illithidnapped

[Astarion clicks his tongue, chasing it with a scoff. His hair is better, thank you— and that’s his opinion as someone that adores the tattooed fool dearly.]

Cute.

[Anyway.]

Do you miss Orlais? I imagine you don’t get to spend a wealth of time there anymore.

I do. Val Royeaux is— [ He exhales. ] You can walk in through the Sun Gates and out through the Night Gate and hear music the whole way, in the streets and from the windows. When it is quiet enough you can hear the Grand Cathedral even from the outskirts. Whatever you think of the words to the Chant, the melody is beautiful, and they never stop singing it there. Nothing ever stops. You can make and lose a fortune in a day. The colors are always changing, people paint and repaint and adorn and simplify in waves every year, and from one street to the next it might feel like you have stepped into a new world.

She is beautiful. But harsh. Mercurial. Demanding. Proud. Petty and pitiless. If I had come up somewhere else I might despise it, but she is my mother, so—que faire?

Que faire. [Astarion repeats, though his accent and unfamiliarity with the language (not to mention his lack of understanding) makes it something of a clumsy venture.]

Will you return to it, then? All your golden gates and grand streets, the constant music and— closeted disdain [It’s a chuckle of a thing, that addition. Not biting, only the sort of teething nip of an animal that could otherwise dig themselves in.] once this is all over?

Oh, I’m sure, [ Bastien says—because not keeping Byerly a secret is one thing, but freely offering the I’ll go where he goes depths of it to someone who likes to nip? Bastien’s not so reckless as that.

It’s not a lie, anyway. They’ll visit. ]

And before it is over. I will be there next week, actually, if I am not murdered by brigands on the road. I have to meet with some people. Maybe next time you can come, ouais?

You? Murdered by— [He scoffs there, sharply.] please. You’ll be just fine.

[And, where reassurance might blossom warm as sunlight at daybreak, the elf is all too quick to add:]

Probably.

[Hah.]

And if not, look on the bright side: I’ll always remember you fondly.

What more could I ask for?

[ Two or two hundred additional things, probably. ]

Your world—did you see much of it?

[A tepid beat, before:]

...no.

I traveled here and there in my life before death, so to speak. I was indeed a Magistrate, after all. But living a charmed life tends to mean one doesn't get out nearly as often as one should: what little I can remember, most of it was within the very same city I was damned to dwell in.

Even now, if I had the chance to go back, I imagine the only reason I'd roam is just to keep myself away from Cazador's reach. If that were even possible, I mean. There's a lot of hypotheticals to this scenario.

[ A mirthless little laugh that’s less amusement than acknowledgement of what a difficult question it is. ]

Do you think you would like it there, if everything went right and you were free?

I would adore it. [He says, the gravity of those words speaking for themselves.

But in the end, life doesn’t give anyone what they want.]

What about you? Would you still have been a bard if you could turn back the clock, in essence? Would you have done anything differently?

[ On his end of the crystals' connection, in his bare room in a bore of a tavern, Bastien scrunches up his entire face at the question—less a wince than an unfettered look of ow my brain concentration. It's fair turnabout, but still never something he's devoted any time or thought to, these what if exercises, when it comes to his own life.

After a pause to gather his thoughts, he answers, very intelligently, ]

I don't know.

[ There's a wooden creak; he's leaning a chair back on two legs. ]

I should probably say yes. That is the hero's answer, n'est-ce pas? But boys like me came twelve for a penny, in Val Royeaux. If it had not been me, doing everything I regret, it would have been someone else. Everyone I hurt would still be hurt, and I would be... I don't know. I was fourteen, when I was invited. It wasn't like you, you know, with a whole life you might have kept. I can't imagine what I would have been.

Whyever did you say yes, then?

[Light, that question. Lacking in judgment. Only curiosity.]

To your question?

[ As opposed to his bardmaster's invitation—but he assumes he's guessed right and continues on without pausing. ]

I think I am saying no. I wouldn't have done anything differently. Not anything big. I should say yes, that I would correct all of these mistakes and cruelties, but—

[ He puffs air out of his mouth and shrugs off the weight of the thought exercise. ]

But if I did I would not be talking to you. Tragique.

[Realizing his own tendency for frivolity's made the wrong impression, Astarion backtracks instantly— even past the faint, appreciated compliment of good company.]

To being a bard, darling. If someone else could've done it just as well.

Ah.

[ A considering pause, and then: ]

Non. It is your turn.

Did you have to keep it a secret there? What you were?

Oh absolutely. Monster hunters made more than a pretty coin or two killing everything from kobolds to dragons to— well, vampires.

Granted, someone like my former master would've been impossible prey, even for an entire clan of seasoned veterans. But alerting an entire city to the fact that you're there, living and feeding and whatnot...it's just stupid, really. Makes it all the more difficult to go about your business unbothered.

That's why I was the one to fetch his meals. Much like a servant scurrying out for wine, I suppose. Only you can't just fetch a willing victim from the store.

[His voice is dry. Bitter, even when weaving humor into the topic at hand.]

Would've made everything so much simpler, though.

[ He makes a hm sound, not amused enough to count as a laugh. If the subject were anything slightly less dire, he'd joke along: white or red? Dry or sweet? But the subject is what it is, and even if Bastien wanted to help make light of it, it wouldn't feel like his place. ]

Did they die? When they were— [ gross; but his voice is unflinching, because he's a professional ] —fed on.

Really? Here I am trying to lighten the mood and that’s where your mind runs?

Yes, my darling. They never lasted. Wasn’t their lot, the loving. The trusting. Fools, all.

[Just like Astarion, and every other spawn that Cazador came to claim with an open palm and the promise of salvation.]

But don’t go weeping for them now. Compared to an eternity, their deaths were mercifully quick.

[ Bastien hasn't genuinely wept since he was a small child, thanks very much—though he does a great impression of it when needed—and he isn't going to start now. Not over deaths that, on an intellectual level, he believes to have only happened in dreams. Like some twist on solipsism. The only thing in Astarion's life that is real, in his opinion, is the effect it had on Astarion himself, and the person his dreamed-up memories made him as he solidified on this side of the Veil.

He will not be saying so. ]

So someone is bitten by a vampire, and they either become one or die? [ Semi-rhetorical, to make sure he's following. ] Do you still need to eat that way?

[They could keep talking about this. Delve into more. Discuss every last sordid detail—

But Astarion's rapidly lost interest. Weathervane, protective, he's had enough of this game for now.]

No. That’s it. You’ve heard enough already.

[Whether that no is a no is anyone's guess, given that he's putting his foot on the brake.] You're all safe from me, I'm not what I was before, let's spare us both the discomfort and end it there.

Please.

D'accord. Of course.

[ It's the sort of ready agreement that comes mixed with confusion and apology—not aware precisely why that was an overstep, but willing not to stubbornly step further. ]

I should sleep soon, anyway. Thank you for indulging me so much.

[Better than admitting he doesn't know what he is now. Better than stepping into the proverbial fire when Wysteria's already nipping at his damned heels about it.

His tone settles sweetly, he all but purrs.]

My pleasure, darling. Truly.

And the next time we see each other, I want to hear the rest of your story.

On verra, mon petit oison. Good night.

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