Chapter Text
You are just as weak as you predicted, finding any excuse you can to leave a message on the sending stone. You do your best to stay factual and nonchalant about business in Baldur’s Gate but you know that sometimes your longing must seep through. You wonder where he is, and if he listens repeatedly to your messages, just as you listen to his. Astarion has only updated you twice since he departed last tenday: once, to tell you he reached the Underdark, and another to let you know that the Myconid colony is well and speaks of you fondly.
You know he must be busy, and his mind occupied, but you yearn for more than simple updates. You lie awake some nights, listening to the soothing sound of his voice in your ear, because even though his words are statement-of-fact, his voice – ever expressive – is not. You can feel his amusem*nt echo from the stone when he tells you of the Myconids and it warms your heart to know that even in the depths of the Underdark, he still has a moment of levity bright enough to think: I should tell Tav.
*
Wyll asked me to run for Council, you tell him one evening.
You want to tell Astarion the whole ridiculous story – about Wyll’s attempt to woo you with flowers and wine, and Karlach volunteering to be your campaign manager, and the two of you coming up with increasingly ridiculous ideas for city management until Wyll finally admitted defeat – but the sending stone can only hold twenty-five words and you’ve learned to be concise.
Besides, you are hoping that your brevity might initiate a response.
It does.
He should have asked Karlach instead. I bet she has some fun ideas.
You laugh out loud at the similarity of your response. You want to talk to him for hours but the stone can only reliably send one message every dawn. You wait for the opportunity to tell him the full story, but by then, there are a dozen other things you want to tell him.
By the second tenday, you’ve fallen upon a rhythm to ensure you make the most of the sending stone. You’ll go about your day, making a mental note if there’s something you think Astarion will find amusing, and then you’ll contemplate how to phrase your message all evening until it’s exactly twenty five words long and exactly the right balance of nonchalance you’re trying to achieve, and then, at first light, you’ll record the message to him.
People keep trying to hire me to assassinate people. Why do I suspect this is your doing? And how do I get them to stop?
Met Karlach’s girlfriend tonight. She’s a dwarven cleric. Far too nice for Karlach. Far too clever too. But they’re sickeningly sweet together.
I’m on a quest for a couple of days towards the forest. I promise I’ll be safe. Bite is with me. And Yenna.
Did you train Bite to attack wizards on sight? Because I’m in hot water with the Guild right now and want to blame you.
Speaking to animals isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I settled my debts by handling the Guild’s rat infestation. Rude buggers.
Shadowheart has written an article for the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette on home maintenance. It’s surprisingly eloquent. I’ll save you a copy.
Astarion doesn’t often reply, and when he does, it is normally only a handful of words, tainted with barely concealed exhaustion and weary with toil –
Travellers are going missing. Spawn’s to blame.
Some spawn are squatting in the village where the duegar skewered you. I hate this place.
There’s not enough food. Another skirmish today. Three dead.
Congratulations on becoming the Guild’s rat translator. Your mother would be proud.
You don’t even know if he even receives all of your messages; the sending stone only holds one message at a time so if he misses a day then your words are gone forever.
You distract yourself from worrying about him by pouring all your energy into your music. Nothing feeds a musician’s soul like yearning and it seems you can write endless songs about your love for him when you are forbidden from telling him in person. The public seem to enjoy the music too – you are invited to most taverns in Baldur’s Gate to perform your new ballads – and if your friends suspect the source of your sudden inspiration then they’re wise enough not to say anything. You only hope that your penchant for writing love songs will have faded by the time Astarion comes home or he’ll tease you for it endlessly. You’ve built your bardic reputation on rebellious anthems not sappy love songs but music is music and you’re happy to have something to fill your days with when Astarion seems so far away.
*
About a month after your separation, you receive the longest message from Astarion to date –
My darling boy, I know I have already asked too much of you, but I fear I need to ask you something more. Can you –?
The message cuts off and you groan in frustration at the spell’s limited capacity. Can you – what? Visit immediately? Send for a healer? Dispatch supplies? Your mind is awash with horrendous possibilities and you want to scream that you have to wait until dawn, at the earliest, until he can record the rest of the message.
You listen to the fragment over and over again, trying to reassure yourself that he doesn’t sound panicked or in pain. When that doesn’t work, you find Karlach and make her listen to the message three times over as well.
In the end, she snatches the sending stone from your hand, holds the sigil, and says –
Oh hey arsehole, it’s Karlach. Plan your words next time so I don’t have to listen to Tav panicking all night. Thanks.
You nearly kill her for ruining your chance at a reply but she makes up for it by buying you a drink and reassuring you that he’s probably just asking for sending sex. You have never even contemplated leaving Astarion messages of the carnal kind but that night it’s all you can think about… and at least it keeps your mind from spiralling over his unfinished message.
*
You wake at dawn and immediately reach for the sending stone but it remains cold to the touch. You tell yourself that Astarion has no way to gauge daybreak in the Underdark and even so, it may differ from yours. You can be patient.
Or not.
You are pacing your studio back and forth when Karlach appears at your door. “Anything?” she asks.
You shake your head, and it must look pitiful enough that she pulls you into a fierce embrace. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she reassures you.
Karlach drags you outside afterwards, taking you to your favourite teahouse to distract you from Astarion’s silence. The leaves are still brewing when you feel the sending stone warm in your pocket. Your eyes widen in anticipation and Karlach squeezes onto the armchair beside you as you raise the stone to your ear and press the sigil –
Sorry, Astarion says, sounding both amused and apologetic. Apparently Cazador has a vault in the Counting House. It might contain a Ring of the Sun-Walker. Can you look into it?
You breathe a sigh of relief and play the message again, needing to hear the sound of his voice, calming and kind. You will undoubtedly play it a dozen more times before nightfall but Karlach doesn’t need to know that.
“Ring of the Sun-Walker,” Karlach muses. “Damn. I didn’t think those things actually existed.”
Her response echoes your own sentiments. You’ve heard of rare enchanted items that grant vampires or their spawn the ability to walk in the sun but you found none in Cazador’s palace and had assumed, therefore, that if such a thing existed, then none were to be found in Baldur’s Gate. But perhaps you were mistaken. The more you think about it, the more it makes sense: Cazador was a prominent nobleman and must have had appointments to attend to during the day, but he would have been reluctant to keep such a powerful item in reach of his spawn. Perhaps he stored it out of sight.
“If I’m not mistaken… that dwarf friend of yours works at the Counting House, does she not?”
Karlach groans and puts her head in her hands. “Tav,” she says, and your name has never sounded more like a swear word. “I was hoping not to exploit my girlfriend until at least the third date –”
“Is that a ‘yes’?”
Karlach sighs and looks across at you with resignation. “Fine. I’ll ask Dena for the vault number. But that’s all.”
You grin and pull her ridiculous face down to smack a kiss on her forehead. “You’re the best, Karlach, I owe you one.”
“You owe me a hundred,” she quibbles.
*
Karlach sources the vault number and Wyll secures you a pass into the Counting House. You had been ready to blast a hole in the wall to secure the enchanted ring but the whole thing ends up being incredibly civil. Cazador had no heirs and with your elven ears it’s easy for Wyll to generate papers that indicate you are a long-lost relative claiming what’s legally yours.
You don’t know what you expected – a huge vault brimming with gold coins perhaps – but instead the attendant leads you to a non-descript wall of locked safes and locates a drawer no larger than a matchbox. There is no note, or box, or adornment – just a plain iron band with a ruby sitting in the centre. The ring itself is scuffed with wear, appearing ancient but unremarkable, and would be easily disregarded if you didn’t know its purpose. It’s the kind of trinket that Astarion wouldn’t even consider picking up when looting a place; an old ring like this would likely only worth a couple of silver at the market.
It is only when you pick the ring up in your fingers that you can feel it thrum with power.
It’s amazing that such a tiny thing contains the miracle that Astarion has been waiting for. With this, Astarion has the chance to walk in daylight once more.
*
You can’t contain your joy afterwards, and waste your limited words in a flurry of excitement as you leave the vault.
I’ve got it, Astarion. It’s in my hands. It exists and I… It’s yours. I’m so happy for you, love, I –
You curse your spontaneity afterwards, wasting your words on contractions and pronouns and stupid hesitations, but he sounds so fond when he replies that you can’t help but forgive yourself for your uncharacteristic spontaneity.
Keep it safe for me, darling. I’ll be with you soon enough.
*
You slip the ring on your finger, next to the protective ring he gave you after the skewering, and you let the dual rubies reassure you of your continued partnership, despite the distance between you.
You relisten to his last message, over and over again, hoping that ‘soon’ will be today, or the next day, but despite his assurance, there comes no further promise of return. In fact, the messages soon return to their familiar brevity and you wager that he’s still focused on his quest to bring peace to the spawn.
*
Not enough food in the Underdark. The Myconids are pissed. Led a group to the Not-So-Cursed Shadow Lands. Boarded-up houses are safe.
On the fifth relisten of the message, you count the words and realise it’s exactly twenty-five words long. Despite his long day, Astarion must have spent time condensing the message for efficiency before relaying it to you. Perhaps he learned his lesson from the last time his message was cut short.
Tell me this isn’t insane, he says the next day. But Moonrise Towers is sitting empty. If I can shield it from daylight it could be useful for governance.
Not insane. It’s a good base. You’re setting up a council?
The spawn need some kind of democracy. They have trade now. But need governance. Can you ask Wyll to visit? I need some advice.
You try not to be too hurt that Wyll is granted an invitation to visit Astarion before you are, but you do as he asks, and Wyll portals to the Dawning Lands (his name suggestion, not yours) the very next day.
*
Wyll comes back hours later, covered in bite marks – “Consensual, I swear,” he defends before you can panic. “But those poor people are starving.”
Which means Astarion is starving too.
“No,” he says, answering your unasked question. “Astarion refused to feed on me, though I did offer. Apparently he’s got ‘taste’. Is it strange that I’m offended by that?”
*
You could have fed on Wyll, you tell Astarion at dawn. I don’t expect your loyalty, to my blood, or otherwise.
The others needed it more. Some have not drunk since they were turned. Thank you, though. For what it’s worth, I remain, stubbornly, yours.
Astarion’s declaration warms your heart. You had honestly not expected his loyalty. With his newfound enjoyment of sex, you’d expected him to have visited half the pleasure houses in Baldur’s Gate before he even set out on his quest, but perhaps you should not have assumed he would stray so easily.
*
Two months have passed since Astarion first departed when your sending stone lights with a new message in the middle of the night. You reach for the pebble on your bedside table, sleep vanishing with concern, as you hold your thumb over the sigil and listen to the message.
Astarion sounds distraught before he even speaks; you can hear his sobs reverberate through stone. You are already scrambling out of bed before the words even come through.
First Light Inn, Dawning Lands. Please come.
