Hi everyone,

Thanks sweetheartcat5 for the follow and bookmark !

This chapter is very important to me. Astarion's personal story has knocked gently on the door of my own past, and I'm really trying throughout this fiction to do it justice. If you yourself have suffered abuse in your life, know that 'you are not alone, none of us are', as the character's voice actor so aptly put it. Trigger warning for the sexual and psychological abuse mentioned in this chapter.

Music recommendation: For the first part of this chapter, I recommend Isaac Pérez Riera's cover, Baldur's Gate 3 - Bard Dance - Violin Cover.

I wish you all a good reading !

They had lost fifteen of their own. Fifteen druids and tieflings who had fought to protect the Grove from an unfortunate fate. The deads had been gathered and prepared in the underground caverns. This afternoon, the refugees would mourn and accompany them on their final journey. Tomorrow, they would have to live again.

The fleeing goblins had been hunted down, then eliminated; the wounded, cared for by Nettie. Now, the fugitives' wagons were ready to leave.

The druids had buried the bodies of those who had fallen in battle, returning them to the Oak Father. Familiars weren't concerned with this funeral rite, however Halsin made an exception for Tee-la.

Night fell slowly as the companions made their way back to camp. With a few tieflings, they had set up the place, bringing tables, barrels of wine and food. The tents had been moved closer to the undergrowth, freeing up space for potential dancers. It seemed incredibly alive after the chaos of the day.

Guests began to arrive, creating a cheerful buzz of voices, shouts, and laughter. A brawl of young tieflings broke out around Lae'zel, who ended up berating the novices about their footwork. Shadowheart, meanwhile, began to savour the wine. Only Astarion had taken a step back, looking disdainful.

The dark elf would have laughed at his attitude, had she not felt intimidated. It was... unusual for her, to be celebrated as a heroine. "No, let's be honest," she thought. "It's even something completely unknown." It was pleasant, actually; every person she met had a kind word for her, or a warm look. Perhaps this was the first time she had been acknowledged for her actions.

And yet...

"That vile drow got what she deserved!" the survivors toasted.

… And yet, she still felt the weight of her origins on her shoulders. A few days ago, she was no better than Minthara in the eyes of the refugees. And today, they were calling her 'saviour', and associating her with Drizzt Do'Urden, a dark elf reknown for his legendary exploits! Should she only have two faces? The monster haunting children's nightmares, or the incredible benefactress?

"Would it be too complicated to just be me, with nothing to prove?"

An arm slipped under hers, pulling her out of her gloomy thoughts. With surprise, Nymuë recognised Alfira, the tiefling artist who had offered her her violin. She looked like she'd had too much to drink, and couldn't stop laughing.

"Do you know what's missing from this evening?" she exclaimed. "Music! We've got lots of good dancers here, and only Ikaron's broken voice to accompany them! Could you help me remedy that? I see you've kept your instrument..."

Nymuë smiled: this audience couldn't be any worse than the goblins! She followed Alfira to the center of the camp, and they both climbed onto crates. Whistles greeted them as the tieflings gathered on the improvised dance floor. The dark elf saw Shadowheart raise her cup in her honour.

"I have no idea what the latest fashions are!" she told Alfira worriedly.

"They've all been overheard anyway. Follow me!"

The tiefling began a simple chord... whose rhythm she maliciously accelerated. Spontaneously, the dark elf adapted her measure and held back a laugh. It was easy to play with Alfira; instinctive! Old habits returned to her as the audience applauded. Some spectators had launched into a frenzied waltz, and she herself twirled to support the movements of her bow. She and Alfira jumped in tune with the choreographers, played more and more rapid chords. The waltzers spun faster; the final note brought them to a halt in front of their hilarious partner.

Nymuë curtsied deeply to the cheers, a smile on her face. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she'd really danced herself to exhaustion! The spectators asked for another turn, but she gracefully declined. Alfira, after all, was just warming up!

With a lighter heart, she went round her companions. Lae'zel challenged her to an arm wrestle, which she lost miserably. This had the merit of motivating the githyanki to completely reorganise their morning training. Shadowheart offered her a drink, half-admitting that she had 'borrowed' their best vintage from the druids... The dark elf burst out laughing at her mischievous expression: who would have thought that they had not one, but two thieves in their team?

Finally, she headed towards Astarion. The high elf had stayed away from the festivities, although several bottles of wine had mysteriously appeared near his tent. When he saw her, he greeted her charmingly:

"Here's my little treat, with their cheeks all flushed." he declaimed.

"Your what?" Nymuë protested. "Are you drunk already?"

"Don't insult me, darling. This wine might as well be vinegar."

"You're exaggerating," she sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Try it, then."

The young woman complied, taking a sip from the bottle he handed her. She couldn't hold back a grimace: the wine was rich, syrupy. Its consistency was so thick that it almost burned her throat!

"You see?" the rogue replied. "Disgusting."

He pondered for a few moments, before adding:

"I never thought I'd be a hero, one day."

"Neither do I," Nymuë coughed.

"It seems improbable to be acclaimed for saving so many lives. And now that I'm here..."

He drank another gulp, pursing his lips with aversion:

"I hate it. It's awful."

"It's not that horrible," she tempered. "It can be nice to do a good deed once in a while."

"For pity's sake, never again. I've seen you, you know: you too are aware of the fake nature of this little evening. They call us 'saviours', idolise us! But comes morning, when we'll be those in need...

He rolled his bottle on the floor.

"… They'll turn their backs on us, just like everyone else."

Nymuë did not answer. Part of her felt as if she was stealing these moments of joy; inevitably, she was waiting for the time to give an account. But maybe... maybe she could live without being a fraud. Perhaps she even had the right to.

Astarion was groping around, calculating the risks of going to the end of his thoughts. Finally, he asked:

"Who's Elyon?"

The young woman felt as if she had been stabbed in the chest. Her sorrow must have shown on her face, for the high elf continued:

"You had a bad dream the night you… sated me. And as I told you, you talk in your sleep..."

He noted her tense features and her clenched hands.

"Is she an old acquaintance?" he ventured to say. "Someone waiting for you at Baldur's Gate? Oh! And old flame?"

"Nothing like that," the dark elf murmured. "She was someone I cared for very much. A long time ago."

The rogue's smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression as the young woman fought against the myriad of images assailing her. It was like an obsession, ever since the Nautiloïd.

She had managed to live for fifteen years without dwelling on her past. Fifteen empty but peaceful years, when all her memories had been stored in a corner of her head. She had carefully isolated them, drowned them out; to the point where they had become impenetrable even to her.

But there must have been a flaw in her construction, because since her departure, the visions had been nagging at her, stronger with each new assault. What had she hoped to find when she left Baldur's Gate? Her mind spoke of a 'new beginning', but to where? The young woman had thrown herself wholeheartedly into this undertaking, and now she couldn't even sleep peacefully.

Astarion raised his hand, startling her. He looked falsely pensive:

"Come to think of it, you left me pining for you the other night. That was a big mistake. I'll show you right now."

Nymuë retained a disdainful exclamation. What a diva! They had been on the verge of transforming into illithid, then visited by a mysterious entity, and all he could remember was being rejected?

"How about this one?"

He cleared his throat:

"All these accolades from the tieflings are nothing compared to what would give the sound of my name cried from your lips."

"You've just admitted to hating said accolades," Nymuë scoffed.

"Hmm... Let me give it another go. Every part of your perfect body whispers temptation. It's as if the gods made you, just to ruin me."

"Is this line also two hundred years old?"

"Impertinent. I could go all night with the flattery! But is that really... all you want?"

The dark elf laughed in spite of herself. Did she want to be more intimate with Astarion? Perhaps, yes. He intrigued her; amused her, often... Sometimes, the two of them looked so alike that it was disconcerting. In those rare moments, she felt she understood him in a way she had never understood anyone before. To be seen, and to see; to be close to him, with him, was almost then... comfortable. Reassuring.

And the rest of the time, his personality was too changeable for her to form an opinion. Like now: he'd already made advances to her twice. But were they sincere? Did he really want to spend the night with her? Or was he doing it out of spite, because he didn't have a varied choice of partners?

She felt his hand lift her chin, as he made another attempt.

"How about if I said these little words... Everyone's favourite?"

He looked her straight in the eyes, making both his smile and his grandiloquent gestures disappear.

"I love you."

Nymuë flinched. If this was a joke, it was incredibly cruel. No one had ever said that to her. And the few people who might have thought it would agree that it was a mistake.

"That would be a lie," she whispered.

"Ah, ah!" he laughed. "But rather a beautiful lie, nonetheless? Now, as much as I relish standing around and saying all my favourite lines at you, I'd much rather we got to experience..."

"I'll come and join you when the others have gone to sleep," Nymuë cut him off.

A shiver ran down her spine; she herself didn't know what had prompted her to accept. She felt strangely... empty. All this partying, this celebration... it was at once everything she'd ever dreamed of, and everything she wanted to run away from. "Another night," she thought. "Another performance."

"Perfect!" her companion exclaimed. "I'll be waiting."

She turned her back on him, dodging the questions he made her ask. As well as the feelings she wasn't ready to face.

The evening had been as dull as he had suspected.

Good feelings, promises of better days, pointed glances between two clumsy waltzs and, to top it all off, a wine even more disgusting than Baldur's Gate's swill. No, Astarion was adamant: this party was beyond pathetic.

That was why he had been so pleased when Nymuë had finally decided to approach him. The musician's cheeks were red, still flushed from her performance. It had taken him back to that night when, a few days earlier, she had offered him her neck. He had simply been starving that evening; two hundred years of mistreatment hadn't prepared him for the euphoria that a real hunting ground could bring.

Old habits die hard, and he didn't dare to drink to his heart's content. In spite of himself, he feared Cazador's reaction if he learned that he had fed on beings other than rats or insects. So the blood of a thinking creature? Ah! That would doom him. And so would she, by the way, although he hadn't thought it necessary to pass on this information. If his master learned what Nymuë had done, he would make her pay for her altruism. However, the experience had been exhilarating; for the very first time in his miserable existence, he had been in charge. He had been the one with the right of life or death over others. No wonder Cazador refused to let his spawns experience such joy!

Of course, this favour - like all others - came at a price. And if he had to pay to secure new access to her carotid, he was more than willing. He knew how to do it, after all. He'd had two centuries to train, and Nymuë was the ideal prey. No particular attachmenst, no loved ones or known family; she was their de-facto leader, and as of today, the great saviour of the Grove! Could he have dreamt of a better champion? And he sensed... something else, too. A fragility, in the way she avoided looking at him, or remained insensitive to his charms. She was no novice, he was sure, but always on her guard. Nevermind; gaining her trust would only serve his interests better.

Part of him felt disgusted to still resort to this kind of procedure. Cazador wasn't there to force his hand, was he? He didn't have to end up on his back for the umpteenth time. But how else could he protect himself? "One last night," he thought. "Time to learn how to control the parasite. To drive a stake through Cazador's chest. One more evening of parade, and freedom will be within reach."

He had to admit that Nymuë hadn't made his task any easier. It seemed that the poor girl had no taste; or perhaps was she blind? This physique had turned more heads than he could count, and it was unthinkable that he wasn't her type. His body was his best weapon, and he sharpened it regularly. His outfits, his hairstyle, even his perfume were perfectly calculated. They were part of his arsenal, a nectar to stun his prey, and lead them to their doom.

But the little dark elf didn't appear dazzled by his attire, and he was forced to rethink his strategy. He had quickly realised that he had to ponder in the long term.

This was something new in his long career of seduction. Usually, his victims didn't survive the night. If he wanted to get Nymuë on his good side, he would have to abandon his masquerade in favour of... honesty. Nothing too mawkish either, let's not exaggerate; but a hint of truth, here and there, would be more profitable to him than his usual techniques. The young woman seemed to think more of him when he opened up to her. And he... Well, he supposed that revealing some of his cards wouldn't kill him. As long as he won the jackpot at the end.

As he questioned her this evening, he saw her wall crack. The slightest gesture on his part, and the dark elf would have disintegrated like sand blown by the wind. He'd brought out his favourite seductive lines, his flirtatious glances, his discreet touches... She hadn't taken him seriously of course, but that was for the best. If Nymuë found him annoying, then he still had her attention.

And that had paid off, in the end. She was about to join him under cover of night. He was already waiting for her, having spotted a discreet spot down by the river. This would be perfect for two people looking for privacy...

Not that he had any doubts about her coming, of course. He knew she was receptive to his charms, despite her scowl. But perhaps, indeed, he had felt a few touches of, shall we say... uncertainty. "Ironic to be so concerned about the success of a plan that makes me nauseous." he said to himself as he took off his shirt, He was thinking too much, that was his problem: it was just another night. He'd had worse; at least, this time his partner would be a little attractive.

However, there was something different about this encounter. Most of his victims had been selected according to precise criteria: they had to be easy prey, quick to fall into his arms. Husbands or wives trapped in monotonous lives; shy young people with little experience; drunks whose common sense was clouded by alcohol. They all wanted the same thing: quick, immediate pleasure. One that this body, this face was more than capable of providing.

Nymuë... Nymuë didn't meet these specifications. True, he had set his sights on her for reasons he didn't feel he needed to share, but the gith warrior or the tortured priestess would have been perfect candidates too. Perhaps this was the first time he could really afford to have a choice. To use his charms on his own behalf; to decide to whom he wished to be indebted.

A creak in his back told him that the object of his thoughts had just arrived. She hadn't spotted him yet, observing the undergrowth with a wary eye. Majestically, he stepped forward under the cover of the moonlight:

"There you are," he whispered. "I've been waiting."

Suave voice, piercing gaze, and exposed body: he was playing his best role.

"Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Waiting to have you."

Nymuë looked puzzled: had she expected anything else? For them to chat before the festivities began, or a romantic atmosphere? Oh, please. They both knew why they were here, so they might as well get to the heart of the matter.

"I am not yours yet," she replied.

He held back a laugh. As if the precious thing was really going to turn back. However, he took the time to study her, remembering their previous conversations. What did Nymuë really want? What could have driven her to give herself up, after clearly expressing reservations?

The answer came to him as he looked at her grey eyes, filled with both fear... and expectation.

"Don't I?" he went on. "You're here. And I don't think you want to talk... I think you want to be known. To be tasted."

"To be seen" he thought.

The dilation of her pupils confirmed his hypothesis. But the next question caught him off guard:

"And you? What do you want, exactly?"

"Not having to do this," he reflected involuntarily. "Not throwing myself at your feet like a freak. Not looking over my shoulder as soon as night falls. Not worrying about every new day. Not being afraid of everything coming to an end."

"What do any of us want?" he said rather. "Pleasure... Yours, mine... Our collective ecstasy. That's what you want, isn't it?"

He pronounced the following words as if they were inevitable:

"To lose yourself in me."

Not for him, or with him. In him. That's what they'd all wanted. He was the best vehicle for other people's emotions. The best grave to bury them in...

But what about him? Did he want to lose himself in Nymuë? He couldn't say. Every person he had slept with, had taken a piece of himself with them. After two centuries, there wasn't much left; his body seemed to be more theirs than his. How could he have any idea what he wanted?

Nymuë approached, undecided, and his instinct did the rest. He drew her to him and took hold of her lips. His hands untied her corset. He erased her doubts, her apprehensions as their clothes fell to the floor. When the dark elf pressed against him, he lifted her up against the nearest tree.

He kissed her again, his gestures becoming less considerate. He caressed her waist, her chest, her thighs; the young woman's sighs turned to moans. She undulated against him as his mouth slide down her neck.

She was more enterprising than he had expected. She was embracing him, but not abruptly; her fingers exploring without impatience or voracity. As if, of the two of them, he was the one most at risk of breaking. But centuries of automatisms couldn't be erased with a little gentleness. He closed his eyes, and his mind drifted away from what they were doing, letting his body mechanically follow the rhythm. His hips, his hands, his tongue knew the dance.

He wondered if his pleasure was genuine or if, out of habit, his senses were responding to the stimulation. What was feigned, what was real... All of this had blended together over time, until they were indistinguishable. Names became blurred, faces too. He had learned to take pleasure where he could, and had even convinced himself of it at times.

A whole life of debauchery had meant that he had never asked himself what he liked. He knew what others liked, and how to ignite their passion. He mastered this art; every night, his personality was completely reshaped. So... travelling for days with the same people, maintaining a constant cohesion? This was uncharted territory.

He felt himself pushed backwards, and his back hit the floor. Reality caught up with him immediatly; he stared at his companion with an outraged expression. Her smile couldn't have been more mischievous. He turned her round, earning a laugh.

Astarion studied her: her grey eyes no longer avoided his, almost trying to make sure he was there, with her. Her short white hair revealed her throat: he took it as an invitation. With one hand, he urged her hips to meet his.

This would never be Cazador's moment. It was his. And he had every intention of making the most of it.

END NOTES

So much for this chapter. It's not 'sex' I want to talk about with Astarion, at least not in a sensual way. For me, the character's trauma go beyond that, and that's the dimension I've tried to explore. So, even though our protagonists are sleepinh together, that's not really what's at stake. I sincerely hope I've managed to express that.

The next chapter will be entirely 'mine', meaning that we won't be following our adventurers on their journey straight away. Thank you in advance for reading.

I wish you all a wonderful end of the year, and look forward to see you next week as usual !