Chapter Text
They decide, camping one last night in the goblins’ abandoned refuge, to play truth or dare.
In the morning, they’ll descend into the Underdark, and from there, the road to Moonrise Towers awaits. But tonight, they sit around their campfire, a crackle of dry heat pushing back against the damp chill of evening. Tonight, they sip from bottles of salvaged wine and, one by one, they go around the circle. Taking turns at pretending that everything is fine. That the circ*mstances of the past few days, mad as it all seems, are in fact perfectly normal.
Wyll, for his part, is dared to demonstrate a proper patriar’s pavane and, after a staunch show of hesitation, he finally relents—but only when Tav volunteers to step in as his partner. Hand in hand, they take a stately turn around the campfire, with Wyll counting time and Tav matching him step for step. Tav feels a bit foolish, dancing so formally in his muddy boots and wrinkled shirt, but no one else seems to mind. Wyll, once he gets past those first faltering steps, almost looks happy —the worried crease in his brow replaced, at least for a moment, by a look of gentle focus.
Once they finish, Wyll offers a bow, and Tav returns it, smiling. “Not so bad, was it?”
“Not bad at all.” Wyll’s grin is warm and easy. “I’d say you’re a natural, in fact. Perhaps you’ll indulge me with another dance sometime.”
“I can’t see why not.” Tav sits and takes up his bottle of wine. “Whose turn is it now, then?”
“The wizard’s, I believe.” Astarion’s voice cuts through Tav’s haze of tipsy pleasure, cool and sharp from beside him. “Assuming we’re going round the circle in order, anyway.”
“Ah, yes. Gale.” Wyll turns to him with a grin.
Gale chooses truth, of course. Tav, deep into his bottle of wine already—and briefly ensnared by the sound of Astarion’s voice—can not seem to follow what comes next. Neither Wyll’s politely curious inquiry, nor Gale’s extensively detailed answer seem to leave any mark on Tav’s thoughts.
At this point, Tav can’t even remember who started the game, but really, he’s just glad for the distraction. It’s been a chance for everyone to forget, for an hour or two, just how f*cked they may well be—with no cure in sight and an impossible, probably deadly, mission awaiting them at Moonrise. Besides that, it’s been a chance for Tav to stop going over the last few nights in his head. Over and over.
Gale has turned to Shadowheart now, asking her to make her choice. With a sip of his wine, Tav glances around the fire. He lets his eyes sweep over Astarion beside him, something in his chest clenching like a fist around his heart—and then he looks instead at Lae’zel.
She’s humored them, sitting by the fire with the rest of the group, but she looks almost as distracted as Tav feels. Silent, with her lips curled in a sour grimace, and not a word to say about any of it. She watches the others playing their game, but she has not accepted any amount of pleading or gentle invitations to join in. Still, at least she’s sitting with them, and not alone in her tent. In that much, it’s clear that her mood has improved since last night.
“Karlach, I believe it’s your turn.” Something in the tone of Shadowheart’s voice catches Tav’s attention. “So, what’ll it be? Truth, or dare?”
“Is it me already?” Karlach grins, her face aglow with intrigue. “Alright. Let’s see….”
Tav glances between the pair of them. Shadowheart is smiling over the rim of her bottle, coy and quiet, while she waits. Karlach is smiling, too, but she looks almost breathless, her hands clenched tight around the bottle in her lap.
Have the others noticed it? This sudden shift between them? Tav looks around the fire again. No one else looks half as shocked as he feels. Silently, he sips his wine and tries not to look too surprised. Karlach, for her part, makes a real show out of considering her options. She taps a fingertip thoughtfully on her chin, squints her eyes as she looks around the fire, and finally sits forward with an air of decisive confidence.
“I think I’ll choose dare,” Karlach answers at last. “So—what’ll it be?”
“Oh? How daring, indeed.” Shadowheart sips her wine. “Very well. Let me come up with something good.”
“Take your time.” Karlach grins, clearly trying for confidence over the bare hint of a tremor in her voice. “I’ve got all night.”
Tav glances from her over to Shadowheart again, wondering what he might have missed. Yesterday, while he and the others were scouting out the crèche, perhaps? The tension between the pair of them is thick, and suddenly he finds his gaze drawn back over to Astarion.
Hells. Astarion is sitting silent at his side, watching him. Tav’s chest clenches again, his hands tightening around his bottle of wine, but—with an effort—he doesn’t look away. Narrowed eyes, glittering crimson in the firelight, linger on his face for a moment too long, before Astarion turns that sharp gaze around towards Shadowheart.
“Alright, Karlach. I’ve got something good.” Shadowheart’s voice is soft and measured. “I dare you to pick the person sitting here whom you’d most like to kiss. And… kiss them.”
Karlach’s wide-eyed shock doesn’t last long—but as it passes, disappointment takes its place. “I can’t.”
“How do you know, if you haven’t tried?” Shadowheart presses on. “Perhaps the upgrade that settled your engine will be enough to cool you off. Enough to try. At least for a moment.”
Karlach considers it, taking a swig of wine, and frowns.
“I don’t know. I feel pretty hot just now.”
“What if we found a way to cool you off?” Gale chimes in, apparently unable to resist a good puzzle of esoterica. “A little something to supplement Dammon’s augmentations, as it were? Perhaps, with the right application, a quick flash of frost might well do the trick. Or, at the very least, a splash of water. But only if you want to try, of course.”
“There you have it, Karlach.” Shadowheart’s sense of victory, much like her smile, seems to be growing. “Isn’t it worth a try?”
Karlach, on the other hand, twists her bottle of wine between both hands and drums her fingertips against it, eyes flitting around the circle, head swaying with indecision. In the joyous air of the campfire gathering, with the others cheering her on, it must be difficult to resist. Even Astarion chimes in with a word of encouragement. At last, she heaves a sigh.
“Alright, alright. Fine!” Karlach laughs, but she grips her bottle so hard the glass creaks. “You f*ckers. Let’s try it, then.”
“Shall I do the honors?” Shadowheart’s hands are already up, fingertips glimmering with a spell just waiting to be cast.
Karlach passes her bottle to Astarion, brushes her hands against the front of her pants, and turns to face Shadowheart. She takes a deep breath, her broad shoulders heaving.
“Sure.” Karlach steadies herself, gripping her knees with both hands. “Have at it.”
By the time Tav tears his gaze away, Karlach is dripping with conjured water and leaning in close to Shadowheart’s face. He feels wrong, somehow, watching them, and tries to avert his gaze, but there’s no doubt about what comes next.
A wolf-whistle from someone, a shower of sparks, and when Karlach withdraws, Tav looks over again to see that Shadowheart’s face is flushed pink. She watches breathlessly as the tiefling sits back and turns to face the fire. Karlach reaches for her bottle of wine, and Astarion hands it over without delay.
“How was that, then?” Karlach ventures.
“Well. It didn’t hurt, did it?” Shadowheart’s still smiling, ever so faintly, touching her fingers to her lips. “Though I’m not sure the water did much, after all.”
“Are you…?”
“A little singed, perhaps, but no lasting damage, I assure you.”
Karlach hesitates. She looks only half-relieved. Tav catches a glimpse from across the fire of Shadowheart winking at her—and then, finally, she begins to relax.
“What an adorable show the two of you put on.” Astarion laughs, and it sounds almost warm. “Karlach, my dear, not bad. For a first try. Perhaps later I’ll have to show you how it’s done.”
“Well, well, well… funny you should say that.” Karlach’s signature bravado returns in full force as she looks to Astarion, even sopping wet with water dripping from her hair. “Fangs, I believe you’re up.”
“Oh? I suppose I am,” Astarion hums, looking entirely too composed as he sets aside his bottle. “Very well. I’ll take a dare.”
“Of course you will.” Karlach grins at him, her face aglow. “And you said it yourself. You want to show me how it’s done, do you?”
“Why, Karlach…” Astarion’s gaze darts towards Tav and then back to her. “I’m flattered, really. But I’m not exactly fireproof, darling.”
“That’s alright. I know we can still see you put on a real show.” Karlach is laughing, and maybe she’s more drunk on the taste of Shadowheart’s lips than the wine. “I dare you—show us how it’s done. You and Tav, yeah?”
Karlach waves a hand magnanimously in his direction, and Tav’s heart stutters to a stop. The whole group turns to watch him now. Including Astarion. Shadowheart frowns, her brow creasing, mouth moving, as she starts to speak before stopping herself. Tav swallows air and drags his eyes away from the faint red burns on her lips.
He looks back to Astarion again, instead. The vampire spawn sits facing him, watching, steady.
Tav can’t get the look of disgust, that cold remark, pathetic, out of his head. The scowling, angry way he’d gone on about the gods, just last night, as if he blamed Tav for all his misfortunes. But that’s not how Astarion is looking at him now. No, he looks… startled—almost afraid. Why? Tav tries for a closer look.
Astarion abandons the crumbled block of old stone he’d been sitting on, rising to his feet. He holds himself just so, a perfect picture of casual indifference, with a tilt to his shoulders and a sway in his hips, but his neck is stiff and his lips are too tight as they curl into a smile.
“With pleasure.”
His eyes, wide at first and glinting in the firelight, drop suddenly into that half-closed look of hunger Tav has seen before.
How much of it is real, though, and… what is it that he’s actually hungry for? Were the pleasures of the flesh, let alone Tav himself, ever part of the appeal, or was it only ever Tav’s blood that had interested Astarion?
Hells. He’s coming closer, moving in with his usual languid grace. The others are all watching them. Two steps, and Astarion is standing right in front of Tav, looking down at him. His face is unreadable. Familiar. Tav leans down to set his bottle on the ground beside him, and looks up in careful silence.
“Well, darling. May I?” Astarion leans in close, lifting a hand towards Tav’s shoulder without quite touching him. “Since she wants a proper show, after all.”
Tav shoves down the part of himself that wants to knock Astarion’s hands away. No need to make things awkward here in front of everyone. Without that, though, all he has left is the part of him desperate to give in.
To lean into those cold fingertips, to give himself over to Astarion and get lost in him again.
f*ck. No. He can’t do that this time.
He is not pathetic, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let anyone have an ounce of him who thinks as much. But he won’t— can’t let on that anything is amiss, either. Not in front of the others.
Tav swallows and meets Astarion’s gaze. He can do this. He can handle one little kiss. It’s fine.
“C’mon, Tav, I dared him!” Karlach laughs. “You don’t want him to lose the game, do you?”
“I’m sure it needn’t come to that,” Shadowheart murmurs. “Perhaps you could give him a different dare, if Tav isn’t willing.”
“I confess, I’m not used to having an audience.” Tav forces a laugh, hollow, and looks to Astarion. “But we can’t very well break the rules of the game, can we? I’m… all yours.”
The words almost catch in his throat, but he gets them out, clear enough.
“You can get used to it.” Astarion’s answer is low, barely a whisper, and Tav isn’t sure if it was meant for anyone but him to hear. “The audience, that is. But don’t worry. I’ll be nice.”
With the same smoldering hungry look, an echo of the way he’d watched Tav their very first night together, Astarion reaches up to tug apart the laces of his own frilled shirt, exposing a little more of his chest underneath.
Karlach wolf-whistles from beside him.
Tav wants to be annoyed—not with Karlach, though. She has no way of knowing. Just with the casual, effortless way Astarion seems to be teasing him, now worse than ever. With the fact that it’s bloody working. He can’t look away and he knows his heart is pounding.
He’s struck, as the firelight flickers and glows on that pale white skin, by the realization that everyone else is seeing exactly what he is seeing just now. Tav wonders, for a moment, if Shadowheart will understand why he might be so prone to mistakes when temptation looks the way Astarion looks tonight.
It doesn’t matter, though. Because no matter how tempting, he is not going to give in. He’s not going to lose himself. Not this time.
Astarion lowers himself onto Tav’s lap, straddling him, thighs pressing into his hips. He drapes his arms over Tav’s shoulders and arches his back, leaning in closer, and those breathtaking blood-red eyes flicker across his face, glancing over his cheeks, roving down to his lips. Looking everywhere except to meet Tav’s gaze.
Tav is keenly aware of the others watching them. Of the silence fallen over their companions. And of the fire, radiating heat against his outstretched legs, in spite of Astarion’s own cold flesh pressed into him from above.
Damn him. Tav lets his eyes drift shut, and he can feel the closeness of Astarion’s lips, just inches from his. Slowly, tentatively, he lifts his arms. Maybe, just this once, he can touch his lover for more than a fleeting instant in the heat of the moment. Maybe he can let his hands come to rest at Astarion’s waist. The moment seems to stretch on for an age, Tav’s anticipation growing in the infinitesimal space between their lips.
Someone drops an empty bottle, hollow glass impacting with a soft thunk on the hardpacked dirt, and just like that, the spell is broken.
Astarion’s lips are pressed to Tav’s, and all at once he’s lost in them. Cold to the touch, but unexpectedly gentle. Intoxicating. He tastes of wine, dark and rich. He takes his time, going slowly and being nice, as promised. He doesn’t push, this time. He doesn’t take over Tav’s whole being with just his soft cool lips and that silver tongue of his. But, gods, he could.
For a moment, Tav forgets the others watching them, and he parts his lips in a deeper invitation. His tentative bid is met with ready acceptance, Astarion leaning into him. It’s sweeter than Tav even knew he could be. Hells. This is more than a kiss. It’s a silent seduction, an unspoken promise— an offering. Is it an apology? It feels like it could be.
Sultry and soft, and then, before Tav can even pull himself together enough to make sense of it all, it’s over.
Astarion is smiling as he withdraws. He slides down from Tav’s lap and gets to his feet, makes a show of smoothing down the front of his shirt. Someone’s clapping, slow and light, and as Astarion turns to take a bow, Tav realizes it’s Karlach. He’s lightheaded, his eyes out of focus in the firelight, but he watches as she heaves a melodramatic sigh and laughs again.
“Alright, you big show-off.” Karlach gives a playful roll of her eyes, still clapping. “I think we get the picture.”
“Enough of a show for you, then?” Astarion returns to his seat, sauntering across all three steps. “I’m afraid I don’t do encores, so I do hope you’re satisfied.”
“Bravo, Fangs.” Karlach waves a hand. “No encore needed. You alright, Tav?”
Tav breathes in deep and smiles at Karlach as he gives a mock-salute, trying not to let his voice shake. “Never better. I might just owe you thanks for that.”
He gropes on the ground by his seat for the wine he’d left there, and takes a long sip. The glass is hard and cold against his lips, and he tries not to make comparisons, but his eyes drift to Astarion’s mouth anyway. They watch each other in silence for a moment longer, Astarion’s eyes glittering wickedly. Tav forces himself to breathe evenly around the clenching in his chest, to hold his wine steady even with pins and needles in his fingertips.
He feels warm, and a little dizzy—and it’s infuriating. Even when he’s doing all he can to pull away, to stop letting himself be so affected… and he’d been doing so well, yesterday, and today too. Up until now.
Now, again, Astarion can look at him and leave him breathless.
It’s unbearable.
And there isn’t a damned thing he can do but bear it anyway. No point in letting the others see anything wrong, after all. Tav sips his wine and looks at the fire. But then…
“I believe it may be your turn, my dear.” Astarion’s voice cuts in. “And of course I have to ask: truth, or dare?”
Tav looks at him again, and he hates this. Apology kiss or no, he doesn’t want to be at Astarion’s mercy. Least of all, here, like this, with everyone watching.
But to quit now would be terrible form. Rude, and liable to ruin the fun for all of them. He can’t bring himself to do that, not when Lae’zel is already on the edge of another breakdown and the rest of them are hanging onto their hopes by a thread.
So he smiles. He sips his wine again. And he prays for the strength to adopt a playful tone.
“Maybe we’ve seen enough of dare for now. I’ll take truth, I think.”
Astarion’s expression shifts. It’s almost imperceptible, a hardening of his eyes while his smile lingers neatly on his lips. He taps his chin with one delicate finger and hums thoughtfully.
“Truth. Very well. Let’s think of a good one, shall we?”
Tav swallows another mouthful of wine. He watches Astarion, but he doesn’t say a word while he waits for his question. When the vampire raises his finger at last, eyes glittering, Tav sets his bottle down and braces himself.
“Alright, darling. You’re always so keen on grace and forgiveness and all of that. But we all hold a grudge from time to time, don’t we?” Astarion feigns a conspiratorial air as he leans in close. “Tell us about someone who really hurt you. Someone you simply couldn’t forgive.”
Tav falters, his fingers slipping on the glass of his wine bottle, and he has to set it down before he drops it. His feet are positively burning, suddenly. He pulls them back from the fireside, glances around at the others. They’re smiling at him, curious, maybe even sympathetic, but surely they don’t know. Except—Shadowheart’s brow is creased, just so, nearly imperceptible underneath the fringe of her bangs. But she doesn’t say anything. Neither does anyone else.
Tav looks to Astarion again. Unreadable, as ever.
Was the kiss Astarion’s way of apologizing? Is this his way of asking if Tav can forgive him?
Head spinning, thoughts a tangled mess, Tav feels like he might throw up. He wants to get up and walk away, and to the hells with the game and the rules and all of it. He doesn’t know what to say. He grips his pendant hard in one hand and stares into the fire as he tries to clear his mind. He’s so off-balance, and he ought to be used to that by now, especially with Astarion, but somehow, he isn’t.
Finally, he clears his throat to answer.
“Forgiveness is… is for the penitent. For those who seek it.” It’s the best answer he can think to give. “Me, I’ve never really had to… that is—no one’s ever…”
Hells. No, he can’t do this right now. Tav clears his throat and sips his wine again, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. He takes in a deep breath.
“The mindflayer who infected me.” It comes to him all at once, the thought still forming in his head as it’s rolling off his tongue. “How’s that for an answer?”
“Hear, hear.” Karlach raises her bottle in a toast and taps a fingertip against her temple. “Glad as I am to be out of the hells, I could have done without taking on an extra passenger along the way.”
“Yes.” Astarion’s lips twitch and his eyes glitter as he nods. “A fair answer, indeed. The mindflayer.”
“Great. That’s all of us, then, isn’t it?” Tav gives an exaggerated yawn. “I think I’d better start turning in for the night. Really starting to feel tired. Good night, everyone.”
He gets to his feet, stretching, and doesn’t wait to hear the chorus of goodnight wishes from the others. It’s a short walk out of camp, down to the river’s edge. The mist of falling water is cold on his face as he finds a quiet place to kneel.
Tav tries not to think of Astarion. It isn’t easy. He tries to focus only on his own devotions. That’s all but impossible.
His head is still spinning—whether from the wine or from the memory of Astarion’s lips on his, it’s impossible to say. Both, perhaps.
Tav bites his lip, dragging his teeth across it, as if he might scrape away the feeling of their most recent kiss. As if he might scrape away the memory of the other night. That awful dark look on Astarion’s face, the way his voice had sounded. The sinking weight in Tav’s own belly.
Hells, even Shadowheart had asked him, over breakfast, if everything was alright. He’d insisted that he was fine. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it.
He doesn’t even want to think about it now.
And yet…
He can’t quite bring his thoughts to focus. His meditations on Ilmater’s graces feel shaken and disjointed.
They all pick and choose which prayers they want to be bothered with.
Tav doesn’t think Ilmater has ever ignored his prayers. Surely Astarion didn’t go completely unheard. Not if he was truly faithful.
And yet, for all my suffering, never once did I get an answer.
That can’t possibly be true. It can’t.
Tav grips his pendant and runs his fingernails across the wood, its carved edges feeling just the same as they had on the first day he’d worn it home. That particular conversation had gone worse than he’d expected. He had tried to explain it so that his father would understand. Everything he’d seen in Rivington, all the people in need of help. But he had left his father’s house, in the end, weighed down in a whirl of anger and guilt and doubts that he couldn’t quite untangle. Questions he couldn’t answer on his own.
Father Lorgan had been there, then, at the temple. He had listened to Tav, offered him solace. He’d had answers, at the moment Tav had needed them most.
And he certainly needs them again now.
Of course, he can hear the Father’s voice explaining—patient, kind, impassioned—of course Ilmater can’t relieve the suffering of every soul in Faerûn. Not with enemies like Loviatar, like Bhaal and Talona, doing all they can to oppose him. But his followers can always help.
Hells. Loviatar. Tav shudders. His back has long since healed, of course, but now and then the stitching in his shirt, the repairs Astarion had made, brush his skin just so, and it reminds him all too vividly of that day.
But—no. Tav needs to focus.
Father Lorgan explained everything back then. His guidance had helped Tav to see it all so clearly.
And he can see it again now. Of course the gods are listening. Of course their group hasn’t been forsaken. Quite the opposite, if anything: they all should really have been turned into monsters days ago, at the very least. But they’re still here. They have a guardian watching over them, and by all appearances, their fair share of gods watching over them, too.
No. The gods have not forsaken them. Not even Astarion. And if he needs someone to help him see that, then so be it.
Even if Astarion might break his heart every night along the way, Tav can help him see the truth. Even if it hurts. No different, really, from that first night he’d offered up his neck.
Only, it is different. Completely different. Tav doesn’t have any spells to heal the invisible suffering Astarion seems to carry deep inside. He can’t give up a mouthful of his blood and mend that kind of heartache. His bruises offer proof of nothing but his own pain. How, then, to heal the wounds he can’t see? How to inspire faith in someone so consumed with pain and anger?
Malaise of this sort can rot the heart, if left to fester, but must be extricated carefully.
The memory surfaces like driftwood pulled ashore by the tide, coming to rest in his mind and settling gently into place. Father Lorgan’s words again. That wasn’t a conversation they’d had, though—it was in one of the Father’s books. He had written more about it. How had he described it?
Above all else - the weary soul knows itself better than you can. Do not condescend, do not assume, do not impose. Simply avail yourself as a tool to the weary - let them know you can be used however they might need.
Tav’s tried that, of course, and it seemed to help. At first. But it’s gone all wrong now. Because of him. Because of the way he’s lost himself in the moment, asked for things he didn’t need. Simply put, because of the way he’s been affected, every time.
Tav digs his fingernails into the back of an arm. His skin prickles and then stings, and the pain becomes a cold ache in his flesh. Not so much as a twitch in his breeches. But he thinks of Astarion’s bite, of those fangs piercing into him, and the stirring is immediate.
Of course the pain was never the problem. Not really. Pain on its own brings him closer to Ilmater, after all. Only, with Astarion… well. There’s nothing divine about succumbing to the temptation, the carnality, of his own lust.
Tav can help still Astarion. He’ll do whatever it takes. But he can’t keep getting lost in the fog between what he wants and what Astarion needs.
Even if it means Tav needs to… distance himself, completely. To be more objective.
Tav’s chest clenches again, that awful familiar feeling, and he swallows a sigh. It may not be easy, but it is the only right way forward. He’s sure he knows what Father Lorgan would advise him to do. Eyes closed, Tav settles onto his knees and falls into prayer in earnest.
By the time he returns to camp, the others have retreated to their tents. The fire burns low at the center of it all, and his bedroll is laid out awaiting him. Not everyone has gone to bed, though. Of course not.
Astarion remains, seated, at the fireside. He’s still holding onto his bottle of wine from dinner, sipping it slowly and staring into the embers at his feet. Silently, he lifts his gaze to look up at the sound of Tav’s approach.
Tav slips down onto the stone block beside Astarion, careful not to brush against him.
“Can’t sleep?”
Astarion lifts his bottle in a mock toast, then sets it aside. Tav remembers, too late, that he doesn’t really sleep, but Astarion generously neglects to point that out. Instead, the vampire spawn offers him a smile in return, a tilt of his head.
“I was waiting for you.” He gestures towards Tav with a twirling flourish of his wrist. “I want to show you something.”
“What—right now?” Tav’s heart jumps, and he curses it silently. “What is it?”
“Now, if I told you that, it would ruin the surprise.”
“A surprise, is it?”
“Just a little one.” Astarion gazes into the firepit and pinches his fingertips together. “And only if you want to.”
Tav hesitates. He’d wanted to talk. To get it over with. He knows he’ll need to say it sooner or later. But just now, with Astarion sitting beside him and holding out a hand… Tav’s throat tightens and he can’t suppress the shiver of curious anticipation that trickles down his spine. Astarion’s hand turns towards him, palm up in offering.
He inhales the scent of char and ash, the lingering smoke of the dying fire, and underneath those, familiar bergamot, and all at once, he knows he has to do this. Tav clears his throat, reaches out, and takes that offered hand.
“Alright. You can show me.”
“I thought you might say that.” Astarion gives his fingers the gentlest squeeze.
“But—” Tav forces himself to continue, his resolve already threatening to crumble out from under him again. “Well.”
Astarion doesn’t let go, but one pale brow arches upwards. He watches Tav, silent questioning written on his face. Tav, for his part, breathes in deep and grips that cold hand in his.
“Then, I think, we need to talk.”
