People are afraid of a graveyard at night. I remember how, more than once, while hunting, I dared one of my... Cazador's preys to climb over the gates of Baldur's Gate cimitery, promising I would be by their side, like a white knight.
Even then, a graveyard, yes, can be the reign of ghosts. And yet, ghosts are everywhere. Especially in our minds. Ghosts of lost chances, ghosts of dead lovers, ghosts of dead... us.
Perhaps, I suddenly realize, that is why my steps took me to my own grave.
My name is almost disappeared in stone, but I still can see it as I drop to my knees.
Astarion Ancunin, Magistrate of our dear city.
Instinctively, I scoff. A Magister is a symbol of power and authority, the hand of justice. Some mithical, non-existent figure. A white knight indeed. A lie.
Sighing deep, I recline my head, my forefront now upon my knees.
The realization strucks me before I could stop my own mind.
Even while alive, I was running in circles. Then, I had done so for Cazador. Not that, about that, he had a choice in the matter; nonetheless, it had slowly become an habit, then a natural... state, before I was even aware.
Under Cazador's iron foot, at least, I had no say. Before him, though...
Astarion Ancunín, Magistrate of our dear city.
Astarion Ancunín, king of fools.
Astarion Ancunín, living parody of pride and vanity.
Astarion Ancunín, a travesty living out of fallacy.
Power. Authority.
I always craved those. And back then, I wielded them like a sceptre. So much that in front of a defeated Cazador, I wanted all that back. To belong as rightly amongs the greater men, to feel someone other than a lie.
Lies can be a coocoon, a comfort, a cradle. Something, anything to chase away the growing sense of loneliness, the new-born awareness of his unworthiness already whispering in his ears.
Unworthy. Undeserving.
My sight gets strangely blurry. Maybe that is why she denied me her help. Power's not for me. Instead, she towers over me in all her courage and inner strenght. Of course I am not enough.
The world is all there. Tears, a tombstone, the cold ground. A small, almost inaudible part of me is telling me to shake off that feeling. A too weak voice, as me, and even weaker than Cazador's grip.
Comfort, a coocoon, a cradle. The memory of an evening.
§§§
In the Shadowlands, it's hard to tell night from day, assuming they even exists. Sometimes, Astarion fears that if they remain here long enough he'll forget both.
However, even this darkness engulfing Thorm's Mauselum as it towers over him, Kelsya, Karlach and an empty-stared, bruised and battered Shadowheart is more welcoming than the deepest retches of Shadowfell.
Astarion shoots a glance at the half-elf cleric. If, that is, she is still a cleric at all. given how she has just forsaken her own deity.
Suddenly, a bright comet lights up the sky. It's none other than the daughter of Selune, just freed from her prison. Once again, not by any prayer but by four... well, three mortals' hands.
A priest would certainly call them the result of exactly that, a prayer. Astarion grimaces. No, thank you.
"Ah. It's no sun, but it'll do. For now", he comments. A quip, his favorite way to break every heavy silence. And that is definitely a long one, fervid with heavy thoughts.
As Dame Aylin shoots through the sky, however, even the gloomy Shadowheart seems to find some solace. Karlach seems to shine with happiness, while Kelsya slowly smiles while following her trail with her gaze.
He knows that smile. He calls it the smile of surprises, the one that paints her lips as she plots something. Something nice.
When they reach their camp, all in dire need of rest, Kelsya takes the floor as the talented bard she is.
"So... we will need a bigger fire for cooking dinner, and for something more, after that", she declares.
And preventing any objection regarding their need to sleep, to be ready for the upcoming battle against Ketheric, she quickly adds "It won't take long. Promise. Don't you dare to sneak in your tents... Ah! I'm talking to you, Shadowheart".
Those last words appear joking, and yet Astarion knows she means it.
As she's standing near the campfire, crowned by that orange light, he can see the dark circles under her eyes. It's not much sleep she could benefit from, lately. Ever since he had to tie her up to save his own skin.
Right now, she's truly brimming with enthusiasm. Her raven hair roam free along her shoulders, her bright, clear eyes scan the camp while she naturally acquiring the pose of an artist on her favorite stage.
She's magnificent, eager. Too eager. Exhaustion is better than murderous thoughts, taking care of her companions and him is a perfect way to silence the urge.
He almost walks up to her, ready to hold her and tell her it's fine, that she's strong and does no t need to try so hard. He restrains, though, as he always does.
She needs that persona, as he did, and somehow still needs, his mask made of clever, seductive jokes. Notheless, he finds himself wondering what her mind is cooking up this time. She is, as he found out more than once, full of surprises.
And even know, surprised he is.
One campfire, several blankets as seats, one piece of parchment each, enough ink for everyone. Perhaps it is not much, but Kelsya's eyes are glowing with something very close to hope, as she hands a piece each and finally speaks.
"Even the darkest night has to end. Even the Shadowlands'. And it will, if we manage to keep hope close" she places her hand on her chest "to our hearts. Our hope may feel dead now, so... let us all have it reborn. With this fire, like a phoenix. Let us all write down what we hope, then gift it to this healing flames. And" she raises her index finger, much like a teacher, almost scolding them with a mischievous smile "do not peek the other parchments. It won't work, otherwise! And we won't raise as well from our ashes, ready to fight the fiend Ketheric!"
Karlach, of course, is the first to jump at the suggestion. Closely following is Wyll, a sucker for heroic speeches. With a smile, Gale indulges Kelsya; he does need hope, maybe, hope that he does not need to sacrifice himself. Jaheira writes something down, as well. For the first time in their adventure, however, the gith and the former Shar's cleric seem to agree in their reluctancy.
As for himself, he's not sure he believes in hope. Hope never saved him. Something else did: villainy did. The woman in front of him did. As he watches her, his parchment still intact, he does not see a villain nor a hero. He sees behind every mask she puts on to keep herself in check, and he knows she does believe in hope. Hope to be free. Hope to be safe. Hope to be herself at last. He sees a person ready to be just that: a person, not a demigod nor a savior.
His gaze to the parchment, once again, he starts writing down his... wish. He may not believe in hope, but he won't rob her of the one thing that's keeping her afloat. So he sets it in ink.
§§§
"I hope you'll keep hoping", he whispers. He's back to the present time and to the graveyard now. He does not remember... crying.
"I found you at last".
Shadowheart's voice breaks the silence of the graveyard and silences his mind.