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Astarion is enjoying a nice sunbeam when the incoming hostility of an oncoming army bolts him to his feet with his back-up dagger in hand.
Lae’zal stomps past him, eyes far away, hissing what he can only assume are githyanki curse words. A lot of curse words. She goes directly to her tent, picks up a blade bigger than she is, and stalks off into the woods.
“Yeah, shit sucked.”
Karlach limps over, her left arm tied in a clearly improvised sling, followed by Shadowheart. Wyll and Gale come running and Shadowheart waves them off. She’s got a nasty bruise covering basically the entire right side of her face.
“Out of magic, but the worst of it is healed. I’ll be able to get the rest in the morning. Probably.”
Too tired to even bitch, it must have gone—wait.
“Where’s Tavlyn?”
Shadowheart gestures in the opposite direction that Lae’zal went. He looks just in time to see Tavlyn, leaning heavily on his staff, stumble off into the woods.
“So, tadpole removal did not go well.” Gale says, also watching where Tavlyn disappeared to.
Shadowheart laughs. There’s an exciting dash of hysteria to it.
“Oh, oh, I don’t think it could have gone worse.”
Astarion is not much of a tracker, but Tavlyn left a nice blood trail for him to follow. He allowed an hour for tempers to cool and then a second for the tears to run out. A third because you know, it sounded like they had a really hard day.
But now it’s getting dark and his idiot has still not returned from a series of near-fatal battles that included telling an undying god-queen to piss off. Not exactly the choice Astarion wanted him to make, but he does have to acknowledge the sheer audacity of it. And stupidity. So much stupidity.
It’s not a thick blood trail, just a spattering here and there. Plenty for him to get the scent and follow it to a pretty mountain stream. Tavlyn’s blood is smeared on the pebbles, splashed about carelessly. Probably washed off the battle grime. He doesn’t see (or smell) any further trails and they were completely tapped on magic, potions, and bandages. As much as Tavlyn is an idiot, he wouldn’t have gone much farther alone and injured.
Astarion turns in a slow circle. Not a lot of places to hide. Small tree, knee-high bush, rock, boulder, stream, big tree with a familiar pair of boots dangling from a high branch.
However will he find Tavlyn? Perhaps the tree-boots can help.
“Is it really a good idea climbing that high injured?”
Tavlyn is a good fifteen feet up. Astarion’s not really sure how he managed that without magic, actually.
“I’m fine.”
A terse mutter. Astarion cranes his head, trying to see something besides a pair of boots. Legs, that’s good. No visible bandages. The rest is just a blanket-covered bundle leaning against the tree trunk.
“Of course. This is totally normal behavior, you running off and hiding in a tree.”
“Maybe it is.”
He’s sulking. The legs move and he straddles the branch to better snuggle the trunk.
“Are you planning on staying up there all night?”
He grunts.
“That’s not an answer.” This is ridiculous. “You are being ridiculous.”
“No, you’re being ridiculous. And so is everyone else.” The blankets rustle, bunching tighter. “I’m not coming down.”
“What, are you going to trance up there?”
No response.
“You cannot trance up there. You wiggle too much. You’ll fall out of the tree and break your neck.”
No response.
“I know you can hear me.”
This is no longer ridiculous. This is incredibly irritating.
“Tavlyn, come down.”
He can’t help but stomp his foot. Hells, the juvenile behavior is catching.
“Why should I?” The blankets shift again. “Do you know what goes on down there? People say stuff they don’t mean and there’s terrible, secret plans and every group of people is actually a cult who wants me and my friends dead even though I didn’t do anything and also some of my friends want me dead too I guess? I don’t know. I just wanted to see a baby githyanki.”
Ah. He’s still upset. Astarion knew that, he would have come back otherwise, but it sounds like he’s still very upset.
“Come down so I can help you, darling. You don’t need to sit in a tree feeling sorry for yourself. It’s not going to help.”
“Don’t know that. Maybe it will.”
Stubborn.
“It’s been four hours. If it was going to make you feel better, it would have by now. Come down.”
Tavlyn considers this logic. Astarion finds a tiny remaining sliver of patience and holds on tight. Firebolts are a last resort.
“…If I come down, I want a favor.”
“Alright, what do you want?”
“Nuh uh.” The boots kick. “I’m gonna do what everyone else does. You have to agree with no information at all for no reason.”
Well that’s rude. But… perhaps not entirely inaccurate to what does occasionally, once in a while, frequently happen.
What could he even ask for? It’s getting late, so they can’t go anywhere, and it’s still Tavlyn. Between the two of them, Astarion has a lot less “absolutely not”s. Besides, he probably just wants a cuddle.
“Very well. One favor, but you have to come down now.”
The blanket lump moves. A boot swings back over and hands appear to grab the trunk. Astarion watches, not anxiously, and does not think about the feather fall scroll currently sitting uselessly in the communal chest. But, oddly, it’s fine. Tavlyn moves with a strange grace, even bundled up, and only a few minutes pass before he’s dropping down. Astarion does not sigh in relief while Tavlyn adjusts what is not his blanket but a dusty, dirty one he must have found while sulking.
Astarion also does not gasp when his face is revealed. He might stiffen a bit, though. Can’t help that, especially when he was already trying to not grimace at how that blanket definitely has fleas or lice or some other nasties. But those are fine compared to what Tavlyn was hiding. His face is pale and drawn, with deep bruises under his eyes outdone only by the mottled, darkening mosaic of a boot print covering most of his face. His nose is broken, his lip split badly, and his right ear is just entirely purple.
“Yeah, I feel like shit too.”
Astarion’s pulled him into a hug before either of them can react. Tavlyn freezes. He decides to continue the instinct: he wraps around him more thoroughly and squeezes. Lightly, because who knows what wounds are hiding under the blanket, but firmly enough that he feels Tavlyn’s shudder as though it were his own. Tavlyn’s head drops onto his shoulder and Astarion tucks him in more, cupping the back of his neck. At least that is uninjured.
“Let’s get you back to camp.” Astarion says, in a voice far softer than he thought he was capable of. “You need food and rest.”
“No.” Tavlyn pushes in, trying to hug him back despite being trapped in the blanket. “I get a favor now. I want you to bite me.”
Astarion frowns.
“Have you forgotten the part where you’re badly injured?”
“I don’t care. Bite me.” Tavlyn shoves into him hard enough to force him to take a step back. Probably unintentionally. “I’m done with today. With trying to help and getting yelled at and asking questions and getting yelled at and breathing and getting yelled at. A kid punched me with his mage hand and his friend called me ugly ‘cause I wouldn’t let them torture a cat and then the cat cursed my hands yellow and set my boots on fire. Today was the worst day and I am done.”
There’s a lot in that rant that Astarion wants to question but he’ll have to follow up later.
“And you think blood loss will help?”
“It’ll make me unconscious.” Matter of fact. “And before that, it’ll make me not care anymore.”
Well. Astarion may have introduced a less than healthy coping mechanism here.
“If you want a distraction, there are better methods, you know.” He strokes down his back, probably. The blanket is surprisingly thick and unpleasantly coarse. “Could I convince you to—”
“Bite. Me.”
Astarion sighs.
“Will you at least eat something first? And I absolutely will not bite you here. I’m not carrying you back to camp.”
Tavlyn makes a grumpy noise.
“Fine. But if you don’t bite me, I’m gonna bite you.”
Lae’zal hisses when Tavlyn walks past her and, shocking everyone, Tavlyn hisses right back, teeth bared. Luckily, that is the end of their discussion and it means Tavlyn can get a bowl of stew and stomp off before anyone’s unfrozen enough to speak. Astarion follows after, shrugging at the questioning looks. He doesn’t know what the hell is going on anymore than they do.
Tavlyn knocks back his stew like a drunk with the evening’s first pint. There’s no way any chewing happened given that the bowl is empty and set aside before Astarion even manages to sit down. The tent is the same as always—soft light, soothing herbal scent—but the prickly energy radiating of Tavlyn completely overrides any possible comfort.
“Do you want more?”
Tavlyn glares at him.
“Hey, don’t give me that look. I wasn’t even with you today.”
Tavlyn hmmphs and resettles the gross blanket around his shoulders. Astarion considers all the different pieces at play. Tavlyn is currently pissy and demanding, Lae’zal is extra gith-y, everyone is injured, and Tavlyn wants to be bled to unconsciousness despite what a stupid idea that is.
Oh, and while Shadowheart assured him that the fatal wounds were all healed, Astarion still doesn’t know how bad Tavlyn fared other than the fact that he looks like he descended the mountain on his face. Which, actually, on that—Tavlyn went directly to the woods and while he apparently washed at the stream, any cloth in their packs was repurposed as bandages.
“Are you still wearing your robes?” Tavlyn’s eyes narrow, the blanket pulled protectively closer. “Darling, that’s filthy. You need to change.”
Astarion grabs Tavlyn’s bag. He ignores the grump grumping and pulls out a fresh shirt, underpants, and leggings. He turns to the man currently hiding under a blanket.
“I can’t bite you like this, you know. You’re only delaying your own desire.”
“You aren’t going to bite me.” We are back to the sulky voice. “You’re just going to keep giving me new shit to do.”
“That’s not true.” Damn, he’s been caught. “What else could I ask for once you’re properly dressed?”
This is an actual question. Does anyone know? Ideas? He just needs to distract the man long enough for his injuries to force him to sleep.
“I already agreed to the favor. Are you really mad at me for wanting you to be comfortable?”
The blanket lump grumbles. A huge sigh and then Tavlyn resurfaces. He holds out his hand, lips pressed into a tight line. Once he has the clothes, he retreats into blanket land. Astarion raises his eyebrows as he shuffles about, an occasional limb escaping.
“I have seen you naked before.” Tavlyn grunts. “Alright, have it your way.”
Eventually he succeeds. The robes are thrown carelessly—unusual—and he looks at Astarion, expectant. Astarion smiles at him, rising to his knees to slide forward, undeterred by the deeply suspicious look. He’s failed to convince him with words, but Tavlyn loves to be touched. And his suspicion indeed fades as Astarion gently pushes him down so he can take his place on top. Astarion watches his face carefully as he settles his weight—he has no idea what the extent of Tavlyn’s injuries are but he can balance on his elbows for a decently long time.
“There. That’s better, isn’t it? A full belly, clean clothes…”
Tavlyn’s arms are trapped in his blanket again. Astarion likes it. He’s pinned the man entirely, just with his body, and Tavlyn already seems calmer. The suspicion is gone, still upset and tense but open to Astarion and his very charming wiles. He touches Tavlyn’s cheek (at the least-injured part) to stroke ever-so-lightly.
“Now you can relax.” Tavlyn’s eyes soften and he tilts—barely—into the touch. “That’s it, my sweet. Let me—”
“TAV THE GITH!”
Gods fucking damn it.
Well, the list of “things never expected from Tavlyn” list can now be greatly expanded. Let’s see, we have:
- The entire Gur situation
- Hissing at Lae’zal
- Attempting to use his staff to behead a gith while making what may have been an attempt at a battle cry but mostly was just loud
- Telling Lae’zal to, quote, shut her bitter biting mouth for four seconds and listen to what someone else had to say
- Following that with, quote, he knows she’s super excited to die for a fake queen who could not be more obviously lying than if she declared it in her stupid freaky voice but maybe it’d be a good idea for Lae’zal to think for herself for the first time ever and remember who told her to climb into a death trap and who pulled her from the explosion
- Attempting to use his staff to behead Wyll for trying to de-escalate
- Throwing his emergency dagger (unclear where he was hiding it) at Gale (missing so badly he nearly got Karlach) and then demanding he, quote, shut the fuck up about Weave sickness because everyone can clearly see that he’s lost his damned mind
- Ordering Voss to, quote, talk gith shit with Lae’zal because he doesn’t care anymore and yes sure they can add killing “vlakth” to the to do list, why the hell not
- Sincerely informing everyone that, quote, if anyone says anything to him between now and sunrise, then he will explode the entire world and shut the fuck up Gale, he knows how to do that
- Pointing at Astarion with a remarkably steady hand given that his entire body was shaking and demanding he, quote, admit that he was a lying jerk so Tavlyn can figure something else out before he throws up and kills everyone forever and himself
The safest option was thankfully both obvious and simple. Throw the blanket over the dangerously-manic man, kick his staff towards Gale, and drag him to his tent while Voss praised his bloodlust and Lae’zal looked torn between respect and fury.
Tavlyn is now entirely unconscious, as promised. It took exactly four seconds of bleeding to turn the already-severe blood loss into mandatory bedtime which let Astarion finally examine him. And… shit. They really did almost die. Tavlyn’s torso is more bruises than flesh. His arms are entirely wrapped from elbow to wrist and they stink of antidote and foul blood. Scabbed-over acid burns decorate his calves and that is when Astarion stops looking in favor of tucking him in. With the good blanket, of course. The gross one is bundled in the corner for later disposal.
While he’s asleep now, his trance isn’t restful. His breath stutters and shallows and he whimpers, shifting this way and that. Trying to evade. Astarion sits next to him, stroking his hair, murmuring reassurances to no effect. Now that he’s still, Astarion can easily pick out the outline of fingers on his ear. A gith must have yanked it. Astarion’s ear almost twitches in sympathy, but two hundred years of having them grabbed, stabbed, and worse have made it very easy to repress. He knows to keep them flush to his head in a fight, but Tavlyn is rarely in close quarters. They’ll have to work on it. Tavlyn may have a high pain tolerance, but he doubts that he could keep concentration with such a sensitive organ in danger. Perhaps they should invest in a hood or helmet for him, until he gets the hang of it.
The crunch of footsteps snaps him out of his considerations. He watches a shadow drift across the tent flap.
“Astarion, are you still awake?” Wyll, whispering. “Is Tav?”
“Yes and no.” Astarion answers at full volume, watching Tavlyn react only to his nightmares. “You can speak normally. He rests deeply.”
Cloth rustles and Astarion removes his hand from Tavlyn’s hair. Wyll’s face appears, peeking in the tent flap.
“Brave move. We may have been naked.” Astarion notes and he rolls his eye.
“Not with the beating he took today. Gale filled me in on Weave sickness.”
“Anything I need to know?”
“More common in sorcerers than wizards, it’s a consequence of pushing way too far past your limits. Causes mood-swings, violent mania, and extreme depression.”
That tracks with the furious, weepy man he unwrapped. Crying freely with one hand pulling Astarion in and the other shoving him away. Tavlyn passed out still crying, mumbling apologies. Leaving Astarion fairly certain he chose wrong and impressively nauseous given how little he drank.
“I was looking through our scrolls and found a sleep spell. But I see he’s already out.”
Wyll looks relieved. Astarion holds out his hand.
“It’s fitful and he’s been having nightmares for the last twenty minutes.” Wyll blinks. “Sleep magic is dreamless, isn’t it?”
Technically, it shouldn't work on elves, but with him already unconscious, Astarion is hopeful.
“Oh, yes, it’s supposed to be at least.” He leans out of view and then passes in a scroll. “Nightmares make sense. The day they had…”
“It’s over now.” Astarion breaks the ribbon, unrolling the scroll. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Do you need anything?”
Astarion looks up and Wyll glances to Tavlyn.
“I don’t want to risk him… what was it, exploding the entire world?” A ghost of a smile. “But if you need to hunt or the like, I don’t think he’d notice us switching as long as you were back before he woke.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you for the offer, but I’m fine. I’ll be even better when he stops crying and flinching.”
That works to distract Wyll, pulling his eyes back to the unconscious man who very conveniently whimpers, head tossing the other way only to gasp in pain as his injured ear brushes the ground. Wyll twitches, clearly wanting to soothe him, but fights it down.
“Glad I found the spell then. If you’re sure, I’ll leave you to it.”
Astarion nods, busy reading through the spell’s instructions. Not difficult, just focus on the target and say the incantation. There’s even a pronunciation guide.
“Rest well.” Wyll says.
Astarion automatically returns the sentiment. He knows he’s getting a look and doesn’t care to see what kind.
A deep breath and he reads off the magic words. The scroll shimmers before disappearing and Tavlyn goes immediately lax. Astarion watches him closely. There isn’t anything to see: he is entirely still save for the slow rise and fall of his chest. Flat on his back, arms loose, and simply breathing. Something eases in Astarion’s chest.
“There we are, darling. Trancing like a proper elf. Or close enough.”
He stretches out beside him, on his side. He doesn’t dare touch, not with how injured Tavlyn is, but he needs to be close. It’s reassuring, hearing him breathing evenly, his heartbeat calm, even if it’s magically induced. Astarion slips under the edge of the blanket. Just enough to feel his warmth, too.
While Tavlyn’s demands technically did not require Astarion to stay, he agrees with Wyll: the order for him to remain was implied. Though, oddly, it wasn’t really an order—Tavlyn demanded he say whether or not he would do as promised, not to actually do it. But, still, he will stay. If only to ensure no one tries to speak with him before sunrise and damns the world to temper-tantrum-explosions.
Astarion brushes out his hair. Ugh. This is why he trances on his back. He can feel how flat the side of his head is and it just refuses to return to proper curls. Footsteps drag on the ground and he tilts the mirror to see a sad-faced Tavlyn shuffling over.
“Oh, is it my turn for the apology tour?”
Tavlyn’s been stumbling about ever since breakfast, talking to people (or trying to, in Lae’zal’s case, but she was asleep so that didn’t go anywhere). He rubs his face. He really doesn’t look all that much better, but Shadowheart is in fact only one cleric and she has to prioritize injuries based on severity. She did heal his blood loss, so at least he’s properly colored again. Except for the bruises.
“Yeah.” He hides his eyes for a moment, breathing. “I’m sorry I was mean and I’m sorry I yelled and I’m sorry I was mean—”
“That’s enough, darling.” Astarion gives up on the brush, for now, to turn around. He leans against the table. “I was only teasing about your sorry little shuffle around camp.”
Tavlyn blinks and Astarion enjoys his confusion. Concussed is a very cute look for him.
“You’re welcome, for helping you rest, though you’ll have to thank Wyll for finding the sleep scroll.”
“Thank you.” An automatic reply, Tavlyn still blinking like it’ll help him understand. “You’re not…”
Those blinking eyes are awfully unfocused and he seems to have lost track of the sentence. Also, was he apologizing twice for ‘being mean’?
“Did Shadowheart say you were allowed to be walking about?”
Tavlyn pauses. He is visibly turning the words over in his mind.
“No.” He seems pleased to have found the answer. “Because she wants to focus on Karlach’s broken… ouch and I’m just going to be dumb.”
“That does seem to be true. If Shadowheart said you shouldn’t be walking, then why are you wandering around camp?”
Too many words. Tavlyn’s brow furrows. Astarion will give him time. He’s been diagnosed with dumb, after all.
“I was bad.” Slowly, working out the problem piece by piece. “I was mean to my friends and that’s not nice.”
Astarion can’t argue with that. Mean is indeed not nice.
“I see. How about we get you lying down again, hm?”
Astarion stands up and Tavlyn shakes his head quickly. He stumbles and Astarion has to lunge before he collapses.
“Whoa… spinny.” Tavlyn’s eyes rattle around his skull. “Star, how come you’re three?”
“What?” Tavlyn blinks one eye and then the other. “Actually, never mind. Let’s go, back to bed.”
He turns Tavlyn around and starts marching him off.
“Nooo I wasn’t done.” He whines. “I gotta say sorry or I’ll be in trouble.”
“You’re not going to be in trouble, no one is mad at you.” That might not be true but Lae’zal is usually mad, she doesn't count. “You were ill and injured. Now, in.”
As much as he protests in various wordless noises, his body doesn’t even try to disobey. He enters the tent and Astarion follows, making sure he goes right to the bedroll. Still making noises. Astarion sighs.
“You’re not going to sleep on your own, are you?”
Tavlyn looks up, mid-annoying-noise. His eyes go big and wet.
“Are you mad at me?”
“No. Hold on.”
Astarion leans backwards out of the tent, summoning a mage hand. Luckily his tent is close enough for it to fetch his bag—he’s pretty sure if he leaves Tavlyn alone, the man will start wandering again. Once acquired, he dismisses the summon and straightens up to find Tavlyn staring at him, eyes slightly crossed. He raises an eyebrow.
“I saw your belly.”
Is that a bit of pink, hinting around the bruises?
“Did you?” Tavlyn looks away, ears twitching. What a ridiculous creature. “Did you like it?”
His shirt could not have lifted more than two inches and Tavlyn is embarrassed like Astarion mooned him. He laughs, opening the pack to find his book.
“I’m afraid that peek is all you’re getting. You’re a bit too injured for play time.”
“No…” Tavlyn reaches, making grabby hands. “I’m not hurt.”
“Of course not, you’re just covered in bruises and confused by your own tongue.” Astarion soothes, setting the pack aside.
Tavlyn goes quiet, mouth moving. While he works on that oral puzzle, Astarion pushes him over and then takes the place next to him. Astarion has him cuddled up to his chest, arms wrapped around his body, and under the blanket before he manages to speak again.
"Oh… it’s bedtime?”
“Mhm. You need some extra rest.”
Astarion absently strokes his back, working on a comfortable one-handed hold for his book.
“It’s daylight though?”
“That’s what makes it extra. Close your eyes.”
Nope, he’s resummoning the mage hand. Make it hold the book. Much better. Tavlyn nuzzles his chest.
“You smell nice.”
"Thank you. Go to sleep or trance now. Whatever it is you do.”
“Treep.” Tavlyn yawns. “Slance.”
“Noises are not resting.”
Astarion finds his spot in the book and tucks Tavlyn more thoroughly.
“Okay.”
Tavlyn goes out like a candle, head slumping. Astarion snorts, resuming rubbing his back. Not to disagree with the cleric, but she missed a diagnosis: needy. But at least he’s asleep now. Sorry, atreep. In slance.