at the blood on his hands in awful disbelief. Astarion stared at it too, equally appalled.

“The god, Corellon?” His voice was a faint whisper. “You went to the god of elves, to…ask him to…resurrect me.” Raphael’s hands sank as he nodded, still kneeling at Astarion’s feet. Astarion felt his breath faltering, his own hands rising to touch his chest, to feel the heart beating beneath. He breathed in, felt the warm, delicious air. Joy gripped him, pure and intense as he realized what he had not dared to allow himself to hope.

I am alive.

He was alive, really and truly alive. His body was warm, he had felt the real sun on his real skin, had seen the face and eyes that were his birthright. He smelled good food cooling on the table, he remembered his mother’s hands. My mother’s hands.

And Raphael…

Raphael had surrendered everything. Almost everything.

“What about the crown?” Astarion asked. “You said he didn’t ask for it.”

Raphael did not answer. He glowered, his eyes closing as he shook his head briefly. After another long breath, he looked back up at Astarion.

“Can you forgive me, for any of it?” he asked in a whisper. His dark eyes slowly filled with tears. Astarion felt his breath hitch lightly; had Corellon not softened the sharp edges of his memories, which he now understood to be an act of mercy, Astarion was absolutely sure that he would have happily watched Raphael bleed out downstairs. Even allowing him near now was dangerous, cambion or not. Raphael didn’t need to be a devil, or sober, to see that either; his head bowed.

“Maybe,” said Astarion slowly, moved despite himself. “Let’s eat first, and we’ll talk more later. You’re probably at least as hungry as I am.” Raphael made a small sound of agreement, sitting back so that Astarion could stand.

“I’m starving. You should have killed one of those men downstairs,” he muttered. Astarion froze with his hands on the tray.

“Raphael, humans don’t eat…okay, normal humans don’t eat people,” Astarion replied, his eyes closing as again he felt close to laughter again. “Here, try some bread, you lunatic.”

He passed a chunk to Raphael, who sighed. Placing the tray on the floor, Astarion sat across from him, ignoring the table across the room. He poured a scoop of stew into one of the shallow bowls, genuinely excited to try food again for the first time in longer than he could remember.

Raphael poured his own bowl, but seemed far more reluctant. Then again, he was markedly less excited about his own apparent transition into the material plane.

“I know humans don’t eat people,” Raphael grumbled, glaring at the bowl. “I just don’t want to be…to…oh hells, I’m human.” His head dropped into his hands, the food forgotten. A low cry echoed in the room, desperate and furious. “Astarion, I have a human lifespan! Damned Corellon, I could die any second and I’ll be a godsdamned lemure! How, how many decades do you think I have before I die?” Astarion, mouth agape, slowly shook his head.

How many years do humans live for again? Fifty?

“…one?”

Raphael cried out in horror, collapsing to the floor. Annoyed, Astarion reached across the tray and slapped his head. With an angry yelp, the screaming cut short.

“First, don’t ruin this for me,” Astarion snarled. “I haven’t eaten actual food in centuries. Second, they’re going to kick us out if you keep making a racket. The first rule of being mortal is not to think too hard about dying. Gods, everybody knows that.”

Pushing himself back up, Raphael instead grabbed the bowl of water, dipping the cloth in and wiping his face.

Astarion took advantage of the window of peace to take his first bite of warm stew.

Closing his eyes, he moaned in pleasure at the taste. Hearty meat, rich broth, fresh vegetables, and thick, soft potatoes…he had never tasted anything so good, so wonderfully complex before. Better than any blood, wine, or potion, it spread warmth through him like a salve applied directly to his soul. Astarion chewed for as long as he could, sighing as he swallowed the bite. There was the rest of his bowl, and a big tureen if he wanted more. Ripping off a crust of fresh bread, he dipped it in the stew excitedly.

“I didn’t know I could get drunk,” Raphael mumbled, the water in the bowl turning a murky pink. “I know humans can. I didn’t know what happened to me when I saw the camp…wasn’t ‘til after the second bottle that I realized.”

Astarion chewed ravenously, pouring himself a cup of water as he listened.

“You can starve too,” said Astarion, pointing to the quickly cooling bowl in front of Raphael. “So you’ll have to eat eventually, if you want to put off being a lemure.” He didn’t know why he was bothering to help Raphael. Except perhaps that he did, despite everything, feel a small grain of gratitude for what the devil had surrendered for him. It was in repayment for taking something that shouldn’t have been his to start with…but still, Astarion could understand how hard it was to lose that kind of power.

Unable to argue with that, Raphael slowly picked up the bowl. He sipped the broth, seeming to be more displeased by the concept than the taste. With a heavy scowl, he began to eat. He was clearly still quite drunk, but at least stable enough now to competently feed himself. And with the blood cleaned off, his bruises didn’t look quite as bad.

Astarion finished his entire bowl, filling it again for the sheer pleasure of feeling his stomach full and content. He slowly ate three large slices of pear, nearly in tears at the burst of sweetness, aching from the quantity and finally satisfied.

The thirst was gone. The emptiness was gone. He was alive and he was full, sitting in a warm room, ready to rest. It was apparently no trick, no dream. Astarion couldn’t remember being so satisfied before.

But Raphael was there too, and at first Astarion wondered whether it would be safe to fall into a trance.

Raphael yawned, and Astarion realized that he was probably going to be knocked out soon. If he stayed in light meditation, he could rest and remain alert to Raphael’s movements through the night.

I could kick him out. Astarion toyed with the thought. But instead he helped Raphael up and into the bed; the man was unconscious in seconds, unaccustomed to the demands of a mortal body and thoroughly defeated by the day. Astarion stood over him, wondering at the shift in their circumstances.

There was a small, sharp knife still embedded in the cheese.

He could put an end to Raphael right now, send him straight back to the hells, sentenced to the same fate that he had damned thousands, hundreds of thousands, to. Astarion was sure that no god could frown upon that; after all, their paladins killed devils all the time. And Raphael might not be one biologically anymore, but he surely still carried the sins of his past.

It would be easy. Weakened by wine, fists, and exhaustion, Raphael was the easiest target in the world. One knife in the throat, and Astarion would never see him again. And he had already gotten what he needed from him.

And…Raphael would deserve it. Astarion might not suffer beneath the weight of his own memories anymore, but that didn’t mean that he had forgotten all that Raphael had done to him.

Yet he just stood there, looking down at the man who he had come to fear like no other. Who had protected him, saved him, loved him. Damned him. Sacrificed him.

Raphael might not deserve to live. But the unfortunate truth was that Astarion didn’t want to be the one to kill him.

Plus, he was still stranded in the middle of the High Forest with nothing to his name, not even the clothes on his back. Raphael was dangerous, but he was also a well connected fiend with a wealth of knowledge on people and places, and potentially still had access to some form of resources. When he sobered up, and assuming he wasn’t playing a wildly elaborate trick on Astarion, he might be more useful alive than dead. Which was the greater risk, Astarion had not quite decided.

He thought about the knife. And then he climbed onto the opposite side of the bed, leaning against the wall to watch Raphael as he relaxed, his mind and body tired. Drifting into a trance, Astarion felt the tension in him slowly release into a quiet sense of calm.
____________________

Astarion was first to wake, only needing a short rest before he felt up and alert. Four or six hours of a restorative trance, and he was more than ready to get out of the village. Raphael, meanwhile, was snoring in the bed, still apparently trapped in his human form. The unhealed cuts and bruises all over him were evidence enough that he probably hadn’t been lying about what he told Astarion the night before; Raphael had indeed been stripped of his fiendish blood.

Leaving him still fast asleep, Astarion made his way to the springs outside, looking forward to a soothing morning bath.

The sun was just coming over the horizon, its light warming the cool, misty forest. He closed his eyes and basked in the warm touch, treasuring the thought that he would be able to enjoy it every day for the rest of his life. Sighing deeply, he walked down the trail leading to the springs, towel in hand.

It was empty of people, still too cool and early for most, but Astarion didn’t mind. Having spent most of his life in the night, a chilly morning swim sounded like a slice of heaven. So he found a scenic corner of the water, stripping off his clothes and folding them neatly on the rocks. Stepping into the brisk pool, he shivered appreciably, enjoying the solitude and the sun.

Ducking into the water, he rinsed the light dust from his hair and body, goosebumps running across his skin. The rising sun cast warm rays over his corner of the forest, and steam spiraled up from the meadow as the mist dissipated.

This was better than any heaven that he could imagine.

“Oh, wow,” said a voice, alerting Astarion to the presence of another person. Surprised to be caught unawares, he opened his eyes and saw a young huntress frozen at the other end of the clearing. Eyes wide, her mouth hanging open, she was visibly transfixed by the unexpected vision she had stumbled upon in the pools. Catching herself, she flushed bright red and whipped around. “Wow, I am so sorry! I don’t know what I, why I-” She cut off into silence, her hands clenching into horrified fists.

Astarion hid a smile. She was a pretty girl in the forest, with long, curling dark hair and very fine light armor. Her bow rested against the trunk of a tree; he briefly wondered if it would be possible to get it from her. Ethically, of course.

“No apology necessary, darling,” he said smoothly. “There’s room for at least two.” The pool of water was more than large enough for a dozen; her reaction to him was just an indicator towards her shy attraction. She stifled a panicked laugh.

“Um! Y-yes, you’re right, of course,” she stumbled over her words. After a brief pause, she slowly began to remove her armor, starting with her boots. Astarion watched for a moment, feeling a strange, unwelcome tiredness.

Two years ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to lure her into the pool, kill her, and take everything she had. In this instance, it would certainly make his long journey ahead simpler. But now that he had been through the literal hells, the thought of manipulating somebody for the opportunity to rob them blind felt…ominous.

As she dropped her undershirt into the brush, Astarion began to back away towards his own clothes, deciding to choose a quick exit over an easy steal.

“Listen, the spring is all y-”

As he spoke, somebody else burst through the underbrush wrapped in a sheet, breathless and angry. As soon as he saw Astarion, his eyes rolled up in blatant relief. The elf could have laughed at how insane his situation was.

Shit. I guess I could have left a note.

“You can’t just disappear,” snarled Raphael. “I can’t track you anymore! You can’t…I mean…” He stopped talking abruptly, his teeth snapping shut, and Astarion was shocked to see a faint red hue tinge him. As he raised his eyebrows, Raphael finally noticed the naked girl standing next to him, covering herself with her hands. “Who are you?”

Oh, gods.

“I’m just…uh, leaving,” she said, slowly reaching for her shirt again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that you were with someone.” Astarion didn’t bother correcting her; he knew that it would only complicate whatever altercation was about to happen.

Raphael glared at her as she collected the rest of her armor and ran, forgetting to grab her bow as she scrambled out of the way. He turned to Astarion, his jaw tightly clenched against the clear flood of emotion.

Oh my gods. His mask is gone. Whether it was the loss of fiendish self control or some kind of biological or magical component that was now missing, the flawless mask that had always shielded Raphael’s true intentions had been shattered.

Because the angry jealousy shining in his eyes now, and the vivid fight to wrangle himself under control, was clear from across the spring. Astarion fought back a smile. And I was worried he was going to kill me.

“You can’t run off,” said Raphael finally, resigning himself to the happy medium of pretending that he had a grip on himself. “We have to help each other.”

“I don’t need your help,” said Astarion coldly, standing up in the pool. He smugly took in the furious, flustered blush before grabbing his towel and drying his hair. “We left each other alive, and I already got everything that I needed from you. More than everything, in fact. Let’s both just walk away and be glad that we survived all of…this.”

“I lost everything!” Raphael burst, plunging into the pool, shedding the sheet as he waded through deep water. Astarion didn’t have the same instinctive, panicked response to Raphael that he once had, but he still braced himself defensively. “For you! I lost everything for you.”

”I don’t owe you anything,” said Astarion. “And what are you talking about? Just go get the crown, if Corellon didn’t take it from you,”

“That’s the problem,” Raphael said, rubbing his face with one hand. “It’s hidden in Cania, and I’m a godsdamned human! Nobody knows where it is except for me…they’ll think that it was destroyed, either by Mystra or Corellon. If my father finds me, he'll kill me himself for losing control of the house. If anybody finds out the crown is intact, I’ll be hunted down by gods and Archdevils. And even if I can figure out how to reach it without alerting my father to being in Cania, I don’t know how to use it in this form.” He stopped just in front of Astarion, distracted and distraught.

“Huh,” said Astarion, wishing that he’d thought to bring the cheese knife with him. “That’s certainly a problem. Considering you came up with an elaborate six month plan to overthrow an actual god, that worked I might add, I’m sure that breaking back into your home realm won’t be too much of a problem to you. Best of luck.” He slowly backed away, reaching for his folded clothes.

“No,” gasped Raphael, grabbing his arm.

"Don't touch me!" Astarion shoved him on instinct, and was legitimately surprised when Raphael stumbled backwards into the water. Cocking his head, he pushed him harder, choking back a laugh when he fell.

“Holy shit. Am I stronger than you?” Astarion’s hands closed on Raphael’s neck, and he forced him under the water without too much difficulty. Raphael grabbed his wrists, eyes wide with fear as he realized the same thing. He struggled viciously, the distinct possibility that he died right then and returned to Baator as a lemure thrust into his face as he fought back. And for a moment, Astarion wondered if it might be worth the potential loss of resources to drown Raphael with his bare hands.

Remembering that he was supposed to be not going back to the hells, and feeling a little too maliciously pleased to justify the murder, Astarion groaned and released him. Raphael burst coughing from the water, struck with the terror of his own mortality. Astarion grabbed his dark hair, lest he try anything more dangerous.

“I’m not going to help you,” he said, as Raphael gasped for breath, his hands flying up to grab his wrist. “In this life or the next, I don’t plan on going back to the hells. I’m sorry, but you’re on your own.”

Raphael choked on the water, pulling gently against Astarion as he fought for breath. Astarion had never seen him like this before, vulnerable and shaken. It should have made him want to kill him, or hate him, but instead he felt a strange kind of pity.

“What…what are you going to do, then?” Raphael finally managed. Astarion frowned, his mind drawing a blank, and Raphael jerked his head in surprise. “What? Have you seriously never thought about what you would do when you were free? Isn’t that what you’ve wanted since, well, since we’ve met?” Astarion scowled, defensive again.

“Oh, excuse me, I’m sorry that you thought the man who made a contract with the devil had a secret stock of great plans,” he snapped, pulling Raphael’s head back with an irritated shake. “I don’t have all the details, alright?”

Raphael stared up at him for several seconds before he began to laugh, gradually and then harder, until he was nearly in tears. Astarion glared at him incredulously, unsettled when tears began to run down his face. Raphael laughed for a long time, so hard that Astarion didn’t even notice the transition into just…crying. When he did, he felt shock run through him like lightning.

“My gods,” Raphael cried, voice bordering hysterical. “You’re here. I asked him to fix you, and you’re here. It’s you, you’re really back.” He laughed and sobbed, so intensely that Astarion released him, disturbed. Raphael immediately covered his face with his hands. “Bloody Corellon can have it all, I missed you so much.” The soft, painfully human admission, muffled and ashamed, tugged stubbornly at Astarion’s newly minted heart.

“Alright,” he sighed, incredulous of himself as he helplessly held up his hands. “It’s…alright. Hells, stop crying before I actually drown you.” It wasn’t alright, but Astarion certainly couldn’t drown him now.

“Drowning me would technically make you liable to judicial divine law,” Raphael sniffled through his fingers. “Since I no longer fall under the category of- hbkglbklblglgbgb!”

He probably shouldn’t really drown him, but that was no reason for Astarion to pretend that he didn’t enjoy considering it. Grunting with the effort of holding Raphael underwater, he was losing strength as the man fought back.

A hand slipped, and Raphael burst free, angry and choking. His fist flew up to strike Astarion’s face, sparking a flare of anger in the elf. They grappled in the chest-deep spring, coughing and gasping on stagnant water as they alternately submerged one another. Burning with fury, it wasn’t long before they clutched each other in a deadlock, breathless and dripping.

Panting, Astarion glared hatefully into Raphael’s dark eyes.

There was a pause, a moment where they both seemed to realize how close they were. His breath catching, Astarion was suddenly very aware of their faces only inches apart, Raphael’s warm breath, his grip, his wet skin, hot from the exertion.

Like the sun to the horizon, they crashed together with the unadulterated and inevitable force of gravity. Raphael’s lips were scorching, hot and desperate against him; Astarion groaned to feel them against his, tangling his fingers in thick, curling hair again, this time to draw him closer. Raphael’s hands gripped his arms, just as susceptible to that mortal desire as Astarion.

Without the coldness of vampiric undeath, and the brutal calculation of devilish bloodline, all that was left to the two was an instinct so raw and powerful that they both quailed beneath it. A man and an elf, twisting together in a cold morning spring.

He had never been so excited. Astarion gasped for breath now, feeling the rocky wall of the pool at his back, Raphael’s arms over his shoulders as he hiked his thigh onto Astarion’s hip.

They kissed like starving men, each touch trailing a different kind of fire than before. Stumbling back, one hand flying up to grip the rock wall behind him, he released Raphael’s hair to run his other hand down his warm back, pulling the man closer. No manipulation or ulterior motivation tainted this; driven by pure mortal instinct, the tight thread of Astarion’s aversion seemed to have snapped and disappeared.

Behind it, an inferno blazed. They both tasted like pond water but every kiss fueled the roaring fire until they were both hard and aching, breathless and entirely unable to stop. Raphael moaned into Astarion’s mouth, quivering almost imperceptibly, and before he even realized it Astarion was pulling him up to align himself.

They froze then, panting and staring at each other in disbelief. For a moment, it occurred to Astarion how insane this was, and he had only a second to consider if this was perhaps not the best idea. In another life, he would have taken this man to Cazador. In another life he was Raphael’s slave.

In another breath, in this life, Raphael relaxed his weight against him, groaning in pain and pleasure as he took the first two inches.

Hesitation gone, Astarion released the wall and grabbed him by the hair, dragging Raphael forward to kiss him again as need overwhelmed him. He tasted the blood on his lips and it was iron, just iron, bitter and metallic beneath the dilution of water. Laughing in giddy relief, Astarion’s back arched to feel the hot, seductive pleasure of a willing partner. To enjoy it, finally, after centuries of submission or obligation or self preservation. There was nothing demanded of him here, nothing left to be given or taken from him. He was free.

That his first mortal experience was going to be Raphael was probably not a great start to his new goals, but it was far too late to nurture reservations about that now. He cried out at the grip of tight heat, the dizzying pleasure of the lean body nearly riding him, kisses peppered on his face and lips and ears. Hands tightened on his arms, twitching from the onslaught of carnal instinct before Raphael was forced to release Astarion to stroke himself desperately.

Exchanging no words, they rutted fiercely on the side of the spring, new bodies driving them relentlessly to relief. Raphael rode him hard, both of their hoarse cries starting to carry through the trees as the fire stoked between them blazed. Desire was a call so irresistible that neither refused it; but as he neared his peak, Astarion felt a hand slide to the back of his neck. Lifting his face, he was surprised by the light kiss Raphael offered, the touch of his forehead. Although astonished, he had no time to react. Astarion climaxed abruptly, his low moan stifled against Raphael’s lips, his body washed in the hot flood of orgasmic pleasure.

Raphael followed soon after, gasping at the unexpected sensation, his abdomen flexing intensely as he expended, drawing out the last drops of bliss with long, indulgent strokes. He fell forward against Astarion, who was braced on the edge of the pool.

They caught their breath slowly, leaning against the wall of the spring, steaming as sweat and water evaporated from their tangled forms and slowly drying hair. Raphael’s head rested on Astarion’s shoulder, heartbeat pounding against his chest. Astarion felt warm, wet skin against his, and was relieved to be freed from the grip of revulsion that had hung over him for so long. Every ugly memory, every haunted response, all of it was softened by the touch of Corellon, and for the first time Astarion knew peace. Thank you.

Raphael, seeming to realize far too late what he’d succumbed to, sat up abruptly. As a calculative purveyor and manipulator of mortal desires, it was definitely possible for him to never have actually experienced surrendering to temptation firsthand. He gaped in quiet shock, flushing a dark, humiliated red before pulling off of Astarion, who released him easily.

“I didn’t come here to do that,” Raphael said stiffly, conflicted feelings flying across his features as he struggled to understand them. Shame, confusion, and human lust were probably all new for him, more difficult to conceal as they were experienced. Astarion could have laughed, if he wasn’t more worried about his own way forward. Raphael had been right; he didn’t have a plan. I never truly believed that I would make it this far.

“I know,” he said simply, giving in and gesturing to the spot beside him. After a pause, Raphael joined him on the wall, where there were several good rocks to sit on. They watched the sun breach the horizon in relative quiet. As the light drove the last shadows of morning away, Astarion noticed something else.

“Her bow is gone,” he said, pointing to the tree at the far side of the pool. “The girl from before. She came back for it.” He definitely remembered her leaving it behind in her hasty escape from impending conflict, but he had no idea when she had snuck by, nor how long she’d stayed. Raphael blinked and then began to laugh, the embarrassed tension from before easing.

“Well. Alright. She could have left a tip for the show.”

Astarion bit back his own laughter, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the cool stone.

“How about we travel together at least to Waterdeep?” asked Raphael, slicking back his thoroughly snarled hair with the clean water. Astarion hesitated, but quickly realized that Raphael was probably right about where they needed to go next. “You’ll need the port and supplies no matter where you plan to go, and I can see if Gale is there. He’ll certainly know how I can harness the crown as a human.” Astarion’s eyes popped open.

“...Gale is alive?”
____________________

They walked away from Noanar’s Hold with almost nothing, two fallen immortals who had once dethroned a god.

Astarion stopped, looking around them as he recognized the collection of houses appearing through the trees.

“Hang on,” he said, recalling the strange markings around the frames of the doors and windows he’d seen before. “There’s something that I have to do.” Studying each house, he found the one marked with the same intricate carvings, the flowers and curling ferns.

Raphael followed him without question, although he glanced skeptically at the house that Astarion approached.

Jumping the back fence, Astarion saw that there were no indicators of anybody being inside for the moment. Behind the house hung the laundry line, stripped of garments such as the one he had stolen from here. And further back, a heavily diminished stack of cut logs, down to its last row.

Raphael shrugged at him, seeing nothing more than the small, intimate appliances of a rural home. Astarion sighed.

“I took these, so we have to leave something in return,” he admitted, indicating towards his rough cut clothing. “I’m trying to be a good person, remember? Redemption?” Raphael’s eyes narrowed, scanning him with a slow, critical look. Astarion scowled.

“Really? I feel like they should have paid you to take those,” said Raphael, an eyebrow raising. Astarion’s jaw dropped, interrupting his inspection to round on Raphael. He hissed angrily, his eyes burning at Raphael’s small smirk.

“First of all, you’re wearing a sheet. Second, this is your blood all over them, so I don’t want to hear it,” Astarion snarled. He didn’t want to dissect the flash of desire that Raphael’s smile stirred in him, but he was immensely grateful that his thoughts were private again. Turning away, he spotted an ax sunk into an old, chipped stump. “Help me break up some wood for them, or something.”

“Have you ever chopped wood before?” Raphael asked, watching Astarion hesitantly approach the stump. The elf grabbed the handle of the ax, pulling it free after a few tugs. He paused.

“No, have you?” It was a bit heavier than he had expected. Raphael shook his head, and Astarion frowned. “I mean, we’ve chopped up bodies before. And these people do it, so it can’t be that hard.” He looked around and saw a large, rough log, gesturing for Raphael’s help. The devil, the man, scowled but stepped forward and dragged it closer.

“That one is pride,” he said pointedly, pulling the large log over the stump with a grunt. Astarion looked at him, nonplussed, until he sighed and explained further. “Well if you’re trying to be a good person, there are a few more sins to avoid than just murder. Which is actually supposed to be implicit.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, come on. Help me cut this pile up.” Astarion pulled the log into the center of the stump, as Raphael rolled his eyes and turned to grab another. He was being remarkably cooperative, although the minor task seemed to be the least that he could do after everything he had put Astarion through. Most likely the same thought was occurring to Raphael, who didn’t want to get left behind to fend for himself in the High Forest. Who couldn’t watch Astarion walk away without him, who had lost his kingdom for an elf.

“Wrath.”

For hours, they labored in the hot sun, wasting time that probably should have been spent on the road. The chore was much more difficult than Astarion had expected, as woodcutting equipment was simply not built like the light axes he’d used for weaponry once or twice. Large and heavy, he had difficulty aiming with any kind of accuracy, and found himself either slicing too thin or lopsided of a piece, or not even separating the larger ones at all. Raphael was certainly no better at it either, with his significantly weaker human body.

But he worked with determination, both out of stubborn spite for Raphael’s criticizing comments before as well as a newfound oath towards changing his life for the better, in the name of redemption. Corellon had given him a second chance, and he did not plan to spend it falling back into the hands of another devil.

Raphael, too, had given him that chance. It was that tiny seed of knowledge, sprouting in the back of his mind, that allowed Astarion to believe that he might one day be able to forgive him.

Determination was enough to get him through the large pile of logs, but Astarion and Raphael soon discovered that it was no suitable replacement for skill.

“Hm. It’s too bad you’re giving up killing. You were a lot better at that than…this.” Raphael wiped the sweat from his face, unable to hide his smile at the absurdity of the huge, hideously irregular stack of cracked and splintered logs and wood chips. “Can we never do this again?”

“I swear to gods I’ll come out of retirement right now, Raphael.” Astarion crossed his arms sourly, chagrined to acknowledge that he was right. It looked more like the woodpile had spontaneously exploded into shrapnel than two passers-by performing a good deed. “Well, now that we fucked up all of their wood, I suppose we can go.”

“...honestly, you should give them the shirt back too.”

They started to snort, restrained at first before giving in to a loud, wild laughter that rang through the trees around them. Holding each other up from falling, Astarion and Raphael surrendered to it, in tears from the freedom and strangeness of everything. All of it, the heavens and the hells, mortality and immortality, hatred and love, dissolving into hysterical laughter until their stomachs hurt.

Raphael’s tears were warm on his own as they kissed in the back of a stranger’s yard.