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The firelight was insufferably warm.
Too bright. Too loud. Too… alive.
Astarion leaned back against a half-rotted log, one leg stretched out, the other bent just enough to keep his balance as he swirled something vaguely alcoholic in a chipped goblet. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t even pretending to be good. But it burned, and tonight that was the only qualification that mattered.
Unfortunately, it would never be strong enough to overpower the bitter rage that had settled at the back of his throat.
Two hundred years.
Two centuries of pain. Of that man’s cruel, smiling face. Laughing as Astarion screamed. Condemning him to unspeakable torment with a dismissive wave of his hand.
As if Astarion were nothing. As if he were worth nothing.
Fuck Cazador.
The bastard was dead. Astarion was free. The shadows of that utter hell shouldn’t still be able to grab hold of him like this. That bastard shouldn’t still be able to make Astarion feel so utterly powerless.
And yet, here he was. Still flinching at ghosts. Still unraveling over nothing.
Pathetic.
He wanted to scream. To rage. To grab hold of the closest living thing and then tear it apart with his bare hands.
Across the fire, Karlach laughed.
Gods, she laughed. Like the world had never wronged her. Like nothing had ever sunk its claws into her and refused to let go. The sound rang out through the trees, bright and unrestrained, drawing the others in like moths to a flame.
Fuck Karlach.
Wyll was trying, and failing, to match her energy. Gale had that indulgent little smile he wore when he thought himself terribly clever. Even Lae'zel had softened, just slightly, her lips twitching at something Karlach had said. At some light-hearted and obnoxiously cheerful joke she’d made.
It was… unbearable.
“Careful,” Astarion drawled, not bothering to lift his gaze from the fire. “If you keep that up, you might actually convince us all you’re enjoying yourself.”
Karlach grinned at him immediately, sharp and radiant. “I am enjoying myself! You should try it sometime, fangs.”
Ah. There it was. The invitation. The easy back-and-forth. The playful banter she so enjoyed. It was the sort of thing he could normally slip into without thinking, all teeth and wit and carefully measured charm.
Tonight, it tasted like ash.
“I’ll pass,” he said lightly. “Some of us prefer our entertainment with a bit more… refinement.”
Wyll huffed a quiet laugh. Gale glanced between them, already sensing the shift, the way one does when a pleasant evening begins to curdle.
Karlach only leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Refinement? You mean brooding in the corner with that sad little drink?”
Astarion’s smile sharpened. “Sad? My dear, this is the finest swill we’ve managed to scrounge in days. I’m simply savoring it in a way you clearly lack the patience for.”
“Right,” she said, unfazed. “Savoring. Looks a lot like sulking from over here.”
Astarion’s fingers tightened slightly around the goblet.
Sulking.
How quaint.
For a fleeting, vicious second, he imagined hurling it at her, just to see that bright, easy grin finally shatter.
“I do apologize if my presence isn’t sufficiently entertaining for you,” he replied, voice smooth as silk stretched over a blade. “By all means, carry on. Laugh a little louder, perhaps. I’m sure the wildlife hasn’t quite fled the area yet.”
That earned a flicker. Just a small one. Karlach’s grin faltered at the edges, confusion darkening what she’d initially assumed had been his usual playful snark.
Wyll shifted, glancing toward the others. Gale cleared his throat, as if preparing to redirect the conversation.
Karlach, stubborn as ever, pushed forward anyway. “You know, you don’t have to sit over there acting like we’re all beneath you.”
“Oh, I’m well aware,” Astarion said, finally lifting his gaze. His eyes caught the firelight, red glinting sharp and cold. “I choose to.”
Silence stretched, thin and brittle. They could all feel it. The moment where the game stopped being a game.
Karlach leaned back slowly, her expression settling into something more measured now. “Alright,” she said, quieter. “What’s your problem tonight?”
Problem.
He almost laughed.
As if there were just one. As if he could pluck it out, name it cleanly, and be done with it.
“Nothing at all,” he said, flashing her a smile that showed just enough teeth to be uncomfortable. “I’m in excellent spirits. Truly. Delighted to be here.”
“Bullshit.”
Astarion tilted his head. “Such language. And here I thought we were having a civilized evening.”
“Yeah, well, you’re being an ass.”
“And you’re being loud,” he snapped, the edge slipping through before he could sand it down. “We all have our flaws.”
The words landed harder than he’d intended. He felt it in the moment they left his mouth. Sharp, ugly, impossible to take back.
Good.
The air shifted, and the silence fell. It wasn’t a dramatic thing. No one stood, no one raised their voice, but something in the rhythm of the group stuttered, then stalled.
A familiar old weight settled in his chest. For the last two hundred years, moments like this ended with pain. With a fist in his hair, wrenching his head back, dragging him to his knees, forcing him to submit. To pay for his insubordination. His… “brattiness.”
Despite months of walking free, despite knowing that Cazador was dead, the cold fingers of dread curled around his chest. His shoulders tensed, his body bracing for punishment.
But the rage never came. The blows never came. Karlach’s jaw set. Wyll looked away. Gale suddenly found the fire fascinating.
Astarion took a slow sip of his drink, as if he hadn’t just driven a knife straight through the center of the evening.
Better this way. Cleaner. No expectations. No misunderstandings. No one close enough to see where the cracks were starting to show.
Across the fire, Riven hadn’t said a word.
She’d been quiet for a while now, seated beside Halsin, a bundle of arrow shafts and feathers spread neatly across her lap. Her hands moved with practiced ease as she made more arrows, each motion precise, controlled, and intentional.
He hadn’t been watching her. Not consciously. He couldn’t be bothered to care about whatever “Nature’s Glory” nonsense she and Halsin shared, bent over her arrows. But he could feel her attention on him now. Focused. Steady. Present.
He ignored her.
Let her watch.
Let her see exactly what he wanted her to see. And nothing else.
Karlach huffed out a breath, shaking her head. “You know what? Fine. Be miserable if you want.”
“Oh, I intend to,” Astarion murmured.
Wyll shot him a look. “Astarion—”
“What?” he cut in, all false innocence. “Must we all perform delight on command? How exhausting.”
Gale sighed softly. “No one is asking you to perform. Just… perhaps refrain from biting everyone’s head off?”
Astarion flashed his fangs. “My dear wizard, if I were biting heads off, you’d know.”
Karlach muttered something under her breath. He didn’t catch it. Didn’t care to.
The fire cracked, a log shifting, sparks drifting upward into the dark. For a moment, no one spoke.
And still, still, that awareness lingered.
Riven.
He could feel her now without looking. The way one feels a storm rolling in long before the thunder. And just as unwelcome.
His jaw tightened. He tipped the goblet back again, draining what remained, welcoming the burn as it slid down his throat. It did nothing. Of course it did nothing.
It never did. Which was its own brutal torture. He could never dull the edges of Cazador’s shadow whenever it came to sit behind his eyes. There was no escaping it, no matter how much acrid wine he forced down his throat.
Across the fire, her hands stilled halfway through tying another fletching on another arrow.
Then…
“Astarion.”
Her voice was quiet. Soft. Damn near gentle.
But it landed anyway. Clean and precise. Like a blade finding a gap in his armor.
His name, spoken like that, threaded through the tension and found him exactly where he sat. He didn’t look at her immediately. Didn’t move.
But something in his posture shifted. Just slightly. A fraction of an inch, barely perceptible to anyone who didn’t know what to look for.
Which meant she absolutely noticed.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, setting the empty goblet aside with deliberate care. It took more effort than he expected to keep from hurling it against the nearest tree.
“…Yes, darling?” he said at last, tone light, as if nothing at all had changed. As if he had yet another sharp-edged line to spit at her, the way he had at the rest of their traveling companions.
Across the fire, Riven met his gaze. And in that single look, calm and unwavering, she made it very clear…
This had nothing to do with Karlach. She knew it, just as well as he did.
Fuck her.
Fuck her for knowing him well enough to know what was really bothering him. Fuck her for not letting him lose himself to his rage.
Fuck her for being right.
She didn’t speak, but held his gaze and tilted her chin, toward the line of trees surrounding the clearing where they made camp. Without a word, she set down the arrow she’d been working on, rising to her feet and stepping away from the fire without waiting to see if he’d follow her.
Fuck her for expecting him to just obey her.
Fuck her for knowing he would.
He growled, loudly enough that Lae’zel’s eyes narrowed at him, assessing him like a potential threat, but she remained still as he rose to his feet and followed Riven away from the camp.
“I assume this is where you lecture me about being polite,” he snapped as they moved into the trees, out of earshot of the rest of their companions. “And tell me I need to behave myself, is that it?”
But Riven didn’t respond. She kept moving, picking her way deeper into the dark forest.
“So it’s the silent treatment, is it? Is that to be my punishment for misbehaving?”
He pushed the words harder than necessary. Sharper.
Go on, then. Snap.
Her step faltered, and she turned to look up at him, a mix of hurt and anger in her eyes. She opened her mouth to snap something back, but then stopped herself and took deliberate, slow breath.
“That is enough.”
He put his hands up in mock surrender, not willing to let go of the anger yet, and not caring that he was unfairly provoking her. “Oh? Don’t like having your authority challenged, do you? Pray tell, whatever will you do with me now?”
She flinched as if he’d struck her. He pretended not to notice. Pretended not to feel the way his long-dead heart fluttered uncomfortably in his chest. Pretended it didn’t feel like something inside him had just slipped.
“How dare you speak to me like that,” she hissed, anger finally breaking through that infuriating calm.
But he’d expected anger. That, at least, was familiar.
“Oh, like what?” he challenged. Defiant. Ready to fight. Eager to match her anger with his own. Ready for whatever punishment she thought to inflict on him. Ready to meet it with bared fangs and every shred of rage that roared in his head.
Because that was how this always ended.
“Like I’m him.”
His breath hitched, and stopped cold, his feet rooted where he stood. Something in his chest tightened enough that he gasped around it.
She stepped closer. Her green eyes, sharp as broken glass, sliced right through him. “Is that truly what you think of me?” she asked softly, claiming the space between them, moving close enough that they were almost touching.
He held her eyes for a moment longer, trying to hold on to some shred of the defiant rage that was quickly dissipating under the weight of her gaze, and the knowledge of how deeply he’d just hurt her.
He looked away, scrambling for purchase. “Gods, must you be so dramatic?”
The words sounded thin, even to his own ears.
“Answer the question, Astarion.”
He faltered. He’d expected her to react to his dismissive insult. To his attempt to redirect her. But she hadn’t taken the bait.
He masked his hesitation by rolling his eyes. “If it was, do you really think I’d still be here?” His voice didn’t hold nearly the same edge that it had only a moment before. The rage was crumbling now, and in its place was…
Something he couldn’t bring himself to name.
She held his gaze a moment longer, her eyes boring into him, studying him. For a moment, it looked as if she’d press him for more. Like she’d press him to answer the question more directly.
But then, she stepped back with a short, curt nod, and turned to walk farther into the forest.
He hesitated for a beat, debating on whether to keep following her. Then, with an irritated roll of his eyes, he fell into step behind her.
“Where are we going?” he demanded. Still irritated. Still angry. Still half hoping she’d fight him.
“Not far,” she answered.
They were silent as they walked. Astarion tried to cling to his rage. He needed it. He couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let it disappear and reveal the smaller, fragile thing hiding beneath it.
He tried to be angry at Riven. At the way she just expected him to follow her. To obey her. To yield to her.
He tried to be angry at himself, for wanting to. For finding comfort in it. For craving it.
But the more they walked, the harder it was to hold on to the anger. With every step he took, he felt it slipping more and more through his grasp.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” he snapped finally, hating the desperate edge to his voice. “Just tell me what you want from me.”
She stopped and turned back to him. “You’re still angry,” she murmured.
He scoffed. “Figured that out on your own, did you?”
“Tell me why.”
He growled under his breath, his hands clenched into fists at his side, glaring at her feet. “Do I need a reason?”
“For speaking to me the way you did? Yes, you do.”
“Forgive me for not making your feelings the center of my existence.”
“Astarion.”
He wanted to scream. To tear the entire forest apart.
He hated this.
“I’m not angry with you,” she said quietly.
His eyes snapped back to hers. They were soft, now. Gentle. Warm with understanding. She stepped closer to him again, reaching to take his hand in hers. But he pulled away before she could touch him.
“I don’t want your pity.” His voice was frayed at the edge.
“I don’t pity you,” she corrected, her voice steady. “I love you. There is a difference.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you need to be angry around everyone else, so they don’t see what’s underneath it. But there’s no one else here. Just you, and just me.”
With another soft growl, Astarion turned away from her. “I don’t need you to coddle me.”
“I’m not coddling you,” she said. “I’m trying to help you.”
“I never asked you to.”
“You never had to.”
Again, she took a step toward him, slowly enough that he had plenty of time to back away. And for a moment, he considered it. He considered pushing her away again. Clinging even more desperately to his fading anger.
It would be easy. It always had been.
A sharp word. A cruel smile. A well-placed barb, and the world would fall back into something predictable. Something safe. Something he understood.
But the anger was slipping.
He reached for it anyway. Clawed for it, digging his nails into the remnants of it, trying to drag it back up from where it had begun to unravel.
It didn’t come.
Gods.
That, more than anything, terrified him.
His jaw tightened. His breath hitched, uneven now, his chest rising a fraction too quickly as something sharp and unfamiliar pressed in behind his ribs, spreading, tightening, stealing the breath from his lungs.
No.
No, he was not doing this.
He turned on her again, grasping for anything that might still resemble control. “You think this makes you kind?” he snapped, though the edge was thinner now, strained. “Standing there, looking at me like that, as if I’m some wounded little thing in need of your gentle touch—”
His voice broke. Just slightly. Barely there. But it was enough. They both heard it.
Astarion froze.
The silence that followed was deafening.
For a heartbeat, two, three, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. As if stillness alone might somehow undo it. As if he could shove the sound back down his own throat and pretend it had never happened.
His gaze dropped, his hands curling tighter at his sides, fingers trembling now despite his best efforts to still them.
Gods, he hated this.
Hated the way it felt. Hated the way she could see it. Hated the way there was nowhere left to hide.
“…I don’t need this,” he said again, but the words lacked teeth now. Hollow. Fraying at the edges in a way that made something in his chest twist uncomfortably.
He let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing a single step away before stopping short, as if even that small escape had been denied him.
“I’m fine,” he insisted, quieter now. Not convincing. Not even trying to be.
Another beat.
“…I’m fine,” he repeated.
The words sounded even worse the second time.
She sighed. “Astarion, look at me.”
But he shook his head, turning from her. “No.”
She stepped to the side, further into his field of vision. “My love,” she murmured. “Look at me.”
His breath caught, shallow and uneven. For a moment, he hovered on the edge of refusal, grasping for the last threads of defiance that had carried him this far. They slipped through his fingers all the same.
Slowly, reluctantly, his gaze lifted to meet hers.
Everything he had been holding back lay bare in his expression, stripped clean of the sharp edges he had been using to protect himself only moments before.
Riven held his gaze, steady and unflinching, her expression open in a way that invited him to stay rather than flee.
“You don’t have to be fine,” she said.
The words settled between them, quiet and unwavering.
Something in his chest tightened at the sound of them.
His lips parted as if to argue, to reach for something familiar and cutting that might put distance back between them.
Nothing came.
The silence stretched, heavier now, pressing in around him. And for once, he had no idea how to fill it.
“Are you calling me a liar?” he asked, though there was no longer any bite in his trembling voice.
She took a step toward him. “No, my love,” she answered. “But I do think you’re hurting, and trying to hide it.”
His chest tightened in a way that made it difficult to remain upright. His throat seized around a sob that he tried desperately to keep held down. “And you think you know me that well?”
“Yes, I do.” She took another step toward him.
She stopped just shy of touching him. He knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t touch him now. Not after he’d already pulled away from her. She’d wait for him to reach for her, first.
He wanted to hate her for that. Wanted to hate the way his heart softened at that small, insignificant little thing she gave him. The way she yielded to him when he pushed back against her, without anger or argument.
But when he reached down inside himself, searching for that hate, all he found instead was…
He lowered his head, unable to hold her gaze, his shoulders hunching with a pain too profound for him to name. A pain he didn’t feel strong enough to keep carrying.
Suddenly, her touch was the one thing he wanted more fervently than anything else in the world. But his body remained locked in place. He felt like if he moved, even to reach for her, he’d crumble into dust.
“Riven,” he croaked, his voice rough, hoping she’d be able to understand what he didn’t have the strength to say. “Please.”
And then, miraculously, she was there. Right there, solid and steady, soft and strong. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, holding him against her as if she knew that he felt like he was being washed away in a tide of memories and desperately needed something to hold on to.
The first sob tore out of him, violent and raw, dragging the next one up behind it before he had any chance of stopping it.
He tried to swallow it back. Tried to drag it down, lock it away where it belonged. But it tore free anyway.
Gods—he couldn’t—
He clung to her harder, fingers digging into her back as if he could anchor himself there, as if she were the only thing keeping him from being pulled under. His breath came in sharp, broken bursts against her shoulder, each inhale catching, each exhale shuddering apart as something deep inside him finally gave way.
It was too much.
Too much all at once.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d been holding back until it all came rushing in.
Fragments, memories, sensations. Too fast, too sharp, crashing over each other in a relentless tide. A fist in his hair. Laughter in the dark. Blood. Pain. Always pain. The sickening certainty of what came next, over and over and over again.
His grip tightened further, almost frantic now, his body trembling against hers as if it might tear itself apart under the strain.
“I can’t—” The words broke apart as they left him, dissolving into another ragged sob. “I can’t—”
He didn’t even know what he meant.
Couldn’t hold it together. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t—
Riven didn’t try to quiet him. She held him.
That was all.
One arm held him firmly, her hand on his back, the other cradling the back of his head, keeping him close, keeping him here as the storm inside him raged and broke.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured, her voice low and steady against his ear. “I’ve got you.”
The words should have felt small compared to the enormity of what he was drowning in. They didn’t.
They were the only thing that felt real.
His knees buckled before he even realized what was happening.
One moment he was standing, clinging to her with everything he had, and the next the strength simply… vanished. His legs gave out beneath him, and he went down hard, dragging her with him in his grip.
She didn’t resist. Didn’t try to hold him up or steady his fall.
She went with him without hesitation, sinking to the forest floor, her arms never loosening around him even for a moment.
The impact barely registered.
All he knew was that he was still holding her. That she was still there. That she hadn’t let him go.
He folded in on himself, curling toward her, his face buried against her shoulder as the sobs kept coming, harsh and unrelenting. His hands shook where he held her, fingers clutching at the fabric of her clothes like he was afraid she might slip through them if he loosened his grip even slightly.
“I can’t stop it,” he choked, the words tumbling out between breaths that refused to come cleanly. “I can’t— it’s just—”
Everything.
It was everything.
It hurt. Gods, it hurt.
His entire body felt like it was coming apart at the seams, every breath dragging something jagged through his chest, every thought splintering before it could fully form. There was no structure to it, no control, no careful mask to hide behind.
Just pain.
And the terrifying, suffocating weight of it now that he wasn’t holding it back anymore.
Riven’s grip tightened around him, firm and unyielding, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head again, pressing him gently into her shoulder as if she could shield him from the worst of it.
“Let it come,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the force of his shaking. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. You don’t have to hold it back.”
Safe.
The word struck something deep in him, something fragile and raw that had never quite dared to believe it.
His breath hitched again, another sob, closer to a scream, breaking loose as he clung to her, burying himself closer as if he could hide there, as if he could disappear into the warmth of her and escape the storm tearing through him.
He didn’t try to fight it anymore. Didn’t try to stop it.
There was no strength left for that.
So he let it take him, shaking and breathless and broken in her arms, while she held him steady through every wave that crashed over him, never once loosening her grip.
And slowly, so slowly he almost didn’t notice it at first, the tide began to shift.
Not gone. Never gone.
But no longer dragging him under with quite the same relentless force.
Still there. Still hurting.
But survivable.
Because she was still there, too. Holding him together when he couldn’t do it himself.
He clung to her as his sobs gradually quieted, burying his face against her neck, in her hair. For a moment, he felt shame. Shame for letting her see him like this. Shame for every hurtful thing he’d said to her. Shame for treating her so unfairly, when all she’d wanted to do was help him.
But her arms were still around him, one hand around his back, the other cradling his head against her, her fingers moving gently through his hair in a slow, soothing rhythm. He held tight to her as his body trembled with everything he was feeling, everything he didn’t know if he’d ever truly heal from.
Her hand never stilled in his hair.
The rhythm stayed slow and steady, something he could follow when his thoughts still refused to settle into anything coherent. Each pass of her fingers grounded him just a little more, drawing him back from the edges of something vast and consuming.
His breathing began to even out, though it still caught now and then, lingering remnants of those earlier, violent sobs pulling at his chest. He didn’t try to move. Didn’t try to pull away.
He wasn’t ready. And for once, he didn’t feel like he had to be.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured hoarsely against her skin, the words quiet and uneven, as if they had to fight their way out of him. “For what I said. I—”
His voice faltered, the rest of it dissolving before it could fully form.
Riven sighed, holding him even tighter. Her hand slid from his hair to cup the back of his neck, her thumb brushing lightly along his skin as she held him close.
“I know,” she said softly.
There was no sharp edge in her voice. No demand for more. Just acceptance.
His grip tightened faintly at her back, still needing her close. Still holding on to something solid as the last of that overwhelming tide receded.
“I didn’t mean it,” he added after a moment, quieter still. “Any of it.”
“I know that, too, my love.”
The simplicity of it made something in his chest ache in a different way.
He let out a slow breath, his forehead coming to rest against her shoulder as his body finally began to loosen, tension easing out of him piece by fragile piece. The trembling didn’t stop entirely, but it softened, no longer threatening to tear him apart.
For a while, neither of them spoke. There was no need.
The forest had gone quiet around them, the distant whisper of the wind through the trees and the soft chorus of crickets the only sound. The world felt… smaller here. Contained. Manageable in a way it hadn’t been before.
Eventually, he shifted slightly, just enough to draw a fuller breath, though he didn’t lift his head.
“…I hate this,” he admitted, voice low, stripped of its usual bite.
“Hate what?” she asked.
He swallowed, his fingers tightening once more in the fabric at her back. “I don’t know how to—” He stopped, frustration flickering weakly at the edges of his words. “Any of it.”
“You don’t have to figure it out all at once,” she said. “You don’t have to carry it on your own.”
He let that sit, turning it over in his mind, uncertain and fragile and wanting to believe it.
Slowly, carefully, he loosened his grip on her just enough to shift, though he didn’t let go entirely. He couldn’t quite bring himself to put distance between them yet.
Her hand moved from the back of his neck, reaching up to smooth his hair back from his face. He closed his eyes, reveling in the tenderness of her touch.
He’d been more than just angry and rude, he’d been cruel to her. He’d deliberately tried to make her angry with him. And instead of punishing him or withdrawing from him, she’d responded with this same tenderness. With softness he didn’t deserve.
And he worshipped her for it.
Her fingers lowered to his chin, a single finger beneath it, slowly guiding him to look up at her. Despite the fact that he probably still looked like a blubbering mess, he allowed her to tilt his face up to hers.
And she met his lips with her own, in a kiss so sweet, so soft, it set fresh tears stinging the backs of his eyes all over again. Even after everything he’d said, after the awful way he’d treated her, she still loved him. She still wanted him. Even as broken and brittle as he was.
“Riven,” he whispered against her lips, still holding tightly to her.
“I’m right here, my love.”
He turned his head to hide his face once more in her hair. “I probably look ridiculous right now.”
“Never,” she assured him. “You’re beautiful.”
“I am beautiful,” he agreed, drawing in a trembling breath. “No one ever says it enough.”
She chuckled softly, her hand going back to stroke his hair in that same slow, soothing rhythm.
He closed his eyes, letting himself settle into that, into her warmth, into the steady presence that had held him through the worst of it.
The pain hadn’t vanished. It lingered, quiet now, resting just beneath the surface.
But it no longer felt like it would consume him whole.
And for tonight, that was enough.