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Tav’s getting worse.
All it takes is a quiet moment alone, watching the torches burn down against the dark. Beyond their campsite waits the deepest shadow he’s ever known, and it’s watching him, too, with a gaze sharper and hungrier than his.
It’s alive. More alive than Tav, he thinks.
Gods damn him, it’s been a day. A single day without the sun.
He shouldn’t be alone right now. He should go to Astarion’s tent and wake him early for his watch. Or any other tent. Tav’s surrounded by friends; he could take his pick. He doubts anyone’s sleeping very soundly tonight, knowing a ring of torches are all that stands between them and a shadow-cursed death.
Well, maybe Volo’s the exception. When Tav drew up the shift order for camp guard over dinner, no one mentioned that he’d left Volo off the list entirely. It just seemed the thing to do.
Tav runs his hands through his hair. He’s trembling, he realizes distantly. Just a faint quiver he only notices when the air is completely still like this. There’s no wind here. There was no wind in the Underdark, either, but there was light and life and movement. Scuttling insects, winged things flitting overhead, distant yips and howls. It’s never quiet down there.
The shadow-cursed lands are heavy with the cold silence of the grave. A hundred years of death. A century without sunlight.
One day. It’s been one day.
Astarion survived without the sun for two centuries.
The Blood of Lathander glows gently in Tav’s lap. Tav feels its white-gold warmth, brighter than the torches that surround him. But it isn’t a substitute for the sun, not now, only in battle when it’s moving with him, rising and setting with every swing of his arm.
Now it’s just a weapon at rest. Like Tav, and that’s no comfort.
No comfort at all.
Go to Astarion’s tent, Tav tells himself. Get up and go to him. Now.
He’s sweating. A cold prickle all over his body. The torch nearest him flickers, caught in a breeze that doesn’t exist. And beyond—beyond…
Tav can feel the dark’s tug in his marrow.
He can’t take it. The shadow curse knows him, every part of him inside and out, and Tav’s a shivering kitten with eyes still sealed shut. He can’t sit here waiting for it to consume him. He needs to touch it before it can touch him.
He’ll only take a little. A single sip of the dark but not enough to satisfy, the way Astarion can break Tav’s skin to taste his blood without sinking in to drink. If Astarion can tear himself away from a willing feast, so can Tav.
Tav lays the Blood of Lathander gently in the dead grass at his feet. He already feels better, warmer, for having made this decision. No one else needs to know about this. It’ll be his own little secret, something to carry him through the rest of the night and tomorrow and all the days after. However long it takes to reach Moonrise Towers and find a cure.
One step, and he’s standing beside a torch.
Two, and he’s on the periphery of flickering light and motionless shadow.
Three, and he breathes in the curse.
Tav makes an involuntary sound, a gut-punched whimper, as the ravenous dark descends and snuffs the warmth of his blood in an instant, caressing his face and bare arms with a touch cold as death, reaching down his throat to seize his beating heart.
Oh—oh. He gasps, but no air comes.
It hurts. Everywhere. A ruthless, violative pain. It doesn’t care for him at all. A century of hunger and Tav’s nothing more than a meal. It’ll swallow him whole and spit out his bones. And he won’t be gone, after. Not dead. Not alive. Something more than a man or a corpse, something less than both, the curse’s shambling instrument…
He could step back into the light. He could.
Just… a moment longer…
“Worthless wretch,” snarls a familiar voice.
Cold, bruising hands drag him from the shadow, into safety. Tav doesn’t fight. He’s already horrified at himself. What was he thinking?
“What in the sweet hells were you thinking?”
Astarion drops him. No, he hurls Tav down; Tav hits the ground with a pained wheeze, the wind knocked out of him. He rolls onto his back with his nerves screaming danger, fight, enemy—and for good reason.
Astarion’s already at his throat with a knife.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Tav says. “Astarion, wait. It’s not. I wasn’t.”
“I have eyes, pet.” Steel presses against Tav’s windpipe. “And I’m starting to think that idea of yours wasn’t so foolish after all. The one where I kill you myself to spare us both the trouble.”
“I just had to know. It doesn’t kill right away. It doesn’t. I’m not even hurt.”
“And who told you it wouldn’t kill you? Who?”
“Halsin!”
Fuck, Tav needs to breathe. He grabs Astarion’s wrists to pry him off, but Astarion’s already easing up. There’s a new fury in his eyes, something more frightening than the rage Tav glimpsed a moment ago—because he’s almost certain it isn’t meant for him.
“Halsin told you.” Astarion’s voice is silken. “The druid told you it would be safe to step into the shadow curse. Because it doesn’t kill right away. Do my ears deceive me, darling? Has he advised you on anything else recently—how best to tie a noose, perhaps?”
“Stop it.” Dread curdles in Tav’s gut. “This isn’t Halsin’s fault. He was just answering a question.”
Astarion’s lips curl back to bare his fangs. In the flickering torchlight, his skin is waxy and colorless. The look in his eyes is utterly inhuman.
“Good. I hope he’s in the mood to answer a few more.”
Anger rushes through Tav, a scorching and very welcome replacement for dread. His hands cinch tight on Astarion’s wrists. “If you think I’ll let you fucking touch him—”
Before he knows it, they’re fighting. Trying to kill each other, to be precise.
At least, Tav’s almost certain Astarion’s trying to kill him and Tav’s too strangled with rage to even begin to guess his own preferred outcome. They roll through the dirt, almost knocking over the nearest torch. Tav thrashes, trying to throw Astarion off him, and kicks a tent.
“Oi! What the fuck is going on out there?”
Astarion’s hands are on Tav’s throat—Tav’s choking—he tangles a hand in Astarion’s hair and yanks—Astarion bashes his forehead into Tav’s mouth with a vindictive snarl—Tav tastes blood—
“What’s that sound? Mystra preserve us—”
“Is that Astarion? And Tav?”
“Stop, just stop, what are you doing?”
“Oh, hells. They’re going to burn the place down. Gale! Do something.”
Over the sound of blood roaring in his ears and Astarion’s animal snarls, Tav hears chanting. Magic crackles through the air. A wave of power hits him like ice.
His muscles seize. He can’t move.
No. No. Not this. Not again.
Tav stares into Astarion’s blazing red eyes. His fingers are clamped on Astarion’s pale throat. He can’t pry them off. His mouth is full of blood. He’s choking on every breath.
Fear comes roaring back with a vengeance. With interest.
Let me go. Let me die. Not this.
Not him.
“Tav. Astarion. Gale’s going to release you both, and we’re going to talk whatever this is through like sane, ordinary people. Or else we’ll try Lae’zel’s idea and chain you to trees at opposite ends of camp.” Shadowheart lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Shar give me strength.”
“Say the word.” Gale’s voice is strained. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Do it.”
The magic releases its grip. Tav scrambles backward, away from Astarion, heart pounding a panicked staccato against his ribs. He keeps crawling away until all he feels under his hands and knees is cold, damp earth. Then a spasm works through him and he’s retching up bile.
He hurt Astarion. He got angry and he hurt him.
Gods, he wants to die. He’s never wanted it so badly.
“Tav? Tav! Hells, Astarion, what did you do to him?”
“Not a thing, Wyll dear.” Astarion’s voice is colder than death. “A lovers’ spat. We were working through it.”
“You call that a spat? Look at him. You’ve nearly killed him.”
“Oh no, darling. That wasn’t me.”
Someone squats next to Tav. From the sheer bulk and radiating warmth, Tav can guess at once who it is. Besides, no one else in camp smells like fallen leaves and bear musk.
“He’s been touched by the curse,” Halsin says gravely. “Though not for long, by the Oak Father’s blessing. I can reverse the damage and restore what it took from him.”
A warm, solid hand grips Tav’s heaving shoulder—then instantly releases him.
“I think not, druid.” Astarion’s voice is much, much closer than before. “You won’t touch him at all, unless you fancy life as a decorative rug.”
Tav wipes his mouth, shuddering, and sits up.
Halsin is still crouched beside him, but he’s completely still. And Astarion is behind him with a blade leveled at the nape of his neck.
Further back, Tav sees the rest of their companions, frozen in various expressions of shock and indecision. Gale’s hands are raised, ready to weave another spell, but he hasn’t uttered the words.
“I only mean to heal him.” Halsin’s voice is low and calm—the kind of tone Tav thinks he must use with wary, wounded animals. “If you prefer, Shadowheart’s magic will work just as well.”
“Astarion,” Tav says, but there’s no bite to it. He’s too filled with horror at himself still. He doesn’t deserve to say Astarion’s name. “Back off. And Halsin, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt. I’ll just sleep it off.”
Concern flickers in Halsin’s eyes. “It should hurt,” he says quietly.
With a sound of disgust, Astarion sheathes his dagger. He turns and stalks toward his tent without another word.
Tav’s shoulders sag in something that should be relief, but isn’t quite. The way his friends are looking at him now makes his skin crawl. The only thing that could make this worse is if…
“Godsdammit, Tav.” Wyll’s staring at Tav’s neckline. “Did he cut you?”
Tav’s hand flies to cover his chest. He feels the torn, flapping edge of his collar and the raised scabs of his day-old scars underneath. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His shirt must have ripped during the struggle—Astarion’s thrice-damned deeper than strictly fashionable neckline. And from the fresh stickiness beneath his fingers, some of those cuts have reopened and are bleeding anew.
“No,” Tav says, but he can tell from the look on Wyll’s face that he doesn’t believe him. And fuck, he shouldn’t. Tav’s lying.
Miraculously, Shadowheart comes to his rescue. “Well, it’s fairly obvious that none of this is anyone else’s business. No one’s dead, and the two of you didn’t set the tents on fire despite your best efforts. Whose watch is next, anyway?”
There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence.
“It’s Astarion’s watch,” Lae’zel says. “He must have forgotten. I’ll get him.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Halsin straightens. “I’ll take over his watch. I was hoping for another opportunity to study the curse without distractions, in any case.” He glances at Tav, almost too swiftly to notice, and adds, “Since we have the benefit of a large traveling party, perhaps we should assign watch shifts in pairs from now on.”
Tav wants to crawl under a rock and, well, there’s no point in continuing that thought.
Calm down, he tells himself. Halsin has no reason to think Tav stepped into the shadow curse of his own volition. No reason at all. It’s just safer to take watch in pairs; Tav’s an idiot for not thinking of that in the first place.
“Good idea,” he says a little too loudly. “Okay, show’s over. Anyone who’s not on watch, try to get some rest. Sorry for waking everyone.”
There’s an uneasy cloud hanging over camp still, but to Tav’s relief, nobody puts up an argument. He stands in place, turning over a clod of dirt repeatedly with his toe, until the rustle of moving tent flaps and quiet goodnights fades back into the unnatural silence of the shadow curse. The last voice he hears is Lae’zel’s, remarking to no one in particular that she’s surprised it took Tav and Astarion this long to consummate their bond.
Tav has no idea. He’s not even going to try.
“If you can’t sleep,” Halsin says, “I wouldn’t say no to your company.”
Tav’s about to reply that he doesn’t think that’s such a good idea, actually. But he swallows the words in a surge of irritation. No, Astarion doesn’t get to have this victory over him. If he’s going to force Tav to play his shit games, then Tav’s not going to roll over and lose. What the hell’s his problem with Halsin, anyway?
Halsin’s already sitting cross-legged next to the torch that Tav nearly upended. Tav scoops up the Blood of Lathander from the ground and settles down next to him.
“I’m sorry—” he starts, but Halsin holds up a broad hand.
“We’ve spoken about this before, my friend. Nothing has changed. You still owe me no apology, and forgiveness begged on another’s behalf is worth little.”
Unless Tav’s mistaken, Halsin’s finally admitted that Astarion has done something worth apologizing for. Tav’s stomach turns.
His first impulse is to defend Astarion, as twisted as that is. Gods, all of this is so hopelessly tangled. Tav’s the one who stepped into the curse. He deserved Astarion’s ire for that. After that, he’s not totally sure what happened. Tav lost his temper—but hells, Astarion’s a master at plucking his strings. He must have known that threatening one of Tav’s friends would be crossing a line.
Did Astarion want him to lose control?
“I think I do owe you an apology, actually." Tav stares down at the Blood of Lathander, willing the light to blind him for good so he doesn’t have to look in Halsin’s direction. “Yesterday, when I asked you how long it would take the shadow curse to do serious damage to a person without any light… It wasn’t an idle question.”
“I thought not. It’s a sign of wisdom to be prepared for the worst.”
Tav barks out a laugh. “I’m not sure wisdom is the word I’d use.”
Halsin spreads his hands over his knees; Tav can see the movement in his peripheral vision. Halsin’s hands are nothing like Astarion’s. They’re thick with scars and calluses, sun-kissed, heavy and economical in their gestures. Tav can’t imagine Halsin using those hands to do harm to any living thing. Perhaps that’s why Halsin’s so swift to shift into one of his beast forms at the first sign of danger.
“Tav,” Halsin says. “I haven’t known you or Astarion long. To be honest, the bonds between people have always been more difficult for me to understand than other kinds of relationships: the hawk and the wind, the wolf and the lamb, the rain and the river. Perhaps that’s why I misjudged the pair of you initially. But the longer I spend in your company, the clearer it becomes how deeply you care for each other.”
Gods, Tav is too raw for this. His eyes are burning, and he doesn’t think it’s from staring into the Blood’s light.
“No offense, Halsin.” He can’t keep the bitterness from his voice. “But you’re right; you are a better judge of animals than people.”
“They aren’t so different,” Halsin says. “Love makes beasts of us all.”
Tav’s too choked to reply.
But if he could, he’d say, That’s exactly what scares me.
Tav doesn’t return to his tent until an hour before what passes for dawn. The camp isn’t quiet by then; Volo’s woken up after what must have been a long, refreshing night’s sleep, and Tav can hear his faint voice through the canvas, reading one of his latest drafts aloud to some patient listener. Probably Scratch.
Tav sits down on his bedroll. In a sudden fit of disgust, he wads his blanket around the Blood of Lathander, snuffing out the mace’s glow, and tosses it into the corner of his tent with a heavy thunk.
He’s still cold. He hasn’t been able to get warm since he stepped into the curse. He’s not sure he wants to get warm.
They all deserve better. Every single one of them.
But they don’t have better. They have Tav.
Hells take him, what’s he to do?
“It’s a godsdamned miracle,” Karlach exclaims. “We were due for one of those, I knew it! Go on, Tav, cheer up. When we get there, first round’s on me.”
Tav winces. Is it so obvious to everyone, even sunny Karlach, that he’s barely holding himself together today? But his relief is stronger than his shame.
Karlach’s right. It is a miracle. Tav was sure there was no sanctuary to be found in the shadow-cursed lands, but he was wrong. There is a sanctuary, and its name is Last Light.
He can see it now, a faint silver glow through the mist. The Harpers are leading them toward it. It isn’t the golden light of the sun, but it’s close. Close enough. It has to be.
This is what he needed, what they all needed. Hope.
Someone there will know what to do. Someone can take command from Tav, this burden he never asked for and doesn’t know how to carry. He’s done making decisions. And if there are no more decisions, there can be no more mistakes.
He can see one of those mistakes out of the corner of his eye. Astarion, silent and sullen, sticking close to Scratch and shunning the light Tav carries. Tav’s chest burns with the weight of an apology he doesn’t think he’ll ever have the strength to deliver. He hopes, with all his might, that by this point Astarion knows him well enough to know Tav’s sorry. Sorrier than he’s ever been.
I’ll never hurt you.
All those times Astarion’s called him a liar, he was right.
The only truth you’ve ever told is in your blood, darling.
He was right, and Tav was wrong.
Tav stands motionless, gripping an empty cup. The quiet clamor of Last Light’s main room fades into stillness around him as Jaheira’s words ring through his skull like a funeral dirge.
You are that hope.
He can’t stay here like this. Everyone’s looking at him. He can’t…
This nightmare never ends. Wherever they go, everyone they meet, it’s just a fresh page in the same book. Tav wants to cast it all into flame. Astarion made it look so easy; just a flick of the wrist and it was gone.
“Darling,” says a subdued voice in Tav’s ear. “This may not be the best time. But I need a favor.”
A shiver runs through Tav. This can’t be real; Astarion hasn’t spoken a word to him all day. But no, of course it’s real. Even Tav’s most realistic fantasies could never precisely capture the timbre of Astarion’s voice or the way it sets every particle of him alight, no matter what else he’s feeling.
Tav turns his head. Astarion rocks back on his heels, his whole posture humming with tension. His jaw is set. Tav has the sudden gut feeling that something’s shifted in the last handful of seconds, and he missed it. Too busy drowning in his own problems, as usual.
“What do you need?” Tav asks quietly.
It’s subtle, but Tav catches it: Astarion’s ears twitch, like he wasn’t expecting Tav to ask that question. What in the hells did he expect? Tav to brush him off?
“Don’t look now,” Astarion says. “But I just saw our old friend Raphael lurking in the corner over there. We made eye contact, actually. I think he’s making every effort of his own not to be caught staring at you. Someone’s head over heels.”
Astarion’s nervous, Tav realizes with his own faint flicker of surprise. He’s not sure how he knows. He just does.
“Then he’s out of luck,” Tav says. “I’m not interested. Are you?”
Astarion lets out a small, strained laugh. And despite it all, despite everything, Tav feels a little current of warmth run through him from head to toe.
It shouldn’t be possible. Maybe it’s the laced wine, though Jaheira assured him the effects would wear off in minutes.
“In the devil’s body? No, he’s not my type. I am interested in his mind, though. Specifically, what it might contain about these runes on my back. The one helpful contribution Wyll’s ever made to my unlife, incidentally—letting it slip that they’re written in Infernal.”
Tav bites his tongue. It’s not worth mentioning that Wyll’s done a hell of a lot more for Astarion than accidentally wander past while Tav was drawing a clumsy copy of those scars in the dirt at Astarion’s request. Astarion knows perfectly well that they’ve all saved each other’s lives too many times to count by this point, but of course he sees it all like lines in a neverending ledger. Blood for blood. Favors for favors.
“He’ll want something in return,” Tav points out.
It hits him then, in Astarion’s moment of hesitation: of course. This is the favor.
“Well, yes, my dear, the thought had crossed my mind…”
“Whatever it is,” Tav says. “We’ll do it.”
The look Astarion gives him now isn’t subtle at all. All those times Tav’s stripped him naked with his own two hands, and he’s never seen him quite so bare. There’s disbelief in those red eyes, raw enough to pierce Tav to his core. Shock. Confusion. And something slower, warmer, like a spring melt after a long winter.
Part of Tav wants to reach for that warmth. Pull it closer. Examine it.
But… no. No, it’s almost certainly too late.
This is Tav’s apology, and it doesn’t come with strings.
“It’s not the party you deserve,” Tav says. “No music. Not much to drink. But I thought we should mark the occasion.”
He’s still not sure it was the right call to do this. The mood in Last Light is hardly celebratory; a handful of shell-shocked tiefling survivors and a bunch of stressed-out Fists and Harpers isn’t the guest list Tav would have drawn up, given the opportunity. But his friends are all here, gathered around the bar, and most of them are smiling. That’s better than he could have hoped.
No one’s smiling harder than Karlach, of course.
“Godsdammit, soldier. Come back here. I can’t get enough of you.”
Tav collapses into yet another hug without complaint. Hells, this may be Karlach’s night, but Tav needed this too. Thank all the gods for giving him and Karlach this small mercy: letting Dammon be among the survivors from the grove. Giving him the tools to patch Karlach’s engine.
Karlach squeezes him a little too hard, a little too long. Tav doesn’t really mind. For these few seconds, he feels warm. Alive.
Then it’s over and Karlach’s moving on to the next taker. Tav feels a little giddy, watching her. If all of his nights were like this, he’d never long for anything else. He wouldn’t need the void or the shadow curse or the knife. None of it.
But they won’t be.
Over the bar, he meets Astarion’s gaze. There’s a glass in Astarion’s hand and he’s made no complaints about the wine. He hasn’t said a word to anyone. Tav thought he’d be on edge, irritable, after the way Raphael disappeared earlier. But this isn’t quite what he expected.
When Astarion’s angry, the claws come out or he withdraws. He doesn’t just… sit there.
“Astarion!”
Suddenly there’s a Karlach blocking Tav’s line of sight, arms outstretched.
“Can I get a—”
In a blur almost too fast to see, Astarion’s off his stool and pressed against the wall. His wineglass trembles on the counter. Tav’s chest pulls tight at the look on his face. Oh, no. It’s not Karlach’s fault—she couldn’t have known. She was in Dammon’s forge while Tav and Astarion were chatting up Raphael.
“Sorry, darling. Another night.”
Tav sets down his glass. “Astarion, wait—”
Too late. Astarion’s already vanished up the stairs to the second floor. Karlach sways on the spot, discombobulated. She turns toward Tav, her cheeks flushed even darker than her ordinary scarlet. “Gods. I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I did that. Did I fuck it up?”
Tav shakes his head. He’s relieved, strangely enough, that all Astarion did was flee. No claws.
But he shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always known Astarion wouldn’t hurt Karlach, or any of the rest of them. Maybe not even Halsin, despite his threats. No, from the very start, it’s only ever been Tav.
That’s how a predator works—by singling out the weakest member of the herd. The one who’ll hardly put up a fight. And Astarion is a predator, if for no other reason than that he never had another choice. Tav’s drawn out this hunt longer than any other, perhaps, and now the strain is showing. Neither of them can run forever.
It settles on Tav then: a cold certainty.
Tonight is the night he stops running.
“I’ll go after him,” he says.
Tav’s alarm is mounting. He’s combed the top floor of Last Light and he can’t find hide nor hair of Astarion anywhere. Just room after dusty room, most of them obviously slept in but none that feel lived in. Panic chokes him. This isn’t like those nights in their old camp by the river; it isn’t safe for Astarion to stray.
Like it or not, they’re all trapped by the curse just the same. There’s only one escape and it isn’t one Tav thinks Astarion would choose.
Tav leans over a banister and struggles to catch his breath. If anything’s happened to him, he’ll—
“There you are.”
Tav spins. “I was looking for you.”
“Were you?” Astarion’s features are cast in shadow; he stands just close enough in the dim hallway for Tav to see his outline, but no closer. “I rather expected you might have taken it upon yourself to satisfy dear Karlach’s more… pent-up desires. But perhaps she’s found another partner for the night.”
There’s no malice in his voice, and it surprises Tav. He still doesn’t quite understand that part of Astarion—the possessive side, the beast that demands to hear his own name like it’s proof that Tav’s not going anywhere. It comes out in moments Tav doesn’t expect, and it’s silent at times like these.
“I wanted.” Tav swallows. He came up here to be honest, perhaps for the last time. “Wanted to know if you were all right.”
“You abandoned a perfectly dismal party with passable spirits for something like that? Darling, I’m surprised at you.”
“No,” Tav says. “You’re not. At least you shouldn’t be.”
Astarion looks at him for a long while, secure in his concealing shadows. He’s in control. And that’s how Tav wants him to feel. That’s the sacrifice he’s always been willing to make.
“You’ve been bleeding all day,” Astarion says softly. “It’s only just stopped.”
“That isn’t why I’m here.”
“We could change that, you and I. After we were so rudely interrupted last night, it’s been on my mind. How we might… continue the conversation.”
“Did you want me to hurt you?”
Astarion gasps, a quiet sound of mock outrage. “That’s my line, love.”
“Answer the question.” Tav’s voice pulses—not with authority, at least not the kind his tadpole can grant, but with the second best thing: supplication. “Please.”
“Yes,” Astarion says, swiftly enough that it takes Tav aback. “It’s true. I lost my patience. You’ve been so very slow to grasp the obvious, even when I’ve been doing my best to tell you, over and over.”
Tav’s hands clench on the banister behind him. “Tell me what?”
Astarion takes a step closer, into the faint beam of moonlight cast from the skylight above. He’s radiant in its glow, and Tav aches—that familiar call and response. But there’s a new layer to this ache, fresh and wanting. Is Astarion really going to—?
“Hurting yourself is one way to control your pain. But hurting someone else is better. It can take you so much further.”
Tav shakes his head, while his heart twists with the anguish of a disappointment he has no right to feel. “No.”
“And I’m right here, darling. Waiting for you.”
“Don’t you understand?” Tav’s voice cracks. “I’ve been telling you, over and over. Gods. I don’t know how else to say it. I’d rather die.”
Astarion’s hand finds his jaw in a sudden, bruising grip.
“I know,” he says. “That’s the problem.”
He drags Tav’s mouth to his and bites his lip. Tav gasps, set afire in an instant by the sting. It’s not only Astarion who likes tasting blood in a kiss. Tav pushes forward, seeking him, suddenly ravenous. But Astarion flattens a hand on his chest and shoves him back. Hard.
Tav hits the banister, already breathless. Yes. Yes. He’s sick with certainty that this is a terrible idea and it won’t fix anything, quite the opposite. But he wants this. He needs this. One last time.
“Astarion,” he groans, arching as Astarion’s nails dig into his chest, raising his pain from its shallow grave.
But Astarion lets him go. He steps back. He watches Tav through hooded eyes, in silence.
“Don’t,” Tav pleads, his voice low. Below him, in the Last Light’s main room, he hears Gale’s laugh and the clink of glasses. His friends are a world away. Tav might as well be in the Astral Plane right now. “Please, Astarion, just give me this.”
“I’ve given you enough.” Astarion takes another step back, and the shadows cling to him again. “If you want any more, you’ll have to take it.”
Tav doesn’t know what Astarion wants him to do. He’s asking the impossible.
But by the gods, Tav needs him. He’s hard from that single shove, trousers straining in front, his breath coming fast and shallow. If anyone comes up those stairs in the next few moments, they’ll see much more than Tav wants them to.
“Tell me what to do.”
“No, no.” Astarion clicks his tongue. “That’s not the exercise, love.”
“I don’t—” Tav’s head is spinning. There’s another outburst of laughter from below. Tav palms himself with a desperate shudder. “I don’t even know where—”
“I thought you might try that excuse. Come.”
Astarion backs away, further into shadow, and vanishes. Tav almost lets out a cry of despair—but no, Astarion’s not gone. He’s stepped through one of the open doors along the corridor, into a room Tav’s sure he checked during his frantic search earlier. Orange light flares: somewhere inside, Astarion’s lighting candles.
Bewildered, Tav follows him.
“Close the door, darling. Or don’t. It’s your funeral.”
Tav pushes the door shut and leans against it.
He knows he checked this room. But when he glanced in here mere minutes ago, it didn’t look like this. Candles burn on the windowsill and along a bookshelf, illuminating long-faded leather spines. Two full glasses of wine sit on the bedside table. The sheets are turned back on the bed, and against the crisp white lining Tav sees—
Knives. His own knife and Astarion’s daggers, plus several blades Tav’s never seen before, laid out in a neat row on the mattress.
Tav’s heart stills. Astarion knew he would come after him. While Tav was searching, Astarion was gathering everything he needed to spring this trap. They’re still playing the game. Neither of them can stop.
Tav wants to stop.
“I won’t touch you with those,” Tav says.
Astarion smiles, like he expected nothing else.
“It’s all right, love. We can start with something more remedial.”
One sweep of his arm, and all the knives are in a heap on the bedside table. And Tav realizes he’s already misstepped; he’s made a concession without even realizing it. He’s said he won’t use the knives. Not that he won’t play.
“I can hear what you’re thinking, you know. It’s quite loud from here.” Astarion settles on the bed in a pool of candlelight, his head cocked. The bite scars stand out darkly on the exposed column of his throat. “You’re calculating what you can get away with: how you can give as little as possible, and get everything you want in return. I understand. It’s only natural.”
Tav’s finding it hard to breathe. The walls are closing in.
“You told me this wasn’t your kind of play.”
“It isn’t.” Astarion’s eyes flash in warning. “But you’ve hardly given me the choice.”
“I don’t want to do this.”
“But you do want me.”
Astarion plucks at the laces on his shirt and then he’s bare, all white planes and sculpted angles. Tav can’t see his scars; all he sees is the milky expanse of Astarion’s chest. Flawless, unmarked.
Astarion splays his hands over the mattress and looks up at Tav, who’s drawn closer without a conscious decision to do so.
“I do,” Tav says. “But not at any cost. And…” He swallows, steels himself. “Not if you don’t want me.”
Maybe Astarion’s figured out that going suddenly still is how he gives himself away, because he’s already motionless. Not a single muscle stirs. Only his eyes move, flicking between Tav’s face and the juncture of his legs like it’s a puzzle whose pieces he can’t fit together.
“Why would you say that now?” His voice is cold and scathing. “It’s never mattered before.”
Something snaps, deep inside Tav. A heartstring perhaps.
“I knew,” Tav chokes out. “I don’t know when. But I knew.”
“Then you’re cleverer than I’ve ever given you credit for. That, or—” Astarion laughs, the sound harsh. “No, it’s simple, isn’t it? It’s because you’re still alive. In two hundred years, do you know how often I’ve taken the same person to bed more than once? I’ll give you a hint. I have enough fingers to count.”
Tav can’t guess. He can’t speak. He doesn’t understand what Astarion’s saying; it doesn’t line up with what Tav thinks he knows.
Of course I knew you didn’t want me.
Who would?
“Fortunately, what I want stopped mattering centuries ago.” Astarion rises and closes his fist in Tav’s torn collar, dragging him closer. “All that matters is what I need. And I do need you, darling. So don’t worry your pretty head for a moment longer. You’re not the villain of this story. Not yet.”
There’s an inexplicable fragility in the moment he presses his mouth to Tav’s. And Tav understands this, despite his despair and confusion about everything else: Astarion isn’t lying. Every word that just fell from his lips is the truth.
“I need you alive.” Astarion licks along the crease of Tav’s mouth, breathing hard and fast. “Whether you’re hurting. Whether you hate me. I simply don’t care.”
He tugs sharply, and Tav’s shirt gives way with a loud, violent tearing sound. Tav moans his protest into Astarion’s mouth. He just fixed that.
“Shoddy stitches, love. Thought I’d do myself a favor.”
That thought—that Astarion sewed weak seams into Tav’s only shirt on purpose, so he’d have the pleasure of ripping it apart later—floods Tav with need. He’s on the verge of complete surrender. He’s almost lost.
But not quite.
“Astarion.” He breaks away, panting—or tries to. Astarion’s hand tightens in his hair. Pain shoots through Tav’s scalp. All he can do is turn his head, a temporary reprieve from Astarion’s punishing kiss. “I still don’t want to hurt you.”
“We’ve been over this,” Astarion hisses. “Want is such an ugly word. I’m tired of it. Let’s throw it out of the vocabulary.”
“Fine, then I can’t.”
“Oh, no, darling, no lies in my courtroom. You’ve already presented evidence to the contrary.” Astarion laces his fingers through Tav’s and pulls Tav’s hand to his throat. “You didn’t leave a bruise, more’s the pity—but we can work on that.”
Tav rips his hand away in a sudden surge of strength. It’s almost effortless. Astarion draws back with a quick intake of breath. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted.
“Pet.” His chest rises and falls, ragged. Tav’s done something to him, and he’s not sure what. “You’ll give me what I need, won’t you?”
Tav shudders. “Yes. Always.”
Whatever’s broken in Astarion isn’t something Tav can fix; he knows that now, all too well. All he can do is hold the pieces together as long as he can and hope they’ll fix themselves, like the fragments of a shattered bone. And try not to do more damage in the meantime.
He’s failing. He knows that, too.
Astarion pushes him toward the bed. “Down.”
Tav sinks into the sheets. Gods. He never imagined his grave would feel this soft.
Astarion strips him of his breeches in quick, impatient movements. But he lingers over Tav’s underwear. His pale fingers stroke along the rigid outline of Tav’s cock, cupping and squeezing, like he’s memorizing its shape through the damp cloth. Tav knuckles the sheets and stares past Astarion’s head, at the ceiling. Part of him is going to die here, in this bed. He can feel it.
“You’re soaked,” Astarion says. “How flattering.”
He doesn’t sound flattered at all.
Tav groans as Astarion pulls down his underwear and grips him, fingers cold as ice still despite the warmup. He’s grown used to it. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever enjoy a set of warm hands again.
“I’ve never had a lover more difficult to satisfy.” Astarion’s already wormed out of his own clothes. His bare thigh is pressed against Tav’s hip. “For the most part, they’re all the same. Hardly a challenge. Rarely a novelty. But you, darling. You only want what I can’t give you, not without spoiling my own fun.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
One of Astarion’s hands strokes along Tav’s flank, like he’s a panicked animal in need of gentling. Tav can’t see what the other hand is doing, but over the sound of his own labored breathing, he hears wet, slick noises.
“Liar,” Astarion says with a gasp, and Tav knows then. He’s working himself apart on his own fingers. Maybe he started already, before Tav even found him. “You say you want me, but I’m not the one. Just a distraction. A cheap lay.”
For a moment, Tav’s on the verge of calling it all quits. This isn’t what Astarion needs, it can’t be, even if he’s convinced himself it is. This is ruin, plain and simple. This is the death of all of Tav’s quiet, hopeless dreams.
No. Even Astarion can’t kill what’s already dead.
“There’s no one else—”
Astarion shifts forward, and Tav’s breath leaves him in a wordless rush.
“You can’t stand it,” Astarion says. “Being alive.”
Astarion presses down—in two places, his hand splayed on Tav’s chest and his slicked entrance parting around the head of Tav’s cock. However much time he took preparing himself, it wasn’t enough. Tav can feel it: the overwhelming pressure, the strain in Astarion’s hips as he takes him in.
Tav throws back his head with a suffering groan. No, he never wanted this, not like this. But gods, gods, damn Astarion to all the hells, this is the most terrible pleasure Tav’s ever felt.
Astarion was right. Fuck. He’s in pain, Tav can see it in his fiery eyes, the white line of his mouth. And his pain is Tav’s pain, and Tav’s body transmutes it to pleasure because he’s a vile, rotten lost cause.
“Well, get used to it.” Astarion bares his teeth, hissing as he sheathes Tav to the hilt. “Suffering without end is all we deserve, both of us. You and me. I refuse to be alone. No longer.”
“Astarion,” Tav gasps. He’s past coherence. His hips move, and Astarion screws his eyes shut and palms the fresh scars on his chest, lighting him on fire.
“I won’t let you go. I’ll tear a hole in the veil and drag you back, every time.”
Astarion rises. And falls. And as ever, he’s speaking with his whole body—his body that is so viscerally reluctant to let Tav go, clinging to him with every stroke. It’s torture. It’s bliss.
And it’s nothing, nothing like death.
“Please,” Tav begs him, hand inching toward Astarion’s hard, bobbing cock. He won’t touch, not until he has permission. “Let me. Please. I want you to feel good.”
“There’s no end to what you want. Selfish beast.”
Astarion seizes Tav’s hand and folds his fingers roughly around himself, and apparently that’s all the permission Tav’s going to get. None of this is right. It’s all wrong, in fact. And it’s killing him.
“Fuck,” Astarion snarls, head rolling back. The candlelight drenches him, pooling between the sharp divots of his ribs, the fluttering muscles of his neck and shoulders. He lifts his hips, over and over, thrusting into Tav’s hand.
Tav steals this slight prize for himself: his touch is gentle, tender even. He won’t hurt Astarion like this. The only reason he’s getting away with it is because Astarion’s distracted. He’s moving faster, deeper, burying Tav to the root on every thrust. Driving Tav toward his end.
He doesn’t have long. What happens after, he doesn’t know. He hopes there isn’t an after.
He needs to give Astarion something before all of this is over. His touch isn’t enough. There’s only one part of Tav that’s ever been enough.
Tav lets go of Astarion’s cock and reaches for him, his hands clawing and desperate. Astarion makes a sound like a caged animal but doesn’t resist. He collapses onto Tav’s chest and drags himself toward Tav’s neck without any further encouragement.
And Tav realizes with a sickening lurch that this isn’t a gift at all—it’s all Astarion wanted, and he’s been waiting for Tav to offer it this whole time. Another failure.
Astarion’s fangs sink in. He takes a long, starving pull of Tav’s blood, and Tav spasms with that deep, deep ache.
“More. Take it all. Please.”
Astarion moans on the next swallow, his fingers curling, and Tav feels Astarion’s body clench tight around his cock at the same instant the first wet pulse hits his chest. And again. Over and over, seemingly without end.
It’s too much. Tav can’t last.
Tav pulls Astarion’s hips down flush against him and he’s coming, shaking in mindless ecstasy as he empties himself into Astarion’s body in every sense. His blood, his seed.
“Astarion, gods, Astarion—kill me—”
His peak tears the words from him unbidden, but he means it. Gods, all he ever wanted was to die like this. Exactly like this.
And then he realizes Astarion will.
He doesn’t stop drinking. Not even once Tav’s gone limp beneath him, spent and trembling, an utter wreck. Not when the trembling stops.
Tav’s vision fades. The room’s going black.
Tav winds his fingers through Astarion’s hair and holds him. Just holds him, close and tight, all inhibition gone. His pounding heart slows. He’s empty of everything but his love. That’s the last thing that’ll go, and he hopes Astarion will finally taste it.
Then he’ll know, at last. He’ll know Tav loved him with everything he had.
He’ll know…
And then? asks a quiet voice in Tav’s mind.
And Tav’s blood-starved brain begins to imagine. Astarion, pulling back from his corpse with that dreadful, beautiful truth on his tongue. Sitting silently under the moonlight, his eyes wide.
Astarion, alone.
Tav’s fingers tighten in Astarion’s hair.
Fuck. Fuck.
His strength is almost gone. But he had plenty to begin with, more than he’s ever dared to use.
Tav rips Astarion away. Droplets of blood spray across the sheets, the wood-paneled wall. Astarion rears back. His face and chest are a mess, coated in red and shiny with his own seed. Beautiful. Bestial.
After all that, all his fury and despair, he was about to give Tav exactly what he wanted. Even if it cost him everything in the process.
Gods, Tav loves him. Desperately.
“That’s enough,” Tav pants. “I’ve had enough.”
Astarion blinks, the black draining from his eyes until they’re scarlet once more. He focuses on Tav’s face. He looks like he’s waking from a dream.
No, a nightmare.
“You have?” Astarion whispers.
Tav laughs, a broken sound. He feels himself shift inside Astarion, buried still. He’s got a hand tangled in Astarion’s hair and he’s afraid to pull it free. So he flexes his fingers, rubbing gently, and Astarion’s eyes flutter closed. Tav’s heartbeat quickens. So many sensations returning.
So much he isn’t ready to lose.
“For now? Yes.”