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Life in the Estvine mansion has always been a bustling affair. Chores to complete, guests to attend, masters to appease, and that particular day proved exceptionally demanding. Baron Estvine had taken it upon himself to host an impromptu soirée to curry favour with the other nobility of Baldur's Gate's Upper City, hoping they might look upon him with greater regard, or at the very least, have his name kept in their very good books.
There was only so much one could achieve with such hasty arrangements, but his wife, Lady Clotilde, possessed an uncommonly exacting nature when it came to matters of propriety and presentation. Perfection in this, perfection in that. Sometimes, you and the other servants would steal moments of levity attempting to mimic her affected accent, one she maintained with such desperate precision for the sake of appearances. Everyone in the household was quite aware of the pretence, though all had the good sense to keep it to down despite the strong desire to call on her bullshit.
Guests had started to arrive, and foods were prepared in such lavish amounts. Pity, because you knew at the end of the day, not all would be eaten, and the leftovers would rather be used to feed the pigs than to feed the servants. Such was the life of a lowly maid in the world of the wealthy. Everyone had their best clothes on, even the workers. Well, except for those who weren't going to appear before the guests' eyes. You were on coat duty, relieving the guests of their very heavy and very fancy outdoor attire and sending them to the closet in the back. Your duty would only last until all the guests had finished arriving.
There was the matter of the jester who hadn't shown himself at all, and you pitied the chief usher should the Lady notice the absence. If she even bothered to study the schedule of the evening rather than laughing rather loudly just to please some richer people who had made a terrible joke, if you could even consider it a joke at all.
And then the soirée started. People were networking, the cooks were busy keeping the food continuously replenished, and you remained at your 'hanging coats' duty.
You wouldn't say you were an incredibly nice person, but there were times your hands would grow light and you would swipe some expensive items to sell for a few coins if it meant you had extra money at hand. Not that you were a kleptomaniac, but the rich could make do with a few missing trinkets. Going through pockets wasn't exactly a pleasant task, though, especially the pockets of the rich. God knows what's inside of them.
You fished out a crumpled paper from Sharess' Caress from Lord Davenlyn's coat and couldn't help the grimace. That decrepit old man? At Sharess' Caress? You couldn't help but wonder if he could even manage the deed. Such a disturbing thought, but you did manage to get a few gold coins from those disgusting pockets.
"Looks like someone's making quite a hefty profit in here. With the wrong sort of jury, you could get your hands cut off for that, you know."
The coat and coins fell to the floor, your heart leaping from your chest. How careless you'd been not to notice someone had been watching and caught you red-handed. You looked towards the doorway and saw a pale elf dressed in rather expensive attire, though not as gaudy as everyone else's. A lock of his silver hair curled against his forehead as he regarded you with a raised brow and a lopsided smile.
You knew him. You'd seen him before, passing judgement on criminals by the gate, and would catch sight of him as you passed the courthouse. Everyone had a name of their own for those whose real names they didn't know. This elf, in your mind, was Mr Magistrate. How in the hells were you going to get yourself out of this?
He spoke again before you could open your mouth.
“Oh, don’t stop yourself on my account. I’m off duty, you know. There’s no need to worry about being caught. Unless you want to be.” That last part of his sentence was meant to tease, but you were too guarded to lean into his jest.
The way you looked was like a child who'd been caught red-handed stealing a biscuit from a jar, and it was rather endearing, really. Or perhaps a dazed little mouse that had just been saved from drowning. You remained frozen, and he was clearly having his fun with you. Instead of pressing further, he came closer and began examining the coats alongside you.
“This won’t be missed,” Mr Magistrate said as he held up a pearl necklace. “But this, tsk, will call for an investigation in this manor,” he continued, holding up a diamond-embedded badge. “You need to know what to steal. Pair of earrings? No. Maybe half a pair, then they can assume one had simply dropped.”
Why was he telling you all this? Was he simply toying with you? But he seemed genuinely earnest in his explanation. You were already starting to imagine yourself before the court, or even worse, unable to afford proper representation and immediately sent to jail. Or worse still! The gallows! What a way to go, you thought.
"This would look beautiful on you, though I suggest you don't wear things you've stolen. That would be rather idiotic, wouldn't it?" he smiled, passing you a ruby necklace.
"Am I going to jail? Or die?" you finally asked. You certainly hadn't expected the burst of laughter that escaped him before he quickly composed himself, worried that someone might venture into the room where the two of you were.
"Oh, darling. I have no concern for these aristocrats. I mean, look at this ghastly wallpaper. And the drapes? The collection of books your duke has on the shelves is mediocre at best. I doubt he even reads them. I'm merely someone they believed was important enough to invite." And right he was.
"I never liked those books on the shelves."
"Ah! See? Even a maid such as yourself knows what's in poor taste," he sighed and handed you another coat. "Shall we?"
The evening went on with the elf by your side, going through pockets like a pair of thieves, and he was clearly enjoying himself, though none of the items were taken for his own benefit as he passed everything to you. You thought it must all be some sort of game to him, watching a pitiful person such as yourself sink so low as to steal things. But he complimented the way your hands made quick work of lifting the items, and remarked how difficult it would be to notice unless one paid close attention, as you appeared to be merely checking pockets rather than stealing. In his own words, it was “so smoothly done”.
"I assume you know how to pick locks as well?" he asked, eyes still focused on the task at hand, almost as if showing interest whilst maintaining an air of detachment.
"Only simple ones..." you answered, still exercising caution, though you'd grown a little more open. Some part of you worried that this might serve as a confession should you find yourself before a court, but you were already in deep with him, rifling through coats together, so you thought: why not?
After the last coat was examined, Mr Magistrate dusted his hands together and smiled at you. "That's it, then. I've had quite an entertaining evening thanks to you. Now I find myself in need of some refreshment after all this... interesting activity." And with that, he turned on his heel and left.
*
It would be a lie to say you hadn't expected the Flaming Fist to come looking for you. You had little to no trust in the wealthy, though you certainly couldn't lump them all into one category. Not everyone was wicked, but it was your misfortune that you weren't within the circles of the virtuous.
The anxiety of being caught ran its course after a few weeks of silence, and work in the Estvine mansion resumed as normal. When you ran errands outside, you couldn't help but turn your gaze towards the courthouse, imagining Mr Magistrate in one of those rooms, overseeing cases with the clear, authoritative voice he would have used to pass judgements. Such a contrasting figure to the man who had aided you in stealing from the wealthy's pockets.
Did he have some sort of twin or something? Alas, you went on with your chores, stopping along the way to sell the stolen items at different shops so as not to arouse suspicion. By the time you were finished, it was late afternoon. Thankfully, despite the Lady's constant hovering over the staff, you weren't considered important enough for her attention, as she mostly summoned the head of each department within the household.
The next time you saw him, you were enjoying your day off by the cliffside vista that overlooked the sea. He was taking the long way round after having purchased a book and came across you seated on one of the benches.
"Mr Magistrate!" The title just slipped from your lips and it was too late to take it back, and he laughed. You hadn't expected to miss that sound, yet you did. He was charming in all manner of ways, and was dressed in a cream lace-up tunic and a pair of dark green-brown fitted trousers that were obviously tailored to his measurements. He looked rather casual compared to the times you'd encountered him by the courthouse, and certainly less formal than during the soirée. His curls looked more relaxed, and he wore a roguish expression.
"Dearie me, is that what you call me in your head?" He really couldn't escape the urge to tease. You made it far too easy for him. And he found you rather endearing, which was saying something when he usually cared little for others.
"I'm sorry... I don't know your name," you admitted.
"It's Astarion. You'd do well to remember that." And you did. You'd never forget it. His name, nor his purple eyes, much like the violets that bloomed along the gardens of the Sword Coast.
*
His violet eyes possessed specks of gold, and you hadn't noticed until you'd come so close to him, with the tip of his nose merely inches from yours. You were assisting him with a separate case. One which he did not oversee, but his fellow colleague did. The barristers were proving difficult to deal with, and Astarion would occasionally indulge in some hands-on investigation purely for the sake of amusement rather than duty, so he had spirited you away during one of your days off for what he called an excursion, which more or less translated to breaking into someone's residence in search of evidence.
That was where your lockpicking skills proved invaluable. He watched with fascination as your hands worked the metal picks, probing the locks and listening for the telltale clicks that signified the door had been opened. You helped him search the rooms, though you remained uncertain of what exactly you were seeking. That was until the two of you heard footsteps approaching, when Astarion quickly grabbed your arm and pulled you into a narrow closet before squeezing in beside you.
"Keep quiet," he whispered, his warm breath fanning against your face. The space was so confined that you were pressed flush against him, and God, he smelled divine. Whatever fragrance he wore was certainly having an effect on you.
The two of you peered through the gap in the closet door, witnessing the scene that unfolded before your eyes. You couldn't make sense of what was happening, but perhaps it would prove useful to the magistrate somehow. There was a heated discussion about some shipping matter, voices rising and falling before the room fell silent once more. The two of you remained hidden for several more moments before Astarion carefully opened the door.
"What's the matter, darling?" There was that knowing expression again. He was perfectly aware of what he was doing. That damn magistrate simply wanted to hear you admit it.
"It's nothing..." But he knew well enough it was far from nothing, though he pressed no further and led you from the place as swiftly as possible.
*
"Would you care to teach me how to pick locks? I'll pay, of course."
Astarion needn't have dangled the promise of payment to capture your interest. You were intrigued by him enough to accept regardless, but thanks to the coins he'd offered, you could at least mask your true intentions when you agreed. And you could certainly trust Astarion to transform a lockpicking lesson into something resembling an actual class. He had invited you to his home and laid out an entire collection of lockpicking equipment as well as trap-disarming toolkits. He was thorough in that regard. How he managed to get the equipment was something you wonder.
His home was situated some distance from the courthouse, tucked away in a quiet corner where foot traffic was minimal. He preferred the tranquillity after long days of hearing cases and issuing orders in court. Everything within his home was carefully curated. Things he deemed tasteful, and rightfully so. From the carpets to the drapes and wallpaper, it displayed sufficient luxury without appearing ostentatious.
“Well, come in,” he seemed rather refreshed, his hair still slightly damp. The smile he wore was broad as he opened the door for you. "I've procured some sweets for between our lessons." The tray of desserts on the table was generous enough to suggest it was rather more than “some”.
Watching someone as elevated as a magistrate learning to pick locks was decidedly unusual. While Astarion wasn't someone you'd imagine as particularly virtuous, you still couldn't quite reconcile the image of him picking locks. Yet there he was, struggling to manipulate the metal picks while his pointed ears strained to catch the telltale clicks that stubbornly refused to come.
"By all the bloody gods. Did you deliberately give me the most difficult lock to pick?" His words carried accusation, though he was by no means truly scolding you. Astarion was glowering at the inanimate object before him, as if willing it to unlock itself through sheer force of his displeasure. It was cute.
"Here, let me." You certainly hadn't thought it through, simply wanting to ease his frustration when you reached out to cover his hand with yours, instructing him not to apply too much pressure and to feel for the mechanisms within. His hands relaxed, allowing you to guide him as he registered the roughness of your palm against his considerably softer ones.
He ought to have been watching the lock, but his gaze remained fixed on you, studying your profile as a few stray hairs shifted with your movements. Your eyes were focused, determined to teach him, yet he found himself utterly distracted by your presence.
Click!
"See? You managed it." Astarion cleared his throat with a small cough and nodded, indicating his understanding, though it required several more attempts (thirty-six) before he truly grasped how to discern the correct sounds.
It was unfortunate—Astarion had been certain his heart was secured behind impenetrable locks, yet there you were, with your set of picks, somehow managing to probe and release something within him. Click.
*
Ancunin. His last name is Ancunin. You wouldn’t have known it had he not invited you to witness his court sessions.
Case 172 to be presided over by Magistrate Ancunin.
That was a world you thought you’d never ever step in, yet there you were, seated at the back as you listened to barristers arguing their cases whilst Astarion sat with a grave expression etched across his features. It was another side of himself he had permitted you to see. A man who held the law in his hands. You observed the magistrate as he called for order in the room, dispensing judgement as he saw fit. Case after case reviewed until the hour grew late and the courthouse closed for the day.
On your way searching for Astarion, you came across him speaking to another man. Neither had noticed your presence. You couldn’t discern a word of their conversation, but you witnessed the magistrate accepting a pouch from the stranger, their expressions appearing cordial and pleased until the man later spotted you and barked a warning.
“This place is off limits!” You were shocked by the stranger’s hostility until Astarion placed a hand upon his shoulder, murmuring something that seemed to mollify the earlier irritation before bidding a swift farewell and approached you.
“Astarion, who was that man?”
“Nothing for you to concern yourself with, my dear,” he smiled as he led you out of the area. He changed the topic, enquiring about your impressions of the entire experience. Your very first courthouse visit, as he said it. With the eager curiosity of someone encountering an unfamiliar world, you were naturally excited to share your observations, though the legal jargons and its meanings remained entirely beyond your comprehension.
“Would you like me to teach you?” You’d never said ‘yes’ faster in your life.
*
Between the lockpicking and law lessons, the two of you found comfort in each other’s company. You took advantage of the times when the Baron and the Lady were away on their travels and spent your days at Astarion’s residence. You’d learnt from his elderly neighbour that he seldom entertained guests (which made you special) as he much preferred attending parties to hosting one himself.
Some days were filled with adventure, when you delighted in his mischievous streak as the two of you broke into various establishments. Most recently, it had been a chapel, simply because Astarion was incensed with the priest for being what he called a two-faced bastard. You’d never imagined a house of worship would require breaking into, but apparently it did when run by someone so corrupt. The two of you were nearly caught, but thankfully Mr Magistrate had carried an invisibility potion with him, and you fled the scene together like lovers eloping from an unwanted betrothal, hand in hand with broad grins spread across your faces.
You had fallen in love with him. You had fallen in love with Astarion Ancunin.
He presented you a necklace one day, adorned with a pendant that reflected the very colour of his eyes.
“This is not for sale,” he stated as a matter-of-factly as the necklace was fastened around your neck. Fortunately, you were facing away from him, otherwise he would’ve seen the growing blush upon your cheeks. Like a dog with a bone, he most likely not let it go and would tease you mercilessly about it.
“Which poor lady did you take this from?” You couldn’t help but ask. Somehow, the mere thought of it having belonged to another woman didn’t sit well with you, gift though it was. Jealousy lurked as if it had business to belong.
“You think so poorly of me?” He asked in faux offense. “Besides, I hardly think the lady I acquired this from could be considered poor, given the considerable sum I parted in exchange for it,” he sighed, and you could practically hear him rolling his eyes. So he had bought it for you. Upon learning that, it proved difficult to suppress your growing smile.
“It’s beautiful…” Perhaps the most exquisite thing you would ever possess in your entire life. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t anything to…”
He tutted, silencing your protests. “A token of gratitude, for my dearest safecracker.”
*
Humans are among the few races blessed, or perhaps cursed with brief lifespans. Elves like Astarion, however, are granted centuries. You often wondered about his age, and since asking directly would be considered rude, you attempted to extract the information through subtler means.
“Ari… have you figured out what name you want to give yourself?” You'd devised a nickname for him, as “Mr Magistrate” proved far too revealing and contained rather too many syllables for either of your preferences. Ast-ARI-on. You'd claimed the middle portion and made it your own. He seemed quite content with the arrangement, knowing with certainty that only you addressed him so.
You asked that question because as far as you were concerned, once an elf reached their hundredth year, they would select an adult name, marking their passage into maturity.
“Oh? No, I haven’t. Still a considerable time away,” he replied, attention remaining fixed upon the documents scattered across his desk. You sat opposite him, attempting to decipher the dense legal tome he'd provided, though the words seemed to writhe and leap from the pages before your eyes.
“How many more years until then?” A dry laugh escaped him. It appeared he'd recognised the trap you'd laid and settled back in his chair.
“Does my age trouble you? I assure you; I am sufficiently mature. Maybe not for an elf, but I’ve accumulated enough decades,” he said with a chuckle before returning to his work. The matter of his age was never broached again, though you suspected that with sufficient persistence, he might have relented. Or at the very least, make you work for it.
*
Naturally, in time, you discovered that Astarion's methods were far from pristine. This revelation came as little surprise, considering his measured reaction when he’d first discovered your pickpocketing, and the subsequent occasions when you'd engaged in breaking and entering establishments together. His approaches were questionable at best, yet if there was one certainty you possessed, it was that Astarion Ancunin was not truly wicked. Chaotic? Undoubtedly. Genuinely evil? Never.
The most difficult periods were when he was required to render judgement, crafting his opinions on cases drowned in moral ambiguity where the vulnerable had been exploited. Matters would have proved simple if they just existed in black and white, but questions of morality cast vast grey shadows. Was theft truly theft if it meant filling empty bellies? Was killing truly murder if it meant protecting oneself or another? These were the cases when Magistrate Ancunin was compelled to draw an unforgiving line and stand firm upon his principles.
You came to understand that he harboured contempt for those he deemed weak. Yet it wasn't actually weakness that led to his disdain, but rather those whose innate goodness made them trusting, and whose trust rendered them vulnerable to deception and manipulation. You often thought Astarion would be better served directing his hatred towards the liars themselves, but in his worldview, people wouldn't fall prey to deceit if they weren't so painfully trusting to begin with.
Papers littered his study alongside half-finished correspondence. You’d grown accustomed to the late evenings. He lifted his gaze from his work when you entered bearing what was undoubtedly the vilest spirits he kept in his kitchen, though it would surely keep him up with how foul it would taste.
“Still working?”
“Hardly, now that you’re here to distract me.” You didn’t miss the smirk he wore when he accepted the glass, hissing sharply after taking a swig. It was truly that bad. “Though I must confess, I find myself less focused as of late…”
You raised a brow as you leaned against his desk. “The great Magistrate Ancunin, distracted? Should I be concerned about our legal system? Is it crumbling?”
He couldn’t help but chuckle, clicking his tongue before speaking again.
“You know what troubles me most about law?”
“The complexity?”
He shook his head. “The rigidity.” His face scrunched as he took another sip. Gods, why does he even bother to keep the bottle around? It was one of the more expensive ones too. The liquor was bought long ago, before he had developed a finer palate. Perhaps he retained it as a reminder of humbler beginnings.
He grimaced and continued, “We reduce the messiest, most complicated aspects of existence into neat little precedents. Guilty or innocent. Legal or unlawful. As if life could be so easily categorised.”
You watched as he settled deeply into his thoughts. “So… what does this have to do with your distraction?”
“Tell me, safecracker. How does one quantify that another person becomes as essential as breathing? Because that’s one of the reasons why people steal, isn’t it? A brother steals so his sister could be fed another day. How do you legislate the instant when someone stops being an addition to your life and becomes… the very foundation of it?”
You weren’t too sure of what he was talking about anymore, but you listened, still, knowing it was important.
Your breath caught when his hand tilted your chin upwards, his thumb brushing against your skin. “I’ve presided over countless cases of theft,” he murmured. “So tell me, safecracker. What charge would you bring against someone who has stolen something the victim never knew they possessed?”
You found yourself frozen beneath his gold-flecked violet eyes, captivated and ensnared. “That sounds like a crime without a victim, Magistrate Ancunin…” You managed to speak out.
“Does it?” His free hand captured yours, pressing your palm against his chest where you could feel the rhythm of his heart. Warm and alive. “When the theft has been so absolute, so complete, that the original owner finds himself grateful for the loss?”
His question hung between the two of you. You could feel the rapid pulse beneath the fabric of his shirt, could see the slight tilt of his head, the hopeful gleam reflected in his eyes as he awaited your answer.
“Then perhaps… the victim might argue that it wasn’t theft at all. Perhaps it was an even exchange.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs as he smiled. It was so radiant, transforming his features into something breathtaking. You didn’t pull away when he drew closer, when Astarion’s lips briefly found yours.
“An even exchange,” Astarion said with his face merely inches away. “Yes, I think that’s exactly what a magistrate might rule, given the proper evidence.”
“And what evidence might that be?”
Instead of answering with words, he cupped your face in his hands, thumbs brushing across your cheeks as he looked at you like you were something precious and impossible and entirely his.
“The evidence, safecracker, is that I am yours in whatever way you’ll have me. Today, tomorrow, and for as long as you’ll allow.”
*
Your life was slowly changing for the better. While your working hours were filled with chores within House Estvine, you would burn the midnight oil reading books. Thanks to Astarion, you had the opportunity to turn your life around, to enter the world you could only hope to dream of. While Lady Clotilde was none too pleased whenever you had to be whisked away when needed, she held her tongue when Astarion reminded her of her own rather "humbler" beginnings.
That was when you learnt more about him. About how he was a star elf, the most elusive amongst the rest, but had left his homeland out of curiosity. There were not many tomes concerning his kind—only that you knew they had once dwelt in another plane before eventually returning to Faerûn. If you did not know better, you might have taken him for a moon elf, the sort you had encountered before, those known to be far more sociable than their other counterparts.
"Oh, them?" Astarion had responded when you enquired about the moon elves. "Far too trusting for their own good, I'm afraid. I have actually overseen several cases involving their kind. Rather impulsive, in my opinion."
Yet he was accustomed to being mistaken for a moon elf. Not that he was averse to it in any manner. Indeed, there were certain nobles who hoped to curry favour with him simply because he was an eladrin. Not that he ever cared for their admiration, but he would not turn away a good opportunity if it might benefit him in future endeavours. You had learnt to observe the strategic side of the magistrate, how every relationship was not merely one of pleasure (though he would hardly be opposed to such), but also served his own interests. Rather like a game of chess, wherein everyone held some use to him.
*
With Lady Cloltilde unable to keep you firmly within her grasp of control, she was left to punish you with trivial yet cumbersome errands. One such task presented itself today, though from her perspective, it was a matter of complete urgency that left her thoroughly vexed.
The Lady had requested you retrieve something from Sharess’ Caress simply because she had left behind a tailored handkerchief during one of her more depraved escapades. As the item was unmistakably hers (bearing her initials and such), you were to retrieve it, lest her dear husband learn of her lecherous endeavours behind his back. As if he would care—for everyone in the manor knew well enough that he too indulged himself whenever he travelled alone to another city, according to what you had heard from his rather gossipy coachman.
After parting with a few gold coins under the table to request entry and obtain the pesky little thing, you were led by one of the staff to the chamber and reminded to accomplish only what was necessary before taking your leave. Knowing the patrons, and that in their stupor they might mistake someone such as yourself for one of the establishment’s hosts, you were most eager to avoid such a predicament and made quick work of retrieving the handkerchief.
“There you are, you wretched thing,” you whispered to yourself and departed. A familiar voice, however, stopped you dead in your tracks. It was unmistakably Astarion’s voice, and out of curiosity, you peered through the slightly ajar door to observe him conversing with a woman. They appeared to be in excellent spirits, Astarion bare-chested as she fed him grapes, which he took seductively from her fingers, licking his lips with evident relish. Your heart dropped at the sight.
“Any success in acquiring those items?” the woman enquired as she offered him another grape, which he accepted with obvious pleasure.
“Do not trouble yourself, darling. I know someone who can assist me,” he assured her, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.
“Oh? That human? Do try not to be so cruel and toy with the poor creature...” Despite her words, you knew she did not truly mean them.
“Please. It is hardly my fault that I possess such charm. Where I point, she follows. Like a lost little puppy.” Your stomach twisted at his every word. Was that the reason why he encouraged your lock-picking abilities? That he harboured some agenda, and you were merely a pawn in his game of chess?
“You are mean...” She softly hit his chest, but he merely chuckled in response. “It is rather my speciality...”
Had those moments meant nothing to him? Were you simply someone he employed for his purposes? Yet it had all felt so genuine. You found yourself drowning in your emotions, failing to notice that someone was approaching to open the door—and it was none other than Astarion himself.
“Did I mean nothing to you?” Those words left your lips sooner than you could think.
Astarion was caught entirely off guard, his façade crumbling, but after a swift glance towards the woman with whom he had been speaking, he steeled himself once more.
“Of course not. Have you quite lost your mind thinking I would wish to be with someone as lowly as you?”
Your eyes blurred as tears welled up, and no matter how desperately you fought to hold them back, refusing to grant them such satisfaction, you wept nonetheless. The pain was far too great to bear. A resounding crack echoed through the air as your palm struck him soundly across the cheek. The magistrate froze at the contact and dared not meet your gaze.
“I hope you die screaming,” your voice broke. “I hope you are beaten until you are bloodied and die!” And with that, you fled, caring not what you left behind as you struggled to hold the fragments of your heart together, desperate to prevent it from shattering any more.
You arrived home to face Lady Clotilde's unrelenting reproach. Despite having successfully retrieved her kerchief, you had rather soiled it during your hasty escape from that place. Yet you cared not a whit as she berated you without cease, her voice threatening to deafen you entirely. At that moment, you could not have cared less about anything at all.
*
Days passed without incident. Astarion did not come to apologise, though a sliver of you hoped he might. Perhaps he had been lying to her. In truth, you would have preferred he lie to everyone if it meant that all were regarded equally in his eyes. You ought to have known better than to trust people of his ilk. But what manner of person was Astarion Ancunin, exactly?
“Baldur’s Mouth Gazette! Works great as a toilet paper if you run out!” A child hawking newspapers cried out, attempting to draw attention of potential buyers.
“Death of a magistrate noble! Circumstances under investigation!” You stopped in your tracks. Magistrate noble? It can’t be. You attempted to ignore the gnawing sensation in your mind as you took several more steps before turning on your heel and approaching the boy.
“Which magistrate?”
“That would be one gold coin, lady,” the child was adamant, and in desperation, you swiftly handed him the coin and perused the broadsheet.
BLOOD IN THE COBBLES: Gur Clan Implicated in High-Profile Murder of City Official
“A distinguished magistrate was found dead in the city alley, sparking a criminal investigation and stirring fears among the city’s elite. Magistrate Ancunin, a well-known figure within the Magistratum, was discovered lifeless in the early hours of the morning…”
You could hear your heart thundering in your ears, and you recalled the final words you had spoken to him. Indeed, your heart had been shattered, but no—you had never wished for his death. You would sooner die yourself than see him come to harm, despite his betrayal. You had loved him far too deeply, and to think he had been torn from this world...
So you fled, seeking his final resting place whilst the boy retrieved the paper you had abandoned and offered it for sale once more.
*
Despite all your curiosity, wishing to learn about him when he was still alive, you learnt most about him when he was dead. Astarion Ancunin had been thirty-nine years of age. So many years shy of the time when he might have earned the right to name himself. You had hoped to glimpse his family, but alas, even in death he remained a star elf still, and to catch sight of his kindred was as rare as could be. For all you knew, he had been disowned or cast out from his lineage for even setting foot within the human realm.
You had wept day and night, and even Lady Clotilde had held her tongue regarding your grief. Ridiculous though she might be, she had not interfered with your mourning and allowed you your sorrow. You had visited his grave since the day of his burial, and upon arriving there one morning, you observed that Astarion's resting place appeared to have been disturbed.
You were furious. Of course, he was hardly one with the cleanest of hands, but to be subjected to such indignity even in death? You could not bear it, and so you hastily filled the hollow with tears stinging your eyes. The caretaker on duty attempted to console you as you sobbed, trying to draw you away, but you remained steadfast. They could only observe you with pity as you continued to level the earth, smoothing Astarion's plot before placing a single flower beside his headstone.
“Who could’ve done this? The man is dead…” You murmured.
“Some naughty child came by claiming there was a vampire rising from the grave at the sight of it,” the caretaker said.
“You mean one of the undead,” you laughed bitterly, attempting to find humour in the situation despite there being precious little to appreciate. But it matters not, you will return every day, simply because you love him.
*
“Yes. Now don’t get too chummy. I’m only telling you because you’ve been very kind to me and you deserve the truth,” Astarion spoke. The feeling of having defeated Cazador Szarr had yet to settle, and freedom felt bittersweet. On one hand, he would be liberated, but on the other... well, upon the defeat of the elder brain, he would be condemned to dwell in shadows forevermore, able only to dream of sunlight. Yet for now, he would savour his days beneath the sun.
“Do you miss her?” Tav finally asked, obviously quite invested in the story the vampire spawn had shared.
“Of course I do. She was the only one who truly ever made me…feel things. Even now, in my dead heart, I can still feel her. Warm like the sun…” he murmured. “I hurt her. Many times I wished to make amends, but I was too proud. Alas, it was too late. I was dead.”
He fell silent for a time, gazing upon his weathered, forlorn headstone before speaking once more. “She came to visit my grave, not knowing it was empty.” His voice nearly broke, though Astarion was nothing if not a skilled performer.
“Did you visit her after your turning?”
“You really do have a knack of asking the hard questions,” Astarion laughed, trying to lighten the sombre mood. He bit his lip and sighed. “I did. It was hard. I quickly lured a few people and vanished for a while. The rest of my siblings didn’t look further because my duty for the night was done.”
“Was she happy to see you?”
“Ha!” He laughed a little too loud for his liking before softening to a gentle chuckle. “Of course she was…” Because how could Astarion Ancunin ever forget?
*
Five. He had successfully lured five before calling it a night and disappearing before the rest of his spawn-siblings could ask any further. He had learnt where you lived, so he went for a visit before he was compelled to return.
Your home was dark, save for the dim glow in your bedchamber. He climbed the vines and lockpicked your window. All thanks to the skill you had taught him, and he entered.
“Who’s there?” your voice softly asked. He had roused you from your sleep.
“It’s me, my darling. I’m sorry to wake you,” Astarion apologised, approaching your bedside. It had been so many years. Far too many, judging by the lines upon your face and the silver of your hair that now resembled his own. Decades had elapsed, and you had become an elderly woman.
“Oh…Ari…” You cried. “You’re as handsome as I remember you.” For once, Astarion felt his heart beating again as he choked back his tears. Indeed, so much time had passed.
“Had I known that you’d turn out to be quite a looker in your old age, I would’ve returned sooner,” he couldn’t help but tease. It is hard not to, with you.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t be much use to you. My hands shake a lot now. We can’t break in anymore,” you returned his jest which he gladly received. Astarion assured you it mattered not, simply grateful that he had been able to visit.
“I see you became quite the successful magistrate. Really looking up to me.” You nodded, telling him of your cases, the ones that you won, the ones that broke your heart as he listened without fail. Following his death, you had studied with great determination, even going so far as to solve the mystery of his murder and connect it to the Gur who had played a part in it. He noticed you still wore the necklace he’d gotten you.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised.
“For what?”
“For that time when I said you meant nothing to me. My heart, you mean everything. I’m so sorry for making you think otherwise.”
“I’m sorry too for the last thing I said,” you said. Astarion laughed a little too loud and quickly closed his mouth, worried that he might’ve alarmed your family.
“Well, you did indeed cursed me to die. I did died screaming and bloodied,” but it was all in the past now. He had you here with him, making up for lost time. Well, your lost time.
“Ari—why are your eyes red?” You asked as you stroked his cold cheek. He frowned slightly and claimed he could not sleep. You sensed there was more to it but did not press the matter.
“Why had you come?” Another question. Instead of answering, Astarion leaned in and kissed your forehead.
“Why, because it’s your birthday, silly. And neither of us could die peacefully without saying a proper goodbye.”
“I love you, Ari. I always have.”
“I know. And I love you too.”
*
“She passed several days later at the age of 100,” Astarion said—an age that, had he lived long enough, would have granted him the right to name himself.
Tav watched as Astarion approached another grave with flowers he had bought. Of course, they wondered why the elf had troubled himself to buy them when he was so accustomed to appropriating things. In that moment, Tav understood. Astarion was laying the flowers upon her grave.
“I love you, my sweet. I’ll see you again where the sun shines upon us both.”