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The shadow-cursed lands have a certain character. It's a menacing, get-the-fuck-out-of-here character, but it's definitely a character. The dark and the weather - or lack of it - have a feel all their own.
"Who gave this place permission to be so damned freezing?" Astarion's trying to keep his usual stiff-necked poise, even slouched by the fire, but the cold's starting to defeat him. Hunting helped for a while, it was obvious, and it'd probably be a lot worse if he hadn't fed, but nothing seems to keep the cold at bay for long. His mouth is working as he tries not to let his teeth chatter - probably a lot worse with fangs.
"Blame Shar," Gale mutters, daring to without Shadowheart close by, and Lae’zel snorts. “But tonight is frigid even for this cursed place.”
Astarion pulls the blanket tighter round himself - worn but thick wool, with a little embellished, almost fleur-de-lys border in delicate gold thread. Somehow that hasn't unravelled. The rest is drabber than his usual style, though needs must, Lora supposes. But there's a pink patch, one she swears she sewed more haphazardly...
Wait. Lora knows that blanket. It used to be one of hers. It's the worn one she dropped outside his tent the first night they camped together - when he'd spent the journey muttering about the mud and the lack of baths, she'd spent it letting his snotty insults roll off her back, and she'd woken up the next morning to find said blanket had... mysteriously disappeared. That was months ago.
The thread's new.
“Damn this,” Astarion mutters, before she can muck everything up by saying something. “I'm turning in. Wake me up if we're all eaten by shadow undead.” And then he stalks to his tent, blanket thrown over his shoulders like a stereotypical vampire's cape; she watches him go in concern.
“Goodnight?” Gale manages.
Silence falls, even more than usual in the Shadowlands. Gale coughs. Wyll stirs the fire with a stick. Lae’zel sharpens her sword just a little more pointedly.
Lora lasts perhaps two minutes before she's grabbing a fur and an extra blanket from her tent - firmly ignoring the curious amusement she can feel from the other side of the fire - and sidling into Astarion's vaguely hedonistic lair, stepping past blood jars and haphazard books.
Astarion’s already reclining on an elbow, of course; he heard her coming. “Oh? Didn't know you were feeling frisky. At least it might warm us both up.”
Even though it's a joke, any coquettish effect is mostly ruined by the three layers he's wearing - undershirt peeking out from under his collar, another shirt, and some kind of robe he must have stolen along the way - and his miserable little nest of blankets. And the subtle redness to his nose, the tension in his shoulders to stop the shakes. Gods, there’s barely anything here, for all the treasure trove outside his tent. He’s all but slee – trancing on the ground. Elf or not, he’s got to be freezing.
Lora shakes her head, sliding to her knees next to him. “You're shivering.”
“Of course I'm not. Am I?” Astarion looks down at himself and sighs. “I suppose I am.” He is. Vigorously. “How are you not?” he adds, in confused disgust.
Lora throws the extra covers over him. And then she wriggles half out of his tent, ignoring the fact that Wyll is now leaning round Gale to watch, and returns with half of Astarion’s cushion stash.
“Is that why you're here? To make a delivery?” That arch voice is muffled through wool, until a pale hand pulls it away from his face and Astarion blinks at her owlishly. Well, half owl, half very disgruntled sheep. The pomade’s starting to lose the fight against blanket friction, flyaway curls sneaking back into shape. It’s... sweet.
“If you want. But I thought I'd ask if we could share,” she says, gesturing to his bedroll.
He blinks at her, sobering. “I thought we'd spoken about, ah…”
Is it patronising to be proud of him? Probably. It doesn't change the fact she is, terribly, even while guilt for how they started is trying to squeeze the breath out of her.
A hand to her heart, Lora says, “No funny business. On my mother's life.”
Astarion squints at her, amused but with the tiniest hint of wariness underneath. “You don't have a mother.”
Sombrely now, eyes steady on his, she says, “On my lyre.”
Those little lines start around his brows - he's frowning, trying to work her out. And then, like so many small moments over this journey, she sees the second he decides to trust her. With an incline of his head, Astarion says, “Accepted.” He blinks, and snorts. “But darling, it's not as if I have an excess of body heat to give. If anything, quite the opposite. I'll, ah, leech from you.” He tries to grin fangily through the shivers, and then it occurs to him. “...Ah. You were trying to save my dignity, weren't you?” He sighs, and untucks a corner of his blanket pile, dragging a cushion or two under his head and turning away from her. It's the nearest to an invitation she's likely to get.
Unable to watch him in his misery any more, Lora swiftly ties the tent flaps, tries not to bolt into his absurd nest of cushions, and tucks herself in. “Oh. These are soft,” she says, plumping one. Silk. Shouldn't even ruin her hair too badly.
Astarion huffs a laugh at that - mostly silent, but she spots the movement of his shoulders.
Slowly, loudly, she shuffles closer and puts an arm round him; Hells, below wool and linen, he's like ice. He makes the smallest noise and stiffens, shoulder blades like shelves against her.
Lora lets go, instantly - but there's a hand snaking to her hip before she can shuffle backwards, pulling her to him.
Astarion murmurs, “I was just startled, that's all. You're so warm.” His tone is wondering - and then embarrassment at himself catches up with him. He goes tense all over again, but Lora just re-wraps an arm round him; curls the rest of herself round him too, knees against his knees, hips against his hips, chest to back.
It's the softest breath he lets out, almost inaudible. He tries, “This is ridiculous. It's not as if we're in some snowy wasteland.”
She says, “No light. No heat.”
“Hm. You know, once I would have said something like, ‘You're all the light I need. A lone star in the darkness.’”
With a laugh, she puts her nose against his shoulder. “Isn't that meant to be you? Considering the name, and all.”
“Shh. Don't ruin my metaphor. It took me a whole five seconds to think of it.” It's a slow thaw, the way he's melting against her as he speaks: bit by bit, inch by inch.
Lora sniggers against his robe.
Where her hand rests on his chest, she feels slim, strong, freezing fingers join it. Astarion says, softly, “I won't say I don't miss the sun. But you… help. You're so - ugh - colourful. And warm.” His head ducks, and then her hand’s being lifted to cool, gentle lips. He lays a kiss to her knuckles.
Lora’s chest fills with something that makes her realise she's a terrible bard, because she's uncertain how to describe so very much. She kisses a pointed ear - it twitches the tiniest bit in his surprise, barely there and in a way that would likely irritate him if he knew.
“It's probably the big glowing mace,” Astarion grumbles, carefully ruining the compliment - belied by how gently his hand’s still holding hers. That first time is still fresh and new: the way he took her hand like it was a precious thing. How pleased he was just to hold and be held. His grousing is relaxed, half swallowed by his pillow.
Many wouldn't say he's an ideal partner for cuddling: he's all sharp angles and sharper elbows, albeit ones dulled by his clothing. He's freezing marble except for where his hair tickles her nose. But his toes twitch against her shins and his voice is a low rumble where she rests, and he fits in her arms like they were made for it. Lora knew these strong shoulders and these long limbs would be good for something, and apparently that something was holding a short, slowly warming undead elf.
For all he's not tall, he's long, somehow: elegant limbs with a deceptive amount of strength hidden underneath. She'd thought the first time they slept together he was all lean muscle and sinew; now she realises he was starving. It just takes longer in a vampire. There's a solidity to him now under her hands: his shoulders are the slightest bit broader, his thighs a little less skinny. Lora wants, all over again, to tell the man she met in that clearing not to do this: to go hunting with her instead. To ask for a bit of her blood. To take her hand. Not that he would have listened.
“You've gone all tense,” Astarion remarks. “Have I done something?” His voice is on the knife-edge of casual.
Yes. No.
She swallows. “It's so quiet here. The birds don't sing. I feel exposed when I do. The silence leaves you with your thoughts - not always the good ones.”
“Mm.” All at once there's a small hurricane of movement next to her - before she quite knows what's happening, he's eeled out of her grasp and turned to face her. “Luminis,” he says, softly, all cut-glass enunciation; close to where they've bedded down, a jar - empty, thankfully - illuminates. He takes his fingers away from it.
Scarlet eyes search her face. It felt easier to hide in the half-dark, even though he could see her perfectly well… Oh. The light isn't for him, is it? His fragile mortal lover, so small in the grand scheme of things.
The words spill from her mouth unbidden, and she wonders, for far from the first time, how she ever became a bard. “I, ah, I get on edge, in this place. You said I was… colourful.”
“It's a bard thing, I'm sure.” Astarion’s voice is wry, but there's a crease of what looks like concern between his brows; he’d be appalled if it was pointed out.
“Here, that feels like I'm a target. I feel watched all the time.”
Grimacing, he says, “Ugh. Awful, isn't it? It's not just you.” But it's less theatrical than it would be with the others. More honest.
Astarion eases closer to her, hair falling over his forehead but eyes still dark and curious on hers - and something like realisation is dawning on his face. He always knows someone's soft spots. Lora wants to crawl away, to make some pleasant joke to distract them both; she makes herself be brave and stay, instead.
He places a hand on her arm, lightly, uncertainly, as if real tenderness is a song he's heard so many times but he isn't sure how to play by ear - and then he cups her face, still with a tentative hand. There's no laughter in his voice when he speaks. “Lora, darling, are you scared?”
“Aren't you?” she says, sounding small and helpless and hating every second of it.
Astarion barks a laugh, seeming to startle them both. “Love, we're all terrified of this place. Karlach’s spent half the journey quaking in her fiery little boots. Gale seems to be reading so he doesn't scream. But you're always so… cheerful.” He strokes his thumb over her cheek, again with a slow lightness to it, as if he's ready to move away the moment she says something, as if he might be overstaying his welcome. As if it isn't keeping her grounded. Sadness is in the tight lines around his eyes, his mouth. “I thought you'd sublimated it all into jokes and anger. Or perhaps that's just me.” He gives her a grin that's almost sheepish, by his pointedly-confident standards. Sobering, he says, “I should have seen through a fellow liar.” That's too gentle, too worried to have any sting to it.
The words are so hard to find. “Having someone with me helps. To watch this place back. You've got the fastest eye of any of us.”
Amusement flits over his face, his eyes skating to her throat. “I didn't think you'd want these fangs so close to your neck.” Double-edged, with the barest hint of real fear under there, the way so many of his offhand jokes are.
“They have been enough times before. You” - she clears her throat, and tries not to feel ridiculous - “you look after me?”
Astarion blinks a moment, eyes widening. “I do, do I?” He's trying for wryness, but his voice has something else to it. Something raw, but she can't tell if it's good or bad.
Lora says, hastily, with a demented kind of mildness, “Usually by stabbing things that are trying to kill me. And you can see in the dark, and I can't. And you slee - trance less.” And the shadows are less frightening when met with a wry voice and flamboyant arm-waving. And she's learned to feel him at her back, even when she can't see him.
She wants to squirm, but he's leaning to catch her eye. He says, with a disbelieving half-smile, “My dear, are you saying you feel safe with me?”
Lora sighs explosively, ready to be laughed at -
“Gods, I really have taken up with a madwoman.” But the words are softer than they should be, and he… tugs her into his arms, and holds her tightly.
Oh.
Lora freezes - he does, too, as if scared he might have overstepped his bounds. She wraps an arm round his waist before he can decide that she must hate this and he should run away again, her head settling onto his shoulder. He's warmer, she's glad to note, the shivers gone entirely. Still not as warm as someone alive, but getting closer to his normal.
Astarion says, “I'll keep the shadows at bay. You just focus on keeping me warm.”
“I can do that,” she says, faintly.
“Can I take away the light?”
“Sure. It's not the dark that worries me. It's… being alone, in the silence.”
Astarion throws the tent back into darkness with a whispered word - and then stays there: chest against hers and legs tangled, breathing every so often out of habit instead of necessity. A hundred little sounds even in a man as consummately quiet as him, from that to the brush of his clothes against pillows. Lora feels him start to stroke her hair with that careful touch, uncertain of his welcome; she hums happily, and he keeps it up. It's worth a little extra work in the morning for this.
A memory winds slowly back into her head: a man who'd give her florid nicknames and yet all but flee after sex, their arrangement going mostly unspoken. The second time, and that touch on her hair, so oddly uncertain for a man that confident in bed. She hadn't understood it at the time.
All I had to do was not fall for you.
Astarion turns his head, breath cool on her ear. “Lora?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you.”
“Mmhm." It's vague, said into his hair.
She feels him laugh faintly against her.
When Lora wakes to the morning light, she's somehow spooning him again; his forearm is wrapped around hers, holding her there, but he’s contorted himself to lean a book next to him so he can read.
Wait. That wasn’t in his tent last night. Lora tries to get her mind around the image of him sneaking out of bed, getting a book, and sneaking himself back in under her arm. Somehow, it makes a worrying amount of sense.
Astarion lets go of her the moment he senses she's awake, saying idly, “Have you ever considered a second career as a backpack?”
“How long have you been thinking of that one?” she mumbles, only realising she's nuzzling her nose into his hair when she gets tickled.
The book snaps shut, and Astarion pushes it aside with three fingers. “Is your pillow talk always so cynical? What's wrong with a good sweet nothing?” But he turns to her, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
For a moment Lora just lies there in some sort of disbelief, because she knows how nights with Astarion end. She wakes up alone, with only a bite mark to say anything happened at all, or there’s some convenient excuse he pulls out to sneak away.
But there’s a man in her arms, now, running a little cool for a mortal but not the block of ice he was – his hair wildly curly, his movements soft and slow and easy, the tiniest satisfied hum running through him as he eases into her embrace. “Gale is skulking about, making breakfast,” he says into her shoulder.
“Sounds good.”
“No, it sounds terrible. You’re better than a furnace. The bastard can show off to everyone else, but I’m keeping you.”
“Just for warmth,” Lora says.
“Obviously.”
“Are you warmer?”
His voice is a wry drawl, but something content is sneaking in around the edges. “Toasty, darling.”
Lora strokes a hand over Astarion’s back, over the layers of nightshirts and robes. For the barest moment he tenses – whether it’s because of his scars, or whether he thinks she’ll touch him somewhere less innocent, try to push his limits. She doesn’t, and he makes that faint content sound under his breath and goes loose again, his nose against her neck, curls tickling her cheek. It all feels like an impossibility that’s half a dream, like capturing the moon in a bucket of water, or...
A throat’s cleared outside the tent.
“Gale?” Lora says.
Through the tent, a wizardish shadow gazes awkwardly up at the sky. “I see. I shan’t ask if you’re decent in there. I somehow doubt I wish to know.”
Astarion mumbles, mouth still half against her skin, “If you untie that tent flap, I will kill you.”
“Ahem. It occurs to me that only one of you needs food – well, until I perfect that Waterdhavian blood pudding recipe. All the same, I’ve made a porridge with honey and almonds. Whenever you’re ready.”
Lora’s stomach growls just at the sound of that; she tries not to be embarrassed.
Astarion says, with the faintest fond undertone to it, “Ugh, mortals.” Rolling away from her, he adds, “Go, darling. It’s best never to deny your hunger.” He grins at her, and it’s full of teeth – but it softens as he adds, “And if you need further protection from the night’s shadows, you know where I am.”
She does. But it’s Astarion who sneaks into her tent the next night, a couple of ragged blankets tossed round his shoulders. She shifts to make room, opens her arms, and he fits himself between them like it was where he was always meant to be. Perhaps it was.