Archive of Our Own

“Some days I feel somewhere else,
Or somewhere in between.
Some days I don’t feel a thing at all.” 

- There Was Sun, by Nothing But Thieves

Astarion was excited. The fact he had to keep reminding himself was unfortunate, but he was willing to put up with it.

There was more light in the drow twins’ room than he had expected. Of course, Astarion had gotten far too used to the suffocating, all-encompassing black voids of Shadowheart’s Darkness spells. Nym’s spell was nowhere near as polished. Shadows clung to everything like dense fog, but still left a little light for them to see. The glowing mushrooms adorning the walls and ceilings sent motes of red and green and blue dancing over the bodies around him.

“Ooh, very nice,” the Dark Urge said appreciatively. She lifted a pale, long-fingered hand, watching the coloured lights swirl along her skin.

Astarion ran his fingers lightly along her shoulder. “If you’re quite finished admiring the decor…”

The Dark Urge turned towards him with a slow grin. She reached one-handed along the ashen column of her throat, down towards the buttons of her shirt. Black silk, collared, worn specifically to show off the curve of her neck and well-built shoulders. Astarion forced down rising, ridiculous unease. Yes, it attracted him, but it was alright. He was allowed to feel that way. He was free now.

The Dark Urge wrestled futilely with the buttons for several moments, then reached out towards him. “Help.”

Astarion snickered softly and moved forward to assist. “You should know by now, love, dexterity really isn’t one of your strong suits.”

“Well, how fortunate for me then that it’s one of yours.” The Dark Urge dipped her head to press a swift kiss to his temple. And the kiss was gentle, and appreciative, but for some reason, against all sense, it burned.

Astarion contemplated wriggling away, but he held himself still and made himself bear it, if only for the way the Dark Urge was looking at him. Her gaze was soft and warm and intent. Astarion waited for the sight of her eyes, the irises like a red-gold autumn leaf, to register. The sight had only just begun raising a regular, soft thrill in him. But not this time. Astarion pushed the thought away. The feeling would come soon enough.

The Dark Urge slipped off her shirt slowly, revealing the deathly pale skin of her torso, scarred and muscled like a fighter. Her skin gleamed in the ghostly light. The jagged autopsy scar running along her chest from navel to sternum, livid against the corpse-like pallor of her skin, the branches of the Y terminating at each shoulder, didn’t startle him as it once had. It only occurred to him that it might look confronting when he heard a soft gasp from behind them. The sound stirred something indignant and protective in him. 

Astarion shifted forward on the bed to trail kisses gently along the rough skin, following a path up between her breasts. The Dark Urge shifted and let out a breath. “You're very eager.” Her words stirred his hair.

“We have an audience,” he reminded her.

The Dark Urge glanced over her shoulder. “Come on, you two.” She settled back against the headboard, fluid and prowling even in complete stillness. “Clock’s ticking.”

Astarion swallowed a sudden, irrational scowl, and straightened. The Dark Urge was bigger and taller than the twins. The drow wasted no time in arranging themselves on either side of her, pretty and poised against the headboard.  Sorn slipped one arm around her waist, and Nym traced her palms along the swell of the Dark Urge’s biceps, guiding her hands to unbutton Nym’s blouse.

Distantly aware of something very much like panic beginning to surge through him, Astarion quickly stripped off his clothes, abandoning the doublet and shirt and trousers and rings and amulets gathered around him like armour.

The Dark Urge’s head rose sharply. Cool air broke over his skin, and he moved automatically, reaching up to run a hand carelessly through his hair. The Dark Urge drew in a breath, and Astarion stifled a snicker.

“Alright, darlings,” he announced, thrilled at the smooth, velvet drawl of his voice. “You dare to dance with a professional, you’ll get your desire.”

Nym giggled as he reached for her, winding an arm around her waist and pulling her close. Her hair smelled faintly of lavender, and her lips when he kissed her were soft and pliant. Sorn sat in eager anticipation to his left, so Astarion drew him close and kissed him too. The man sighed as Astarion ran his lips along his jaw.

Astarion felt himself relax. There was nothing particularly onerous he had to do right now, except concentrate on the curves of Nym’s body, her hands dancing all over his chest, Sorn’s lips eager and fervent against his cheeks, his mouth, his neck.

Then Sorn’s teeth hit the bite mark, and tingles zapped up his spine. Astarion closed his eyes, but darkness and the press of bodies around him made his skin prickle, so he forced his eyes open, grabbed Sorn by the jaw, and kissed him hard.

They broke apart. Sorn’s chest was rising and falling rapidly - an affectation, Astarion suspected, it was the sort of thing he himself had done countless times in the past. Then Astarion felt eyes on him, and lifted his gaze to the Dark Urge.

“You’re looking at me rather curiously,” he murmured. The words slid down his tongue, soft and honey-sweet. “Speak up. Tell us what you want us to do.” Out of the corner of his eye, Astarion saw Sorn glance sharply at him.

The Dark Urge smiled faintly. "Just admiring the view." Her gaze slipped along his body, and she added, voice rough, "I don't want you feeling overwhelmed, love."

He just smirked at her, because this was him they were talking about. The Dark Urge grinned good-naturedly back at him and propped one hand behind her head, the other sliding low. The glow of the mushrooms caught in the long dark strands of her hair, making them gleam red. “Come hither, all of you.”

Nym giggled and obeyed, sliding into her lap. Sorn followed more slowly, as if reluctant to leave Astarion’s side, his eyes flickering between them. Astarion bid him onwards with a careless wave, watching with something that felt vaguely like wistfulness as Sorn straddled one of the Dark Urge’s thighs.

The Dark Urge had cradled the back of Nym’s neck in one palm, and was treating her to long, slow, open-mouthed kisses. With her free hand, she gripped Sorn’s ass, squeezing, rocking him upwards and half-lifting him.

Sorn moaned lasciviously, rolling his hips against her. “Oh, my…”

Astarion snickered at her. “Anybody would think you’ve done this before, Dark.”

The Dark Urge smirked back. “Chalk it up to yet another one of my many talents.” She caught Sorn’s head in her hand and treated him to a long, lingering kiss. Nym ground openly against her, lavishing her neck and chest with kisses. The Dark Urge’s hand rose to tangle in her pale hair.

Astarion moved towards them and settled down in front of the Dark Urge. He slid his palms along the inside of her thighs, tracing the defined line of muscle, kissing a path up alongside the autopsy scar, his fingers circling, clinging to every groan and gasp the Dark Urge gave like a lifeline. He wasn’t as giddy and breathless with excitement as he had been in the graveyard, but he would get there eventually. He hoped.

Then Nym closed oil-slick fingers around him and began to stroke, and Astarion felt his hips move, picking up the rhythm automatically, centuries of experience marshalled immediately. The Dark Urge kissed him, her mouth moving slowly down his neck, nuzzling the bite mark, her breath curling light and cool over his slick skin.

“You are so perfect,” Sorn’s sigh was a smooth ripple over his shoulder, stirring his hair. Astarion twisted, wondering just how Sorn was going to take him from that angle, but Sorn just smiled at him. As if Astarion was the most important thing in the room right now.

He couldn’t have that.

“Darling,” Astarion purred. He drew the pieces of his mask back together, slammed and riveted them shut, half-convinced he was holding himself together as much with psionics as anything else right now, and drew Sorn close to kiss him hungrily. Only play-acting, of course, because this doomed mark deserved no better.

Except this one wasn’t doomed. He wasn’t even a mark. Astarion could relax. He was in Sharess’ Caress.

Astarion shoved the thoughts out of his mind, and reached up to wrap his arms around Sorn’s shoulders. “You undersell yourself,” Astarion breathed into Sorn’s ear. The drow moaned and trembled in his arms, and Astarion shoved down disgust. “You are absolutely divine.”

The Dark Urge made a soft, approving sound as he settled onto Sorn’s lap, and Astarion mentally filed that away for future reference. They kissed for a while, but then he caught sight of Nym watching them with sad eyes, and he had to attend to her, so Astarion slipped off Sorn and turned towards her.

“Your turn, my dear. I haven’t even begun to get to know you yet.” He winked at her, straddled her, and Nym shivered and sighed beneath him.

“You are an absolute treat, darling.” His voice was breathy, soft, awed, timing the rhythm of his words to each thrust. Nym moaned and pressed herself up against him. “So good.”

His words tasted like ashes, except he couldn’t concentrate on them right now, because Sorn’s fingers had splayed against his hips. Astarion felt Sorn’s cool forehead against his shoulder, the other man’s groan a low vibration rumbling through him. A familiar hardness at his back, for him. For him.

“Mmm.” Astarion let himself fall back against Sorn’s chest, knew exactly the angle to position himself. He felt suddenly terrified, for reasons he couldn’t even begin to examine properly, but he pushed the feeling aside. “Go on, darling.”

Sorn’s thrust made him arch up and groan. Dread clenched claws around his chest, but he shoved the feeling down and buried it. Nym was beneath him, Sorn was behind him, and the Dark Urge was somewhere out there in the haze. He pushed all his emotions down, all the sensations, the feel of hands and tongues lapping at his skin, and the coldness clenched around his chest suddenly eased.

Everything was so much easier this way. He no longer had to think too hard, no longer had to worry if his tone was off, if his emotions were making themselves known on his face, if his hands were shaking. His movements were steady, his voice divine, and he could tell by their reactions that they enjoyed it, godsdamn it, because of course they would.

“So beautiful,” Nym gasped, again and again. Astarion took her, crooned compliments to her in a voice that made her shudder as she came, told her he loved it, and he did. He should. He had to. They were doing this for him, after all.

“For this, I feel we should be paying you,” Sorn purred into his ear, and thrust forward.

Astarion groaned and gasped and came. He felt his body convulse, felt himself sag, felt the mattress give way beneath him. The hands on his hips felt like Cazador’s, and terror sparked white-hot and electric through his veins.

But when he twisted around, there was a drow looking at him with compassion in his eyes. Astarion stared back, dazed and uncomprehending.

Sorn’s expression faltered. There was an odd light in his eyes.

Astarion sensed the Dark Urge behind him long before he felt her touch his shoulder lightly, almost tentatively. He let himself lean back against her fully, with a luxurious roll of his neck he normally only ever reserved for their private moments.

The Dark Urge blinked down at him in astonishment. “Hello.”

“Hello.” A strange, giddy feeling was bubbling in his chest. “Fancy seeing you here. Come here often?”

The Dark Urge let out a strangled giggle. “I don’t make a habit of visiting brothels, no.”

“Ah, well, you should,” Astarion reached up and ran his hand through her hair, trying to force the soft strands coursing over his fingers to make some sort of impression. “You’d be the talk of every establishment in the city.”

“Hmm.” The Dark Urge’s cheeks turned pink. “Those establishments must have very strange standards.”

“Darling,” Astarion breathed, and turned to kiss her. He seized her face with both hands and kissed her thoroughly, and he felt nothing.

Astarion swallowed as frustration curled through him. Alright, fine, so he didn’t feel as good as he had in the graveyard. But that didn’t have to mean anything. He could still get through this.

He had to pull back though, because the Dark Urge was tracing her fingers over his chest as if he was something valuable, like an artefact in a museum or a diamond in a case, and he couldn’t bear it. Not here. If she touched him like that for much longer, she might end up reeling him back down to earth.

The Dark Urge was watching him, that too-perceptive, wry tilt of her lips back in place again. How he hated that expression sometimes. The last thing Astarion wanted was to be seen right now.

Then the Dark Urge kissed him. A soft kiss, a lovely kiss. One palm pressed gently against the back of his neck, the other delicately cupping his jaw. Astarion’s skin crawled. He shuddered.

“Come on, darling,” he purred. He jerked his head back, extricating himself, and dropped his hands to her hips. “You can be rougher than that. You know you want to.”

Astarion didn’t want soft. He didn’t want gentle. If she was just a little bit fiercer, a little less considerate, if she stopped fucking touching him like he was made of glass, if she used him, he could finally relax.

“Please,” he whispered. His voice sounded a touch strained, so Astarion tilted his head up and drawled into her ear, low and sultry. “Use me. I’m all yours.”

The Dark Urge groaned and swore under her breath. Nym whistled, low and awed, and when Astarion glanced at her, she grinned back. Sorn had gone very still.

The Dark Urge hunched her shoulders for a brief moment, considering it, then growled softly and reached for him. When she kissed him, the Dark Urge’s lips were hard against his. Her arms swept around to encircle him, her body was everywhere, and Astarion was trapped and helpless and finally hard, properly hard, hard enough to hurt.

The Dark Urge slid a hand up his throat, resting her thumb on the point where his jaw met his neck. Astarion thought for a brief moment that she might strangle him, found that the thought brought only vague, detached resignation. But then her hand slipped around to the back of his head and clenched in his hair, and Astarion felt a familiar shiver shoot up his spine.

“Rough, huh?” the Dark Urge murmured into his ear.

Astarion snarled. “Fuck, Dark, yes. What do I have to d—… haah—…!”

The Dark Urge surged forward, lifting her hips to take him inside her, the movement carrying him with it. Astarion let her wrap her arms around him, collapsing beneath her as she bore him down. Her fingers dug into his hips, the sharp, claw-like points of her nails digging in, and it wasn’t quite hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough for Astarion to gasp and buck and whine like he meant it.

Some small, disconnected part of him struggled to hold on - I’m free now, I should be better, I should be present - but soon even that sank down. All his unease and disgust and frustration slipped and sank and were lost. He was rising above it all.

I’m ascending, Astarion thought inanely, and had a mad urge to giggle.

Sensations blurred. The dense muscle of her shoulders under his hands, the feel of him inside her, the pressure of her fingers in his hair, her lips on his skin, their gasping, the rhythm.

The Dark Urge was heavy-lidded, and those red-gold eyes of hers were devastating. Astarion felt giddy and light-headed and mesmerised, and as he came, really came this time, he couldn’t hold back a pained, delighted laugh. This, he knew. This, he was familiar with. This, he was allowed.

“Darling…” He didn’t sob Cazador’s pet name, but he whimpered, making sure that the convulsive noise sounded appealing, coy, acquiescent. “D— aaah…”

He heard himself moan as she leaned forward and pinned him down beneath her. Their faces were suddenly very close. The Dark Urge’s eyes were focused very intently on him, and Astarion realised with a sudden, painful lurch that she knew. She knew he was just going through the motions.

Then the pace eased, and there was a hand on the back of his neck, gentle and bracing and reassuring, and the Dark Urge murmuring in his ear, a whisper that sent a painful, cloyingly warm shiver through him. “I’m here, love. It’s alright. I’m right here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

“Thank you,” Astarion whispered. He felt light and liquid and boneless, his body finally a proper match for the fog clouding his head. When his memories hissed that he couldn’t show weakness, that he didn’t deserve such kindness, that he had to keep going, Astarion mustered the energy to purr, in the voice that both was and wasn’t his, “Such enthusiasm. You are far too energetic for your own good, my dear.”

“Hmm.” The Dark Urge smiled wryly at him and kissed his forehead. Astarion felt a distant fondness briefly squeeze his chest. Somewhere beside them, Nym made a small, surprised sound, as if she had just stumbled across an unexpected puzzle.

Astarion tilted his head to look at Nym, and smiled slowly. It felt like two pins were holding up each side of his mouth. His lips stung and throbbed from the Dark Urge’s ministrations. “Want some more, darling?”

Sorn hissed in a breath. The Dark Urge moved aside. Astarion felt Nym settle onto him, and breathed out. As he floated away somewhere, somehow, Astarion felt the Dark Urge’s fingers stroke his hair.

***

Astarion emerged from reverie to find himself wrapped in somebody’s arms.

His mind revolted. White sheets grated and rustled against his skin, and he instinctively went still and quiet. A pang of terror shot through him like an icicle - he was in a flophouse, he was going to be late. He stayed very still, took very small, careful breaths to fool whoever he was with, and squinted through the sunlight to—… sunlight?

His vision cleared. Sunlight was falling through the window, a warm, rich pressure against his skin, and someone was holding him.

There was a woman in the bed. His head rested against her shoulder, which felt significant, somehow. He caught a flash of long dark hair, splayed out against the pillow like tendrils or grasping fingers, and disgust rose in the back of his throat like bile before he put two and two together and realised she was far too tall and powerfully built to be a relative of Cazador's. She had ears like a half-elf, ash-pale skin like a drow, long dark scars on her chest and stomach, and the curve of her body where she had tucked him up against her felt too still, unnaturally still.

After a moment, he realised. No heartbeat. But this woman wasn't one of his "siblings". Why would Cazador make him lure an undead?

The thought triggered something, an association, something vague and inarticulate that brushed against the back of his mind before easing away, like the press of fingers against skin. Like the way this woman had touched him last night. Far too gentle. The memory made him sneer.

The woman opened her eyes, a heart-stopping flicker of eyelid and iris like bright red amber. For a moment, Astarion felt an inarticulate wave of panic sweep over him. But she didn't seem like a Szarr. The way this woman was staring at him was far too soft, too fond, the curve of her mouth and the angles of her face softening as she gazed at him. His skin prickled.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

Astarion slipped his face smoothly into a smile. “Good morning, my dear.” Dread sat cold and heavy in his stomach like an oil slick, floating on top of an aching hunger.

The mysterious women waited patiently. For what, Astarion didn’t know. When he didn’t respond, the woman said carelessly, “My uncanny knack for unspoken signals tells me you’re hungry.” She smiled crookedly at him. Astarion stared blankly back. “You can feed on me, if you like.”

Astarion almost jolted. Except he couldn't let on what he was feeling, because any outward sign of distress might dissuade her. Besides, his distress never mattered anyway. Instead, he lowered his gaze to look at her through his eyelashes, and made himself chuckle coyly. "Breakfast in bed? Darling, you spoil me."

She smirked at him. "Always, you incorrigib-... bah!"

While she was distracted, Astarion darted forward and sank his fangs into her neck. Blood welled in the wounds his fangs had made, pressing insistently against his lips, and Astarion groaned before he could stop himself.

Chills surged up his spine. In his memory, Cazador screamed, howling admonishments, that he was forbidden, that he didn’t deserve it. His own mind joined in, shrieking that he couldn’t do this, he didn't have the right, a sharp-edged, traitorous chorus that made him snarl.

“It’s alright,” the woman said fiercely. Her fingers curled through his hair, holding his head in place. “I give you permission. You’re allowed. You can drink.”

His mind went blissfully, beautifully quiet.

Astarion bent his head forward and pressed his mouth to her neck, his lips parting for the wonderful swell of blood. The sweet tang against his tongue made his head reel. He moaned softly, low in his throat, desperate for more of that delicious blood to slip through his lips and spill past his teeth. Warmth spread through him, a wave of relief that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. His skin tingled.

“Yes. Yes. Keep going. You deserve it.”

Her words were so unlike anything Astarion had ever heard in the palace it almost rocked him back on his heels. The warmth ricocheted through him, striking a pang of want deep and low in his belly, resounding in the parts of him that should have been hollow and hungry. As he drank, Astarion became gradually aware that he wasn’t starving. He wasn’t even sure he was in the palace. He was… he was…

“That’s it, love.” Fingers curled gently through his hair, fluffing it, and Astarion finally remembered where he was.

He felt his surroundings shift and click and snap back into place, light and colour and warmth crashing over him like the tide, and he remembered suddenly that he didn’t have to stagger home freezing cold. He wasn’t starving. None of his bones were broken. His skin was unbruised. He didn’t even have to feel terror about transgressing and drinking the blood of a thinking creature, because Cazador was dead, and this particular thinking creature he had his arms wrapped around was…

"Dark," he gasped, "You're a godsdamned wonder."

She chuckled, a low, soft ripple that went right through him. "Welcome back."

He buried his face in her shoulder. Her arms rose securely up around him, holding him close. He could feel the gentle pressure of her mind through the illithid link, fondness and awe and protectiveness. He could feel his muscles loosening and relaxing, freed by the warmth thrumming through him. She had no expectations of him. Simply lying in each other’s arms was enough. 

She was here. His… lover hadn’t left. He had even been allowed to drink blood afterwards. She had stayed, he was warm, he was sated, Cazador was dead, and Astarion must have drunk a lot more than he thought, because his insides felt strange.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

The Dark Urge rested her cheek against his hair, so gently his stomach twisted. “Thank you, love, for indulging me.” He felt her swallow minutely. “How are you feeling?”

Astarion paused and twisted to look at her. The Dark Urge’s face had gone still and cautious, and the sight made indignation spark through him. However he might have conducted himself last night, no matter his little slip when he had first emerged from reverie, he would not let himself be thought of as some sort of… some sort of…

Weakling, Cazador whispered in his memory.

“Gods, Dark, there you go again.” Astarion trailed a hand through her hair. His voice was steady. His hand did not shake at all. “You and your endless wittering about my welfare.”

The Dark Urge actually spluttered. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know—…”

Astarion laughed softly and kissed her. He knew words couldn’t possibly hope to convey the tangled enormity of what he was feeling, so he kissed her instead. A soft kiss, a gentle kiss. He felt the Dark Urge smile against his lips.

“I love you,” she whispered when they pulled apart. “You wonderful, impossible, delightful man.”

Godsdamn it, and now Astarion’s eyes were prickling. “I love you too.” And a vice-grip tension he hadn’t even realised was holding him suddenly shifted and eased.

The Dark Urge stroked his hair idly. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Astarion held himself very still as he contemplated how to answer. At first he didn’t understand why he couldn’t just tell her, even with the memories hissing at his ears, and mingled shame and frustration swirling around inside him in endless spirals. But as Astarion lay in the Dark Urge’s arms, he realised.

He cared about her. The realisation brought a lump to his throat. Almost made him groan. He couldn't remember ever having cared about someone enough to want to spare their feelings. But the Dark Urge’s face had gone still and cautious in that way of hers when she was expecting the worst, and he couldn't tell her what he was feeling. He didn't even know himself.

"I'm fine," he lied. "It was interesting."

"Oh?" The Dark Urge raised an eyebrow. She looked distinctly like she didn’t believe a word he said, but Astarion felt his teeth clench, and she wisely refrained from pursuing the subject. "That's... good. I do enjoy having fun with you, love."

Astarion felt a wave of mingled frustration and disgust rise up in him like the tide. And exasperation at the disgust, and anger at the frustration, and frustration about the anger, and for gods' sakes, why was he feeling this way? He was free. He should know better. He should be alright. He was free now.

He hugged her, burying his face in her shoulder, before the surging tide of his thoughts could bury him. She gave a soft 'oof' at the impact of his arms wrapping around her, before she returned the hug. She felt as she always had - warm, solid, reliable.

“Are you sure you're alright?" she whispered.

Astarion couldn't turn away, not at this angle, but he let his head roll in the direction of the balcony. Pre-dawn sunlight beckoned through the leadlight and the panes of cut glass. "I might sit outside for a bit. Get some air."

The Dark Urge raised an eyebrow knowingly at him, but let the matter drop. “Alright.” She let him get up, and glanced over her shoulder. The sleeping drow twins were a featureless, indistinguishable lump under the blankets. “Will you be alright if I go and get dressed?”

He fluttered a hand at her. “Of course.”

“Wait!” The Dark Urge scooped a blanket off the bed and darted towards him. Astarion tensed as the blanket descended around him - for some reason, he had been expecting the scratchy hessian of Godey’s kennels. But the pale blue fabric that settled over his shoulders was smooth and soft, and Astarion felt himself relax.

The Dark Urge cupped his face with one palm. Her hand was warm, and Astarion resisted the impulse to lean into it. “Don’t want you catching a chill,” she murmured. “Besides, someone might see you.”

He laughed softly. “It’s dawn, love. I hardly think anyone will be around to notice a half-naked elf on a balcony.” The realisation that the Dark Urge didn’t want anybody else to see him, coupled with the lazy appreciation in her eyes as she looked at him, made something relieved and smug blossom in his chest like a flower.

“Famous last words,” the Dark Urge grinned at him. “Next thing we know, tomorrow’s headline in the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette: gorgeous porcelain statue seen decorating the balcony of Sharess’ Caress.”

“Porcelain? Please. I’ll have you know this is nothing less than finest-quality marble,” Astarion indicated his bare torso with a flick of his fingers.

Astarion couldn’t understand why the Dark Urge’s expression turned briefly sad. Then, she laughed softly. “Well, be careful.” She squeezed his shoulder. “We wouldn’t want that beautiful marble to break.”

Astarion smirked at her, and took a step back. He waited until she had padded across the floor and left the room, before he took a deep, unnecessary breath, and headed for the balcony. His skin tingled at the rush of cool air as he stepped through the door, automatically - needlessly - bracing himself against the stinging gleam of the sunlight.

A low table and two chairs were waiting for him. The Dark Urge’s blood clung to his lips, and Astarion licked them absently clean as he sat down. Wyrm’s Crossing sprawled below him, a meandering patchwork quilt of tangled alleys and terracotta rooftops. To the right, the balcony overlooked the vast expanse of water, where the Chionthar met the Crossing.

For lack of anything better to do, Astarion stared at the sea, hoping vaguely that the cool expanse of water, open and gleaming like a sheet of beaten metal, would calm him down somehow. That he could somehow use the vast, uncomplicated emptiness as a model for his own thoughts.

It didn’t work. Possibly Astarion had shoved all his thoughts and feelings down far too much over the past few days. Everything felt faint and very far away.

Somewhere out on the water, a ship’s bell sounded, the clang echoing distantly through the mist.

He had thought he was ready. He had wanted to be ready, more than anything. But now the fragile eggshell bedrock of hope, the tiny kernel of optimism he had zealously nursed since the graveyard, all seemed to have withered and dissipated. Cold stone and grave dirt and silence hovered in the back of his mind, the taste of Bhaal’s blood on his tongue, and maybe that was it. Maybe he would never feel comfortable enough unless he was entombed, or in a graveyard, or facing imminent mortal danger.

“Good morning,” came a voice.

Astarion strangled an impulse to flinch, and slowly raised his head. Standing at the far end of the balcony, comfortably concealed in the shadow of Sharess’ Caress’ massive roof, was Sorn.

The drow looked very different from last night. He leaned against the railing, as poised and angular as the wing of a bird. He was clothed - a white shirt and dark trousers billowed and blustered in opaque folds around him, making it hard to tell where the lines of his body began and ended. Deliberately hard, Astarion suspected, and fought the urge to clutch the blue blanket tighter around him.

“Hello there, my dear,” Astarion greeted him, leaning on his palm to disguise his… whatever emotion was running through him right now. “I didn’t expect to find you out here. Come for some fresh air?”

Sorn looked steadily at him, and did not respond. His eyes were cool, distant, and implacable, and assuredly not the starstruck, awed devotion of the courtesan who had serviced him last night.

Unease was flicking up and down his spine like fingers, and Astarion couldn’t stop himself from babbling. “Unless you came out here looking for me? Are you that eager for more? I’m flattered.” A faint frisson of disgust worked its way through him. Gods, why couldn’t he stop?

Sorn didn’t seem to have noticed his momentary lapse. He looked amused. “Not quite. Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have quite that much… stamina.” His eyes flicked briefly once up and down the length of Astarion’s body, before he edged over to the table and sat down gingerly opposite him.

Astarion tutted and leaned back. A familiar helpless frustration slid through him. “A shame. You were truly exquisite last night. You, and that delectable body of yours.” He almost closed his eyes in frustration. For gods’ sakes.

Sorn watched him silently. There were noticeable dark shadows stark beneath his eyes, and his hair had been haphazardly gathered back, a few stray locks trailing into his face. He looked… tired. Openly and unashamedly tired.

Astarion stopped himself from curling his lip. Sorn hadn’t been part of Cazador’s little brood. It wasn’t Sorn’s fault that Cazador had forbidden Astarion to rest, even when he staggered back to the palace on the verge of collapse. Sorn was allowed to be tired.

Astarion felt like snarling.

“Are you alright?” Sorn asked softly.

Don’t ask me that. Rage made Astarion’s fingers tighten convulsively around the edge of the table. You can’t ask me that. I mean nothing to you. How dare you ask me that.

“Fine,” he said tightly.

“You seem distracted.” Sorn’s head tilted evaluatively, watching him. “I would feel awful if there was anything we did last night that was… inadequate.” He lingered on the word with an emphasis that made Astarion’s teeth itch.

Astarion snorted. Cold chains of bitterness and dread were stirring through him. “Oh, well, if it’s inadequacy you’re so concerned about…”

He snapped his jaw shut, but too late - Sorn’s head rose sharply, like a hunting waterbird. “Yes?”

Astarion sat very still, and wished he hadn’t said anything. Now the bastard wasn’t going to let this go.

There was a way to get him to stop talking, of course, to disturb Sorn so thoroughly he would not pursue the subject again. It would require Astarion to reveal his past, but he was getting used to that by now.

“You know, there is one thing,” Astarion said musingly, tipping his voice back into the old velvet croon. He was faintly discomfited to find it had no effect other than to make Sorn’s eyes narrow. “One small thing that distracted me. One tiny little point.”

He leaned forward arrestingly, splaying one hand against the table. He relaxed when Sorn leaned in too. Their faces were very close now. If he wasn’t a vampire spawn, Astarion would have been able to see himself reflected in Sorn’s irises, but there was nothing there but twin black voids.

“I was enslaved,” Astarion told him. Very calmly. Pleasantly. Borderline conversational. “By a bastard who would rape me. And force me to have sex with others against my will.” Despite his affected air, despite the velvet crawl of his voice, incoherent loathing grappled with his ribs and threatened to choke him. “Can you see why that might distract me a bit, darling? Can you understand why I might not be a picture of good cheer this morning?” An unexpected twist of bitterness almost made him snarl. “Oh, but you were wonderful last night. Very satisfactory. Of course you were.”

Sorn leaned back and blinked hard at him. There was a tense jut to his shoulders that looked vaguely familiar. He did not seem in the least bit disturbed. On the contrary, Sorn was staring at him now with something horribly like recognition in his eyes. As if sitting there having this conversation somehow made them comrades.

“I’m so sorry,” Sorn whispered.

Astarion hunched his shoulders. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a Steel Watcher in the street below, rumbling its way across the bridge to the Lower City, sparks flurrying in hot gouts around its joints. He wished he could follow it. He wished he was somewhere else. Wished he could be anywhere else.

“How long were you in service?” Sorn asked, abruptly diverting his attention.

“In service. Gods.” Astarion laughed. He could tell from Sorn’s expression that it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Two hundred years.”

Sorn hissed in a breath. “I’m sorry. I had no idea…” He stared helplessly down at his hands, spread-fingered and soft like subterranean spiders against the iron table. He swallowed. “How long have you been free?”

Astarion inhaled, and managed to toss his head arrogantly, hoping against all hope that the gesture would somehow convince this interminable drow that he was fine. Gods damn it all. “I killed the man who enslaved me two days ago.”

“Two—…” Sorn’s jaw dropped. At Astarion’s raised eyebrows, he recovered himself and said weakly, “That’s not a lot of time.”

“Well, technically I’ve been free for months,” Astarion said defensively. He did not quite understand why he felt the need to justify himself. This drow meant nothing to him. Surely.

“Did you want to book us last night?” Sorn asked warily.

“Yes!” Astarion said quickly. Too quickly. He forced himself to calm, forced his shoulders to ease and relax out of their panicked lock. “Yes. Yes, I did. I just… there were complications.”

Sorn tilted his head quizzically to one side. “What do you mean?”

Astarion raked a hand through his hair. Tried to force a conciliatory smile, but the weight of it felt like anvils dragging down both sides of his face. “I thought…” The words stuck in his throat. “I thought I could handle it. I thought I was healed enough. Or at least adequate.” Another laugh, more a giggle this time, thin and congealed and watery and weak. Sorn grimaced.

Astarion kept talking. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from talking. “Everywhere I turn, everything I try, it just reminds me of… I just can’t get rid of the memories.”

“Could that perhaps have something to do with the fact you’ve only been free for two days?” Sorn asked dryly. At Astarion’s sharp glance, his tone gentled. “It’s not a lot of time. You have to pace yourself.”

Astarion leaned back and kicked one heel up against the table leg. “I don’t have to do a godsdamned thing,” he said belligerently. “Not anymore.” He was free now. He was not about to slow down, not now.

As the corners of Sorn’s mouth drooped, Astarion settled back into his seat, drew up the memory of refusing Araj Oblodra, and stabbed it into his mind’s eye, before his conscience could bleat at him for making the damned drow sad. For stirring up memories for him.

“You were enslaved in Menzoberranzan?” Astarion asked roughly, before memories could get the better of him too.

Sorn straightened. Something desiccated and dead floated to the forefront of those unnervingly pale eyes, and Astarion felt his lip curl. He recognised that expression. Gods, he had seen it enough times on the faces of his so-called “siblings”.

“Not as long as you,” Sorn said tersely. His words came out as heavy and as cold as boulders. “But, yes. Yes, I was.”

Astarion seized the opportunity. “Then you can teach me! You can show me how to put it aside, can’t you? You’re a courtesan, you do this for a living, for gods’ sakes. You can teach me how to move past this.”

Sorn folded his arms. There was a terrible finality in those cut-glass eyes of his, as brilliant and as hard as a diamond. Astarion felt a lump gather in his throat.

“You will never be able to put it aside,” Sorn said finally. As Astarion opened his mouth, outraged, Sorn cut in swiftly, “A past like yours, experiences like ours, it’s not something that can just be turned off.”

“Then what the fuck am I supposed to do?” Astarion exploded. His voice cracked the cool dawn stillness like a whip and Sorn jolted, startled.

Astarion turned around, hunching over, hiding his face, desperate not to let the drow see the godsdamned tears building, poised on his lower lids. He shouldn’t be feeling like this. He shouldn’t—…

“Astarion,” Sorn said gently.

It was the first time the courtesan had used his name. Not dear, or darling, or handsome, or any of the other thousands of aphorisms that curdled in Astarion’s stomach like sour milk. Just his name. Four syllables. Plainly spoken to the dawn.

“Astarion,” Sorn repeated.

Astarion hitched in an unnecessary breath. Scrubbed his face with a hand. Turned back. “What?”

Sorn was sitting there, placidly, unfazed. His expression was unreadable, but something in it resonated with the grey, grasping memories of pressing bodies and squirming against people’s hands running through the back of Astarion’s mind. Something in the way Sorn held himself very still and did not move towards him made something unnamable and undefinable inside his chest breathe out a sigh of relief.

“You’re very strong, you know.” As Astarion stared at him in astonished silence, Sorn crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back to study him. “I wouldn’t have wanted to do anything so soon after my enslavement.”

Astarion recovered himself and sneered. “Yes, but here’s the thing, darling, I’m not you.”

Sorn smiled thinly, but did not rise to the jibe. He was learning. “Well, regardless, I have some suggestions. Things that helped me when I was first freed. They might be useful to you.”

“I’ll take anything.” The words rubbed his throat raw. “Please.”

Sorn’s expression softened. Astarion was instinctively sure he knew just how much it had cost for Astarion to say that out loud. To beg. 

“You might not like it, I’m afraid. It took a long time for me to get used to the idea, even after I escaped the Baenres.”

The name struck a chord in Astarion’s memory somewhere, but he had far too many other, more pressing things to deal with. “Get on with it. What, is it some sort of cursed item? A devil pact?”

Sorn smiled sadly. “No, sadly. Nothing as simple as that.” He shifted forward slightly in his seat, closer to Astarion, and exhaled as if pacing himself for a marathon.

“Everyone has scars,” the drow said quietly. “Some run deeper than others. I’ve seen countless people who struggle with setting boundaries, imposing limits. They think it doesn’t matter, or they should be stronger, or they feel an obligation to their partner.”

Astarion started to laugh. He couldn’t help it. It was not precisely laughter - more a cracked, bitten-off bark of disappointment and contempt. “You’re serious? That’s it? Tell people not to do things, and they’ll accept it?” He didn’t even need the look in Sorn's eyes to know that contempt dripped off his every syllable. “Well, that’s alright for some, but I don’t—…”

“What?” Sorn inquired. His voice was as soft as a razor. “Have limits?”

Caught and disoriented and wrong-footed, Astarion scowled at him and hunched his shoulders.

Sorn continued, undeterred, his words as inexorable as the tide. “Because, of course, that’s how you were trained, isn’t it? To always be up for anything? Yes, master, no, master, whatever you say, master?”

A sneer touched Astarion’s lips. If Sorn noticed it was a pale ghost of what it could be, he made no comment. “Are you quite finished?”

“No.” Sorn smiled sweetly. “Limits are not the same thing as restrictions. They’re not the same thing as rules.” His smile grew thin and strained. “Not the same thing as a master telling you what you can and can’t do. I like to think of them as a way of creating power for yourself. And holding it. That way, no one can take it away.”

Astarin paused. “I… ah.” His words stuck in his throat like tangles of barbed wire, defying any attempt to shift them. “But that’s…” To his horror, he felt his eyes begin to prickle. He took a deep, unnecessary breath to steady himself. “If I try and… if I try and assert myself, gods damn it, it’s… there’s no point. Nobody listens.”

Sorn’s mouth quirked. “Your partner listened to you last night, didn’t she?”

“Excuse me?” Astarion asked calmly, as his insides shrivelled with mortification.

Sorn grinned. He looked remarkably like Gale checkmating a devil when he did that, bent over a lanceboard with an expression of savage satisfaction. “You felt uncomfortable,” he said simply. “You wanted to go back to what you were used to. You conveyed that to your partner, and she listened. She did what you asked. Hells, we listened. We did what you asked.”

“But that’s not…” Astarion exhaled hard and raked a hand through his hair. “My head was halfway to the Feywilds when I did that. That’s not being present, that’s not being a good partner, that’s not—…” Disgust and self-loathing stirred through him like snakes. “That’s not what anyone would want.” He was babbling again. Gods help him. “I’m concerned Dark will get… tired. Of it. Of me.”

Sorn made a small, amused sound. “Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but your partner doesn’t seem the type. She strikes me as somebody who’s very—…” Amusement flickered across his face. “—… patient.”

“True.” Astarion exhaled. “No, you’re right. I think… I think I’m impatient.”

“You don’t say,” Sorn said dryly. When Astarion tensed peremptorily at his tone, he leaned towards him. Astarion expected the closeness to feel aggravating, but instead it was bracing. Almost comforting.

“For what it’s worth, I still have days when I drift away,” Sorn said. The gentleness of his voice rubbed against Astarion’s skin like sandpaper. “It happens. Some days you’ll need to, and that’s alright, because it’s what you need in that moment. But those moments don’t last forever. You’re free now. You’ll get there.”

Astarion dragged a hand down his face. “I want to be better.”

“You will be.” Sorn made it sound like the simplest thing in the world. “You already are. Not many people would be able to do what you did, so soon after being freed.” He held up a hand, forestalling Astarion’s response. “I know it didn’t turn out as you had hoped, but it was one night. One setback doesn’t mean every other time you try is doomed to failure.” He narrowed his eyes and added softly, voice rough, “I know it feels strange, after spending so long being held to someone else’s standards.” His jaw clenched briefly. “But you don’t have to anymore. You’re free. You can choose for yourself what you want, and how you want it. You have that power now. You’ve come so far already.”

As he sat there, staring at this drow who seemed to have all the answers, Astarion felt the tension in his chest shift and settle and ease. Sorn was right. Godsdamn him, he was right. And Astarion was good at enduring, hadn’t he survived everything Cazador had thrown at him? 

Astarion finally had something that mattered to him. Someone that mattered. Now more than ever. And he had a choice now. He could either sit here like a child, wailing and complaining, or he could grit his teeth and move forward, no matter how much it hurt. Because he wanted this, godsdamn it all.

Would you rather have no frustration and no Dark Urge? he asked himself tiredly. The thought made his insides scream. That realisation, and the deep-rooted assuredness that followed, made him smile.

Impatience and dread were still better than mindless, starving slavery. Anger and frustration were alright, because they meant there was something Astarion wanted. Happiness was within his grasp now. Everything that went along with it was just the price he had to pay.  

It would be a long, interminable journey, Astarion knew that much with weary certainty. But he could take that journey now. He had the choice. The freedom to choose this - choose Dark, choose to navigate the inconvenient complexities of his emotions, choose to live - was preferable to anything he had endured in the past.

His thoughts were his own again. His feelings were his own. Astarion did not have to fear them anymore. He could meet them head on, if needed. And if there was one person on Faerûn who would be used to confronting inexplicable, tangled impulses, it was the Dark Urge. 

He looked up. Sorn was watching him. On his face was a faint, knowing smile.

“Thank you,” Astarion said, sincerely. Surprising himself.

“You’ll be fine,” Sorn said earnestly. His smile broadened, stretched out to dazzling. “I can tell.”

A flash of light distracted him. Over the sea, the sun was rising. A curve of light gleamed along the horizon, sending gold rippling out across the water. The boats and the sails and the forest of masts turned the bay into a collection of livid black silhouettes.

"The sun's coming up," Astarion pointed out inanely. His voice was small and shaking. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

Sorn exhaled and pressed both palms to his knees. “Right. Well. I’d better start getting ready." As they got up, he smiled fondly at him. "Thank you for talking with me. For sharing. I know it can’t have been easy.”

Astarion smiled back. "Thank you, my dear. I do appreciate it. A lot. It’s..." He struggled to find the words. "It's a relief, finding someone who understands. Who knows what it’s like.”

Sorn smiled at him. His smile was tinged with a faint sadness. "It is, isn't it?”

They stood like that together for a long time in companionable silence, in the shelter of Sharess' Caress’ towering roof, looking out over the city. Astarion saw the great curve of the Lower City walls, saw the gleam of sunlight reflected in spires and gilt columns and roofs. Baldur’s Gate climbing up from the sea, houses and taverns and garrisons and patriar palaces. Standing there with Sorn, silently studying the city, distant and removed, contemplative and safe, reflective and free, something very much like peace curled through him.

"Astarion..." Sorn said slowly.

He glanced at him. “Yes?”

Sorn was staring over his shoulder at the glass-paned door behind them. He looked puzzled. "You don't cast a reflection.”

Astarion grinned at him and walked back inside.

***

"I saw a glimmer,

The summer shimmer,

I could be who I want to be."

- There Was Sun, by Nothing But Thieves