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“I want to find my family.”
He spoke the words steadily - with certainty - as if he had been carrying them in his mouth for days, or weeks, or centuries, rolling them over his tongue until he knew their weight and cadence by heart. As if he had measured the shape of the sentence, the sharp edges and soft corners of each sylabel, tasted the fear and the longing behind it, and only now found the courage to speak them aloud.
When you first met Astarion, he had been a loner. A rogue. A creature made of razored edges and brittle pride, momentarily free for the first time in two hundred years. Freedom had sat strangely on him then, like an ill-fitting cloak worn with suspicion, glancing over his shoulder as though at any moment someone might snatch it away and claim him a thief. But even in the uncertainty of those barbed early days, beneath the charm and the sharp smiles, you had glimpsed the truth of him - that Astarion was not easy to break, nor to bow. And in the end, as he stood over Cazador, his tormenter and abuser, with the weight of two centuries pressing down on him, he had proved it.
Over his time with you, he had, impossibly begun to heal parts of him that should have been ruined beyond repair. The progress was often slow and uneven, like frost thawing after a long winter. You’d watched as he changed before your very eyes - how he started to see that life held more than power and domination, more than clawing his way to the top of someone else’s cruelty, more than carrying forward an abuse that no one should ever have to experience. And when the moment of choice finally came, when he held Cazadors life, and the lives of all of his spawn in his hands, he let the promise of power - power to be invincible, untouchable, to never kneel or fear or starve again, the very dream that had kept him alive through centuries of abuse - go. He rose above it, becoming something his tormentors never imagined he could be - better, braver, and wholly his own.
He broke the cycle as he killed Cazador, accepting and choosing a life lived in shadow, but not in chains. A life where he would not be a monster ruling over monsters, but a man learning - painfully and imperfectly how to be free. A life of darkness, yes, but darkness shared, understood, and acknowledged. A life where he could shape himself into more than the scars he carried.
But the scars ran deeper than skin - his brain, memories, essence - was stripped away from him in the torturous isolation Cazador had forced upon him, leaving so little of his life before the darkness. His family was a blank space where something bright might have once lived. He didn’t know their faces. Their voices. He couldn’t even recall the colour of his own eyes. All he had were fragments of a life lived in the sun - a young magistrate in Baldur’s Gate called Astarion - little star. A name so tender, so intimate, it hinted that once he had been cherished. Loved. Someone’s joy.
So when he told you he wanted to find them - to try, at last, to reclaim the life stolen from him as you sat hip to hip on the edge of the cliff near your small cabin in the mountains, the air smelling of pine and the spiced red wine held between you, twilight pooling in the valleys below - you, knowing all he had survived together, knowing all he still carried, found only one answer.
“Okay.”
Beside you, Astarion took a deep breath before continuing. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking about them recently. About how I have a gravestone and I—” He stopped, blinked at you. Once, twice - red eyes catching the twilight like dying magma. “Okay? I lay down my deepest desire and that’s all you have to say? Just… okay?”
“What else is there to say? You want to find them, so we will find them? Am I missing something here?”
He huffed. “Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled, flinging a hand vaguely at the mountains. “I just expected you to say something like ‘Astarion, this is a terrible idea, we know nothing about your family’. Or ‘Astarion, we’ve finally carved out a comfortable little life in the middle of nowhere, why risk mucking it up for some sentimental fantasy of a family that probably have forgotten about you?’”
He paused, glancing away toward the rolling hills swallowed by dusk. His voice softened a fraction.
“Or perhaps ‘Astarion, you’re a blood-sucking vampire. What if…what if they don’t want you?’”
There it was. The crack beneath the bravado.
You felt a heavy ache settle in your chest. Even now, for all the healing he had fought to earn, something beneath him remained brittle. He reminded you of a frozen lake after a long winter — its surface forming in shimmering layers, sturdy here, fragile there, forever susceptible to splitting under sudden weight. His scars - visible and hidden alike - rested beneath that ice, patient and enduring. The memories would never truly leave him; they were etched too deeply, woven into flesh and memory alike. But they were beginning to soften at the edges as he learned to move through the world without letting the fear of falling through the ice dictate his every step.
Even now, as he sat stiffly beside you, his skin cold as ever - cold in a way that still astonished you, because the man himself burned so fiercely with life and wit and desperate, clawing hope - you could sense a fracture beneath the surface, threatening to split wide and drag him down into the frigid depths below.
So you reached out and took his hands, threading your warmth through his chilled fingers, anchoring him before the ice could give way.
“We do know nothing about your family,” you admitted softly, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand, feeling the faint pulse there - life stubbornly beating beneath cold skin. “But we also knew nothing about the giant brain or the absolute, and look how that turned out.”
Astarion snorted - a reluctant sound.
“And you’re right,” you continued. “We do have something good here. Something wonderful.” You squeezed his hand, and he offered you a small, wavering smile. “But if you bottle this up, if you let it gnaw at you…will you still be happy? Or will part of you always be wondering? Will you be in a new cage of your own making?”
Astarion didn’t reply - though you could tell he held - clutched - onto each word you spoke.
“And, my love,” you continued, “you are a blood-sucking vampire.”
He turned to you then, frowning, offended on principle, which made you huff a quiet laugh.
“But,” you said, leaning closer, “if they lost you once and turned you away again? Then the only shame would be on them. Because you are extraordinary, Astarion. You survived what should have destroyed you. You fought for your freedom. You chose who you wanted to become. Anyone who turns their back on that? Turns your back on you after everything you’ve been through and worked for-,” You squeezed his hand. “-then they don't deserve you.”
He didn’t smile, not quite, but the corner of his mouth lifted in that small, tentative way that was uniquely his. And his eyes…they softened the way they only ever did with you, the sharpness easing into something warmer, more fragile. Like he wanted to believe you. Like part of him already did, but the old uncertainty still clung to him, tugging gently at his ribs, reminding him of every door that had ever closed in his face.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said at last, affecting a lofty arch to his brow. “I am marvellous. Why wouldn’t they want me? Even if I am the object of children's nightmares.”
The joke was more shield than humour and the apprehension beneath it was unmistakable.
“I knew you’d understand,” he said, trying for flippancy but not quite managing it. “Naturally you’re coming with me. I - well, I’d be an absolute disaster without you.” A beat. “And I’d rather not be a disaster for this.”
He didn’t need to say the rest - you could see it in the way he held himself, leaned into your touch.
I need you. Please stay.
You answered without speaking - brushing your thumb across his knuckles, a soft, sure stroke that told him everything he feared to ask aloud.
Of course. I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere.
You drew in a slow breath, taking in the mountains around you - the sharp pine scent, the wind whispering over stone, the faint glittering shadow of the aurora to the North. Knowing that soon, it would be nothing but a beautiful memory.
“When do you want to go?” you asked quietly.
Astarions gaze followed yours, taking in the mountains with their jagged peaks - even as his jaw tightened with resolve.
“Before mid-winter,” he said. “When the days are shortest. More time to travel safely. We’ll go to Baldur’s Gate first. See if I can find anything - records, immigration logs, old files. There must be something left of my life. Some...some scrap left of who I was.”
“Why don’t we start with the city watch?” you suggested. “Your tombstone is in Baldur’s Gate. Someone must have paid for it - must have mourned you. There might be evidence there.”
Astarion made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Oh yes, brilliant idea,” he said dryly. “Let’s just stroll up to the watch and introduce ourselves. 'Good morning, we are two vagabonds who have probably committed more crimes together than the entire population of Baldur’s Gate combined, please can we ask you some questions?''” He arched a brow. “And considering I’m supposed to be dead, they’ll have questions. Questions I’d rather not answer unless absolutely necessary.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Records first. Authorities later. Much later.”
“We did save the city,” you point out. “Surely they’ll overlook a few questions.”
Astarion rolled his eyes - delicately, like only he could. “Please. The city barely thanked us when we prevented everyone from becoming psychic squid puppets. I doubt ‘hello, we’d like access to your murder case files from two hundred years ago’ will go over smoothly.” He huffed. “Records first. Authorities when every other option has tragically failed.”
"Sounds good,” you’d replied, already tallying what supplies you’d need. “We will need a couple of weeks to resupply our scrolls and potions.”
Living off the land wouldn’t trouble either of you. Astarion was adept at finding his own blood, and he always returned with fresh game for you to cook. You had grown used to the soft bed in your cabin, the crackling fire, the stillness. But there was something undeniably right about the idea of travelling again - the two of you against the world, following a thread into the unknown.
Astarion seemed to sense your drifting thoughts, because he wrapped an arm around and tugged you closer in one smooth, confident motion. His hand slid up to cradle your jaw, fingers cool and practiced as they curved beneath your chin, guiding it upward with a tenderness that contrasted starkly with the intensity gathering in his eyes. His lips were cooler than yours, velvet-soft and impossibly sure, tasting of mint and dark wine, of something sharp and slightly metallic beneath it.
His thumb stroked along your cheekbone, grounding you even as the world tilted, and the press of his mouth deepened in a way that made your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt.
These kisses were no longer strange, no longer unexpected…but they still unraveled you every time. He kissed like a man who had spent a lifetime starving and had finally learned the pleasure of taking his time - slow and deliberate, savouring every inch of you he was given. There was precision in it, reverence even, the careful hunger of someone who knew what it meant to be denied and now cherished every rare thing he allowed himself to want.
This was want. But this was also choice. He kissed you like you were the one thing in this world that had ever truly been his - and the one thing he would never take for granted - a vow pressed between mouths.
He was choosing you - with every piece of himself he had rebuilt, with every shard he had painstakingly reclaimed. Choosing you now, choosing you tomorrow, choosing you in every version of the future he had never allowed himself to imagine.
Choosing you long after your bones turned to dust and your story became legend and his own eternity stretched on without you.
And the way he held you - the way his lips lingered like he was memorising the taste of you - made you believe he always would.
The evening you left, you stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the clearing, Astarions arm wrapped tightly around your waist as the two of you stared at the cabin you’d called home for almost a year. The forest around it was still and quiet; night hadn’t fully set, the sky slowly transitioning into a deep, star-dusted indigo.
“It feels right to leave on such a beautiful evening,” he mused.
“Like the cabin is saying goodbye.”
“Don’t be sappy,” he chided, though the softness beneath the words gave him away. He coughed once, as though shaking something loose in his chest. “We’ll come back. I...have no intention of losing this place forever.”
It had been peaceful here - truly peaceful. A place far from roads and prying eyes, where days drifted by in quiet routine. Where you’d learned who you were without danger bearing down on you, and where Astarion had learned who he was without someone else’s hand wrapped around his mind.
This had been your sanctuary. His first real home in centuries.
“Are you sure this isn't a foolish idea?” Astarion asked suddenly. His voice was soft, fragile in the dark. He didn’t look at you. Just stared at the little cabin, as if trying to memorise every shadowed corner.
“I think it’ll be hard,” you admitted. “But I think the truly foolish thing would be ignoring something you’ve wanted for so long, now that you finally can choose it.” You nudged him lightly. “Besides, this might even be fun. Maybe we can find a new cult to kill.”
Astarion gave you a look that was equal parts approval and exasperation. “Oh, you know so well how to cheer me up.”
And with that small sliver of levity lingering between you, the arduous journey began. Starlight silvered the path ahead, your boots whispering over pine needles and damp moss as the mountains receded behind you. Soon the forest floor gave way to hard-packed earth, then cobblestone, then the uneven brickwork that marked the roads leading back toward civilisation. You couldn't deny that you missed the sun, but travelling at this time - as the world slept around you - was easier.
Daylight, however, was another story.
When the sun began to bleed over the horizon, you found whatever shelter you could - caves carved by roaring rivers, the deep shadow of overhanging cliffs, narrow ravines where the light struggled to reach. And in those moments when nature offered no refuge at all, you built your own - a construction of thick canvas layers stretched taut between bushes or wedged carefully between boulders, creating crude but precious pockets of shade where Astarion could rest without fear.
Travel was slow because of it, marked by long hours spent waiting in darkness while the world above basked in light. But you didn’t complain - and neither did Astarion. What was there to resent when every quiet hour was shared? When the stillness held only the soft sound of his breathing beside you, the occasional brush of his cold fingers against your hand, the silent comfort of knowing that no matter how difficult the road became you walked it together?
You encountered few people on your travels - only the worst sort kept to the roads at the witching hour. Until, one night long past midnight, the distant glimmer of torchlight cutting across the dark to reveal a trio of wagons parked at the edge of the road, each topped with cages that held half a dozen captives - bruised, bound, shivering, their eyes wide and hollow in the shadows.
The traffickers never stood a chance.
Astarion had moved through the shadows with a predator’s grace, each step silent, precise, almost elegant. By the time you were picking the locks on the cages, Astarion was already sinking his fangs into the lookout bandit’s throat, the man’s strangled scream dying in a wet gurgle. You held the captives steady as they stumbled out, dazed and trembling, gently pointing them toward the safer road back to the nearest settlement, pressing what few rations you could afford to give up into their shaking hands.
Astarion didn’t revel in the kill anymore - not in the way he once had. His bloodlust was quieter now, tempered by your offerings at the cabin and the wildlife he hunted with restraint. But you weren’t about to deny him a filling meal when fate literally rolled one toward you on wheels.
After he’d drunk his fill, he sauntered over and unceremoniously collapsed beside you where you sat sharpening your blade. The grass flattened under his weight and he let out a long, theatrical sigh, limbs sprawled dramatically.
“One of them had been drinking fire-whiskey,” he drawled, voice a little slurred as he hiccuped contentedly. “Positively singed going down.”
You snorted, reaching over and patting him on the head like an overgrown, murderous house cat.
“Let’s find you a cave, you vicious beast. Daylight isn’t far off.”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips - blood still staining them ruby-dark. “Yes, my darling,” he all but purred.
The city met you like a blow to the senses.
Baldur’s Gate was as you remembered it, but changed too - a living creature still rearranging itself in the wake of the Elder Brain’s defeat. Dawn had not yet touched the sky, so you entered under cover of darkness, the safest hour for Astarion. Yet even at this late hour, the city pulsed with life.
The smell assaulted you first as you walked through Rivington, the distant salty tang of the harbour, the smoke from a thousand chimneys, and beneath it all the unmistakable reek of humanity - sweat, spice, sewage, ale. It didn't get any easier as you passed beneath Basilisk gate. After months of silence, with only the wind and animals for company, the constant assault to your senses was overwhelming - wagon wheels clattered over the cobblestones, sailors shouted in half a dozen languages, street hawkers still called out their wares despite the hour, dogs barking, drunks singing, the distant toll of a temple bell.
Astarion, however, seemed utterly unbothered. He tipped his head back and drew in a long, deliberate breath, as though inhaling the very chaos around him. The noise, the stink, the press of life on every corner.
“Home sweet home,” he sighed, almost fondly. “You’d think the place would look a bit different after a giant brain flattened part of it, but no - same delightful mess.”
And although on the surface life had returned to normal, it was different. Where once the Flaming Fist and Steel Watch patrolled in ominous tandem, now only the City Watch remained - their armour freshly polished, their torches held high, a show of vigilance meant to reassure a shaken populace. Repairs were everywhere - scaffolding clinging to cracked façades, fresh-cut stone patching over Mind Flayer destruction, and banners fluttering from balconies as though bright cloth might distract from the destruction beneath.
Astarion surveyed it all with a slow sweep of his gaze.
“Well,” he said dryly, “at least the décor has improved. Slightly. Not enough to warrant the attempted apocalypse, mind you, but one takes what one can get.”
You met Wyll the next evening.
He had remained the Blade of Avernus - ever the protector, ever the wanderer, ever the hero who couldn’t stay still while people still needed saving on the Sword Coast, but he had not severed ties with Baldur’s Gate entirely. His name still carried weight, his father still held the title of Duke, and the city still regarded him as a Ravengard with all the influence that entailed.
So when you and Astarion sent a letter in weeks past asking for his assistance, Wyll - loyal to a fault - came without question, looking as he did the first day he’d met you (bar the horns, of course).
“I can’t wield a politician’s power,” he’d said with a grin over a tankard in the Blushing Mermaid. “But I can borrow a little of my father’s influence. Enough to get us access to what you need. Magistrates leave a paper trail. They have to. I’ve got high hopes we’ll find something for you, Astarion.”
“You always were a beacon of optimism. Can’t say I haven’t missed it,” Astarion mused, swilling his goblet in front of him.
Wyll only laughed, before leaning forwards slightly. “What exactly do you remember about your past? That will help us narrow down what we are looking for.”
Astarion leaned back in his chair, draping an arm across it in his usual lazy, smug posture. “Oh, I remember so much, it’s almost impossible to know where to begin.”
Wyll raised an eyebrow. “That’s promising at least. Do you mind telling me what you remember?”
Astarion sighed. “Well, my family name is Ancunin.”
“Fantastic,” Wyll said, genuinely encouraged. “That helps.”
“Do you recognise it?” You’d asked, feeling hopeful.
Wyll pursed his lips slightly. “No. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone in the city with that name!” He tacked on quickly, seeing the scowl you were sending towards him. “What else?”
“I was a magistrate.”
“Good. What else?”
Astarion blinked at him with exaggerated innocence. “That’s it.”
Wyll stared. “That’s…it?”
Astarion made a show of snapping his fingers. “Oh! And I was born in 1229 DR and turned in 1268 DR. And-,” He paused, tapped his chin. “Nope. That’s all.” He forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We can thank dear Cazador for that.”
He no longer spat the name like poison, but it still sat heavy in the air - a word full of centuries of pain, acknowledged but never forgiven.
Wyll let out a long, low breath and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Well, that doesn’t give us much to work with.” He straightened and gave Astarion a determined look. “But your surname is something. It’s more than something. Start with that. Talk to the librarians - they know the archives better than anyone. They’ll point you where you need to look.”
“And we can just walk in there and they will help us? No questions asked?” You’d asked skeptically.
“Pretty much,” he replied with a smile, pulling a signed document out of his pocket. "This should get you everything you need."
You and Astarion had eyed it skeptically, but Wyll hadn’t been wrong. With the Ravengard name behind you, heavy doors opened seemingly with a flash of Wyll’s signature - receptionists who had ignored you moments before suddenly stood straighter, their tones sharpened with respect, and keys were produced with suspicious speed.
“It feels wrong to simply stroll into somewhere,” Astarion said, as you followed a human worker led you down a stone stairwell to the archives. “I much prefer the cloak and dagger approach. Though, not here of course,” he corrected at the quick backwards glance the worker gave the two of you. “Far too boring,” he whispered to you, just as she turned around. “Unless there are hidden gems or gold down here, I don’t think it would be worth the minutes it would take to break in here.”
The air grew cooler the deeper you went, the smell shifting from that of the world above into something musty and old - dust and parchment and ink and wax - the scent of history, bound and stored for generations.
When you passed through a high archway and stepped into the main room, you almost stopped dead in your tracks.
The space opened before you in a cavernous sprawl - larger than the steel watch foundry had been and nothing short of a labyrinth - shelves rose three, four stories high, accessible only by rolling ladders and covered in thick tomes sitting in neat rows, their leather spines cracked with age. Scroll cabinets filled entire walls, with thick locks set into them. Heavy desks - dark oak slabs - were scattered throughout the room like islands, each lit by green-shaded lamps fitted with glowing gems.
Astarion eyed the room with faint disgust.
“Gods,” he muttered. “I used to work in a place like this? No wonder I forgot those memories.”
The librarians, however, were eager and efficient and far too enthusiastic for the hour, they ushered the two of you toward a side alcove reserved for legal records - quieter, more secluded, with wide tables perfect for sprawling piles of old documents.
“This section contains appeals, trials, and civil disputes from the late 1200s DR,” one assistant chirped, sliding a stack of yellowed ledgers onto the table. “That includes several magistrates active in Baldur’s Gate at the time you are looking for. These documents would be a good place to start.”
Prompted by the librarian, you and Astarion sat side by side at the long wooden table, the lamp between you casting a warm circle of light that pooled across the parchment. The chairs were hard and unforgiving, the kind that encouraged good posture whether you wanted it or not. Astarion slouched immediately in protest.
You pulled the top file towards you, puffing the dust off of it in a cloud of white.
“The Lower City Magistrates’ Tribunal,” you muttered, squinting at the cramped script before flicking the cover open. “Right. So…what exactly are we looking for?”
“A name,” the librarian said simply, her hands folded neatly before her. “Any name connected to Magistrate you seeks activity during the relevant decades. If the person you are looking for served in any official capacity, they should appear in these records somewhere.”
“Or,” Astarion drawled, flipping a page with theatrical boredom, “we could skip to the sensible option and look at birth records for the year the, uh, person we are looking for was born. Surely that narrows things down?”
The assistant winced - apologetic but firm. “Our detailed birth ledgers were destroyed in a fire forty years ago.” She gestured upward at the lamps inset with glowing gems instead of flame. “Hence the new lighting. No candles. No sparks. We learned our lesson.”
Astarion arched a brow. “How unfortunate. And here I was hoping for something easy for once.”
The librarian gave him a sympathetic but resigned smile. “The only surviving birth information is raw totals for each district. Names, parents, and locations are lost. Unless you want to look through every person in Baldurs Gates file to find a specific birth, you won’t find that data. Apologies.”
“So,” you summarised with a sigh, “we really just have to… read everything.”
“Everything,” she confirmed cheerfully, already pulling another stack of ledgers onto the table.
Astarion sighed, opening a file. “Wonderful. Bureaucracy truly is the greatest evil of our age.”
Days blurred together as page after page of cramped handwriting passed through your hands. Legal jargon. Petitions. Complaints. Settlements over land disputes. Appeals over unpaid debts. Endless lists of names and dates and long settled grudges and grievances.
“I can’t believe I used to do this for a job,” Astarion groaned one afternoon, flicking a brittle page with unnecessary force. “This is boring.”
But you knew the truth - his boredom wasn’t boredom at all. Could see the way he sat with tight shoulders and thin pressed lips, eyebrows occasionally creasing as he read the paper, before discarding it to the side with a little more frustration than the last, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the table, his leg bouncing in an unconscious, anxious cadence.
He wasn’t bored. He was scared.
Scared that the man he’d been had vanished completely.
One night, after hours of sifting through dead ends, you lay together in your bed at the small inn you’d rented - bare beneath the sheets, the room warm from the banked fire. You were curled in the crook of his arm, head on his shoulders, your eyes closed as you listened to the stubborn beat of his heart as his fingers tracing lazy shapes along your spine.
"Maybe I was wrong,” he suddenly murmured. “Perhaps I wasn’t a magistrate at all. Perhaps all those…fragments I remember are just something I invented to make myself feel…,” He exhaled, shaky. “Oh, I don’t know. Important. Like I mattered. When I didn’t.”
You’d been drowsy and warm, pleasantly tired - not just from the two fresh puncture wounds on your wrist, which he’d licked closed with a tenderness that still caught you off guard - but his words jolted you fully awake.
You lifted your head, blinking away sleep to stare up at him.
He didn’t meet your eyes, his gaze fixed on the ceiling - jaw tight, brows drawn in that soft, vulnerable crease you’d come to know too well.
“Astarion,” you whispered.
He didn’t reply but you knew he was listening from the way his fingers had stopped tracing your back.
You pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder, then his jaw, then finally his lips - slow, grounding.
“You always mattered, love. Whether you were a magistrate or a dock worker or a street urchin. You mattered. Always.”
He swallowed, throat bobbing. “But what if this is all for nothing? What if it’s a dead end? What if there’s nothing left to find?”
“Then we keep looking until we’re sure,” you murmured, brushing your thumb along his cheek before letting your hand settle there, warm and gentle. You didn’t guide his face toward you - didn’t force him to meet your eyes. You simply held him, offering the choice without expectation. He would look at you when he was ready. He always did.
“And if we reach the end of this path and it tells us nothing,” you continued softly, “then we follow another. And another after that. As long as you want to keep going…we will. I promise.”
Silence hung between you, warm and fragile. Then he nodded, turning his face into your palm. His fingertips resumed their slow tracing along your spine.
“Ever the stubborn one,” he murmured softly.
You smiled against his chest. Sleep tugged at you again, and just before you slipped under, you felt him lean in and press a kiss to your brow.
“Thank you,” he whispered, so soft you might’ve thought you dreamed it.
The next day you found it.
It was small - almost insultingly small considering the hours you’d spent searching, but your eye caught it instantly. A name written in elegant flourishes at the bottom of a dispute document between a pair of Gur and a disgruntled gnome.
Astarion Ancunin.
Across the desk, Astarion stiffened. He didn’t need your voice to tell him you’d found something. He felt it - the sudden flutter of your pulse, the shift in your breath, the faint rise in your body heat. You hadn’t even formed a word before he was already crossing the small space between you.
“What is it?” he asked, appearing at your side, voice tight as his gaze snapped to across the parchment.
You pointed. “There.”
He leaned over your shoulder, pale hands braced on the desk either side of you, head resting next to yours as his eyes landed on the signature - looping, elegant, arrogant in a way only a younger Astarion could be. He lifted a trembling finger to the ink, tracing the flourish of a capital A.
“I…don’t even recognise it,” he whispered. “I’m not even certain it’s mine."
You gently nudged his arm. “Oh, I would recognise this ridiculous squiggle anywhere. That,” you tapped the flourish, “is you.”
Astarion didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile. He only stared - at his own name, written centuries ago by a man he couldn’t remember, nor would ever be again.
You left him to it, giving him space he didn’t ask for but clearly needed as you and three increasingly frantic librarians narrowed the search. Now that you knew he’d been involved in Gur-related appeals, and knew what panel he had resided on as a magistrate, the path became much easier to follow. His handwriting cropped up again in civil suits, property discussions, procedural approvals - all tiny pieces of evidence the life he once lived.
Until you found something that made your blood run cold.
“Astarion,” you said sharply, “get over here.”
He appeared at your side in an instant. “What is it?”
You swallowed, then pointed at the page in front of you.
“This is a title of ownership,” you said. “For a property in Baldur’s Gate. In the Manorborn district.”
“I-I beg your pardon?” He took the paper from you, eyes quickly flicking down the page. “I know that house,” he said slowly. “That’s one of the ones near the riverfront. The balcony overlooks the water.” He swallowed hard. “That was mine?”
You grinned despite yourself. “Seems so, you fancy, fancy bastard.”
“What happened to it after…,” he trailed off.
You turned toward the nearest assistant. “Could you find out who owns this Manorborn property now?”
The woman nodded and scurried off between the towering shelves, returning with a thin stack of papers a moment later.
“A couple named Elunara and Erythor Ancunin,” she read from a thin scroll. “It appears they currently reside there.”
You and Astarion both froze.
Astarion snatched the page before she could offer it, eyes scanning wildly.
“No,” he whispered. “No, that can’t be-”
You whirled back to the librarian. “Do you have anything else on them?”
“Yes,” the assistant nodded and handed over two documents. “The deed transfer in 1270 DR from a linked persons and a birth record from 1229 DR.”
1229 DR. Astarion’s birth year.
You watched as his throat bobbed once, hard. Then he made a tiny, sharp sniff - the kind you recognised as him trying to shove emotion back down where he had been taught it belonged.
“Could you give us a moment?” you asked gently to the assistants, who nodded before retreating into the shelves with soft, hurried footsteps as you faced Astarion again. He was still staring at the paper, at the two names on it.
Then - like a performer preparing for the next act - his shoulders loosened a fraction, his spine straightened, and his face returned to one of cool collection. His voice, when it returned, had that familiar razor-thin edge of sarcastic poise.
“So,” he said tightly, eyes flicking over the deed. “After I ‘died,’ they moved into my house. Understandable, really. Who wouldn’t want to live there?”
His mouth twitched - not quite a smile, not quite a grimace - a brittle, wavering thing trying desperately to pass for flippancy. But you noticed how his fingers curled minutely around the document, knuckles whitening as his gaze dropped back to the page - to the names, to the dates, to the life he’d lost and the one that kept going without him.
“Well,” he said lightly, far too lightly, “isn’t this just darling? A mystery house, long-lost parents, and a birth record to tie it all together. How very neat. How terribly convenient. Our plans never work out on the first try.” He gave a brittle half-laugh, eyes bright and sharp in a way that wasn’t excitement at all. “Really, it’s all so absurd I could scream.”
“Astarion,” you said softly, stepping toward him. “Are…are you okay?”
“Oh yes, perfectly fine,” he replied, far too quickly. “Never better.”
You crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow.
He cracked immediately.
“Ugh, gods,” he groaned, deflating as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “This is all…this is just a lot to take in. Now that it’s here, in front of me, it feels...” He inhaled too quickly, breath shaking. “Well quite frankly It feels ridiculous.”
“It is a bit,” you conceded. “But…this is the proof that we - you - have been looking for.”
"Yes, but now what? I didn’t actually think we’d find them! I thought we’d find some leads, maybe go on a merry chase across Faerun, find out my parents moved somewhere remote or, oh, I don’t know, died after two hundred years. I never thought we’d get to this,” he waved the deed at you. “What am I supposed to do?” he demanded, voice rising into a brittle, mocking imitation of himself. “What, stroll up to their front door - my front door - and say, ‘Hello, it’s me, your long-lost son you buried two centuries ago. I can't actually remember you, but I tracked you down for some godsforsaken reason. Would it be okay if I came in for a cup of tea whilst I tell you all about how I was a slave? Oh, but do be a darling and invite me in or I’ll ignite before we get to the pleasantries. And actually, forget the tea - have you any blood lying around because, by the way, I am a vampire!’”
He let out a brittle, humourless laugh before turning sharply and stalking to a nearby table and leaning heavily on it - palms flat, shoulders bowed, the deed crumpled beneath his tightening grip.
This wasn’t anger or even frustration. It was the horrible, hollow realisation of confronting a truth too big to conceptualise. He'd lost his history, his home, his name, his future. And now that a piece of it lay in front of him, indisputable and real, it felt like watching a drowning man reaching for the shore.
You let your boots scuff softly against the stone floor as you approached him - just enough sound to announce yourself without startling him, without triggering the instincts carved into him by centuries of cruelty.
“Astarion,” you murmured gently, letting your voice reach him before your touch could. “Astarion, you don’t have to decide right now. You can take all the time you need. There’s no rush. Whether you choose to knock on that door tomorrow, next year, or never at all. I’ll walk beside you.”
You watched his fingers flex, crumpling the deed further between his fingers and the table. His eyes met yours, and for a heartbeat, something inside him loosened. A softness flickered through him - small, fragile, and meant only for you.
“…I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel right now,” he admitted after a moment, voice barely above a whisper. “Or what I’m supposed to do with any of this.”
Your expression softened. “You don’t have to know. Not yet. Do you want to go back to the inn? Or we could leave town for a few days. Maybe find a secret murderer on the road for you to enjoy?”
He huffed a soft, almost-laugh, pushing himself off of the desk and moving closer until you were millimetres apart. He lowered his brow, pressed his forehead to yours as his hands found your own. You felt it immediately - the way your touch steadied him, grounded him, anchored him back into himself.
“Have I told you,” he murmured, voice low and almost disbelieving, “just how perfect you are?”
Something in your chest tightened. You couldn’t help the smile that rose to answer him. “You could say it again,” you whispered. “Just to remind me.”
A faint huff of laughter escaped him - real, gentle, touched with awe. Then he leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing yours.
“You are perfect,” he said softly. “Infuriatingly so.”
Your breath hitched. His smile - small, fragile, entirely sincere - was enough to undo you.
He lifted a hand to your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin in a slow, reverent stroke. The chill of his touch contrasted beautifully with the warmth blooming beneath your ribs. When his eyes met yours, the fear had fallen away, leaving something clear and resolute in its place.
“I’ve made my choice,” he breathed. “I am done running.”
Outside, the sky was unnervingly clear.
Stars scattered themselves across the heavens like spilled salt - fewer than the wild abundance you were used to at the mountain cabin, but bright enough for your trained eye to pick out constellations. The moon hung as a thin silver blade, a sliver of new light on the first day of the month.
You weren’t one for omens or superstition, but as you stared up at the moon, hung as a thin silver blade, a sliver of new light on the first day of the month, you couldn’t help but feel this was a sign - a good omen. The beginning of something new, the end of a cycle.
The Manorborn district was quiet at this hour - unnaturally so. Baldur’s Gate, even at night, buzzed with distant revelry, clattering taverns, begging bard songs, and whispered deals. But here in the Upper City, the air felt still - clean and polished - the kind of calm bought with money and lineage. Even now, dressed better, stronger, steadier, you felt out of place - the kind that lingers in your bones, no matter how far you’ve climbed from the life you’d been born into.
“I think I stole a clock from that house when I was six,” you said, nodding toward a nearby manor draped in silk banners and ornamental lanterns.
"Why a clock?"
You shrugged. “It was shiny. The cook chased me three streets with a frying pan. Had the whole city watch after me before sundown. I hid in the sewers until morning.” You wrinkled your nose at the memory. “Not my proudest hour.”
Astarion let out a laugh - a real one, even if it sounded a little tight around the edges. “No repeat performances tonight, please, darling. I think we’ve attracted enough of the city watch in our lifetime.”
You laughed, but immediately heard it fade away as the house at the end of the lane came into view.
Astarion’s house - his former home - rose before you, proud among the row of manors, beautiful in a way that whispered its wealth rather than flaunted it; stone walls worn smooth by time, wrought-iron balconies poised toward the rising sun, and vines climbing up a trellis in deliberate, curated spirals. Warm lamplight flickered through the windows - deep reds, soft ambers - casting long, inviting shadows across the cobblestones.
Someone was home. Someone lived in this place he once called his own. And for a moment, you wondered what Astarion saw when he looked at it.
A life stolen from him? A life forgotten? Or nothing at all - just an empty outline where memories should have been?
You reached for his hand and squeezed it firmly. His fingers were ice-cold, even for him.
“Are you ready?”
He let out a breath that trembled at the end. “No.”
Then, in typical Astarion fashion, he lifted his chin with a defiant flick of resolve and stepped forward anyway, pulling you with him up the smooth stone steps to a front door of polished wood, carved with elegant swirling patterns.
He raised his hand, breath held tight…but the knock never landed. His fist hovered a whisper from the door, caught in that fragile space between resolve and fear - a man standing at the edge of a precipice, staring down at a fall he’d survived once and wasn’t sure he could endure again.
His gaze flicked to you, standing beside him, as you always did.
You gave him the smallest smile.
I’m here. Keep going. You've got this.
For a second, he just breathed you in - the quiet gravity you offered without a word. You saw the fear in him, yes, but also the courage straining beneath it, scraped raw and trembling.
Then, in one quick movement, as if not giving himself time to think better of his choices, he turned back towards the door and banged his fist against it. The knock landed with deep, resonant thumps - solid wood absorbing the sound, sending it humming through the quiet street. It felt far louder than it should have, rippling through the stillness of the night.
You waited, holding your breath, but in the seconds afterwards, only silence seemed to follow.
Astarion straightened so abruptly you almost heard his spine snap into place. “I don’t think they’re in,” he said far too quickly, already taking a step back. “We should go. Yes. Let’s go.”
You opened your mouth to reassure him, to steady him - when the door swung open and warm light flooded out, bathing both of you in gold and amber, revealing an elven male framed in the doorway.
He was tall and ageless in the way only elves could carry, posture straight as a drawn bowstring. His hair, long enough to graze his shoulders, was the same pale, moonlit silver as Astarion’s. Not white with age, but the colour of frost at dawn, soft ash undertones glimmering as the lamplight caught them. Even in the low light, you could see that his skin was warm-toned, and held that faint elven luminosity that flushed with life instead of death. And his features - gods, you could see it.
The shape of his nose - fine, precise, elegant. The angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, the slight arch of his brows.
Astarion’s face lived in his.
You watched as his eyes - not crimson, not hungry, not changed by vampiric curse, but soft and bright as lilac petals in spring - widened at the sight of Astarion. His lips parted, and for a heartbeat he simply stared, looking at Astarion as if he was a ghost.
Then the shock shifted - slowly, painfully - into a complicated mixture of disbelief and recognition.
Into a trembling, fragile hope that looked as though it might shatter him.
“A–Astarion?” he breathed, the name cracking in his throat.
“Uh…yes. Hello,” Astarion replied, pulling his shoulders back into something meant to look composed. “I’m sure you have questions. I do too, but I-“
He didn’t get the chance to finish. The man surged forward, closing the distance in an instant, and swept Astarion into a desperate, crushing embrace.
Astarion went rigid at his touch - every muscle locking in instinctive shock - but he didn’t pull away. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his arms and wrapped them around the man’s back, his hands settling in a hesitant echo of the embrace.
“Gods, I never thought I’d see you again,” the man murmured, pulling back just enough to cup Astarion’s face, eyes roaming frantically over him. "We…we buried you. Gods, what happened to yo-," the words broke off mid sentence the moment he truly looked at Astarion - not just the son he remembered, but the man standing before him now.
You watched - breath tight in your throat - as his gaze caught on the crimson of Astarion’s eyes, the unnatural glow haloed by lamplight. Then it drifted lower, to the faint puncture scars at his sons throat.
His father gave a subtle inhale - breath catching as he took in Astarion’s scent - not the scent of an elf, not the scent of a living child returned home, but something colder, altered. His eyebrows lifted, only slightly, but the meaning was unmistakable.
Understanding.
Astarion had gone completely rigid - every line of him going taut, braced for recoil, for disgust, for the door in his face - preparing to be cast out before they could throw you out.
But the rejection never came.
Instead, his father exhaled slowly - a soft, trembling sound - and nodded. Not in dismissal, but in recognition.
There was no fear. No revulsion. Only a deep, dawning sorrow settling into his features, gentle and devastating all at once - the grief of holding two impossible truths in the same breath:
My son is alive. My son is changed.
And neither made him let go of his son.
Instead, Erythor drew in one trembling breath and shifted only enough to step aside - his hand sliding down to rest firmly on Astarion’s arm, as if afraid that letting go even for a moment might make him vanish again.
“Please,” he murmured, voice soft but unwavering. “Please, Astarion…come in.”
Only then did his gaze shift to you, not with suspicion but with quiet curiosity and a dawning warmth. He inhaled - an instinctive elven habit - and whatever he scented on you softened his expression even further, mouth lifting into a small, grateful smile.
“You as well,” he said. “Your partner. Both of you—please. Come inside. Your mother is upstairs. She - we - have both missed you dreadfully. She would love to see you.”
Astarion looked ready to bolt, but you reached for his hand and gave it a steady squeeze. When he glanced at you, you offered a warm, reassuring smile.
“I think that would be lovely,” you said gently.
Astarion swallowed, then nodded.
His father let out a breath that trembled with relief. He didn’t release Astarion entirely; one hand remained on his son’s arm, but with his other hand he guided you both inside, turning toward the warm glow of the foyer. The room you stepped into was as lavish as the exterior promised. Gold and deep red furnishings, polished wood floors, and elegant tapestries created a space that was both grand and tastefully restrained. Evening lamps bathed the room in warm amber light, reflecting off ornate frames and carved mouldings.
And above the hearth hung a portrait that made your breath catch.
Astarion.
Not as he stood now but as he once must have been - light hued eyes framed by delicately curled silver hair; skin warm and sun-kissed; posture relaxed yet assured in an ornate doublet. He stared forward from the canvas with a quiet confidence, a certainty in himself that was almost painful to see.
“Elunara!” Erythor called, voice lifting with a mixture of disbelief and joy. “Elunara, come here - quickly!”
From deeper within the house came a melodic voice, light as chimes. “What is it? Is everything alright?”
“More than alright,” Erythor replied, closing the door behind you, eyes bright and smile beaming. “We have a visitor.”
“A visitor? At this hour?” the woman called, her voice drifting closer as soft, swift footsteps crossed the upper landing. Instinctively, your eyes followed the sound upward - to the balcony that curved above a grand fireplace - just as a woman appeared there.
She was tall and willowy, moving with the effortless grace that was so similar to Astarion it caught you off guard. Her long hair fell down her back in soft waves of inky black, catching the lantern light in glossy ripples. Her face was finely sculpted, the same delicate precision as Astarion’s - high cheekbones, a sharp but graceful jaw, and lips shaped in the familiar curve you saw on him when he smiled.
But it was her eyes - pale blue and sharp as winter frost - that truly caught you, widening the moment they landed on Astarion.
“Astarion?” she breathed, voice breaking on the name. In the space of a heartbeat she blinked out of sight - misty stepping down the stairs - and reappeared right in front of him. Before Astarion could so much as tense, she threw her arms around him and pulled him into a tight embrace.
“Oh, my little star, you’ve come back to us.”
Astarion froze - not with the startled rigidity he’d met his father’s embrace with, but with something quieter, deeper. As though the force of her love hit him too quickly for him to absorb. His breath caught, his fingers curling uselessly at his sides for a heartbeat, like he’d forgotten how to accept something so gentle.
Then, slowly - as though his body remembered her even if his mind could not - he leaned into her embrace - letting himself be someone’s child again.
Your throat tightened as they stood there - mother, father, son - finally sharing the same space after centuries apart.
When Elunara finally drew back, she kept her hands on his arms, just like his father had done, holding him at a careful arm’s length as though she couldn’t bear to stop touching him entirely. Her pale blue eyes roamed over him, taking in every new and altered detail of his face. And in that gaze you saw the same mirrored grief expression his father had carried - happiness and loss twining together across her expression, soft and sharp all at once, as two fragile tears slipped down her cheeks - her son, here, changed, but hers.
“Not the boy I remember,” she whispered, voice breaking. “But my boy nonetheless. Home at last.”
In that moment, Astarian almost looked almost young, - unguarded - relief softening the tension he’d held since the night he’d admitted to you that he wanted to find his parents. And beneath that relief, something quieter bloomed - a tentative happiness, threaded with the inescapable grief of knowing he could never again be the boy she had known.
“I took the scenic route home, apparently. But…I’m here.”
It wasn’t quite a joke - more a fractured attempt at levity, a splint for emotions he didn’t know how to hold - but his mother let out a soft, watery laugh anyway, as though even that small spark of wit was something precious to her.
“Yes,” she breathed, her hand coming up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing the now unfamiliar coolness of her childs skin with aching gentleness. “But you’re here. That is what matters.” She hesitated, eyes searching his face, drinking him in as if afraid he might disappear again. “Are you…are you well? Are you safe? What has the world done to you?”
Astarion huffed a tiny, humourless exhale. “That is a long story. I think a better question would be, what hasn't the world done to you?”
Her expression shifted - grief, curiosity, relief, all passing like ripples over still water. Then she steadied herself, shoulders softening, eyes bright with a quiet certainty.
“Then we will take our time hearing it,” she said, the firmness in her voice softened by the tears still glittering in her lashes. “All the time you need.”
Only then did she look beyond Astarion and seem to notice you for the first time. Her expression shifted - curiosity first, then warmth, blooming behind her eyes.
“And who is your friend?”
Astarion turned toward you, and for a moment his composure wavered. Fear still clung to the edges of his expression, but beneath it something bright flickered alive - hope, fragile but fierce. Love, steady and undeniable.
“This is my partner,” he said, voice gentler than you’d ever heard it. “The reason I found my way back.” His gaze lingered on you, softening even further. “My salvation.”
You tried to extend a polite hand to his mother. “It’s a pleasure to meet-,”
But she closed the distance before you could finish, gathering you into a tight, breath-stealing embrace.
“Thank you,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for bringing him back to us."
“No thanks are in order,” you murmured, squeezing her gently before she drew back.
She wiped her cheeks with quick, flustered motions, then gestured toward a warmly lit sitting room deeper in the house. “Please, come in. We have food and drink and-,”
Her eyes drifted to Astarion, and she hesitated - just a breath, just enough - as the truth pressed in. He would never eat at her table again. Never join them for the simple, ordinary rituals that once made a family.
You laid a hand on her arm, offering an easy smile. “Some red wine would be lovely.”
Relief brightened her face. “We can certainly do that.”
As his parents guided you further inside, through rooms that had once belonged to him and a life that had once been his, you turned to look at Astarion.
He was already watching you, a small, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips as he reached for your hand and curled his fingers around yours - cool and steady and certain.
And together, hand in hand, you stepped forward into a future he’d only ever dared to imagine, but reached for anyway.