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Astarion is slowly coming back to himself, his arms and legs aching. Pale, shaking limbs are wrapped around Halsin like a constrictor snake, keeping their bodies flush against one another. His ankles are locked together, preventing the Druid from pulling away.
Finally, the vampire works to detangle himself from his partner. His body feels heavy, his limbs feel like lead weights as they fall against the ground below. He stares mindlessly up at the night sky, blinking at the stars above.
"What?" The vampire finally hisses, shooting an annoyed look at the Druid. His expression relaxes as he takes in Halsin’s appearance. Eyebrows knit together, hazel eyes staring intensely, the tension in his shoulders. He’s worried. Astarion takes a deep breath, letting his annoyance fall away with his exhale. "I’m fine," he reassures his partner. "You didn’t hurt me if that’s what you’re thinking." But that doesn’t seem to dissuade the Druid’s worry. He reaches up to run a hand through the larger elf's dark hair. "It was good. Really good. Poor Shadowheart is missing out."
Halsin lets out a huff of laughter. His relief is immediate and he lets his head fall against Astarion's shoulder momentarily, pressing a kiss to the cool, sweaty skin. He makes his way to his feet and then outstretches a hand toward his friend.
Astarion stares at the offered hand for only a moment before reaching up and clasping onto it. He allows Halsin to help him to his feet. "Nine Hells," he groans quietly, rolling out his sore shoulders, "I should have let you fuck me sooner." Finger-shaped bruises are already forming on his hips.
Halsin laughs again, that low, rumbling chuckle that Astarion is quickly growing too fond of. "I am glad I could surpass your expectations," he says with a smile. "Are you in pain?" He reaches up to rest a hand against Astarion’s cheek. He does not wait for a reply before muttering something in Druidic.
Astarion finds himself leaning his head into the warmth of Halsin’s palm as a pleasant calmness works its way through his tired body. He closes his eyes and lets the feeling wash over him. Slowly, his sore limbs and bruises heal and the pain in his back disappears entirely. He feels warm and content. "You know, I don’t mind being roughed up," Astarion tells his companion. But despite his words, he is not eager for the pleasant hum of Halsin’s magic to fade.
"And I will keep that in mind for a later time," Halsin assures him with a smile, "but for now, we need you strong. There is still a long journey ahead." He leans in and presses his lips to Astarion’s forehead before pulling away entirely. He reaches down and finds his burlap sack on the bank, fishing around inside to find a bar of soap and an old cloth. "Come," he says with a nod toward the stream. "You are filthy." He smiles, as his eyes roam over Astarion’s dirtied and bloodied body. Sand sticks to his knees and back and falls out of his hair when he shakes his head. Blood is smeared across his mouth, jaw, and neck.
"And whose fault is-?" Astarion’s question falls to the wayside as Halsin turns toward the water. Fresh blood. Open wounds run down the length of his back. They’re almost symmetrical, long cuts in sets of fours. Astarion looks down at his hands to find Halsin’s blood beneath his fingernails and guilt pools in his stomach. He stays silent as he follows the larger elf into the stream. The cool water splashes against his knees and he reaches up to rest the tips of his fingers against the Druid's back. "You can be so... infuriating," he says with a hard frown.
"Hm?" The Druid makes to turn around but goes still when he feels Astarion’s forehead rest against the center of his back, between his shoulder blades and between the violent wounds there. He can feel Astarion’s breath on his skin. Pale hands rest unsure against his sides as if the spawn is unwilling to commit to the embrace.
"You were so worried about hurting me yet you completely ignore taking care of yourself." Astarion feels oddly comfortable here and he tries to ignore the part of himself that urges him to pull away, the part that insists that he doesn’t deserve this. He does not deserve to rest his head against the Druid’s muscular back or breathe in the scent of him. And he definitely does not deserve the other man's affection. "You could have told me that I was hurting you." He turns his head to rest his cheek against the taller man’s warm skin and his fingers tighten on the older man's naked hips. Halsin mutters a few more words in Druidic and Astarion watches as the scratches on his back slowly begin to heal, closing up and fading to a light pink.
"I apologize if that bothers you," Halsin says, his words slow and even. He reaches down to his side to take one of Astarion’s hands. "Silvanus only grants me so much power," Halsin explains, turning to face the rogue. "I have grown used to rationing it out for others."
"Don't be a fool. You need to do a better job of taking care of yourself," Astarion chastises the other man but it sounds too soft, too sincere. He pulls his hand out of Halsin’s own and takes a step away, hardening himself. Fortifying his walls. "I want to keep my favorite plaything in one piece."
Halsin laughs and smiles fondly down at the red-eyed elf. "I will try to take better care of your possessions," he says through his chuckles. "Here," he offers the soap and cloth to the vampire, then kneels down in the water. He cups his hands, dousing his chest and arms in water and rubbing away the dirt and blood.
Astarion follows the older man’s lead. They bathe silently for a long while, passing the soap and cloth between one another wordlessly. They have shared moments like this before, though never after such an intimate engagement.
Strangely enough, it is Astarion who finally breaks the silence. "You know," he starts slowly, "I had an interesting conversation with Tav earlier."
"Mhm," Astarion continues, picking the blood from beneath his fingernails. "They seem to be rather... taken with you." He glances at Halsin from the corner of his eye but the other man’s face is unreadable at this angle. "Shadowheart too. I believe she told our bard something along the lines of owing her details if they ever got a chance to "climb Mount Halsin’."
The Druid’s chest shakes with his laughter. "That is... a new one," he says with a sheepish grin. "I’m pleased to know that those two have become so secure in their relationship. It is a remarkable thing when someone as untrusting as Shadowheart has such confidence in her lover’s decisions."
Astarion nods slightly. Is that all? "Do you want that?" Astarion tried keeping the question in but his curiosity gets the better of him.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Astarion says with an exasperated sigh, "You told me that you have," he hesitates, "
for me but surely you aren’t satisfied with
me. With how you go on about "enjoying the freedom of nature’s gifts’ I would assume that you are against monogamy. Is there anyone else that has caught your eye?"
Halsin chuckles at Astarion’s poor impression of him. He does not speak for a moment, considering how best to answer the other man’s question. He knows it is a delicate matter, especially this early on in his and the vampire’s arrangement. "To say I am
monogamy is a strong statement," he begins, "I believe different individuals have different needs. Some require the whole of their partner’s attention or do not have room in their hearts for more than one person at a time. Others allow their hearts to wander freely, unbound by convention. I am... more aligned with the latter. The majority of my relationships have fallen into that category as well."
The majority. Not all.
Halsin glances over at Astarion to ensure the other elf is still listening to him. "But to address your question, it would be a lie for me to say that no one else has caught my eye. I’m sure you’ve noticed as w
ell that none of our traveling companions are exactly unattractive."
"Except Gale," Astarion says quickly. He has always made a habit of making a joke out of uncomfortable conversations.
"Even the wizard has his charms," Halsin says with a smile. He splashes a bit of water on his face and rubs away the last of the blood spatter and sweat. Finally, he turns toward Astarion and moves in closer. "But just as different people have varying needs, I believe each relationship has different needs as well... and at different times." He comes up behind the rogue and rests his hands on pale, bony hips. "What is best for us today may not work for us in the future... But rest assured that as of right now, you are the only one on my mind," Halsin leans in to press a kiss to Astarion’s pallid shoulder. "
he starts again, "This is new. It deserves my full attention. If there is a day where my heart wanders I will be sure to let you know. Open discussion is very important to me." He moves in closer still, wrapping his arms around Astarion's middle to hold him close.
Astarion stays silent as he listens to the Druid. He lets himself be pulled into the giant elf’s hold and even leans his head to the side to receive Halsin’s lips on his shoulder and neck. "I’m not sure what you mean by
" Astarion says stubbornly with a scoff of laughter. "
isn’t anything." Despite his harsh words, he cannot help but relax in the giant man’s arms and relish in the warmth of Halsin against his back.
"Of course not, Little Star," Halsin agrees.
But Astarion can feel the Druid smiling a
gainst his shoulder and he leans back into the warmth and safety of Halsin’s embrace.
In the grove, a woman is playing the lute.
She doesn't really know why she's drawn to it. The plucking of the strings is amateur at best, and every strum is unsure. Still, it’s ... enchanting. Nethandre finds her feet moving towards the noise before she really knows what she’s doing. Usually, she’d be afraid of a compulsion, but this one is harmless.
Her voice is enchanting, unsure as it is, a lovely, gentle lilt to it. It wavers, but there’s a charm to the slight warble as she tries to gain her footing.
(It would be prettier if she was wailing in agony.)
She keeps stumbling over lyrics that are perfectly fine, only to take them back and get frustrated at herself. Nethandre finds herself frustrated, too. Her work is lovely, if unrefined — she just needs more confidence.
(Hear that sweet voice crying for mercy before she rips her tongue out, make the songbird really sing—)
"What are you singing?" Nethandre asks in an attempt to drown out the vile voice begging for her murder.
There’s a slight jump at Nethandre’s voice, barely even perceptible if she wasn’t so good at reading prey others. She must not have even seen her approaching. (Pathetic thing. Those hands have never known a weapon. Yes, she’d be worth more dead than alive, as a beautiful offering to — Who? What? What?)
"More like butchering. Don’t know why I bother." The smaller tiefling heaves a sigh, her shoulders deflating.
"Really? I thought it was nice. You have potential." (BUTCHER HER. Make a spectacle of it! What’s with this theater? You know what you really want.) Nethandre crosses her arms, blocking the urge out. "Are you alright?"
"No, I’m moments away from a grisly death..." (Does she recognize the danger standing in front of her? No matter. The poor, stupid girl wouldn’t even notice a blade until it’s far too late to be saved.) "... at the hands of this bloody song!" (Oh.) "I can’t... nothing fits, you know?"
Something ... connects, in that moment. (No, no, no, tear her to shreds, don’t —) "Let me see if I can help."
She smiles at her. It’s weak, and somewhat pained, but something in Nethandre’s chest swells. "It can’t hurt. I have her..." The tiefling fumbles on her words, the smile briefly falling. "I have an extra lute, if you want. I’m Alfira, by the way." (So kind. So, so stupid.) She gestures to the instrument sitting next to her, and Nethandre’s face lights up.
"I’d love to. I’ll be careful, I promise." She sits next to the bard, Alfira, and ever so gently picks up the lute. (So close, close enough to gouge her eyes out, close enough to tear a horn off of that pretty head. She wouldn’t even need a blade at all!)
The lute feels right in her hands, like it was always meant to be there, more than a sword or a dagger. She brings her focus to the handle, trailing her fingers over the strings and plucking a few. This is nice. This is right. Maybe this is who she’s supposed to be.
"I’ll start from the beginning. We’ll take it slow. Do you know how to play?" She peers at Nethandre, curious.
"I — " She tries to dip into her memory once more, but her head begins to pulse and pound, screaming and aching and wailing. Gods, it HURTS. More than it ever has before. (What does it matter if you used to sing? Your instruments are your blades, not some silly block of wood.) It’s all lost to the sea of red and black. It doesn’t matter anymore. Who she was doesn’t matter anymore. "I... I don’t know, but this feels... right, somehow."
"You don’t know? Really?" There’s no judgement in her eyes, just curiosity.
"I don’t remember anything beyond the past few days, truthfully. I just... woke up, and all I had was a name. Nethandre."
"That just means you get to write your own story. An amnesiac hero, taking the world by storm and finding out who she is along the way! That’s the sort of thing the classics are made out of."
Nethandre hums, a smile growing on her face. Alfira’s enthusiasm is infectious, and her happiness even moreso. She’s sweet. (Too sweet. Odiously sweet.) "I’ve never thought of it like that before."
"We’ll figure out this song, and then I’ll write one about you. I’ll be the bard who knew the great hero Nethandre at her humble beginnings!"
"Then there’s no time to waste. I must see what you have to say about me." Nethandre chuckles. (You're no hero. You're a monster playing pretend.) "Remind me how it starts?"
"Of course." She nods, and begins to play. The notes are simple, and Nethandre has no problem mirroring the tune. It’s as easy as breathing. As natural as driving your blade into a body over and over again and watching the blood pool below your feet — "Dance upon the stars tonight... Smile and pain will fade away..."
Next are the lines she was struggling with, and the words flow easily out of Nethandre’s lips. "Words of mine will turn to ash..."
Alfira's eyes gleam in excitement. "When you call the last light down."
She continues to recall the half-finished lyrics Alfira sang, weaving them together in her mind to create a tapestry. "Moon reminds me of your grace..."
"All the love I can’t repay... Rest and know that I will pray... Farewell, my dear old friend." Her voice is warbling, biting back tears. "That’s it!" She stands up, lute in hand, and begins to sing from the beginning.
When Alfira is confident, she’s stunning. She sings with grace and love, every strum of her lute made with a newfound purpose, swaying back and forth in time to the music. Nethandre is entranced watching her. It’s a song about a lost friend, mourning someone who she looked up to. She may not know much about love or care, but she thinks it’s lovely tribute to their memory.
The things Alfira sings about are new emotions to her, but they stir something deep within. Loss. Love. Admiration. Moving forward, despite the pain. It fills a void inside her. If only for a moment, when these strange feelings well up inside her, it soothes the monster screaming to be let free.
The grove is beautiful. It’s the first time she’s been able to notice it. The greenery is truly stunning, the sunlight filtering through the trees onto the monument below — this world is full of so much wonder and life, such lovely sights. She wants to protect it. She wants to hold onto it. She wants to save this place.
Alfira is very pretty in the sun, too.
Is this happiness? She thinks it’s making her ... happy. Whatever it is, she never wants to let the moment go.
When she finishes, and the spell is broken, Alfira is tearing up and holding her lute close, looking at Nethandre with what she thinks is the sweetest expression she’s ever seen while she sits back down. "Thank you. I was just having trouble ... finding the words."
"It was beautiful." The oddest desire strikes her: she wants to know more about her, and she’s in no state to deny such an innocent wish. "Who was it about?"
"Lihala. My teacher. And friend." She sniffles and wipes the tears from her eyes. Nethandre has no clue what to do — she wants to soothe her, but has no clue how to. Her hand hovers aimlessly, but if she touches her, the urge might win. "Sorry..."
"Don’t worry. Cry as much as you need." She thinks this is what you say when people are crying.
"Heh. She would’ve said the same thing." Her voice is ever so fond. "I haven’t finished a song since Lihala died. Haven’t played at all, if I’m honest."
A long silence falls. When Alfira’s voice turns quiet, her chest twists.
"She was playing her lute. We ... didn’t hear the gnolls coming. There was so much blood." She trembles, holding the lute tighter, closer, as if it were a stuffed bear. "I — I can still smell it."
Her head pounds with visions of a woman savaged by gnolls, her entrails spread along the ground, her blood gushing out of her body. (Such bloodthirsty beasts, but they're nothing compared to you. It must have been a wonderful slaughter. You could make a sight that’s truly worthy of her beloved mentor. They could be together again.)
"I’m so sorry," Nethandre murmurs, and she can’t meet Alfira’s eyes when she says it. Her head aches again, pulsing, pounding. She’s not sure if she’s more sorry about Lihala’s death or the repulsive glee she’s getting from the image. Gods, she’s sick. Just a repulsive excuse for a woman.
"It was awful. I couldn’t look at a lute without hearing her — screaming." (It must have been lovely. Alfira’s screams would sound even lovelier.) "I’d forgotten what it was like: that itch to perfect a song." She puts a hand on her shoulder, and Nethandre flinches. When she looks back at her, she’s smiling. She’s still smiling. She has no idea of the vile thoughts racing through her head, her wicked desire to smash her head across the rocks. She’s utterly repulsive. Why does she trust her? "Keep the lute — please, you’ve earned it."
"No, I... I couldn’t." She can’t she can’t she can’t she can’t—
"You have a true talent, and you gave me my spark back — I can’t think of anyone better to have it."
"Maybe I was a bard in my past life," she tries to joke, her voice weak, but the words strike her to her core. She was. That's true, isn't it? "Wait, I — that’s right. That feels right. I was a bard!"
She's never felt so relieved. She was a bard. Maybe she wasn't doomed to a life of violence and hate. She was a bard. She sung and danced. She entertained people. She brought joy to people's lives. A bard. A bard! Not a bloodstained murderer, a bard! Bards didn't go on killing sprees, they made people happy!
You are a fool, it sings, but it's never been easier to ignore it.
"I can see it. Nethandre, bard and hero, singing her way across Faerun and saving all sorts of people along the way!" The hand that was on her shoulder spreads wide, gesturing outwards. (Saving people? How pathetic. You’d be the villain of any story, not the hero.)
"You flatter me, but it’s much more likely I sat in taverns, fishing for coin." She tries to hold onto that image. Maybe she resisted this vile urge in her past life, too. Maybe she really was just a simple bard.
"But you fight so well! I heard what you did at the gates, you know. It was very brave."
(Bravery — how ridiculous. The only reason she was fought was to see them bleed.)
"That’s true, that’s curious... Maybe you were right." Nethandre stands up, and bows. Gods, how long has she been away from the rest of her group? "I'd love to stay, but I must be on my way. I hope we’ll meet again in better circumstances."
It's an excuse. No matter how light her heart feels at the revelation, her gut knows Alfira is in danger. If she stays any longer around her, she's terrified of what may happen — the urge has never sung this strong before.
Alfira waves, a glint in her eye. "I’ll keep working on my song. The Weeping Dawn will be my gift to Lihala — I’ve a long way to go, but thank you. Again. I couldn’t have done it without you."
That was good. She did something... good. She helped Alfira with her song, she did something good, something that has nothing to do with killing. Pride swells in her chest. "Don’t forget that song you promised, now." She grins.
"Of course not! Your name will be known far and wide once I’m done with it, that I can promise."
"I’ll hold you to that, my friend. Good luck."
She represses the disgust, the bile rising in her throat, the screams to tear her throat out as she leaves.
A tenday later, holed up in an abandoned village they swept the life out of that day, Alfira arrives in camp.
"I’m so glad I found — " She jumps when Nethandre lifts her rapier, an almost inhuman gleam in her eyes. "Wait, it’s me! Alfira, from the grove!"
"Alfira — Shit, I’m so sorry." Nethandre lowers her sword, regret instantly etched onto her features. She’s still covered in goblin blood, and perhaps a bit jumpy after the day (not to mention the urge to make her innards become outtards that surfaces when they lock eyes.) "What are you doing out here?"
She sounds panicked. "I’m sorry for barging in like this, but I had to come find you." Shaking hands smooth out a jingling skirt, face growing into a nervous smile as she picks up steam. "You’ve, well, inspired me. I want to stand on my own two feet, to prove that I can be half the bard Lihala was. I want to join you — to fight by your side. I want to help people, as you’ve helped me."

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