Chapter Text
You know what? Astarion's wardrobe is finally starting to shape up.
At first he couldn't really find anything to his tastes— not that he really even knows what his tastes are anymore. But after a few months wandering the woods, sifting through the pockets of hundreds of corpses, and poking through abandoned homes in these shadowlands, he's finally found some pieces that he finds suitable.
Dark colors, mainly. Things that show off his trim figure and great ass, of course. He's got a good eye for fine fabrics and well-made suits, and knows how to get most of the blood out. He's even been able to find the time to put his own little touches on them, embroidering filigrees and the like whenever the mood strikes him.
It's strange. He knows he's beautiful, he's been told a thousand times in a thousand different ways. But to wear clothes that he likes, to own something that he chose... Well. That's an entirely new deal. A big one.
And that’s why today is especially infuriating— they’re to infiltrate Moonrise Towers and he simply cannot decide what to wear.
Obviously it has to be practical. His armor will cover the majority of his outfit, sure. But there’s an art to the details! His shoes, his shirt, his trousers… They all add up to serve the purpose of infiltration.
And, of course, looking good. He wants to make a good first impression, after all.
He tries on a couple of options, occasionally asking Wyll for input. Obviously Gale and Halsin’s stylistic advice can’t be taken seriously, but they chime in nonetheless. He flits through outfit after outfit, long after the others have abandoned the cause and gone downstairs to breakfast. He tosses his shirts and jackets and trousers aside until he finally settles on the perfect set— a loose black top, with shining dark pants. Sleek, sophisticated, formfitting… Perfect for infiltration.
Plus, the pants are madly comfortable. He tucks his shirt in at the waist, quite pleased with the knowledge that he looks exceptional, as always.
Or at least… He’s pretty sure he looks good. Honestly, he’s not quite certain how all this rough living has affected his appearance. Certainly his hair’s messier than ever before, but that can’t be helped. Even with regular trims courtesy of Shadowheart, Astarion still finds it annoying to detangle and shape his blasted curls every morning. His body’s changing, too— his six pack’s softer, his hands are less gaunt, and Astarion can only assume his face no longer suffers the haunted look of long-term starvation.
He sighs. What he’d give for a look in the mirror right about now. Perhaps if he asks in just the right way, he could coax Wren into saying something sweet to him, perhaps she’d give him another round of weird Feywild-styled compliments. He could use an ego boost every once in a while, now that he doesn’t have regular victims to worship his body, thank you.
So he wanders to the next room over, to knock quietly on the door. It creaks open, unlocked. Hm.
He peers in— no one’s inside. Probably all at breakfast. Should he wait for her in here..?
Astarion steps into the room, gently pushing the door closed behind him. He tiptoes around, taking in the scene. Slightly dusty, a little damp, and all disorganization. The four women seem to be at war with each other, each vying to take up the most amount of space with their things. Every flat surface is covered with books and cosmetic potions and miscellaneous tools of weapon repair. Piles of clothes and potions and armor and weaponry and books stuff themselves into every available space, leaving narrow walking pathways to and from the door. Wren’s apparently taken charge of the ceiling, hanging bundles of herbs and flowers and peppers and garlic just about everywhere except above Karlach’s bed— clearly the tall tiefling got her horns tangled enough in the precious ingredients to call for a ceasefire. In comparison, Astarion’s roommates are organization gods.
Astarion goes to Wren’s bed, where her trunk sits open at the foot. He peers inside, just to look. It’s disorganized, as usual, and he doesn’t really see anything out of place. He glances back at the door, listening for footsteps, and decides in this silence that now’s his best chance to snoop out her secrets.
So he goes for it. He sifts through her stuff— alchemical supplies, mostly, plus the lyre and an absolute treasure trove of clothes and jewelry. He’s not entirely sure what he’s looking for, to be perfectly honest, but he knows he’ll know it when he sees it. The alarm bells of his instincts have been ringing around her for a while now, and he’s nearly certain there’s some missing piece to this puzzle. He just… Doesn’t know what it is yet!
Ugh. And her things tell him nothing.
Well, they tell him plenty— she makes potions, she loves flowers and shiny jewelry and soft clothing… But it’s nothing he didn’t already know.
So after he’s carefully replaced her things back in their proper places, he turns his eyes to the two books on her bedside table. He creeps over and flips through her current read— it's dog-eared all over the place. Apparently she's on Chapter 8: Oozes and Goos. Setting the book aside, he reaches for his last salvation: the journal.
He flips to the most recent pages, past drawing after drawing after drawing of herself with the face scribbled out. He furrows his brow, reading the latest passage.
Little ex-infiltrator, craven spy, lost little lamb from the Feywild slaughter. Gale says be kinder to her, Astarion says it will pass, Karlach says to focus on what I’m grateful for, Lae’zel says I am weak, Halsin says to focus on the breath, Shadowheart says it’s normal, Wyll says I can always talk to him if I need to. But I can’t do any of those things, I’m not even here. But I am. But I’m not.
I don’t know. Regardless, reality stays the same.
Crimson grass
Grass, obviously— No use from what I can see, but it thrives in the shadow curse. Unlike me, HAHA
Appearance: Essentially long, narrow leaves growing from a rooted base. Tends to intertwine root systems with one another. Deep red in color.
Texture: Feels like grass. Nothing special. Turns black and crumbles when dried.
Smell: Smells like old blood. Not in a good way.
Taste: Bitter, nasty.
“Looking for this?”
Astarion startles, nearly dropping the journal as he turns to Shadowheart, leaning casually against the closed door. She’s holding up a folded piece of paper, a smug smile on her face.
“What are you doing here?”
“Could say the same to you.” She eyes Astarion as he carefully sets the journal aside. He narrows his eyes at the paper in her hand.
“How much?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Make an offer.”
“A gold tenpiece?”
She scoffs. “I don’t want money.”
Astarion eyes Wren’s chest. “How about this,” he purrs. “I know where Wren put your circlet. I could… Steal it back for you, hm?”
“How does Wren even have my circlet?”
“Long story.” He waves her off. “That’s my offer. Deal?”
Shadowheart smirks. “Deal.”
Quickly, Astarion reopens Wren’s trunk and retrieves Shadowheart’s circlet from the jewelry stash. The two trade their goods simultaneously, neither giving the other a chance to back out. Shadowheart smugly fastens the circlet around her head while Astarion excitedly opens the page.
It’s a blank piece of paper.
“Gods damn it!” he hisses, ripping the page apart in his claws. But then he stills, watching the pieces fall to the floor— what if it was invisible ink?
“Serves you right!” Shadowheart laughs. “What were you even looking for, anyways?”
“I don’t really know,” Astarion admits, kicking the shreds aside. “But… I don’t know. Don’t you just feel like something’s off about Wren?”
“Off? How so?”
“Just…” He furrows his brow. “The pieces aren’t adding up. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s just something she’s not telling us.”
“Not telling you maybe,” Shadowheart drones, turning to leave. “Perhaps you just haven’t asked the right questions.” She opens the door, causing Wren to stumble from having her ear pressed to its surface.
“Told you he’d be in here,” she tells Wren. “Now pay up.”
Wren rolls her eyes and reaches up to remove her onyx earrings, dropping them into Shadowheart’s waiting palm. Shadowheart leaves them to it, merrily plugging her new earrings into her ears.
Astarion and Wren regard each other, a new tense friction in the air. He could ask her what’s going on, he could ask her to explain herself… But he doesn’t
Instead he just says, “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Wren scoffs. She’s in a drab gray dress, buttoned in from her neck to her knees.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” She retorts, reaching over to him. Astarion, slightly amused, allows her to button up his shirt. The warmth of her hands so near is neck is almost exhilarating— Astarion can feel her rapid pulse in her fingertips.
He rolls his eyes and undoes her work with one hand. Top two buttons undone, just to show a little chest.
She scowls and buttons it again.
"Will you stop it?" He huffs. He unbuttons the shirt and slaps her hands away as she reaches for him. "I like it this way."
"You know the point of 'laying low' is to look plain, right?"
"This is plain! It's the simplest shirt I have!"
"The shirt is fine, it's the man that's in it that's anything but plain." She tilts her head, a teasing grin twitching at her lips. "You just can't help but draw the eye, can you?"
"Darling, look at me." He flips his hair and gives a flirtatious little wink. "I'm beautiful. Can't help it."
"Suppose not. It must be so inconvenient for you, looking like that."
His mood sours a bit. Surely if he weren't so good looking, perhaps he would've been spared some of the tortures. But he shoves the feelings aside to lean in close to her, to gaze into her eyes and listen as her heart picks up the pace.
"What, are you jealous? You know you're also beautiful enough to get away with being a little more distracting, right?" He playfully thrums her lip with his pointer finger, trailing it down her neck to unbutton her collar. She bats his hand away, her cheeks flushing.
"I'm not beautiful," she says, quietly buttoning up her collar again. "I'm just me."
"Can't you be both?"
"Impossible."
Astarion snorts. "you make no sense sometimes. Look in the mirror, darling— you're gorgeous."
Wren glances in the mirror on wall and scowls. It’s less damaged than the one in Astarion’s room— he can just make out her features in its tarnished surface.
“Looks like a little bitch,” she mutters.
Astarion places his hands on her shoulders, gently guiding her to face the mirror. The cloth puckers under his hands, looking a little silly in the reflection.
"Oh, don't be so cruel, that’s my friend you’re talking to,” he clucks in her ear. “She may be an absolute weirdo, sure, but I won’t stand that rudeness. Try again."
"... Hello, you," she says quietly.
“Better. Now say something nice.”
Her stance softens.
“You have wonderful taste in music.”
“Close enough,” Astarion grins, giving her a playful shove. “Now it’s my turn.”
She snorts, turning to look at him. “If you wanted a compliment, you could’ve just asked.”
“Oh? So you’re saying…” he steps back and gives a little turn, allowing her to take in the whole of him. “You see something worth complimenting?”
She hums thoughtfully. “Your outfit looks like shadow woven into fabric.”
“Yes, but how’s it look on me?”
“It looks like… Clothes?”
“You can do better than that, surely.”
She flushes, looking away. “You look like you’d make a great dancing partner,” she finally says.
Astarion tuts. “We really need to work on your compliments.”
“What did you want me to say?”
An evil grin crosses his face as he leans in, his eyes piercing hers. “You’re ravishing,” he purrs, “you’re beautiful, you’re stunning, you’re gorgeous, and I just can’t keep my eyes off you.” The flush spreads across the entirety of her face, the sound of her heart fluttering grows loud in Astarion’s ears. Gods, she’s adorable. Astarion smirks as he backs off and gives her a little flick on the nose. “See? Easy.”
Wren clears her throat, averting her eyes for a moment to regain her composure. Then she turns back to him and says, as monotonously as possible, “You’re ravishing. You’re beautiful, you’re stunning, you’re gorgeous, and I just can’t keep my eyes off you.” A little smile twitches on her mouth. “And… you smell good?”
“Why, thank you for noticing!” Astarion puffs up, nonchalantly examining his nails. “About time I managed to wrangle a proper compliment out of you!”
Wren starts to laugh as he saunters out the door, feeling quite pleased with himself.
He’s still got it.
Once their little group’s finally deemed themselves ready to go, they move to infiltrate Moonrise Towers. Seems everyone’s dressed in a similar manner— dark, inconspicuous clothes, minimal fanfare outside of their armor. Halsin stays behind, preferring to tend to Thaniel and insisting he’d just get them caught.
The travel is easy, relatively— takes less than half a day to reach Moonrise. Between Isobel and Wren, the group has enough moonlight magic to keep the shades off them in their entirety.
Once they finally reach the towers, Astarion has to admit he’s a little impressed. The fortress is massive, its dark gray stone walls extending far into the shadows above. The whole place is shrouded in darkness, like a swirling fog stuck to the building itself. Even through the old, crumbling battle damage, the intricacy of the build still manages to make itself known despite the darkness. The carvings of the turrets, the moon motifs on the old stained glass, the artistic mastery of the gargoyles… Yes, Astarion actually quite likes the design.
Getting in is easy.
They’re “True Souls” after all— anyone who’s anyone can recognize the tadpoles in their skulls. They’re deemed important enough for a formal introduction to Kethric Thorm, who leaves them to be assigned their duties by his adviser, Disciple Z’rell.
Astarion knows he should be paying attention. This is important, after all, and technically interesting. But he finds himself distracted by the architecture of the place. While Disciple Z’rell goes on and on about helping someone named Balthazar retrieve some artifact, Astarion starts to wander off. He creeps quietly around the throne room, to run his hand along the smooth stone of the walls and examine the shadows in the rafters. If he could just get up there, that would be a great place to hide…
“We understand, Disciple,” Wyll says. “We will head out first thing tomorrow, after a proper rest.”
“See to it that you do,” Z’rell says, her authoritative tone echoing through the chamber. “I look forward to your success.” With a crisp nod of her head, she leaves the room, her shoes clicking sharply on stone.
Astarion takes his opportunity to sneak up on Wren, who’s watching the Disciple leave with furrowed brow and pursed lips. He pokes his fingers hard into her waist, causing her to yelp. A silvery mass of spiderweb suddenly spreads across the ground below, completely enveloping the furniture and wrapping itself all the way up to the knee. Wren rips her legs free of the web and hisses at him, punching him in the shoulder somewhat hard.
“Don’t do that! You could get hurt!” She scolds.
“Oh, but it’s so fun!” Astarion pouts playfully. “How else am I supposed to make you squeal?”
“Certainly you already know the answer to that,” she says.
“Can you two stop flirting for five minutes?” Shadowheart drones.
“We need to discuss our next steps,” Wyll says seriously, lifting his shoes to examine the web covering them. Carefully, he peels the silvery threads off his trousers. “Let’s go outside,” he says carefully as a servant enters the room, sees the mess, and deeply sighs.
“I could do with some fresh air,” Gale agrees, stumbling a bit as his shoes stick to the ground. “And less web.”
Karlach easily rips herself free and stomps through the web. She gives Astarion a good whap on the side of his head with her tail as she passes, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. Astarion ignores her, just grateful she hasn’t set the whole place on fire already.
As a group, they travel quietly through the throne room, then through the grand entryway, then out the front gates. No one says a word, vividly aware of the eyes on them as they pass goblins and bugbears and humanoid cultists alike. Try as they may to blend in, Astarion’s certain the seven of them inevitably stick out amongst the rabble.
In the courtyard, there isn’t much in the way of guards other than a few patrolling ghouls. They’re easy to avoid— their little group just gathers under a hanging moonlantern to talk.
“Look at us, putting the ‘spy’ in spider,” Wren says, nudging Gale with her elbow. “We should’ve disguised ourselves as Drow, eh?”
“How about you focus on the mission?” He scolds, pushing her away.
Wyll nods, taking lead. “Look,” he says sternly, “we need to keep a low profile and get as much information as we can. I propose we split up into smaller groups and cover more ground— we have all night to snoop.”
“I love the word snoop,” Karlach says. “It’s just so silly sounding.”
“I’m assuming you have a plan?” Lae’zel huffs, looking entirely annoyed.
Wyll nods. “Astarion, Wren— you two go and scout out the top floor. Try to get into Z’rell’s office, see if she has any plans written down, any spare keys, anything that could help the effort. Make sure you remain unseen,” Wyll says, very seriously. “Shadowheart, you and Gale investigate the first floor, try to make allies amongst these people, look for supplies we can use as our own. Karlach, Lael’zel, and I will spread out and search the ground floor and docks. We’re looking for prisoners, secrets, anything that could help our assault. Start from the outside, look for weak points. And do not kill anyone.” He glares at Astarion. “Understood?”
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to leave those two alone together?” Shadowheart says.
“Wren’s the closest thing to a moral compass that fangs has,” Karlach tells her.
“Plus I’m hard to catch!” Wren says, proudly.
“I beg to differ,” Astarion says, tossing her a smug look. “At least in my experience.”
Wren sticks out her tongue at him. “Fine,” she says, “I’m easy to catch but hard to hold.”
“Now I have to disagree on that!” Karlach grins, pouncing on her and scooping her into a hug. Wren wriggles and hisses in defiance.
“It’s metaphorical, damn it!” She wails, flailing uselessly in Karlach’s arms. “Why can’t you all just let me say one cool thing?!”
“Have to keep you humble somehow,” Shadowheart says, watching Karlach set Wren down and rustle her hair.
“Can we please focus?” Wyll says, a little impatiently.
“Yes,” Lae’zel nods. “We mustn’t be distracted.”
Gale gives a very ruffled Wren a spool of copper wire. “Message me if you find anything,” he says sternly. “Keep Astarion in check.”
Astarion huffs, rolling his eyes as Shadowheart snorts.
“It’ll be fine,” Wren assures them, shoving the wire into her alchemy pouch. “Subterfuge and discretion are my specialty.” She grins. “Last one in place is a rotten egg!” In a flash of mist, she instantly teleports herself onto a balcony on the second floor. She leans over the railing, sticking out her tongue at the group below.
“To work, then,” Wyll sighs. He looks at Astarion. “Don’t make me regret trusting you two.”
“Oh, we’ve got this,” Astarion drones. “I’ll keep her in check.” He turns his back to the group, analyzing the wall. There’s a clump of dead vining plants he could use to climb.
“Why do I suddenly get a bad feeling in my stomach?” he hears Wyll quietly say as he scrambles up the side of the wall.
The balcony upon which Wren waits is nothing special. Stone walls, wooden door, iron lock. It’s nothing Astarion hasn’t seen before.
Wren smiles as he climbs over the railing, her expression excited and warm. She gestures to the lock.
“I can’t open this,” she says, all innocence in her tone. “Can you?”
“Easy,” Astarion smirks, reaching into his pack to retrieve his lockpicking kit. He kneels down before the door, keeping his chin high and back straight as Wren watches him pick the lock. It should be an easy lock, all things considered— it looks like a simple pick-and-go. But…
Gods damn it. The pick breaks.
Astarion huffs, reaching down for another pick. He tries again.
"Astarion? Can I ask you something?” Her voice is soft, almost nervous. “…About us?”
“You always pick the best times to chat,” he sighs. The pick breaks again. Damn it. “Go ahead.”
"What are we, to you?
He stills, a sudden shudder writhing up his spine. "Oh, I don't know,” he says nonchalantly. He retrieves another pick, focusing on the lock instead instead of her. “But isn't it nice? Not to know?”
"You don't know?
He sighs. "You're not a victim, you're not a target, you’re not just some night it's better to forget. But then... Whatever could you be?” He glances at her. Her expression is contemplative. “...Why? What are we to you?
"Easy! We're friends! You're my pal, my second helping of dinner, my partner in crime, my shadow on the moonless night. Need I go on?"
"I... don’t quite think I know how to be friends just yet," Astarion gives a slightly nervous laugh.
"Let's keep it simple, right? Let's just do what feels good. Be us friends, lovers, whatever. We can both be agreed that we are choosing to be here. We’re on our side."
“Our side,” he grins. “I love the sound of that.”
“Friends first, before anything else!”
He pauses, to really look at her. To take in the warmth of her smile, to take in the warmth inside his chest.
“Friends first, before anything else,” he agrees, nodding once.
She gestures to him, then to the lock. “Now hurry up. It’s cold out here.” She shivers, teeth chattering.
He rolls his eyes, but there’s still a little smile. It fades quickly as he becomes frustrated, his pick getting caught in the complexity of the tumblers. This damn lock.
Wren peers over the balcony’s edge. “The others have already gone inside,” she reports. “We’re lagging behind!”
“I’m going as fast as I can!” He hisses. “This isn’t as easy as it looks!”
“Yeah, right.”
“Do you want to try?” He steps away from the door, gesturing with a pick in his hand. “Be my guest!”
“No, no, I just want to complain.”
“Then be quiet and let me focus.”
Astarion gets about two whole minutes of blissful silence before she starts making noise again.
Wren extracts her bundle of copper wire. She flicks the end as if to make a Message spell, but no magic smokes from it— instead, she makes a little buzzing sound, as if the wire itself were ringing. “Hold on.” She holds it up to her ear. “Hello? Yeah? Oh, yeah, he’s still working on it.”
“Shut up.” He curses under his breath as another pick breaks.
“I know,” Wren says quietly into the wire, “this lock seems rather picky.”
Astarion feels his ear twitch in annoyance as the tumblers finally click into place. He whirls around to face Wren, triumphant.
“How’s that for picky?”
“And that’s why they call him One Pick Astarion,” she says, shoving the wire back into her alchemy pouch. “You’ve got bad lock today— we were saved by your dexterous hands.”
“Darling,” he purrs, “you of all people should know how skillful my hands are.”
“Well, you—”
Their banter ceases as they hear footsteps coming from a tiny ajar window to the left of the balcony. Astarion grabs Wren’s hand and drags her into the shadows.
“Someone there?” the guard calls out.
Wren and Astarion look at each other, panicked.
Astarion gestures to her— Do something!
Wren extends her hands to the side— What would you have me do?!
I don’t know! Astarion pantomimes, Anything!
“Hello?” the guard says again, getting impatient. His footsteps grow ever nearer. There’s a sound of keys jingling.
“Do I need your permission to be on the balcony, soldier?” Wren growls to the window in a perfect imitation of Z’rell’s voice. “I’m thinking. Leave me be.”
The guard stutters, dropping the keys onto the ground with a clang. “Right. Apologies, Disciple.” He quickly retreats, his footsteps jingling as he fumbles to shove his keys away.
Astarion looks excitedly to Wren. “What was that?” he whispers, “That was spot-on!”
Wren shrugs. “One of my many talents.” Together, they quietly open the door and push further into the room.
It’s a dark and relatively disused place— although the hard wooden floors are well-swept and the fireplace is lit, it’s clear that no one deems it necessary to actually sleep here anymore. A comfortable-looking bed sits on the far wall between two stained-glass windows depicting Moonrise Towers, the soft blue-gray light streaming in to coat the filigreed undead dog laying atop its velvety crimson bedcovers. In the center of the room, a wartable sits spread with maps and an assortment of documents. Astarion takes a tentative step forward, tiptoeing towards the table. Wren, however, manages to find the only creaking floorboard in the entire room, causing the undead dog to snap to attention, barreling at them with a skeleton snarl.
Astarion reaches for his daggers, teeth bared instinctively in response, but Wren pushes him aside. She holds out a hand and the dog gives her a sniff. Astarion wonders how an undead construct such as this can even smell— the thing’s nothing more than bones and some gold machinery holding it together. But the vestige of a tail gives a little wag, and Wren tentatively reaches out to give the dog a little scratch behind where the ears used to be. The tail wagging increases, and seemingly satisfied, the dog retreats back to its place on the bed.
Wren gives Astarion a little grin, waving him over to follow as she goes to the wartable. She starts grabbing documents and quickly scanning them before rolling them up and shoving them in her pack. Astarion quickly follows suit.
"Do I start calling you Mockingbird now?" Astarion says playfully, eying a map outlining war paths and locations of camps. He pockets it.
"What?"
"You know, because of the mimickry! You have to admit it's an unusual talent."
"No more unusual than being able to pick locks!"
"... I suppose that's true."
Astarion glances over at her. She’s examining another map, this one outlining all the major trade routes of the Sword Coast. She’s holding it upside down. With a smirk, Astarion reaches over and flips it right side up for her.
“Humor me,” he says, “can you imitate anyone?”
“Just about.” She’s starting to look a little uncomfortable, starting to shift on her feet as she rolls the map up and puts it away.
“…Can you do Lae’zel?”
Wren narrows her eyes. “Chk,” she says in Lae’zel’s voice, “of course I can do Lae’zel. Githyanki have no weaknesses.”
“What about Gale?”
She tilts her head, finger pointed up in the air to gesture about as she talks. “Ah, but a Gale impression is simple! One must only be verbose and knowledgeable on magic. Two things, I may add, I do quite well.” She leans in, imitating his smile. “But far be it from me to explain the intricacies of a Gale impersonation to you, Astarion. There’s no need to spell it out.” She grins, switching back to her normal voice. “You know, cause he’s a wizard?”
“Oh, I got it. It just wasn’t funny.” Astarion nudges her. “Suppose that makes it a spot-on Gale impression, then?”
“Oh? So you’re saying I’m usually funny?”
“I’m not saying that at all! Not being funny is just one of the many attributes you two share.”
She huffs, crossing her arms. “I’m hilarious.”
“At the very least you’re charming, darling,” Astarion assures. “Can we get on with it?”
Seemingly appeased, they both loot the place in a comfortable silence. Once done, they continue forward in tandem, sticking to quiet, empty hallways just behind patrolling guards. Astarion constantly checks over his shoulder to make sure Wren’s still behind him, reaching back to grab her hand and drag her into whatever shadows will best hide them. She slows him down, certainly— if it were just him up here, he could’ve cleared out this whole place by now, no question. But there’s something of a comfort to having her watching his back, to feeling her warm pulse through her fingers, and to hearing her fluttering heartbeat just a few steps behind him. He lets the hand go as they approach an important-looking door, glancing about for any guards before he presses his ear to the wood.
On just the other side, Astarion can hear Z’rell sigh and settle into a creaking wooden chair. He peeks through the keyhole— sure enough, Z’rell sits at a desk on the far side of the room, surrounded by books and maps are reading by cold lamplight. A fire crackles merrily to her left, throwing Z’rell’s massive collections of tomes and scrolls into a cheery light that disrupts the otherwise carefully cultivated dreary atmosphere of this place. Z’rell looks frustrated, almost desperate, as she pours over her reading material, the handaxe on her hip clinking against the chair as she bounces her leg.
Carefully, Astarion withdraws and waves his hand to signal Wren keep a lookout. She nods, turning her back to him to watch the hall as he silently picks the lock. It pops open easily, and he taps Wren on the shoulder to signal they’ll enter.
"Alright, here's what we're going to do,” he whispers, “I'm going to crack open the door and hit the lamp on Z’rell’s desk. This will cause her to turn around to look, so then you’ll rush in and hit her with Hold Person. We close the door behind us, creep in, knock her out, boom. Z’rell taken care of and no murders committed."
Wren nods, raising her hands. The magic is sparkling on her fingertips "Got it. Go,” she whispers.
Astarion creaks open the door takes aim with his bow through the crack, breathing in deeply. He releases the arrow right as his tadpole wriggles.
And he misses.
The arrow is the luckiest shot in any other circ*mstance, didn’t even rip Z’rell’s high collar. A perfect neck shot, pierced clean through the spinal cord.
But in this particular instance?
Bad lock, indeed.
Z’rell collapses, gurgling on her own blood. Wren and Astarion shoot each other panicked looks as Disciple Z’rell takes her last breath. Together, they rush into the room to assess the damage, Astarion taking caution to close and lock the door behind them.
“Oh f*ck,” Wren gasps, “you killed her!”
“Well, sh*t. Great shot though, right?”
“Augh, what do we do?! We killed Disciple Z’rell!” Wren is pacing now, leaving tracks in the blood. “We weren’t supposed to kill anyone!” Z’rell’s body twitches at her, still holding on to dear life. Astarion kicks the reaching arms away.
“Calm down!” He hisses, stilling Wren with his hands on her shoulders. He looks her in the eye, his tone all calmness and assurance. “This needn’t necessarily be a bad thing. Can we cover it up, somehow? That leaves one less person for us to kill later.”
Z’rell gives one last gurgle before succumbing to her fate.
“Yeah, yeah! Maybe if we prop her up? Like she’s sleeping at the desk?”
“No, too heavy and too much blood. Oh! What if we take her crossbow, hold on—” Astarion removes a decorative crossbow hanging on the wall and tucks it into the corpse’s hand. He positions her arm as he says, “— and we point it back at her. Like she just couldn’t take it anymore, right?”
“It’s clearly an arrow in her neck. The hole’s too big to be a bolt.”
“Right. Well, maybe—” His eyes catch a bit of movement. He squeals and drops the arm as a tadpole wriggles out of Z’rell’s ear with a squishing sound. Wren rushes forward and stomps the thing dead in Z’rell’s growing puddle of blood.
“Stars above, Astarion! What are we going to do!” Wren whines, her breath coming out in little panicked puffs. Magic is beginning to crackle in her hair, threatening to make the situation so much worse. “Wyll is going to kill us!”
“Calm down!” Astarion commands. “It will be alright.” She looks to him, eyes wide and hopeful and panicked all at once. She looks to be on the verge of tears.
“How?!” she demands. “How in the world will this be alright?”
“I’ll tell you how,” Astarion huffs. “We’re going to make this little problem disappear.”
“What, like… Get rid of the evidence?”
“Exactly.”
“Won’t someone notice she’s gone?”
“This is Moonrise Towers! People go missing every day, right?”
“Right.”
The two look at each other. Wordlessly, they get to work.
They start with removing Z’rell’s clothes piece by piece and tossing them into the fire. The handaxe and metal Absolutionist pin keeping Z’rell’s fur cloak in place get set aside, to deal with later.
“This is such a nice fur,” Wren mourns as she tosses the cloak into the fire. “It’s really a shame.”
“We can get you an even nicer one once we get to the city,” Astarion says, unlacing Z’rell’s boots and maneuvering them off the corpse’s feet. The pool of blood is growing bigger and bigger— Astarion figures they’ll have to do quite the cleanup once this is over. The smell of her blood is a little fetid, a little sour. He’s learned over these months that half-orc tends to taste gamey.
But… No. It isn’t just her blood he’s smelling. He wrinkles his nose, standing to follow the rotted stench he’s picking up. There’s a door on the other side of the office, hidden deep in shadow and locked with an expensive-looking mechanism. Astarion kneels down, giving the air a sniff as he picks the lock. Yes, this is definitely the source.
“Astarion?” Wren calls, tossing Z’rell’s shirt and pants into the flames. “What’s that?”
“Come look,” he calls back, slowly opening the door. Wren creaks up beside him just in time to catch the full whiff of what lays beyond.
The putrid miasma of old blood and rotted flesh wafts over them, causing the pair to gag in unison. The room beyond is a bloodbath, covered in severed body parts and blood and medical equipment. A massive bookcase stands opposite an unkempt bed on a dais, the only two spotless locations in the entire room.
“Stars above,” Wren gasps, “this bitch lived like this?”
“I don’t think this is Z’rell’s room,” Astarion says, stepping in to eye the bookcase. It seems immaculate, save for a single book protruding slightly on the top shelf. It’s just out of reach.
“You know…” Wren muses, eying a wooden chest. “This would be a great place to hide a body, methinks.” She opens the chest— it’s filled with old, bloody organs. She dry heaves and quickly shuts the lid.
“I think you’re right,” Astarion says, making his way over to an operating table and shoving the half-vivisected corpse on the floor. Wasteful. He starts the process of dragging the bloody furniture over to the bookshelf. “Why don’t you get started on chopping her up?”
“What? Me? Why do I have to chop her up?”
“Because I’m busy,” Astarion says, table finally in place. He climbs atop its slippery surface to reach up and grab the book. The book doesn’t move out of place, but he hears a distinctive click. Hm. Something’s missing.
Astarion can hear Wren muttering in Sylvan as she leaves, can hear her start the process of chopping through bones and flesh. He assumes she’s using Z’rell’s own handaxe to do the job, by the sound of it. Briefly, he worries that someone will come to investigate the noise of limbs being hacked to pieces, but apparently the guards of Moonrise know better than to disturb Z'rell's office when they hear violence on the other side of the door.
So he looks around, sweeping his discerning gaze slowly over the shadows and the gore— just to the right of the bookshelf, there’s a suspiciously empty stone plinth, almost shaped like a basin. It’s caked in dried blood.
Astarion looks back to the original book— it’s a copy of The Tell-Tale Heart. Hm…
“Astarion,” Wren gasps, heaving a severed leg into the room and tossing it aside. “Help me, damn it!”
Wordlessly, he retreats from his task to gather the remains of Z’rell’s remains. Wren’s done quite a number on them— the corpse is clumsily hacked into unrecognizable, mutilated pieces. Even her severed head has been cleft into three distinct parts— a jawbone and two cranial hemispheres. Gooey brain matter and broken teeth litter the blood-soaked floor. It’s going to be a hell of a chore to clean this up. With a heave, Astarion helps Wren lift what’s left of the torso and toss it onto a spare operating table. One by one, they scatter the body bits throughout the room, until Z’rell is no more than mere viscera amongst the other gore.
Wren’s sweating and panting with the effort, absolutely coated in blood, and Astarion’s not looking much better. He wipes moisture from his brow as he saunters over to the torso and stabs into it, forcing his dagger to crack through ribs and tissue until he can wrench it open. He reaches his hand in— the body’s still slightly warm— and moves the lungs out of the way to saw out the heart. Then, triumphantly, he takes the bloody heart and places it into the empty stone plinth.
“Kind of overkill, don’t you think?” Wren says, watching him climb atop the table again to pull on the book. This time, the click is more substantial, and the bookshelf slides into the wall to reveal a dark, secret room beyond.
“What can I say,” Astarion purrs, climbing down from the table and kicking it out of the way, “I’m a master at stealing hearts.”
Wren joins him, looking a little green in the gills as the stench of fey blood fills the air. The room beyond is relatively unimpressive, small and made entirely of stone. There’s a torture rack, surgical instruments, buckets of blood, the usual fare. But on the table, there’s several discarded moon lanterns, a glowing necromatic ritual circle, and a massive rotted pile of pixie corpses. They’re mangled beyond recognition, their tiny faces bloated and contorted into permanent screams. Their eyes are bubbling out of their sockets, with flies buzzing around the pile to feast on their gooey black blood.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Wren says, gagging.
“Do it out there!” Astarion hisses, pushing her out of the room.
She stumbles away and vomits into the organ chest while Astarion investigates. He doesn’t quite understand the way this ritual circle is supposed to work. Clearly, this is a Gale problem. But it seems to him that this is where moon lanterns are made, one way or the other… Perhaps they can use this.
He eyes the torture rack, but there’s nothing really of note. All this work for just one little circle, it’s kind of ridiculous when you think about it. He leaves the room behind, emerging to find Wren quietly talking into her smoking copper wire as she wobbles back into Z’rell’s office. Astarion catches her clammy, pale arm and drags her to the chair.
“An alchemist? Oh, alright I—“ she burps. “Yes, Gale, everything is fine here. No, no new discoveries. Yep, totally…” She heaves, splattering the already bloody floor with bile. “Augh.” She holds the wire out for Astarion, doubled over. “You talk to him.”
Astarion picks up the wire, sending a Message to Gale. “She’s sick,” he says, “so now you have to talk to me.”
“What is going on up there?”
“Oh, not much. We found this ritual site in Balthazar’s bedroom you may be interested in.” He watches Wren drink half a bottle of water before pouring the remainder all over her head. Thin, watery blood drips off her curls and chin.
“How are we supposed to get in there? Last I recall, Z’rell kept close watch and I don’t climb walls.”
“Oh, don’t fuss,” Astarion tuts, “we already cleared the way for you.”
A pause.
“Did you kill someone?”
sh*t.
“Sorry, wire’s almost gone. Catch up later!” Astarion quickly tosses the wire back to Wren, who shoves it in her bag.
“Astarion? Astarion, did you kill someone?” Gale’s voice demands in his ear.
“We should make ourselves scarce,” Wren says, weakly. “I think we’ve gotten all we need from here.”
“Mystra help us," Gale sighs, “come downstairs. Meet us outside.”
After a long, arduous cleaning and creeping through the shadows, the pair finally manages to convene outside. Karlach is first to see them and she bursts out laughing.
“What did you two do?!” She chortles, “You’re covered in blood!”
Astarion looks at his hands. They tried to wash off as best they could, but… Yes, there was a lot of blood. Eventually they just gave up.
“This is just… tomato sauce,” Wren says. “We went to the kitchens, helped out with dinner. Hope you like spaghetti.”
“Absolutely no one is buying that,” Gale says, marching up. “What the hells have you two been up to?”
“It was an accident—” Wren says.
“— The Disciple is going on a little vacation for a while,” Astarion explains.
“Oh gods, you murdered Z’rell?!” Wyll hisses. He glances to the patrolling ghouls, but they didn’t seem to hear. “You understand how incredibly not according to plan that is, right?”
“To be fair,” Astarion argues, “it was actually an accident.”
“We just can’t help it,” Wren pouts, “we’re too competent at murder.”
“Not helping, darling,” Astarion murmurs to her out of the side of his mouth.
Wyll exhales sharply through his nose, pinching at the bridge. “Alright. Fine. What’s done is done. Please tell me you at least got rid of the body.”
“We did,” Wren says, “and it actually gave me an idea.”
“Oh gods.” Wyll sounds almost defeated as he says, “What. What is it?”
“We should take everyone out one by one and throw them into Balthazar’s room. It’s already super nasty, and we have the only key. We could block the door, even.”
Wyll stares at her, blankly. “You understand we’re trying to not draw attention to our hostile intent, right?”
“I think it’s a great plan,” Astarion says, “Work from the top down, pick them off and make it easier for ourselves in the long run.”
“Let’s put it to a vote!”
“I think,” Shadowheart says carefully, “you two should invest in cleaning up and making some introductions. Wren, did Gale tell you we met a blood alchemist? I think you two could potentially have a lot to talk about.”
Wren rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she huffs. “But I still think it’ll be easier to just murder them all.”
“Keep your voice down!” Wyll hisses. He glances at the patrolling ghouls, but they haven’t seemed to notice anything amiss. “Whatever happened to discretion, hm?”
“Quiet killing is discretion,” Astarion says. He grabs Wren’s blood-slicked arms in his. “Come on, darling, let’s go clean up to please the rabble.”
One chilly riverside bath later, a soaked Astarion and Wren make their way up to the first floor to meet this so-called alchemist. She’s a short little thing, and introduces herself as Araj Oblodra.
“I’m Wren,” Wren says. “I hear you’re an alchemist?”
“I am,” says Araj, tilting her chin up as she speaks. “I’ve heard the True Soul Wren is also proficient in alchemy.”
“I am!” Wren grins. “What a pleasure to meet you, Araj!”
Distantly, Astarion remembers reading somewhere about House Oblodra being in disrepair. Or disgraced. Whatever it is, little Araj here certainly has no foothold in Menzoberranzan.
He watches, unimpressed, as Araj and Wren excitedly delve into the art of sanguineous potion making. Wren happily pricks her finger and drips her blood into a glass vial, following Araj to the alchemy stand to watch the drow mix up some foul-smelling concoction. She hands it to Wren, who takes the draught in one long gulp, grimacing.
“Wow,” she huffs, “that’s…”
“Phenomenal?” Araj smiles slightly. “Exceptional?”
“I was going to say disgusting.”
“Taste was never a priority,” Araj says calmly. “It’s a small price to pay for all of your very best traits in a bottle. Although your blood… Is unusual for an elf.”
Astarion, meanwhile, takes the opportunity to start snooping again. He peers into bottles, opening chests and barrels alike to check the contents. This drow certainly uses a lot of that dried crimson grass.
Wren shrugs. “I get that a lot. I appreciate you showing me this, Araj.”
“Before you go,” Araj reaches out, stopping Wren as she begins to leave. “We have one more thing to discuss.” She gestures to Astarion, who freezes under her gaze. “Your friend. He’s a vampire, is he not? Or at least one of their spawn.”
“Oh, we’re all friends under the Absolute,” Astarion assures, sauntering over to Wren’s side. “I won’t bite.”
“Oh, I’d prefer if you did,” Araj grins. She turns to Wren. “I assume he belongs to you?”
And all of the sudden, ice floods Astarion’s body. He recognizes what this is— a trade. For him. Gods damn it all.
Wren snorts, incredulous. “Excuse you, he’s his own person,” she says, shifting her stance to place her hand on her hip.
“Oh, I’m sure he really believes that,” Araj smirks. “Do you have a name, spawn?”
“It’s Astarion,” he says without thinking. He catches himself mid-sentence, reeling. “B-But hold on!”
“Astarion,” Araj purrs. The name sounds so awful coming from this vile woman’s lips. “I’ve long dreamt of being bit by a vampire, ever since I was a little girl. I can even compensate you,” she offers, “with a potion of legendary power. It’s not for sale by any other means.”
Astarion glances to Wren. “Can you believe this?” He says, “She wants to be bitten!”
“It is intimate and romantic sometimes,” Wren nods. “And she is a blood alchemist. Makes perfect sense to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Astarion says firmly to Araj. “The answer is no.”
Araj scoffs. “Excuse me?” the vile drow turns to Wren. “Can’t you do something about your obstinate charge?”
No, no no. Not this. Not now, not after he thought that he finally made a friend.
But who is Wren to resist a deal? When has she ever said no to a powerful potion?
Astarion feels the strike of a match inside him, a flicker of fear as he watches Wren’s body shift. He braces himself, preparing to swallow his disgust and push through it, to allow himself to used once more for someone else’s whims.
But… she doesn’t turn to him, no.
She doesn’t demand he put out, doesn’t manipulate him into surrender.
Instead, she straightens up, tilting her chin upwards to look down upon the drow despite them being nearly the same height.
“He said no,” Wren hisses, “were it not for the protection of the Absolute, I’d do the world a favor and drain you of your blood myself. Bitch.”
Araj huffs, looking entirely offended. “He’s just a spawn!” She protests, “Surely, you can—”
But Wren’s wholly ignoring her. she turns to Astarion, expression fierce. “Let’s go,” she mutters darkly, “before I lose my temper properly.”
Astarion blinks, stunned, watching her stomp off. He glances back at the dumbstruck drow before following.
“Wait— Wren?”
She stops in the hall, turning to him.
“… Thank you,” he says quietly.
She gives him a befuddled look.
“For what..?"
“For what you said! It would’ve been so easy to just give her what she wants.” He gestures back to Araj’s lab. “Get over that moment of disgust, force myself through… The same as always, you know?”
She just looks confused.
“But I don’t give a sh*t about what she wants?” she says. “You didn’t want to do it.”
Augh. Astarion feels his dead heart ache.
Gods damn it all, how does she do this to him?!
“Exactly,” he says quietly, “so thank you.”
She gives him the most befuddled look. “You’re welcome?" She snorts. “You’re so weird sometimes.”
“Like you’re one to talk,” he huffs. He grabs her by the hand and drags her away to the shadows. “Come on, let’s go spill some blood. To hells with the others and their ‘plans.’”
Wren grins at him. “Let’s try and save Araj for last. I’d like to bleed her out if I can.”
And Astarion laughs, happily dragging her along to climb into the dusty rafters and break some rules.
**********
I can’t take it anymore.
I can’t rest, I can’t relax. My mind won’t quiet, not after today. Too much spy sh*t, too much of feeling like a stranger in my skin, too many dead fey. I close my eyes and see the mangled, rotted corpses of those pixies, I see the guards' bodies that Astarion and I chopped into bits and scattered as miscellaneous gore. Sure, we only managed to get through two or three people before Wyll caught on to our little scheme, but it doesn't feel like nearly enough retribution to this place. I'd take a thousand more furious scoldings from the others if it means I could dismantle this awful place brick by brick. If only I could bleed this cursed tower dry.
The scar on my ankle burns into my bones, makes my toes feel numb beyond numb. Everything else sears in my brain, feeling like I’m cooking my thoughts into a nasty pink paste.
I lay in my bedroll long after the others have gone to sleep, staring at the stone ceilings of Moonrise's barracks. We've all been given a small room to share together, one filled with ruined, rotted wooden furniture and lit by a single tiny window. It's... Not very comfortable, but it's only for one night, so we all just make do and sleep on the floor. But I don’t want to close my eyes, so I don’t. Gale snores in his sleep, Lae’zel breathes softly, Astarion mutters under his breath, Karlach snorts as she flips to the cool side of her bedroll. And there's something slithering just behind the stone walls.
I can’t f*cking take it anymore. There’s just some things I can’t forget, no matter how hard I try. Curses and Court and freedom and scars. It’s all hopeless.
So I rise and silently delve through to my alchemy pouch. I take a draught or two of painkillers, but they don’t work. I pop a bit of tinmask on my tongue, to make the numbness interesting. I drain the rest of my stolen brandy, I toss the flask aside.
When I lay back down, the world spins. The ceiling drips in iridescent colors, the ground beneath me sways like an ocean. I feel like throwing up, but I don’t. I just watch the vestiges of moonlight through the window, I watch the rise and fall of my companions’ breathing as they sleep, I watch dark water occasionally run down the side of the stone wall. My limbs are tingling, but my foot’s still numb. The scar still burns.
Stars above, when will it end? How can I just make these feelings f*cking STOP?
Quiet, cold tears slip down my cheeks. f*ck this awful place. f*ck this awful curse. f*ck this awful, pitiful world.
And f*ck me for ever believing I could make it better.
Bitterly, I close my eyes and allow the world to rock me into a fitful trance.
My dreams take me to Senersedee.
This is my city. My capital city, if one could ever say the Feywild has capitals. The heart of Spring, more like, and the place from which I summoned the Fount for hundreds of harvests.
The landscape of my city twists irreverent of gravity and the physical laws that govern other planes. The earth shifts into almost vining structures from the ground, overgrown with verdant green grasses and flowers alike. The structures dip into the crystal blue river like the roots of great mangrove trees, and my people float atop the calm waters with fluttering wings or on careful tiptoe. Occasionally, a visitor will hire a boat to guide them through the waters, gazing up at my beautiful city as it twists far into the sky, nearly touching clouds.
My palace sits in the very epicenter of Senersedee, woven out of massive cherry trees that drip pink flowers into the waters below. It’s nowhere near as impressive as the palaces of Summer and Winter, of course— but it’s mine. My throne lives here, my servants live here, and most of all, the Fount lives here.
Today is a day like any other. I rise in my bed, a magnificent golden four-poster number canopied in sky-blue gossamer and filled with white, fluffy cloud-like pillows. Above, the Feywild twinkles merrily from between the weaving branches, their delicate pink blossoms floating on the slightly chilly wind that rustles the feathers in my hair.
Val clears her throat, waiting by the silvered mirror embedded in a tree. She’s already got my gown and accesssories laid out— today’s theme is lily of the valley. Slowly, she helps me slither into the short, bell-like skirt and pearl-embroidered top. Together, we lace matching flowers and pearls through my hair until a proper crown is formed, and with a wave I summon an illusion of translucent white butterfly wings to flutter on my back.
“Hm…” Val says, pursing her lips in the mirror. She’s wearing her usual disguise— a golden-haired eladrin with gleaming brown eyes.
“What?” I say, adjusting my flower crown until it sits just so. I untangle a small strand of hair out of the braids on either side to frame my face.
“The wings are too much,” she says finally. “You have no one to impress today— why spend the energy?”
I tilt my head, turning slowly about to examine myself in the mirror. “You’re right,” I agree, dispelling the wings in a small puff of glitter. “It’s an easy day today.”
We walk quietly together down the twisting halls of my palace, traipsing softly through flowers and tall grasses and verdant, swaying trees that line the marble walls. I allow Val to announce me before entering my throne room.
The floor in this place is large and bowl-shaped, filled to the brim with the crystal blue waters of the Fount. They pour over the edges, into little waterfalls that trickle through Senersedee and feed all of the Feywild with magic. The cherry trees lining the walls of this massive open area are interlaced with intricately carved marble pavilions, upon which servants and guests and petitioners alike await my arrival with bows and baited breath. White spidersilk gossamer floats between engraved columns, giving the whole of my court room an appropriately ethereal look.
Easily, I step onto the waters. They hold me aloft, their magic so dense it may as well be solid. I make my way over to my flowering throne, grown naturally from cherry trees and lined with sky blue silk. It rests atop a floating marble platform in the center of the Fount, cardinal and elegant. My footsteps do not disturb the surface of the waters as I ascend, and everyone watches as I settle down and wave my hand.
“Be at ease,” I call, my voice echoing through the room. All around, I am vividly aware of the eyes of the Spring Court watching me. Val quietly meanders beside me, to sit on the ground at my right and take notes. I clear my throat.
“Court is now in session,” I declare, “bring the first petitioner in.”
All day, people from all walks of life come to plead for my aid. The Spring Court has a reputation to uphold, after all— one of kindness, of fairness, of mercy and beauty. But I must also be careful not to show weakness. I must watch every word, I must watch every step. The hungry eyes of the surrounding fey are always looking for any opportunity to make a move, always searching for the first chance to move a rung up the social ladder. And I simply can’t have that.
So one by one, I speak with the petitioners. I hear their pleas, usually for freedom from some curse or another, and I give my rulings. I keep it airtight, I maintain a tight leash. It takes hours and hours, perhaps days, to even make a sizable difference in the line outside my doors.
“Your Highness,” says the petitioner before me, “I can’t sleep.” They’re a foreigner, some dwarf-type who made the mistake of deciding to live here.
“And why’s that?” I drone.
“It’s all falling,” they say, their voice shaking. “The walls are coming for me. Anything vertical— the trees, the walls, the cliffs! It will all fall down and crush me into Death!”
They tremble, their eyes darting across the marble columns of my palace. They’re shaking so hard even the Fount ripples below their feet.
“You are very brave to come here,” I say carefully. “Tell me— have you been cursed?”
“Lord Damh didn’t like my smart mouth,” they admit, somewhat sheepishly. “I was told you’ve been known to alleviate the pain.”
“I don’t undo curses,” I huff. “I won’t save you from your own choices. You’ve wasted my time.”
“Your Highness,” they beg, falling to their knees. “Please.”
My heart softens. Again.
I sigh.
“How’s this,” I offer, “let’s compromise. Give me your ability to stand upright and I will give you a meadow to sleep in.”
“No walls? No trees?”
“None at all. Just you and the sky.”
“Will I be safe?”
“You’ll be safe from being surrounded by walls and trees and cliffs.”
They nod, eager and desperate. “I will do anything for you. I will give you my life.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear it. My life, my legs, anything is yours.”
“So it shall be.”
I wave my hand, and immediately the dwarf falls forward, their body stretching. They scream as hundreds of thousands of limbs begin to erupt from their segmented torso, but fortunately the screams cease once their lips crack into the shape of their new insectoid mouth. It takes only a moment for the transformation into a dog-sized pillbug to be complete. By then, one of the servants comes forward to gently lead them to their new home.
“Next!” I say, utterly bored.
“I’ve vodt excumbled with chatterbon gibberish!” says the next petitioner, an eladrin man with bright orange Autumn-colored hair. “Od didn’t even esh cocaruptoo bovarious— just figge wor poetry!”
“Oh,” I blink. “This is a bad one. Let me guess— you annoyed Hyrsam?”
“Ibuckatle, your Highness.”
I hum, thoughtful. “I will take your tongue, and you’ll no longer be able to speak— problem solved. How’s that sound?”
“Evocolarry, od prefer to keep grynn befolking iphanter, if it’s all the cizzbor to you.”
“Right,” I say. “Who wouldn’t want to keep their tongue, after all? How’s about this then— a curse atop a curse. You’ll still speak gibberish, but people will understand you regardless. In exchange, I will take your ears.”
“Cip vejs?!”
“Your ears,” I nod. “You may speak but not hear. Final offer.”
The eladrin considers it for a time, then nods.
A wave of my hand, and the large ears of the eladrin vanish right off his head, leaving nothing but two bloody holes behind. He reaches up, feeling at the holes, his hands returning covered in shimmering fey blood. It drips into the Fount below, turning gold at the contact and disappearing.
“T-Tanneke you, Your Highness,” he says a little too loudly, giving me a shaky bow before retreating. I sigh.
“Stars above, this day is going on forever,” I quietly complain to Val. “Is it just me or are there a lot more curses going around nowadays?”
“Your Highness,” Val murmurs back. She stands to whisper in my ear. “I’ve reports that this next one is a shapechanger.”
This captures my attention. I stiffen in my seat, swiveling to face her.
“You’re sure?” I hiss.
Val gives me a look. “Of course I’m certain of it. I wouldn’t bring it up if it weren’t obvious.”
“It’s just not fair. It’s just not right.”
“It is the law, your Highness.”
I purse my lips, waving a servant over. “Fetch me a silver band,” I command quietly, eying the curious eyes of the surrounding Court. I can sense the crowd starting to get excited, expecting a show. I lean back into my throne, and wave the next petitioner forward.
She’s a young slip of a thing, in the shape of a doe-eyed fawn.
“What do you want?” I drone, watching my servant creep up behind her.
“Your Highness, I come on behalf of me mum,” she says. “A drink of a hag’s brew has made her very, very sick. I… think she’s dying. Was hoping you could send one of your doctors to cure her.”
I flick my wrist, and the band leaps from the servant’s hands, opening like a fanged mouth to latch around the fawn’s ankle. She screams, falling to the ground and desperately trying to claw the silver band off. But it doesn’t budge.
“Who sent you?” I ask, very calmly.
“No one! I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” She growls and kicks at the band, her hoof resonating off it with a single, pure note. The whole of Court titters at the futility of it all.
I stand, slowly descending from my throne to join her atop the waters. I look around, commanding that Court be dismissed and the room cleared. A great murmur of protest rattles through the space, but the servants and guests and nobles all obey eventually, leaving just me, the fawn, and Val alone.
I kneel down, to look her in the eye.
“Show me your hands,” I say softly.
She grimaces, knowing the jig is up. She holds out her hands, palms up. Just as I suspected— her fingerprints are burnt off entirely.
“You crossed illegally. Why are you even here?” I ask, my voice quiet. “What could you even want from a place like this?”
The trembling fawn looks up at me, her eyes wide and watery.
“Freedom, your Highness,” they say. “The same thing we all want. We just want freedom.” She sniffles. “I wasn’t lying about my mum. She… I didn’t want her to go to Death. It’s awful down there.”
Something thrums in my heart, dulled by Spring’s magic into a single sedated, agonizing throb.
“If it were up to me,” I say, “I’d allow you all to stay here. But it isn’t. You knew the risks you were taking, coming up here. And you got caught. Now own the consequence.”
Her expression crumbles as she begins to weep, doubling over to bury her face in her hands.
“I can give you something to ease the pain,” I say quietly, reaching down to scoop some of the Fount in my palm. It glows golden at my touch, and I raise it to the weeping girl’s mouth.
“Drink,” I say. “This is flavored like a good night’s sleep. You won’t feel a thing.”
The poor changeling nods, opening her mouth to allow the Fount onto her tongue. I pour it in, catching her as she collapses, the disguise dropped entirely. She’s young, no more than 20 harvests at most, and her silver hair’s cropped short. She has a small heart-shaped birthmark above her right eyebrow. I turn to Val.
“Go get Solstice,” I say. “I will wait here.” Val nods, quickly sprinting off to fetch my mother.
I sigh, stroking the peach fuzz of this shapechanger’s hair. Stupid, stupid girl— all that work to climb out of Death and you go and get caught. Now there is nothing more to do but wait.
And so I wait.
It doesn’t take long— I am quite important, after all, and word of the disruption in my Court surely has spread by now. But Solstice looks entirely ruffled as she bursts into my throne room with Val right at her heels. She's fuzzy in my memory, just a strange, faceless woman with a long scar marring what would've been her left cheek. She gives me the slightest of cursory bows before shoving me aside, grabbing the sleeping changeling. She tries to violently shake her awake, but to no avail.
“It’s asleep,” Solstice hisses. “You know you’re not supposed to do this. It’s supposed to suffer.”
“So tell Rose,” I huff.
Solstice stands, stomping the poor changeling’s head clean through with her heel. The girl's skull splits open, her face caving in on itself as her blood and teeth splatter across my pristine white dress. Brain matter falls into the waters below, instantly dissolving into shimmering golden magic before disappearing completely.
Just outside the Fount, the ground opens up like a gaping black wound and releases the stale breath of Death. A thin iron chain shoots forth from the darkness and latches onto the silver band, slowly dragging the body across the waters to pull it back into its rightful place. The poor changeling's blood stains the water in a crimson streak, transforming into a shimmering gold swirl and disappearing entirely into the Fount. Silently, we all watch Death take the corpse into its maw to be digested below. Solstice gives me a facsimile of a bow, and turns to leave.
“Do you ever think that perhaps… There’s a better way?” I finally say.
She stops in the doorway, not looking at me. “It is the law.”
“But what if it weren’t? You can live on the surface, after all— why can’t the others?”
“They can, should they make the proper arrangements.”
“Selling yourself into slavery shouldn’t be a requirement.”
“So tell Rose,” Solstice says, mocking my earlier tone.
“Perhaps I will.”
“Your Highness,” Val says, “I don’t think that’s the best idea. It’s best not to disturb the White Rose…”
“Do you want an audience?” Solstice says, ignoring Val completely. “I can go ahead and kill you now, if you’re so keen to meet.”
I glance between the two of them.
“No, no,” I say quietly. “Let me… Think.” I wave to Solstice. “Go away. Your job is done, go terrorize innocent changelings elsewhere.”
“They are not innocent,” Solstice declares. “But I shall take my leave.”
A deep nod and she’s gone, off to the next job. I sigh, feeling utterly defeated.
I’m awoken by a shaking of my shoulder. With a moan, I bat the icy hand away. But the shaking is persistent.
“Wren!” Astarion hisses quietly in my ear. “Wake up!”
I creak my eyes open to glare at him. He’s backlit by the dim moonlight, his hair shining bright white like a halo around his head. His eyes are squinting in the dark, his breath heavy. His face is shadowed but twisted in agony. Immediately, I sit up, just barely avoiding head-butting him.
“Astarion?” I start to fret, reaching for him. “What’s wrong?”
“Please tell me you made more of that scar gel,” he grimaces.
“I…” I made a little bit, sure— but it’s barely enough for my own scars. Let alone his.
“I don’t know if I have enough for you,” I admit quietly, “but you can have the rest, if you want.”
“Please.”
Silently, I fetch my filigreed container from my alchemy pouch. Together we go to the hallway just outside, retreating to the shadows. I glare at the guard side-eying us on her patrol, using my body to create a barrier between her and Astarion. He slips his shirt off, seeming not to notice the stares, and turns his scarred back to me. I open the medicine and grimace— there’s barely any left.
But I try. I scrape off what I can from the sides with my fingernail.
“Where’s it hurt the worst?” I ask. “We’ll start there.”
“Along the spine.”
So I trace the scars along the spine. I barely have enough for one pass— the rest of his scars will have to be neglected.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m out.”
He sighs. “Can you make more?”
“I haven’t been able to find the ingredients. So… No.”
“Gods damn it,” he huffs under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly regretting all those selfish moments I used the medicine to alleviate my own pain. Stupid, stupid Wren— should’ve saved it for something important!
The scar on my ankle throbs in response and Idiot wriggles.
“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s not like it’s your fault.”
But it is. How many nights have I dulled the pain of my own scars and neglected to ask if he needs the same? How many days have I not suffered while his back sears? Selfish, stupid Wren! Classic me! All I ever do is take, take, take! Stupid, stupid Wren!!
“How about this?” I offer, “I can give you some blood. At the very least, let me feed you.”
He sighs. “Honestly? I’d love a drink right about now.” He turns to me, something of a grimace on his face. “But… I must admit it feels bad.”
“What does?”
“… Asking so much of you.”
“Please,” I scoff.
“You gave me blood just two days ago,” he mutters. “I can still see the bruise on your neck.”
I reach up to touch the scabs he left. Sure, I’m a little sore. But I make plenty of blood!
“Take the offer or don’t,” I say. “Your choice.” I tilt my head, to extend the unbruised half of my neck to him.
He eyes me, something suspicious in his look. But he leans forward, brushing my hair aside to bite down.
I sigh and lean into him, I thread my fingers through his hair. The ice shoots through my veins as he wraps his arms around my waist, returning my embrace. He doesn’t take much, just a deep gulp or two before his lukewarm tongue runs across my neck to seal the wound closed. We don’t pull away from each other, not speaking for a long while. His breath is cold on my neck as he sighs.
“What do I taste like?” I say. “Beneath all the magic, I mean?”
He hums. “Still sweet,” he purrs into my skin. “You taste like my best friend.” He pulls away from me, swaying slightly with my blood blurred on his lips. “You’re drunk,” he accuses, slightly slurred.
“I am?” I look inward— I suppose I have a slight buzz going on, sure. But I didn’t really consider myself drunk. If anything, I’m barely tipsy!
“Thought you didn’t want to do that anymore.” He blinks, and I watch as his pupils start to dilate. “Gods above, Wren, what the hells is going on with you?”
“Aw,” I coo, “poor vampire never had a trip before?”
“The world is melting,” he whispers, staring at the darkness beyond. “Gods above. How are you so normal like this?”
I laugh.
“I don’t feel anything anymore,” I explain, as patiently as I can, “I don’t really feel high right now. Guess I forget I technically am.” Poor, drug-addled Astarion stares at me with a dopey expression. “Sorry, should’ve accounted for your low tolerance. I’ll warn you next time.”
He doesn’t say anything, instead deeply fascinated by the skin on the back of his hand. I watch him watch himself flex and unflex his fingers, I watch as he stares at his claws.
“Something wrong?”
“Just… thinking.”
“About..?”
He looks to me, something bordering on confusion in his expression.
“I know you lie all the time,” he says carefully. “And I… Feel like you’ve been hiding something from me.”
I barely manage to keep my face straight, a heavy weight suddenly sinking through my chest. “Oh?” I say, sounding barely interested.
“So if you are,” he reaches out and grabs my hand, examining it. “I’d like you to tell me.”
I grimace, watching as he traces the constellations of my freckles with the tip of his claw. My skin tingles under his touch.
“And what if I don’t?” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Well, that seems a little unfair, don’t you think?” He flips my hand over and begins to trace the lines of my palm. His featherlight touch makes my fingers twitch, almost tickling.
“How so?”
“I’ve told you everything,” he explains. “I told you about Cazador, I showed you my scars… Hells, even my vampirism was first revealed to you.”
“I never asked you to,” I huff.
“True.” He closes my fingers so I’m forming a fist, tracing his claw over the mountain range of my knuckles. “But we were also not friends before. So… I suppose I’m asking you. As a friend.”
I pull my hand away, and slowly his gaze rises to meet mine. We don’t say anything for a long while— distantly, I’m waiting for him to get distracted, but he seems intent on my answer.
I sigh.
I could tell him, sure. It would be so easy, just three little words— “I’m a shapeshifter.” But…
I grimace. No. Now’s not the time. Not now that I’ve finally made a friend. He’d never understand— he’d just see me as Cazador’s spy, he’d see me as an infiltrator in his midst. He’d just see me as a monster.
Once a shapeshifter, always a shapeshifter, after all.
So instead, I say something else.
“I don’t want to ruin what we have,” I say quietly. “And I don’t know if this is quite the truth.” I wring my hands together. “But I do think I love you,” I admit, “and, honestly, it’s fine if you don’t love me too. Genuinely, I just want you happy. And I want to do whatever I can to make that happen.” I give him a little smile. “I want you to be safe and free. That’s it. We’re friends first, before all else.”
He blinks. Clearly, that’s not the answer he was expecting.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “Is that… Sorry, did I f*ck things up?”
“I don’t know,” he sighs. “Truthfully, I really don’t know what to do with… Us anymore.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I feel about the same.”
He tilts his head at me, curious as he holds out a hand. I take it.
He squeezes my fingers, nearly too tight. “Friends first, before all else,” he says, something resolute in his gaze.
I nod, ignoring the backflips of my heart.
“Friends first,” I assure. I stand, dragging him up with me. “Now let’s get you back to bed, hm? Sleep that high off so you'll be fresh in the morning.”
“No,” he says. “Let’s go for a moonlight promenade.” He looks at me, something akin to hope in his eyes. “I want to watch the world melt with you.”
I smile at him— this was the correct answer.
And he smiles back.
