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Chapter Text

Imogen’s POV:

The place was far less opulent than it had been the last few times she had traversed its halls. Cobwebs sat in nearly every corner of the once extravagant gothic structure, sunlight streaming in through the cracked and broken windows. Curtains that had once blocked out that light hung in tatters or had fallen to the floor entirely. Ever since they had ended Cazador Szarr’s reign of terror over Astarion and the other spawn, Imogen had only walked through this place one other time when she had come back to gather things to be sold in preparation to have this structure torn down.

Astarion had voiced wanting the whole place gone almost two years after they had ventured together into the underdark. And now, almost three years later, the building had less than a week before it was scheduled to be torn down and the land sold. All the more reason for her to riffle through the space now, before this opportunity was gone for good. At least this way, if she found nothing, she would know for certain that the key to Astarion walking in the sun once again wasn’t here, instead of wondering if she would have found the artifact that she seeks had she only looked.

She grips the sending stone in her hand tighter, feeling a small sense of comfort at the feeling of the cool surface against her palm. Astarion didn’t know that she was here now; she hadn’t wanted to tell him what she was looking for in case she didn’t find it. The idea of seeing the disappointment on his face if she gave him that glimpse of hope only for it to be a dead end made her stomach twist uncomfortably. As far as he knows, she was only coming up to the surface to collect Gale, who was journeying to visit with them for a time. With a sigh, she pulls the stone up to her mouth.

“Gale, what does this ring look like?” she mutters into the stone, craving to hear the wizard’s voice to break this eerie silence.

“The Ring of the Sun-Walker is a plain-looking iron band adorned with a dark red ruby set in the center. I will be there momentarily to assist you in the search, though in truth, I still am of the mind that you should have awaited my arrival before going in there by yourself,” the male’s voice travels out of the stone in response, setting her a bit more at ease, though she doesn’t appreciate his doubting tone. His idea of momentarily likely meant he was only seconds away, so she pockets the stone and continues moving forward.

Every wall is barren, the paintings and adornments long since pawned away by her or Astarion’s hands. They hadn’t needed the money, they still had the reward money from the city as a thank you for saving them from the Cult of the Absolute, but it felt necessary to get rid of those items to give the rogue complete closure that his past life was truly behind him. She understood it in a way, she would certainly pass off the reminders of her life if she could, but it wasn’t the same for her.

Quiet footsteps begin to sound behind her, slowly growing louder as they approach. Despite knowing it was likely only Gale finally arriving, her hand frees the dagger at her waist and spins the blade around in anticipation of a possible fight. She turns to face the incoming noise, peering through the shadows while she waits for the figure to come into her line of sight. Familiar purple robes sway out from behind a corner, the wizard’s face coming into view a moment later. An ecstatic grin breaks across her face as she stows her blade, taking off full tilt towards the man. He opens his arms as she approaches, allowing her to slam into his chest as she envelopes the human into her embrace.

“My, my, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” the wizard says jovially, planting a gentle kiss atop her head before releasing her from the hug and stepping back with a smile. Imogen nearly cries at the sight of him truly being there, it seems like it had been so very long since she had last seen her friend even though it had only been six months since they’d last met.

“I could say the same of you, Gale. How are Tara and my boys?” she asks, eager to hear good news about the animals. The urge to have them with her pulls at her heart again like it often does, but she doesn’t dare ask now. Not when her and Astarion still could not live on the surface.

“They are all doing remarkably well, I assure you. I believe Scratch and Pippin miss your presence terribly,” he muses back, beginning to rifle in the pouch at his side and pulling out a small painting of the dog and owlbear. She takes the gift happily, gazing upon it in relief. So long as those two were happy and cared for, she could believe that everything was going to be okay.

“The feeling is mutual,” she replies, stowing the painting away in her pouch before taking on a more serious tone. “Now, let’s get to looking.”

“After you, fearless leader,” the wizard breathes, gesturing forward with one hand. She nods, turning on her heel and continuing down the corridor towards Cazador’s former office in search of their goal. If anyone they’d ever encountered had what they sought, it would’ve been the departed vampire lord.

The journey back to the fortress in the Underdark was silent for a while, the palpable feeling of defeat hanging heavily between the pair. They had torn the castle apart, leaving it even more chaotically arranged than how they’d had found it, but they still couldn’t find anything to help Astarion, let alone the ring. Imogen had been spending the last several minutes trying to shove the desire to give up away from her mind, but after almost three years with nothing proving fruitful, it was getting hard to remain hopeful.

“Gen, I know you fear that the dawn will never break again for him, but it shall. We will find something, I swear it.” Gale’s words don’t bring her the sense of comfort that he had likely intended, seeming only to tear deeper into the wound in her heart. How could she continue to fail so much for the one she loves?

“And what if we don’t, Gale? What then?” Her voice cracks as she speaks, the feelings inside of her threatening to spill over as they approach the large doors of the fortress. She glances to him at her side, searching his face for some sort of determination that she is currently lacking.

“We have succeeded with infinitely less, we shall do so again,” he replies, his expression like steel. She wishes desperately that his confidence could sway her own as the doors before them swing open in greeting.

“I see you have found our wayward wizard, darling,” Astarion drawls as he comes into view, leaning gracefully against the now open doors with a smile drawn across his lips. The sight of him, so relaxed and happy, seems to cause the floodgates in Imogen’s mind to burst. Every feeling of hopelessness and failure pours out of her in that moment, causing tears to brim at the corners of her eyes before spilling out rapidly.

Astarion’s face falls instantly in response, his body moving in a blur towards her before she can even take a single step. The rogue’s arm quickly snakes around her waist, pulling her into his chest and supporting her weight just as her knees threaten to give out. The sobs begin wracking her body violently then, as if her failure demanded to be known by the vampire. She is vaguely aware that the two males are conversing back and forth with each other, but she is too focused on trying to regain her composure to care about what they are saying.

Without warning, Astarion moves his other arm under her legs and scoops her up. He cradles her against him gingerly, seeming to tighten his grip each time a sob escapes her. Astarion begins walking through their home, weaving down hallways until they reach their bedchambers. Imogen presses her face into the hollow of his throat, closing her eyes tightly as the tears continue.

She hears the door close behind them with a click, having likely been kicked shut by the pale elf. After a few moments, Astarion sets her down on the edge of their plush mattress, beginning to silently remove the outer layer of her armor. Imogen allows him to do so, knowing her hands would shake too violently in this moment for her to be any help to him. Once she is finally down to her lowest layer of a blouse and pants, Astarion climbs onto the mattress behind her. His arms wrap around her once again, pulling her to lay across his chest.

Desperate for any sense of comfort or peace, the bard wraps her arms around his neck and clutches him to her. One of his hands rubs soothing circles against her spine while the other holds tightly onto her thigh, the pressure causing her heartrate to calm slightly.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” she manages, unable to form any other words.

“Why are you apologizing, my love?” The vibration of his words moves through his chest, rumbling against the side of her face. The feeling helps to set her more at ease, but the disappointment in herself is persistent. She does not deserve him, not at all. He has given up so much, some of which he never would’ve needed to consider losing if it weren’t for her, and yet she still fails at giving him the one thing she thinks that she should be capable of after three years.

“Because I can’t seem to bring the sun back to you, no matter how I try. I thought today would be different, but… it was just more of the same.” She sucks down a shaky breath, using the heel of one of her hands to frantically wipe the tears from her cheeks. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to give you what you need, and it terrifies me.”

A soft laugh escapes his lips, causing her to jerk her head up to look at his face. There is no disappointment in his eyes, no resentment, just playful amusement. The sight seems to stop the tears in their tracks as she raises an eyebrow at him. His chilly hand swipes away more of her tears before cupping her cheek lovingly. Slowly, he leans forward and plants a gentle kiss to her worried brows.

“You know, for someone so intelligent, you truly can be so naïve, little love,” he whispers against her skin, sending a chill down her spine.

“What do you mean?” She pulls further away so that she can see his face fully. His expression is still lightly amused as he looks her over, seeming to examine every inch of her before choosing to respond.

“I already have what I need, everything else is just… possibilities.” His thumb begins rubbing against her cheekbone as he speaks, goosebumps raising quickly on her skin behind each swipe.

“But-” She begins to protest, but Astarion’s thumb presses against her lips to silence her.

“No buts, sunspot. As much as I miss the sunshine, allowing people on the surface to fawn over my good looks, and seeing how beautiful you look in it, this is enough.”

Astarion’s POV:

He slides his thumb down to grasp her chin, tilting her head up towards his own before she can form a protest to his words. He listens to her breathing hitch a bit at his touch before leaning down to press his lips against hers. The warmth of her seems almost like it could singe even the coldest pieces of him. Her touch, her presence, sometimes feel like he is constantly getting too close to an open flame. Even now, after three years with her, he still can’t feel any dulling of his desire to be burnt by her in this way. Her fire never hurt, never made him want to run and hide in fear. It was safe, comforting even.

If he has learned anything about the half-elf in their time together, it is that she is the most stubborn creature that he has ever met. Yet, it was one of his favorite traits of hers, the one that kept him always guessing at what path she would take. He isn’t sure what she had been up to with Gale earlier that had brought her home to him in such a state, but he knew it is his fault in part. She is so concerned now with trying to allow him to see the sun once again, that she’s convincing herself that every time she doesn’t find that miracle, she is somehow failing or disappointing him. The thought causes him to instantly pull his lips away, hovering above hers as he opens his eyes to look down into her golden ones.

“I love you, darling,” he whispers, offering her a smile that he hopes she can see the deeper meaning in. He had meant his earlier words. This was enough. In fact, it was more than he’d allowed himself to hope for. The three years with her has almost made the last two centuries seem like a faraway dream. One that could not reach him anymore. Though he had not mentioned it to her, he truly has come to fear more for her mortality than any desire for sunlight. An eternity of darkness would be more enjoyable and satisfying with her than a single moment in the light with her gone.

“I love you, too.” Her voice comes out still weak from her earlier weeping, yet still ringing with traces of happiness. The sound of it made his smile stretch further across his lips, allowing it to become a devilish grin as he gazes at her.

“In the future, Imogen, I would like to be included in these excursions if they are for my sake.” He smirks as he speaks, leaning in and running his lips along the sensitive part of the half-elf’s neck. “If only to have a better understanding when you come home in states such as this, unless of course, you’re doing it to seek certain, specific comforts.”

“You wouldn’t have enjoyed where we had gone and I didn’t want to give you any false hopes,” she murmurs in response, shivering under his lips. He hesitates at her words, now understanding exactly where they had gone. It’s no wonder she hadn’t told him, Imogen and Gale had gone searching in his tormentor’s home. Something like anger flashes through him then, not at her, but simply at the fact that the monstrosity still stands. The anger is quickly replaced by a new emotion, disappointment. If anyone had owned an object that would have allowed him to walk in the sun, it would have been Cazador.

“Even so, we are partners. You can’t truly think that I would allow you to take on my baggage all on your own. After all, we are rather excellent together, so it would seem doing this together would perhaps be the better idea,” he practically purrs at her, taking the opportunity to push a wild strand of her firelight hair behind the soft point of her ear.

“Partners, huh? You haven’t grown tired of me in the last three years, then?” The bard smiles, scrunching her nose at him and rolling her eyes. The gestures draw a chuckle from deep in his chest. The rogue shakes his head at her and presses a kiss to her temple. At least her humor is intact, though he can feel her other feelings about today still seeming to lurk at the edges. If he could remove any worry of such matters from her mind entirely, he would.

“Of course not, I’ll always be here,” he offers quietly, lowering his eyes to meet hers. He means every word, no matter how anything transpired in their futures together. He would be here at her side until the moment that she takes her last breath or she turns him away. After a moment or two, the bard reaches up to cup his face, her fingers pleasantly warm against his skin.

“Always,” she promises, pulling him in once more.

Chapter Text

Astarion’s POV:

She was exquisite, even in this haphazard state. The half-elf on the stage before him was something else entirely, hair the color of sunrises and autumn leaves, eyes shimmering like precious treasures. And all that despite the deadened look in her gaze. It was almost like she saw through everyone. She was like a ghost, completely unaware that she was not alone in this overrun tavern. The bard’s body was rail thin, as if she had not known a good meal in several years. There were circles of blue and purple under each of her eyes, the colors so deep that he was unsure if they were from an injury or a lack of rest.

If the rogue were honest with himself, she looked like the type of woman that he would pursue if he were still mortal. Had he ever seen her, he would have been drawn in inevitably as if hypnotized. There was something in her that he could recognize even now, though he wasn’t entirely sure what to call it. He couldn’t remember much from his mortal life, with it having been too short to really experience, but some things from that time seemed to be imprinted on his bones and would likely never change with time. He was nothing if he was not someone of fine taste. In his naïvely idealistic youth, he likely would have tried to steal her away from this place just to have the opportunity to court her.

The smell of fresh blood stuffed itself up his nose then, his body starting to tremble slightly in response as it pulls him abruptly from his thoughts. His instincts urge him to follow it, to indulge in it, yet he wouldn’t budge. He knew if he came back to Cazador with blood on his lips, he’d likely be locked away again. Despite knowing better, his traitorous eyes still found their way to the source though. It came from the girl’s right ankle where a shackle had rubbed her pale skin completely raw.

This couldn’t be right. What use would Cazador have with a malnourished and battered bard? She was hardly someone of status for him to manipulate, on top of the fact that she seemed too far gone for him to truly torment her in any way. That look on her face, the total disassociation there, was the same way he imagines that he looked when Cazador had finally broken him. There was nothing more to break in this woman.

As if on cue, his master’s voice seems to infiltrate his mind, reminding him that such matters were not his to ponder. His only job was to bring back information to Cazador about the woman and wait to be told what to do next. If his blood still pumped, it would’ve run cold through his veins then. Certainly, bringing people home to his master had gotten easier over the centuries, but he wasn’t sure that he could do that with her if Cazador ordered him to. This girl looks as if she’s never known happiness and to allow her life to be taken by the vampire lord before she ever got even a glimpse of it would truly make him even more of a monster.

As his mind twists, Astarion quickly realizes that he was dreaming within his trance state. He had not experienced these in quite some time, probably since the first nights with his companions. Those first few nights, Cazador haunted each corner of his dreams to remind him that he was not truly free. Yet, despite his realization, he couldn’t seem to break himself free of the horrors now flashing behind his eyelids.

Suddenly, the dream morphs into something new. It was as if the mind flayers had never interrupted his mission that night, had never saved this girl from the fate coming for her. He watches as his own hands pick the lock on her shackles easily, slipping her bloodied ankle from its binding. The girl herself didn’t even really need coaxing, the moment he mentioned leaving this place, she practically climbed into his arms. She felt even lighter than she looked, making his stomach seem to bottom out in worry for the stranger.

Slipping past the sleeping figures of the two elf males that shared a resemblance to the woman was easier than it should have been. Perhaps they were drunk in this iteration of events. He carries her body through the city streets, appearing to all they pass to simply be a couple of sorts, with the male carrying home his overly drunken love. Oh, how wrong they all were. He was not carrying this woman lovingly towards safety. He was ferrying her to her doom.

He wanted to tighten his arms around her, to turn away and run when Cazador’s hands reached out for her, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t disobey. Cazador places a deceptive kiss along the half-elf’s collarbone before sinking his teeth through her papery skin. She doesn’t even shriek or cry out, she just closes her eyes. It was as if she was resigning to it, looking upon her possible death as some sort of gift.

]It was horrifying after that, watching his master tear this hopeless creature to ribbons. Or the haunting sight of walking past those cages, seeing her behind those bars with the same scars carved angrily into her face. The blankness in her gaze, the tired set of her jaw. No future to fight for, no light at the end of the tunnel. This woman was just gone, nothing left. Another lamb to the slaughter for his indulgent creator. Another soul ripped away before its potential could be reached. She was more important than this. So much more.

 “Astarion!” A familiar voice slices through the dream, pulling at his mind as if trying to pull his body from the waves.

Astarion’s eyes jerk open then, his brain finally liberating him from the nightmare that had been dancing behind his eyelids. And there she is, safe and sound. Imogen is still draped across his chest, like she had been when he fell into his trance. Yet now, her face is lined with worry and her eyes still half-glazed from sleep.

That girl from what seems like so long ago now, had been Imogen. He’d recognized her immediately on that beach, the day of the crash. She had been clothed in that same tattered outfit that he’d seen her in that night, the stale smell of her dried blood from her ankle lingering all over her. The night he had been taken, he had been heading towards that tavern to steal her away for his master. And then she had stood in front of him that next day, as if he hadn’t been on a mission for her death. Or her creation, rather, now that they knew what Cazador had truly been plotting with the victims. And yet, in his fear and confusion, he’d still held a blade to her throat.

He had watched her change dramatically over the course of their journey. The way that her skin had gained color, the way her body had filled out with muscle. Even with her allowing him a taste now and then, she had begun to look so much healthier and happier than the night he had scoped her out in her father’s tavern. A light had entered her eyes to replace the darkness that had been there when he had first seen her. It had been easy for him to forget for a time that she was the same woman.

“My love, what’s wrong? You were thrash-” Imogen begins to question him, but he lunges forward faster than she can finish her sentence, enveloping her in his embrace and cutting off her words. It was only a dream; he had never taken her to Cazador. He hadn’t destroyed this future that night, fate having intervened to save him for the first time in this endless existence. And now, he holds her tighter than he can remember holding anything or anyone.

“Apologies, sunspot. It was just an odd dream,” he whispers, turning his face into the mass of her hair and breathing in the honey and lavender scent of her.

“You whimpered my name…” Her voice is gentle, as if trying to indicate that she isn’t demanding answers. It feels like she is simply holding the door open for him to choose to step through if that is what he wants, much like they always done with each other.

“Yes, well, it reminded me of what I had set out to do the night that we were stolen away.” For a moment, he pauses, uncertain of what to really say next. He had told her this a few months after they had saved the gate, unable to stomach the thought of hiding that fact from her when she deserved to know. Hells, would there ever be a way to speak about this without it sounding positively horrid?

Before he has the chance to continue, he feels the bard begin to shift around in their bed. Her white chemise slides back down over her hips as it moves, from where she had likely hiked it up while moving in her sleep. His eyes hover there for a moment before following her path, wondering what she is trying to do. After a few more moments of watching her clumsily crawl around him, she settles herself against the pillows behind his back.

Her legs come to rest on either side of his hips, her arms wrapping around his torso from behind and pulling him to lean back into her chest. He can feel her place a gentle kiss against the shell of his ear before resting her face in his hair, the soft caresses seeming to settle the uneasiness in him. Astarion brings his hands to rest over hers, allowing himself to be held by her.

“Well, darling, it is long past now and we are both still here,” the half-elf whispers into his curls, the soft cadence of her voice sounding like a lullaby in his ears.

“It had been you, though. Of all the pretty faces that he could have chosen for me to fetch, he demanded you. It’s as if the bastard knew who you would become to me and relished the idea of taking one more thing.” The words taste like bile as they spill from his lips, the resulting feeling far fouler than anything else he has known. “In the dream, I saw everything that would have transpired had we not been taken. Cazador drinking you dry, turning you into another one of his caged pets, all of it.”

He feels her entire body stiffen then, going completely rigid against his back. Perhaps now, she is seeing him for the monster that he is and realizing how truly close that night had gotten.

“Midnight chimes, heh?” He chuckles humorlessly, feeling that the reality of his words had finally caused the bard’s feelings towards him to change.

Imogen’s POV:

Imogen knew that she had been Astarion’s last target, another creature that Cazador had wanted to collect for his profane ritual. Astarion had told her this a while ago, after another night of waking to him in a similar state to the one he was in now. The vampire lord had wanted to make her another sacrifice, another soul to be traded for unholy power. It was chilling, the feeling seeping down into her bones despite the familiarity.

“Midnight chimes, heh?” Astarion’s defeated laughter pulls her back to reality, the sound of it puzzling her.

“What do you mean?” She questions, leaning forward as if to try to see his expression but she can’t see much more than the side of his face with how they are sitting.

“I had stopped counting the hours until this would all end long ago, but it appears that I shouldn’t have allowed myself that lapse in judgement,” he responds, his head seeming to dip low as he starts to untangle himself from her arms. She doesn’t fight his retreat, mainly because she wants to be able to look him in the eyes to tell him that he is wrong.

When the rogue stands, she moves to the edge of the bed and bolsters herself taller by rising to her knees on the sheets. He begins to walk as if he intends to leave the room, but Imogen grasps his fingers tightly, having no intentions of letting him walk away like this. He looks over his shoulder at her then, his eyes seeming half clouded by confusion and half by sadness. With the gentlest tug that she could manage, she pulls him back to face her.

“Why would this cause us to end?” He seems almost startled by her question, his face seeming to contort in further confusion.

“Because, Imogen! Had the illithids not intervened, I would have led you to your doom.” His voice is stronger than before, tinged in self-hatred. She reaches her hands up then to cup his face, drawing it down a bit to her own so that he would look into her eyes.

“It was not your choice. And you did not know me, Astarion. Not as you do now,” she croons, willing him to ease up on himself. If she was not angry with him, then he certainly shouldn’t be.

“That hardly makes any difference. From the beginning, I was destined to be your downfall, Imogen,” he whispers in defeat, reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes. She slides one of her hands from his face to his hand on his nose, pulling it away slowly. She leans up as much as she can, pressing her forehead against his.

“And yet, we are here now, aren’t we?” She feels his hands grip onto the sides of her ivory chemise as she speaks, pulling the soft material over the skin of her thighs. It feels almost like he’s holding onto it like some kind of safety net. “We are both here and okay now, love.”

“But you’re upset and-”

“I was merely taken off-guard. It’s still odd to think of myself as someone that Cazador would’ve wanted.” She searches his eyes, watching them finally soften a bit.

“Apparently, my former master had a few business dealings with your father. He took notice of you during one of their meetings and found you to be especially… intriguing.” The anger in his tone becomes different than before, as if it has changed targets from himself to his departed master.

“Lovely, though I can’t say that I’m surprised that those two got along,” Imogen scoffs, rolling her eyes but giving the pale elf in front of her a weak smile. “It appears that the gods simply had different intentions for us.”

“Well, gods or not, I’m eternally glad to have found happiness with you over the alternative.” He smirks, his humor seeming to finally return for the moment.

“As am I. Now, come back to bed, you pompous brute,” she teases, twisting back as she pulls the male with her. She ends up splaying the two of them across the middle of the mattress, pulling his head closer to her chest and slinging her leg across his hips.

“You wish to go back to sleep then, darling?” His tone is a bit playful then, drawing a laugh out of her.

“Just for a while, darling,” she mocks, drawling the last word. An amused chuckle escapes the vampire as his arm around her waist tightens, his other hand sliding underneath her chemise to rest against the skin of her back. She hums in satisfaction, burying her face into his soft curls and closing her eyes to let dreams take her once more.

Chapter Text

Imogen’s POV:

The bard begins to blink the sleep from her eyes lazily, sleeping during the day and waking for the night still proving to be a troublesome adjustment for her. With a sigh, she sits up and extends her arms overhead in a feline-like stretch. Her gaze eventually comes to settle on the scarred back of her lover, the beautiful male still deeply entranced in the sheets beside her.

Already, she can hear the bustling of Gale in the next room, no doubt fretting over what he should wear to the gathering that they will all be attending tonight. Speaking of, she should probably coax Astarion to rise soon, or he will be just as antsy over his choice of attire. As she must act as his mirror, he won’t dare let her hear the end of it if she ends up too concerned with her own appearance to help him.

“Little star,” Imogen coos, leaning down to allow her lips to hover over the tip of the rogue’s ear. His skin meets her mouth with a chill as she starts to trail kiss after kiss down the side of his neck until she feels him beginning to stir. “It’s either you get up now, you dress blindly, or you suffer everyone’s wrath for making us late.”

A low rumble of a chuckle shakes the elf’s frame as he sits up slowly, his ruby eyes moving to meet her gaze. A hint of mischief flashes across his face and before she can lunge out of his grasp, Astarion closes his arms around her waist, effectively cementing her against his chest to endure his torment. He plants his lips, to say it was just a kiss doesn’t even begin to accurately describe the touch, against her permanent bite mark scars where her shoulder meets her neck. The touch sends a shiver down her spine, raising gooesbumps all over her body. Another chuckle shakes him once more in response before he teasingly drags his fangs over the marks, only grazing and never breaking the skin.

“Stop that! Gale is in the next room!” Imogen whispers as best as she can, slapping his hands away playfully before twisting herself out of his grasp and leaping from the bed. She stifles her own laughter as she shakes her head, pulling open the wardrobe to begin deciding what the pair of them would wear.

“Oh, my love, perhaps I was only suggesting that we practice some stealth. After all, I do enjoy keeping your sounds and shakes of excitement entirely to myself,” he purrs, his lips already at her ear as if she had never left him sitting in their bed by himself. Heat creeps up her neck and into her cheeks at his words. Years of his teasing and taunting, and yet he could still get under her skin with such little effort.

“And we will most definitely be late if you keep making suggestions like that,” Imogen retorts, rolling her eyes in an attempt to play off the color in her face, though she knows that he sees it. He always does. And he always seems to love it, despite it bringing her so much embarrassment to show her emotions that easily.

With a devilish grin, he plants a chaste kiss against one of her emblazoned cheeks, the coolness of his lips soothing it quickly. Astarion begins to pull out handfuls of her clothes, already setting up what seems to be the fashion show he will want the pair of them to perform before deciding on what they will don for tonight.

For just a moment, seeing him in such a state as this where he is genuinely happy and his only concerns are trivial things, causes her heart to swell. If only she could have found him sooner, pulled him out of the pit he had found himself dragged into centuries prior, perhaps that ease in his breath, the lack of tension in his muscles, could have been achieved for him so much sooner. More than anything, she wishes that she could take all of those years away, but she can’t. All that she can do now is take the next right step and protect him from any other pains that could threaten to shatter this fragile sense of joy that he finally has.

Astarion has proven, yet again, that his sense of style far outshines her own as they walk in wearing the outfits that he had chosen for them. Normally, she would’ve protested wearing a dress, but these gatherings often seem like the only appropriate time for her to ever get any use out of them, so she had given in to the suggestion without much fuss.

Her gown cascades down her body in layers of gossamer and silk, the fabric reflecting a pale, shimmery gold in the glow of the lanterns. The sleeves come to points on the backs of her hands, a loop wrapping around each of her middle fingers to hold them in place. She silently thanks the gods for a warm night, since the dress that they had agreed on placed her back fully on display, the garment resting against the small of her back. He had smeared a thin layer of gold glitter over each of her cheekbones, insisting that they made her eyes look as if they had been set ablaze.

Everywhere that she shown like the dying rays of the sun, he seems to conversely reflect the light of the moon. His shirt is a dark black, underneath the twisting and swirling of silver threads in various patterns across his torso. Even now, she devours his appearance out of the corner of her eye.

If she ever has need to give an example to someone of what she imagines starlight would look like in the flesh, she would gesture to him now. And truly, if she allows herself to think in such a way, she feels comforted in his night-like appearance. She has always loved the night, the way it felt so alive. Perhaps her mind has always known who she was destined to find and simply was allowing her to dream of it in anticipation, something to keep her alive long enough to get here.

“Hey, soldier!”

“There you are! Keeping us all on tenterhooks so you could make a dramatic entrance, is it?”

“My friend!”

The voices of her dear friends calling to her manages to steal her attention, tears springing into her eyes. Without a word, Imogen takes off at a blind sprint, leaving the rogue and the wizard laughing behind her in the dust. It has only been six months since the last gathering that Withers had hosted like this, but it still feels like an eternity every time. She runs as if the wind itself pushes at her heels, propelling her forward despite the skirt of the dressing billowing in every direction.

Finally, she crashes into Karlach’s chest, her arms coming around the tiefling like a vice. Before she can even catch her breath, Imogen feels Shadowheart and Lae’zel close their arms around them as well. A half-strangled giggle escapes the bard’s lips as a few tears spill over.

“Oh, my gods, I’ve missed you all so much.”

The laughter between the four of them eventually calms, each of them trading stories back and forth on what they’ve been up to the past few months. Each word from Karlach causes a painful sensation to smash through Imogen’s entire being, reminding her that, just as she has failed to cure Astarion, she has also been failing to save her friend. She would need to begin pushing herself harder, searching in every possible place, no matter how risky.

“Where is your pointy little face lover, Imogen? Don’t tell me the goon is off hiding from us,” Karlach laughs, her arm now draped lazily over Imogen’s shoulders. The bard laughs in return, shaking her head and looking over at the other two women, their hands lovingly clasped together.

“Never hiding, not anymore. He’s likely off with Wyll, arguing over wine, or trying to get Halsin drunk so we can all witness the singing again,” she jokes, resting her head against Karlach’s chest plate.

“Well then, let’s go join them!” And with that declaration, Karlach leads the march towards the rest of their merry band of misfits, perhaps planning to pour the spirits down Halsin’s throat herself.

“I’d be delighted to introduce you to my current cohort – as a guest lecturer, perhaps? I’m sure they’d have plenty of questions for you,” Gale speaks in an upbeat tone. The words seem to bring an idea to her in that moment. She had dragged the wizard along to search for the ring through Cazador’s old palace, but she had never had access to a library in which to research for the solutions she so desperately sought. At least, not one like Blackstaff Academy would have.

“It would be my pleasure, on one condition: I would be permitted to use the libraries,” Imogen counters, hoping that it wasn’t too high of an ask. Hoping that the wizards of the academy would not look down upon a bard reading through their tomes. Despite the fear, Gale doesn’t even seem to register any possible qualm with the request.

“Of course. Excellent!” The wizard waves a hand at her, as if showing off some great victory that he has just won. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist the allure of sharing your expertise, Gen.”

“Thank you, Gale,” she whispers, looking over a shoulder to see if anyone else would’ve been close enough to hear what she had asked for in exchange. She knows that it is nothing to hide, but she still feels the need. Astarion had asked to be included in these discussions, but he didn’t know how much her hitting dead end after dead end shattered her soul, and she couldn’t stand the thought of getting his hopes up once more, just to see his eyes fall in defeat. Yet, she knows that she will tell him anyway. Concealing this from him now would be far worse.

“Of course, you’ll be most welcome to stay with me in my tower.” A small noise of complaint and correction comes from Tara, causing Imogen to nearly laugh and send the newly acquired sip of wine all over the wizard. “My apologies, Tara. That would be our tower.”

“That would be lovely, thank you both. The sooner that we can arrange it, the better. I want to make some progress as soon as possible.” She catches the flicker of some emotion in the human’s eyes at her words, but it is quickly gone before she can identify it. Whatever it was though, it sets her on edge. Certainly, by this point, Gale likely thinks that she is effectively chasing ghosts, searching for a solution that does not exist. Maybe he is right, but that wouldn’t stop her any time soon.

Astarion’s POV:

He has been watching her all night, keeping an eye on that expression of hers that he has come to know as a mask, only surface deep. Imogen is afraid of something, the stress seeming to radiate off of her skin in waves despite the look of happiness and joy at the reunion that she has plastered over her features for tonight’s festivities.

He quickly starts towards her, just as Halsin begins to break out into a fairly clunky rendition of a tavern ballad the band of them had drank and sang to the night of their victory over the Netherbrain. The tune sounds no better now than it had then, yet it still warms his chest a bit to hear it, to know that some of their friends can still find such peace in their lives, or in these reunions rather. With a quick nod towards Jaheira and Minsc, he finally reaches the half-elf’s side, sliding his hand onto her waist.

“Care for a dance, my love?” He presses a gentle kiss to her temple, wanting to question her about what thoughts seem to be tormenting her mind. She nods, handing her glass of wine over to Gale before following his lead out to a clearing to attempt a dance to Halsin’s shaky, booming voice. Astarion twirls her once, before bringing her tightly against his chest.

“So, darling, what is going on in that head of yours? You’re a million realms away.” He leans in towards her ear, allowing the words to whisper almost silently over her skin.

“You noticed that?” She seems to sigh her response, her chest falling with the exiting of the breath.

He continues to turn them, his hand on her back pressing tighter against her exposed skin, soaking up her warmth. Rather than saying more, he simply meets her gaze and nods.

“While I truly love these parties and I’m grateful to Withers for them, it often just serves to remind me the hell that Karlach is in. And I’ve spent these years searching for something to help the both of you. It’s hard to not feel discouraged by being unable to find anything yet.” Her voice quivers a bit, though her eyes remain dry. Seeing her like this, part of her stress entirely owed to him, makes him almost regret telling her that he would want to be in the sun again. A simple sense of comfort for him didn’t feel worth this torment for her. Yet, he knows that she won’t stop, even if he asks. Not with Karlach still on the line as well.

“Well, darling, you are the only one that I know with enough skills and stubbornness to eventually find an answer.” He leans down to brush a kiss across her lips, lingering for a few moments before drawing away. “Just remember that I am more than willing to help.”

His words seem to halt her thoughts for a moment, as if she has forgotten once more that she had help even though he had reminded her of this very fact a few days prior. In fact, he hopes more than anything that she will finally take him up on his offer, to let him in. The more she keeps pushing this on her own, the more danger and chaos that she will land herself in. She hesitates for a moment, her eyes searching his own before she finally responds.

“Okay, little star. Gale asked me to come as a guest lecturer and I will have access to the academy’s library to research. Come with me. Two sets of eyes will make the search far easier.” She smiles hopefully, some of the stress finally seeming to leave her body for the moment.

“Very well, sunspot, I suppose we could take a visit to Waterdeep.” As he speaks, he spins her again and again, smiling when she finally lets out a trill of laughter in response.

Under the moonlight, it is odd for him to believe his eyes, even after all this time. After two centuries of pure shit, he finally held the entire world in his arms. His own personal sun.

Imogen’s POV:

Hours had passed by now, each of her old friends deep in their glasses and bottles. Already, Halsin has shifted into bear form at least twice and Wyll has tried to teach Karlach proper ballroom dancing. A small smile of gratitude stretches across Imogen’s lips as she watches over them all, true love filling her. Off to the side, Gale and Astarion are discussing back and forth, apparently trying to nail down the details of their visit to the tower. Once she is satisfied that everyone seems occupied, Imogen finally turns and starts to walk, seeking out Withers as she always does.

She eventually finds him, tucked away in the ruins of the old stone cottage that they had often camped beside during the early days of their adventure. An old tome, though not as old as him, sits open in his hands as she approaches.

“Ah, the hero of Baldur’s Gate,” he drawls, slowly closing the book in his hands and turning to face her.

“Hello Withers, I hope you’re well,” she offers back, stifling a laugh at his usual demeanor. Then that demeanor seems to suddenly change, a somber air washing over him.

“Thou walkest alone, despite the company thou keeps,” he states solemnly, a look of something close to pity on his face.

“What do you mean?” A pit forms in her stomach, unsure if she wants to hear whatever cryptic warning the skeletal being might be about to say.

“Thou hast defeated thy companion’s demons, yet thine own still persevere. Open thine eyes, hero, or thou wilt fall to mortals despite having bested the gods.”

Her stomach seems to fall through her entirely at that, fear seizing her heart in a violent grip. Withers is right, they had bested gods and defeated the sources of pain for so many of the others, yet hers still stood, alive and likely well. Her father and brother still live in Baldur’s Gate, though she knows nothing about the state of their lives. Had it been a mistake to walk away from them that night? Despite all the steps she has taken and the progress Astarion has helped her make, is her past still intent on burning it all to the ground?

Chapter Text

Astarion’s POV:

He follows the enthusiastic half-elf down the long hallways of the fortress, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. She has always insisted on treating this day as if it were his birthday, refusing each previous year to take no for an answer, so her behavior now was unsurprising to him. It was still an odd feeling to be celebrated by someone though, especially in this way, without ulterior motives. He is certain that he likely had celebrations of a similar nature with his family before Cazador took him from that life, but those memories have long since faded.

“You know, I’m not certain that this self-declared rebirth truly warrants gifts or celebrations, love,” he says, though he knows his words are useless. Her hand currently wrapped around his own tightens as she continues to drag him along.

“It counts because I say so. You try to celebrate mine despite my protests, so it’s only right that you have to deal with it as well,” she counters, glancing at him over her shoulder and smiling gleefully. The rogue chuckles in response, shaking his head just as she brings them to a halt before a storage closet door.

Before he can question her further, she opens the door and ushers him through the opening. He blinks a few times, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness just as he hears Imogen striking a match. Light spills over the room almost immediately, compelling the rogue to turn to see that the bard has lit a candle.

He lets his eyes roam over her form in the soft candlelight, taking in how her features take on a softer appearance in the partial darkness. The sight of her monopolizes so much of his attention that he almost fails to notice the rectangular shape in the center of the room, a pale sheet drawn over it. Astarion raises a single eyebrow, meeting Imogen’s eyes in confusion.

“Just wait,” the amusement in her voice is obvious as she sets the candle down gingerly on a shelf beside the shape. With a quick step back, she stands at his side before gesturing for him to step forward and draw the sheet away. “Whenever you’re ready!”

He suddenly feels nervous, unsure what she could have possibly gotten for him that would have her buzzing with energy in such a way. Astarion sucks in a pointless breath, his chest rising with the unnecessary air pulled into his lungs. With a shake of his head to thrust away his hesitancy, he steps forward and pulls the sheet away from the object carefully.

What greets him is perhaps more confusing than anything he had been trying to imagine having been hidden beneath. A large portrait sits before him on a wooden easel. The subject of the painting is a male elf that he can’t seem to recall ever knowing. Soft, silvery curls cascade over the male’s head, covering some of his pointed ears and the top of his shirt collar. A coy smile is drawn across his lips, set just above a sharp jawline. High cheekbones support the rest of the male’s features.

As he continues to examine the artwork, wondering if he is meant to recognize this person, his eyes finally land on the eyes of the male. They are a dark red, almost a burgundy, staring back into his own. The smile on the face of the painting causes miniscule crinkles around the eyes to form, showing a physical display of the happiness portrayed.

“Who… who is that?” His voice comes out sounding strangled, alien even, as if it belongs to someone else. Astarion feels as though he knows what her answer will be before she says it, but he needs the confirmation. Yet, he almost feels that if she confirms his suspicions, he might fall to pieces right there.

“It’s you, Astarion,” Imogen whispers, her voice almost delicate as if she can sense how fragile he believes himself to be. He expects to feel some sort of sharp pain to stab through his chest, but it’s almost like his entire being has gone numb. His eyes move over and over the canvas, his gaze bordering on obsessive as he tries to take in every curve, mark, color, and line of his own features. The features that he had gone so long without that he had lost the ability to recall them at all. Before this moment, his appearance had only been a hazy blob in his memories.

As if his body has finally realized that his brain had caught up to reality, the pain that he had initially expected finally sears through his chest. His fists clench at his sides and his face seems to heat, the unmistakable feeling of tears beginning to travel down his cheeks.

“That’s… me?” He asks, wanting to glance over to the half-elf, but feeling completely unable to tear his eyes from the gilded frame and the subject that it holds. The rogue nearly jumps out of his own skin in surprise when he feels her gentle hands come to rest on his arm, Imogen squeezing the arm in a gesture of reassurance.

“Yes. I wanted you to see yourself with your own eyes, rather than always depending on me to tell you how I see you,” she breathes, her voice suddenly taking on an insecure tone, as if she could possibly doubt how this has made him feel. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, I just thought-”

The pale elf pulls her into his chest with a crushing force, cutting off her unnecessary apology. Astarion wraps his arms around her waist tightly, pressing his face into her neck.

“Astarion, is everything okay?” He feels her hands press into his chest, the cloth of his shirt being gripped tightly in her fingers.

“Yes,” he laughs breathlessly, the tears still streaming down his face. “It is more than okay, darling.”

Her laughter chimes in response and he feels her turn her head into his hair, her lips pressing gently there. For a few moments, he stays there, his feelings too overwhelming to risk saying anything more or moving.

“Thank you, sunspot,” he whispers, drawing his head back and capturing her lips with his own. Imogen gives an involuntary gasp as if the kiss surprised her and he uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss. He grips her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face upwards towards his own.

The painting wasn’t her first gift to him, and at the rate she is going, he doubts that it will be the last. However, this was something he couldn’t have dreamed for himself. He had given up on the idea of ever seeing himself again, resigning himself to another permanent loss, yet she has given it back to him.

“I love you.” Astarion plants another quick kiss on her lips.

“I love you,” she replies, gently wiping the remaining tear tracks from his face as he glances to the painting once more.

Imogen’s POV:

The sound of clinking metal sounds as she rolls over in her bed with sickening familiarity. Imogen shoots up in the bed with a start, her vision blurring for a moment with the speed of her movement. She looks around the rundown room, taking in every cobweb, worn plank of wood, and the link of chain locked to the bedpost that she knows far too well. No… no, no, no. Not this place. Anywhere but here.

Before she could think better of it, she leaps from the bed and towards the door. Her ankle seems to jerk itself out from under her, causing her to fall to the floor with a loud crash. The impact knocks all of the air out of her lungs, disorienting her.

Once she finally regains herself, she slowly turns her head to look over her shoulder, her eyes landing on the metal cuff latched around her right ankle. The flesh on her ankle is torn open and bleeding once more. Her vision tunnels and a deafening ringing pounds against her ear drums.

The door to her piss-poor excuse of a room swings open, the creak of the hinges barely registering over the ringing in her ears. After a moment of struggle, Imogen finally raises her gaze to the doorway. What she sees there causes the last ounce of hopefulness in her heart to burn up into smoke. Virric Autumnlight, her tormentor, her abuser, her father, stands in the doorway with a triumphant grin plastered across his face. Her own golden eyes shining down at her from her father’s face, rimmed in horrific madness.

“Daughter,” he sneers at her, crouching down to kneel beside her. With a cruel hand, the male snatches a handful of her hair and yanks her to her feet. Excruciating pain shoots through her scalp, causing her to yelp in agony. The desire to fight melts out of her as her father drags her head up to force her to look at him. “Welcome home.”

 “No!” Imogen screams herself awake, sitting up out of the bed with enough force to toss the comforter away from herself. A sharp pain stabs through her chest as she heaves, trying desperately to get air into her lungs and resist the instinct to vomit. Her skin is covered in sweat, her hair sticking to her wherever it touches. A wail catches in her throat as she allows her eyes to dart around the room, trying to reassure herself that she is in her and Astarion’s bedroom and not back in hell, but her heart refuses to slow its explosive face.

The door slams open then, the image almost a replaying of the same moment in her dream. She quickly tries to move back, fear gripping her heart in a vice until the pale elf appears in the doorway, returned from his night of hunting. Those beautiful, red eyes completely wild in terror of his own.

In a blink, he’s across the room and pulling her against his chest. As soon as his arms close around her, the first sobs rip free from her. Hot tears stream down her cheeks in rivers, her shoulders shaking with the force of her cries. The bard’s hands shake violently as she moves her hands to clutch at the rogue’s shirt, needing to feel that this is real. That he is real.

He pulls her closer, hooking one arm behind her knees in order to cradle her against his chest. His cold skin soothes the burning in her body, helping to bring down the panic threatening to drag her under and drown her. The two of them stay like this for several minutes, Astarion silently rocking her back and forth until she finally calms enough to breathe almost normally.

“What in the hells happened, my dear? I barely got one step through the front door before I heard you screaming,” The male whispers, one of his hands rubbing soothing circles against her back. Their bedroom is nearly on the opposite side of the fortress from the door, so Imogen knows that he must have run for him to have gotten here that quickly. Her heart sinks like a rock when she realizes that she had likely terrified him.

“I-I’m sorry… I had a nightmare and… and,” Imogen tries to get the words out, her sobs choking the words slightly as she speaks. The sobs almost get worse for a moment as she gets increasingly frustrated with her inability to speak. Astarion ducks his head a bit, bringing his eyes to meet hers.

“Breathe with me, darling,” he coaxes, the familiar phrase washing over her like protective armor. A weak laugh escapes her lips in response.

“Last time I checked, you still don’t need to breathe,” she jabs back, her voice a bit stronger than before.

“Indulge me,” he says with a soft smile, continuing with the route of repeating his own words from so long ago. Astarion raises his shoulders in a dramatic, false breath before allowing them to fall once again. She mimics him, the deep inhale hurting her aching lungs as she does. For a few precious moments, they continue like that, him guiding her back down to earth. Guiding her back down to him. It was only a dream, but this, right in front of her, is real life.

“There it is, the lovely heartbeat like the wings of a small bird,” he muses, offering her a weak smile. An involuntarily laugh escapes her as her cheeks redden.

“Thank you,” Imogen whispers, leaning in to press her forehead to his. She allows her eyes to flutter closed as her body finally relaxes, the last remnants of the nightmare falling away.

“Do you wish to speak about it?”

“I just think that something Withers said a few days ago is getting in my head. I dreamed that I was back in that room, back in my chains, and my father was there, welcoming me back,” she explains, muttering the last few words in a tone dripping with sarcasm. As she finishes, she feels Astarion stiffening, his muscles locking up.

“The old bag of bones said something about that cretin?” His voice comes out measured, as if he is struggling to keep a leash on his rage.

“He told me that we had defeated everyone else’s demons, but that mine were alive and well. ‘Open thine eyes or thou wilt fall to mortals after besting the gods’ or something to that effect,” she manages, failing miserably at copying the elder’s speaking cadence.

“You are fearful that Withers was trying to warn you that the vile creature is going to peak his head out from the shadows?” A cold and gentle hand grasps her chin as he speaks, causing her to open her eyes and to meet his own.

Such a tumultuous gathering of emotions stirs there in the reds and burgundies of his irises. Turmoil, pain, fear, worry. He has never been one to dismiss her feelings or fears, but in this moment, she wishes that he would. Somehow, she feels that she could have done away with her anxiety altogether in that moment if only he had sought to deny its validity.

She nods solemnly, chewing on her bottom lip anxiously. When she does so, she bites a bit too hard and pierces the skin, causing a drop of blood to spill. His thumb quickly moves to where the droplet had formed, wiping it away and coaxing her to stop injuring herself.

“I said it once and I’ll say it again, he won’t have you. I will not allow it,” he vows, his eyes boring into her own intensely. The tears well up once more at his words, her feelings now overwhelming her for a completely different reason than a few minutes ago.

“I’ll watch your back if you watch mine,” she answers, closing the distance and pressing her lips to his in a gentle kiss. She feels his fingers smooth down her ruffled hair, pushing it back lovingly from her face before cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand. His thumb strokes along her cheekbone in a steady rhythm for a moment before he pulls away, keeping his lips hovering just above her own.

“Always”

Chapter Text

Imogen’s POV:

The journey to Waterdeep was proving agonizingly long. There was another half day of travel before they would reach Gale’s tower. They had paid for a stagecoach to take them the full journey so that they may draw the curtains during the day to shield Astarion from the sun. The pair of them had decided that having a driver to continue moving during the daylight hours would be far better than waiting for sunset each day before being able to move once more. At this point, Imogen wishes that they had simply gone with Gale when he used his own portals to transport himself, but they had wanted to tie up loose ends before leaving the fortress for this long.

Absentmindedly, Imogen continues to run her fingers through the silvery curls of the pale elf. The pair lays sprawled across one of the upholstered benches of the stagecoach, Astarion lying between the bard’s legs with his head resting on her chest. Despite having been blissfully dream free the last few days, the nightmare of a reunion with her father still dances behind her eyelids each time she blinks. Even with the rogue at her side and the years that have passed since her last encounter with the male, the fear still washes over her like some sort of inevitable tide of an ocean.

Imogen jumps slightly as she feels Astarion stir on top of her. The male untangles himself from her gracefully, his hair a bit disheveled from her touch. A few of the strands hang lazily over his forehead, making him appear as if he was the subject of a great masterpiece depicting the hero after a great battle in a torrential downpour. His skilled fingers make short work of the clasps of his doublet before he tosses it across the space and onto the other bench. Without a word, he then maneuvers himself to the far side of the seat with his back pressing into the wall. Before Imogen can miss the absence of his touch, he pulls her against his chest.

A small smile stretches across her lips in response as she tucks her head into the space between his head and shoulder. His white undershirt rubs against her face, the scent of bergamot, rosemary, and well-aged brandy clinging to the soft fabric and making her body relax into his. Sleep threatens to take over, her eyelids growing heavier by the second as she drapes her arm across the rogue’s waist. An involuntarily yawn escapes her lips as his cold fingers begin to draw patterns across the exposed skin of her arm, leaving goosebumps in a trail behind the touch. She squeezes her eyes shut tightly before reopening them and patting her own cheek in an attempt to stay awake.

“Why don’t you get some sleep, little love?” Astarion’s velvet voice nearly sends her toppling over the edge into oblivion. The bard turns her head to look up at the male, a teasing smirk dancing on his lips.

“If I sleep, how will you entertain yourself?” She asks, letting a bit of flirtatious mockery enter her tone. She knows that her true reservation about sleeping is the sheer fear of having another nightmare. Imogen has no desire to wake screaming in fear again, especially considering the heart attack it may give their driver. Though, the forcing herself to stay away the past two and a half days was certainly catching up to her.

“I certainly have my ways, darling,” he counters, shaking his head at her playfully in response. She reaches up, further mussing his curls so that a few more stands fall forward to hang in his eyes. He shoots a glare at her, but quickly undermines himself with a quiet chuckle before haphazardly pushing some of his hair back into its strategically styled position.

“Besides, I am not quite tired enough to get any actual rest just yet,” Imogen lies poorly, her tone close to defeat as she tugs at the curtains to ensure that the sun rays stay out. Suddenly, Astarion’s cold fingers are gripping her chin and pulling her focus back towards him.

“I could help you with that, sunspot. Would you want that?” His voice is like satin, gliding over her and weakening her knees. Warmth rushes across her cheeks and she bites down on her bottom lip. “Do you wish to be tired out, darling?”

“I-I mean… What do you have in mind, little star?” she replies breathlessly, her heart thundering in her chest. The rogue smiles, presumably hearing the uptick in her pulse. His thumb moves from her chin to her bottom lip, caressing over it with tortuous adoration.

“What I have in mind is ruining you, seeing you utterly undone by my hands and hearing you pitifully attempt to maintain self-control, my name being cried from your lips,” he purrs, leaning in slowly and beginning to trail kisses along her jawbone. A thrill runs through her very core, her breath hitching in her throat. She can feel his laughter shaking his entire body as he presses closer against her, his free hand grasping onto her hip.

“I suppose I could be persuaded,” she attempts to taunt, fighting to gain back an inch of the ground he has gained against her. Another sultry chuckle sounds from the male before she is suddenly being moved. Blinking, Imogen finds herself with her back pressed into the seat and Astarion poising above her.

Her cheeks burn with a blush as the male’s hands move to the clasps at the top of her corset. With a gentleness that could have healed any wound she still holds in her heart, the male carefully pulls her mother’s handkerchief from its hiding place. He folds it a few times before tucking it away into the pocket of his already discarded doublet.

“Just to be certain it doesn’t end up lost,” he whispers, a soft smile pulls at the corners of his mouth as he looks over her face. His eyes seem to search hers for a moment, as if waiting for permission, to which she enthusiastically nods. A moment later, his mouth is on hers, moving with her in a painfully slow dance.

She had not felt this need for him mere moments ago, yet now she feels as if starved. As if she would never be satisfied, no matter how much of him that she was able to have. It is almost odd, to see them finding happiness in each other, particularly in this way, when this is exactly what had caused both of them so much pain. But, there is something so different, when there is unconditional love behind each touch.

“I love you,” she gasps out when he finally frees his lips from hers, moving to plant a kiss against the permanent scars from his fangs on her neck.

“And I love you,” he murmurs back, more of his curls now falling down and tickling her cheeks. She feels his hands pull open the front of her corset with ease, tossing it to the floor before bringing his lips to her collarbone. Her free hand moves to the collar of his shirt, undoing the lacing there with practiced fingers. His hands release her entirely as he removes the garment from himself, and Imogen takes the opportunity to remove her own blouse before reaching for the wrap around her chest. The rogue’s hands seize her waist as she works the wrap off, bringing them both to their feet in the center of the carriage.

A goofy laugh escapes the bard then as she sees Astarion tilt his head a bit to the side, the roof just a few inches too short for him to stand properly. He flashes a grin back at her and rolls his ruby eyes playfully before beginning to undo the tie of her pants. The bard quickly does the same to his, the pair undressing each other with a sense of incredible urgency. It was if they felt that they could not get to each other quite fast enough.

For a moment, once they are standing bare, the pale elf lets his gaze roam over every inch of her body, as if drinking her in. A flush creeps over her features under his gaze, though she no longer feels the old sense of self-consciousness under his eyes. He has spent countless hours lavishing her in his insistences that he finds her stunning or extraordinary, and she has finally come to believe him in those moments. It feels much the same to her as how she sees him. While they each struggle to see value in themselves, they can’t help but see endless amounts of it in one another.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, taking her hands as he walks himself back to sit on the bench once more. Gingerly, he pulls her with him, bringing her to sit on his lap, her knees pressing into the cushion on either side of his hips. Imogen smirks down at him, letting her hands rest on each side of his neck before leaning down to kiss him.

She nearly jumps in surprise when she feels him press against her, the feeling of him sending goosebumps across her bare skin in a wave. A gasp escapes her anyway, which he uses to deepen the kiss as he wraps one arm around her waist in a tight hold. His other hand slides between her thighs, his fingers beginning to move in slow circles over the most sensitive part of her entire being.

He continues this way, almost taunting her maliciously until she feels like she may melt entirely into a puddle in his arms. She groans against his lips, the noise bordering on a plea that seems to cause the rogue to chuckle a bit. His raises his hips, bucking against her own hips slightly.

“You will tell me if you desire to stop?” he whispers against her lips, his eyes already open and searching hers. Where his eyes had once been clouded with desire, they now shown completely clearly, serious. She nods silently, her confidence in her voice remaining steady through a spoken answer extremely weak at the moment.

He then moves the hand at her waist up her back, grabbing onto her shoulder from behind, as if cementing her in place. Before she can voice her confusion, he is sliding inside of her, filling her up entirely. Her thoughts shatter for a moment, each string of thought seeming to scatter all over as she’s overcome with the feeling. His grip on her shoulder seems to tighten for a moment before he begins to move in a steady rhythm underneath her. Without thought, her fingers tangle themselves into his hair, desperate for something to ground her. A moan falls from her lips and he quickly kisses her, as if desperate to taste it.

She feels the need to cling to him then, as if he wasn’t nearly close enough despite being inside of her. As if he senses this desire of hers, he moves the hand between her legs up and into her hair, gently pulling her so that her head is tilted backwards, baring her neck to him. His lips and tongue tease over her skin, causing her to shiver until he comes to hover over the scars from his fangs.

“You can drink if you need, love,” she whispers breathlessly, swallowing tightly to gain some composure. He continues to hover above the scars, hesitating for a moment.

“Won’t you need your strength, sunspot? For lecturing and rummaging about the academy’s library like a crazed vagrant?” he taunts, his tone playful, though she can still hear the edge of thirst in it. The pace of his hips, pounding against her doesn’t falter.

“You’re wearing me out, remember? Besides, I think you enjoy it like this,” she insists back, her voice shaking despite her teasing tone.

“And you don’t?” he chuckles, allowing his fangs to drag over the sensitive flesh in such a way that nearly makes her cry out. She manages to hold her tongue, hoping to not traumatize their driver with their journey still ongoing.

“I-I believe one of us enjoys it far more…” she chokes out, her chest rising and falling with incredible speed by this point. Her body seems to be twisting into knots as she resists reaching the edge this quickly with him.

“Oh, little love, you are so adorable when you try to lie,” he taunts before pressing a kiss against her scars. She closes her eyes as she feels his fangs pierce her skin. Imogen bites down on her bottom lip to silence herself just as Astarion thrusts into her again, the combination of the sensations dizzying her senses.

The familiar lightheadedness fills her mind, and she fails to stifle a moan, clapping one of her hands over her own mouth. The rogue breaks away from her neck, his tongue sliding over his lips as he gingerly pulls the hand from her face, locking her wrist in his grip down by her side.

“Ah ah ah, don’t rob that from me, please,” he coos, his other hand parting from her shoulder to grab her other wrist, bringing her hands together at her lower back. Something like a whimper nearly tears out of her in response to the way he touches her, suddenly feeling deprived by not being able to grab onto him.

“But the driver-”

“Currently steering us through a busy street full of taverns, love,” he counters before she can finish her shaky argument. Imogen rolls her eyes playfully, earning a chuckle from the rogue.

Without giving her a moment to recover, Astarion kisses her and slams his hips into hers. The bard moans against his lips, tightening around the rogue unconsciously. A noise much like a growl comes from the male before she feels herself suddenly lifted and spun around. Imogen finds her arms held above her head now with her back pressing down into the cushions as Astarion climbs on top of her.

A knot forms in her stomach as he slides back inside, causing her to let out a gasp. The rogue’s mouth moves with hers as his movements become a bit stuttered. Astarion moans as her thoughts scatter once more, his pace quickening. His lips trail down her jaw, her name sounding like a song in his voice. Her heart thunders in her chest as she rolls her head back with a moan.

“Just let go, little love,” he whispers, his voice coming out strained with the exertion. As if his words had broken some dam in her, she feels herself spilling over the edge with him. Another moan rolls off of her tongue as she feels him moving with her frantically, a moan of his own slipping out. For a moment, her body feels as if engulfed by flames, her skin burning for him. She lurches, trying to grab onto him as she cries out, but he only grips her wrists tighter.

“A-Astarion…” she manages, her voice weak and delirious.

“Imogen,” he nearly bellows as they each reach the end of their control, pouring out into one another. The bard quickly looks up at him, desiring nothing more than to take him in this moment. He had claimed she would be the one undone, and yet he appears to be the one utterly swallowed up. His lips meet hers a final time before she loses her last grip on herself, the feelings all coming together at once and seeming to explode.

His grip on her wrists quickly releases as he slows his pace, one chilled hand going to cup her heated cheek before parting their lips from each other. She opens her eyes, looking up into his. His eyes are doing his normal check over her, something that seems to have become a habit of the rogue’s. Always making sure she is okay.

“I am more than okay, little star. Are you?” She answers his question before he can ask it, reaching her own hand up to cradle his face. He smirks, rolling his eyes at her before nodding his answer.

“Apologies, my love. Have I become predictable?” Astarion asks, feigning hurt even as the smirk remains on his lips.

“Decidedly so,” Imogen taunts back, mussing his hair with her fingers despite his sigh of protest. She grins, unable to feign regret for the gesture.

He carefully pulls away from her before helping her sit up. With a wink, he rises and dons his pants once more. She nearly protests but stops when she sees him grabbing his cotton shirt and turning to her. Understanding his intent, she raises her arms above her head, allowing the pale elf to slide the garment over her body.

“Come here,” he whispers, sprawling himself across the far bench and holding his arms open to her in an invitation. The bard moves quickly, curling herself up against him and tucking her head against his chest. His arms close around her, pressing her closer to him and placing a chaste kiss into her mess of copper hair. “Get some rest, I’ll keep watch.”

“I love you,” she laughs as she speaks, feeling the exhaustion washing over her with a newfound strength.

“As I love you,” he replies, his hand beginning to lightly trace patterns against her back. The melodic touch only advances the fatigue, her eyes fluttering closed. Within moments, sleep takes over the half-elf, pulling her into the dark.

Astarion’s POV:

Each soft sound of it, the flutter of the delicate wings, soothes him almost to the edge of trancing. Imogen’s heartbeat would be the sweetest lullaby to him if he were a sleeping creature. He continues tracing circles and swirls into her back through his shirt, having fallen into a steady rhythm for the past few hours while she has drifted in and out of dreams. Every so often, she murmurs his name in her sleep, drawing a smile from him each time.

A loud rapping against the outside of the of the stagecoach catches Astarion’s attention, presumably from the driver. He turns his head towards the curtained window, meticulously careful with his movements so as not to cause the half-elf to stir from her slumber. The rogue reaches his free hand forward hesitantly, drawing the curtain back only half an inch. The city of Waterdeep, lit up by torches and lanterns against the night sky, greets him. He freezes for a moment, the sight of the city overwhelming his emotions for a moment. How long had it been since he had traveled to such a place in such a mundanely normal fashion? It was odd to think about, though not uncomfortably so. If anything, it was a surreal display of how much his life has truly changed.

Finally, he gathers himself and turns his gaze back to the sleeping bard in his arms. He lowers his mouth to her forehead, planting a kiss there as he shakes her shoulder gently. A groan of protest comes from the half-elf and he fails to stifle his chuckle.

“Come now, little love. If you don’t rise now, you’ll miss the view,” he whispers, beginning to stroke her hair to coax her to consciousness. She starts to stir, a high-pitched yawn coming from her as she sits up, arching her back in a stretch. Without thinking, Astarion reaches out and twirls a bit of her hair around his fingers, brushing it away from her face. She squints at him, sleep still heavy in her eyes. He smiles, leaning in and kissing her lips gently before nudging her towards the window. Imogen moves to the window, checking that it is nighttime before drawing the curtain entirely away with a gasp.

“Welcome to Waterdeep,” Astarion says, his focus entirely on the look of wonder on her face. The sight of her in such a way is captivating, the pure surprise and elation in her eyes turning the view on the other side of the glass to appear rundown and uninteresting by comparison. How could he take in the city when she sits before him?

“It’s… so lovely,” she breathes, her eyes seeming to dart in every direction, as if trying to take it all in. He hears her heart pick up slightly in excitement, the gentle wingbeat sound becoming slightly more frantic.

“Oh well, thank you, darling,” he taunts, smiling as he watches the way the lights of the night shine in her golden eyes. She shoulders him, her laughter peeling in his ears like the chiming of bells.

“Oh, you know I was talking about the city,” she quips back, turning to smile at him. He takes a moment before responding, his eyes continuing to roam over her features.

“I know.” He winks, reaching for her pants and handing them over to her. “We should probably get dressed, unless you are keen to greet Gale in this state.”

“Definitely not,” she snaps, grabbing the clothing as the blush he had wanted to see washes over her face. Astarion laughs a bit, taking his shirt and ducking into it when she hands the garment to him. He gracefully slips each of his arms into his doublet, fishing the bard’s handkerchief from the pocket where he had stored it earlier.

“Let this little adventure of ours begin,” Astarion says, tucking the piece of cloth into its hiding spot once the bard finishes clasping the front of her corset.

“Here we go again,” she laughs, leaning up to kiss him.

Chapter Text

Imogen’s POV:  

Imogen had heard of this place before, tales of it have been sung in ballads by the bards or whispered about in her father’s tavern between a few drunken wizards. But she had never imagined Blackstaff Academy to look like what now stands before her. The bard stands in the courtyard, Astarion at her side, and gazes upon the foreboding black tower. The stone it was made of seemed almost so dark that it was like it swallowed the colors around it, consuming them to maintain its odd appearance.  

“So, this is where our former Jack-in-the-box ended up?” Astarion’s voice nearly makes her jump out of her skin as it cuts through the silence. She gasps in a breath in shock as the rogue  places a cold hand on her back, steadying her.  

“S-Sorry… I suppose I let my mind wander a bit too much with the tower. You startled me,” she explains hastily, pressing her hand to his cheek to reassure him that she was okay. The rogue nods, pressing his lips to her forehead as she releases a sigh. After a breath, she allows her shoulders to relax in response to his touch.  

“Well, if it isn’t the enigmatic lovers,” Gale bellows heartily, causing the pair of them to turn their heads to face the approaching human. The wizard is clothed, head to toe, in a robe not unlike the one he had once worn in the early days of their journey to Baldur’s Gate so long ago, though this one is considerably more singed. Imogen wrinkles her nose as the assaulting smell of burnt fabric slams into her senses. Gale seems to catch a glimpse of the face, chuckling in response.  

“I see your love for pyrotechnics hasn’t ceased,” Astarion teases at the other male before stepping gracefully around Imogen and enveloping the human into a tight hug. The bard watches the pair silently for a moment, smiling at the sight of the two of them so enveloped in one another’s friendship. She can remember the way they had bickered back and forth endlessly when they all had first begun traveling together, at each other’s throats over whether or not they should help others or look out for themselves. It was comforting in a way, to compare back then to now. Whether or not they would admit it, the two males were foils of one another. Two sides of the same coin.  

The rogue and the wizard had each suffered so much under the hand of someone more powerful than them. Neither of them ever had a chance to know anything better than the way they had lived before the nautiloid uprooted them all. Imogen was not naïve to the ways that their previous plights differed, she just simply is able to see all of ways in which they align. Just as they each had needed the journey to Baldur’s Gate to find themselves, they had unknowingly needed the other as well. They had each needed that other presence who knew the darkness so intimately, in order to push them closer to the light.  

“Alright, alright lovebirds. My turn,” Imogen taunts, snapping herself from her saccharine thoughts before stepping towards the males the now parting males.  

“Hello Gen,” Gale smiles down at her, pulling her into his chest in a tight embrace. She wraps her arms tightly around his waist, pressing her cheek into the clasps of his teaching robes and fighting off the singed scent of him. The male gives her a quick squeeze, planting a kiss into her copper waves before dropping his arms and stepping back.  

“Welcome to Blackstaff Academy,” the wizard practically announces, gesturing back towards the building behind him. The tower seems to ungulate then, reacting to the wizard’s voice. As if now somehow made of liquid, the black stones of the tower begin to ripple like the aftermath of a stone tossed into still water. A door appears mere feet from where they now stand before yawning open, as if beckoning them to enter the hallowed halls.  

Astarion’s POV:  

Imogen’s heart speeds beyond any semblance of normalcy, her pulse roaring like the rapids of a river through her veins. He has heard her heart in such a state many times before, but it was so rare for him to hear for the past few years without her deep in the throes of some hellish nightmare. Danger no longer lurked around each corner for them, so the fears seem to only chase her in her sleep. Simply thinking about the males who haunt her makes his skin crawl, picturing her treated so callously making his stomach turn over on itself. But this moment was different. Right now, she was fully awake.  

“Little love?” He keeps his voice soft, low enough so as not to startle her further. When she does not so much as twitch in response to his words, he reaches out to her with measured and slow movements. He brushes his pale fingers through her tousled waves, taking in how the strands stand out against his skin like living flames straight from the mouth of a dragon. The bard jumps then, whirling on him with impressive speed. Her eyes are wild as they meet his, shock and a bit of fear lining the golden orbs there before dissipating.  

“Y-yes?” She blinks rapidly for a moment, perhaps trying to clear the remainder of whatever thoughts had just been running through her mind. The pale elf tilts his head to the side slightly, offering her a soft smile before pressing one of his thumbs between her brows to smooth the worry lines there.  

“You went away again,” he whispers, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to the top of her head. He does not voice the question that always follows, knowing she will answer it anyway with no need for his prompting.  

“Only nerves, little star. The last time I performed outside of actively fighting for my life or playing for you, I had the benefit of an inebriated audience and Alfira’s help. Now, I am about to attempt to teach a room full of students how to weave spells with music. It feels… a bit terrifying,” the half-elf replies, her voice shaking ever so slightly.  

“You are safe, and I am here, sunspot. I will not let you fall, I swear it,” he vows, tilting her chin up so that she will meet his eyes. She smiles at him, tucking a strand of her own hair behind the soft point of her ear.  

“Thank you, darling,” she whispers back, rising onto her toes to kiss him. The rogue allows his eyes to shut, leaning further into her kiss as he slides his hands to her waist. Her body heat warms his palms and lips, spreading over him in a wave and thawing the ice in his veins. Too soon, she breaks the embrace, stepping back from him. “Wish me luck.”  

“You don’t need it,” he shoots back, smiling deviously at her and winking. The bard shakes her head in feigned annoyance before pulling her lute around to the front of her body from where it had been strapped to her back. Imogen gives him a nod before stepping through the doorway leading into Gale’s classroom.  

Astarion leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest in a relaxed pose as he watches the bard and wizard spar with one another. He cannot successfully stifle the grin as his eyes trail her about the makeshift stage, circling Gale as her nimble fingers slide along the strings as she prepares her next spell. Notes erupt from the instrument, springing forth and knocking the human back a few stumbled steps.  

“There she is,” Astarion whispers to himself under his breath, turning his head slightly to take in the agape faces of the pupils around the room. Each of their eyes are trained on her and the stringed lute in her hands, watching as she beats back their instructor with each strum.  

The pair continue this dance for nearly an hour before ceasing, each of their chests heaving as their labored breathing slowly comes back under their controls. Imogen laughs a bit, the sound of it utterly untethered and free. The rogue shifts in the doorway, standing up straight in anticipation of the end of their lesson.  

“So, you see pupils, as we study and pour over our spell books, there are individuals like my companion here, who call upon the art of music to harness the Weave. Imogen Summerstone is a bard of incredible skill and wide accomplishments whom I have the pleasure of calling upon to demonstrate such feats of music,” the wizard speaks with a breathless bravado before motioning towards Imogen and beginning to clap for her. His students quickly joined in with applause of their own and Astarion watches the familiar rush of blood in Imogen’s cheeks in response.  

“Thank you,” she half laughs, half whispers before bowing slightly at them. With a graceful turn, her undone hair swirling around her shoulders, she faces him. She would have rendered him breathless in that moment if it were a feat possible to achieve. Her eyes were light with joy now, no remnants of the ghost of fear that had been lurking there before.  

She starts toward him, slipping her lute back around to rest against her spine as she walks. Astarion tunes out the sound of Gale dismissing the class, all of his focus on the approaching half-elf. Imogen presses into his chest once she reaches him, slipping her arms around his neck. The rogue leans into the touch, enveloping her in his arms.  

“Nice work, little love,” he whispers into her hair, breathing in the honey and lavender of her. He can feel her seem to relax into him, a sigh causing her shoulders to slump. “How do you feel?”  

“Exhausted, elated… all around overwhelmed, but happy,” she answers, her voice weak from use. As they separate, he tilts his head down to hers and places a quick kiss to her lips.  

“I am impressed. It was nostalgic, watching you knocking our little Gale around,” he jokes. Slipping his arm over her shoulders, Astarion twirls them around and begins the short stroll towards their temporary bedchamber.  

“I feel like I could sleep for an eternity,” Imogen mumbles, a yawn escaping her after she finishes speaking. The adorable sound draws a chuckle from the rogue from deep in his chest, the force of it shaking his shoulders minutely.  

“Is that so?” He grins, turning to look down at her as they come to a halt before their door. Without taking his eyes from her, Astarion fishes the key from his pocket and slides it into the lock. The door swings open before them and he gestures her inside.  

“It is so! And you must keep me company until nightfall,” she declares, setting her lute on the cushioned chair near the fireplace as he follows her inside.  

“And why just until nightfall?” He begins to unbutton the front of own shirt, kicking each of his boots off easily as the door falls shut behind him.  

“Because I deserve love and praise for that performance. Besides, you should hunt once the sun goes down since we have no inkling of how long we may be here. Gale and I can begin combing through the dusty old books in the meantime.”  

“Oh, what an odd little thing you are,” he teases, winking at her when she shoots him a look for his words. “Very well, sunspot, if that’s what you wish.”  

He does not mention how he believes their efforts to be rather hopeless and futile. Instead, he shoves that thought far from his mind, refusing to allow it to taint this moment with her. Too much of his life has been sullied by fears and worries, he would not allow anything more to bear the stain. For just a moment, he stops undoing his shirt and lets his body simply exist as the doubts ebb away from him.  

His eyes train on her as she moves about the room, peeling layers of clothing away from herself and leaving a trail in her wake. With a shake of his head in amusement, he resumes his movements to remove the shirt. Before she even has the chance to ask for it, the pale elf holds the garment out to her, a mere moment before her hand lifts in request. She laughs a bit, taking the garment and slinging it over herself.  

His eyes shift over her, taking her in and the room around her. The décor compliments her, causing her features to stand out in immaculate detail. Each fleck of color across her nose, each foil of gold in her eyes, shining against the background of hanging silks and floral arrangements scattered about the room. Even despite his familiarity with every inch of her, she still sings to him each time he takes her in. It was as if just her attention on him could ignite his soul. He was nothing more than a moth drawn in by her flame.  

“You are beautiful,” he whispers, stepping towards her and pulling his shirt tighter around her shoulders. The blood floods into her cheeks, her face turning a soft shade of pink in her obvious self-conscious embarrassment. She reaches forward, linking her fingers through his and leading him to the bed.  

“Come to bed, you sentimental brute,” she taunts him, smirking up at him.  

“Oh, anything you say, little love,” he quips back, peeling the sheets back for her with his free hand. With incredible speed, he jumps into the bed, tugging her down with him. A fit of laughter ensues from the bard.  

“Watch it, Astarion,” she jabs, settling into his side. He feigns a pout for a moment at her use of his name, pressing one hand to his chest as if in shock. Imogen rolls her eyes in return. It was a hypnotic gesture on her, one that would irritate him on anyone else. Astarion leans in, pressing his lips against hers and pulling her in closer to him. After a moment, he leans away and brings his chin to rest on the top of her head.  

“Sleep well, little love.”  

Chapter Text

Imogen’s POV:  

The moonlight shines through the curtains of the library, bathing the room in a gentle white glow as Imogen continues to dart her eyes over page after page of magical renderings. Her eyes had begun to strain with the effort about an hour ago, the monotony of the task causing her to continually tap her fingers across the spines of the books. Gale sits across the room from her, draped over an embellished armchair with a tome of his own strewn across his lap. If the tapping bothers him, he does not voice it, likely choosing not to provoke the bard while she is already on edge with worry.  

With an exasperated sigh, she rises once again to place the book back in its home on the nearest shelf, dismissing another enquiry as a dead end to their endeavor. They were approaching the four-hour mark by now and had been failing spectacularly at making any headway. Gods damn it all, why is it so hard to find a simple fix for sunlight for one vampire spawn? If Imogen were someone who prays, she would have dropped to her knees to beg a long while ago.  

“This feels hopeless,” she whispers under her breath, talking more to herself than to the wizard a few feet from her.  

“You are not one to lose hope easily, Gen, and rightfully so. If there is a solution, I swear to you that we will find it,” Gale responds, rising from his chair to grab a new tome to sift through. She glances at his face then, seeing the quiet determination there but unable to absorb it into herself. What if he is wrong and there is no hope? What if Astarion is forever cursed to roam the shadows? She could not allow that to happen, she still needs something to leave for him as comfort when her inevitable death eventually comes to pass.  

“I do not share your optimism at the moment,” she mutters, running her hands down various spines and reading their titles.  

Elminster’s Guide to Unraveling Curses  

Atlas of Endless Horizons  

Arcane Grimoire  

Each of them no more helpful than the one she has set aside. But, just there, a small novel is stuffed between two of the larger books, crammed away as if its last reader had blindly shoved it onto the shelves.  

Histories of Magical Artefacts and Entrusted Families  

Her hand hesitates, hovering just over the ratty and worn leather of the binding. For some unknown reason, her heart seems to call to it, urging her to reach out and snatch it into her arms. With a careful touch, fearful of the book falling apart in her hands, she wrestles the novel free from the shelf. A thin coat of dust lays over the whole thing. She turns it over in her hands, her eyes roaming the outside of it with curiosity. It did not appear to be anything of value, more like it was something that had been abandoned in this library to be forgotten to time.  

“Hmm,” she muses a bit to herself as she brings the book over to her chair, crashing down into the cushions with a plop. As she rustles the pages, dust springs up into her face and causes her to begin coughing furiously for a few moments. The bard waves her hand about aggressively, willing the dust away from her nose before flipping to the table of contents. Her eyes dart down the table, searching for anything that may stand out to her.  

Finally, her eyes land on the words, “Ring of the Sun-Walker.” Her heart seems to constrict for a moment, and she lets her shaky fingers rest under those words. Before she can dwell too much on the fact that this was the item they had failed to find in Cazador’s palace, she flips to the indicated page and begins reading. Most of the information she finds is the same knowledge she had already acquired before searching for it the first time, but she keeps going on anyway.  

At the bottom of the worn page, there was a small inscription:  

Entrusted into the care of the noble Autumnlight family following the events of…  

The rest of the sentence seems to have worn away, but that did not matter. Imogen feels her heart slowing in fear as she focuses on the name of the family that had been entrusted with the care of this magical item. Autumnlight. Her father’s family, at some point long ago, had taken possession of the very item that she so desperately needs.  

“Gale, come here,” she says shakily, raising her head to look over at the male. Her panic and fear must be plain on her features because the wizard drops his tome haphazardly before darting to her side.  

“Gen?” He questions, an edge of concern in his tone. Rather than answering aloud, Imogen nods to the tome where her index finger was pointing to her father’s family name. A plan begins forming in her mind, pieces falling into place as the pair of them stare into the book. “Oh no, no, no.”  

“This… This changes everything, Gale,” she whispers in disbelief, running her fingers gingerly over the worn and stained pages.  

“We do not even know if your father even possesses the ring or ever has. This could go cataclysmically wrong. He could have pawned it, or one of your ancestors before him could have lost it due to sheer carelessness or to a skilled thief,” Gale warns, the wizard very obviously wary of their discovery.  

“But it’s worth a shot,” she insists, staring back down at the words promising everything she’s been searching for. Of course she was scared, especially after the cryptic warning from Withers at the gathering, but this was the first piece of real hope that they’d had since this very ring was not in Astarion’s old master’s collection.  

“What will Astarion think if this fails, or worse, if you get wounded in the process? You know your father and what he is likely to attempt to do to you if you go back there,” His words hit her in the heart, an ache blooming in response. She had promised to keep Astarion informed, she knows that, but she could not give up on their first real chance. This could be the answer she has been searching for these three years. And Astarion would never let her go, not without a fight.  

“He would do it for me, Gale,” she snaps back, slamming the book closed and tossing it onto the table.  

“Gen-”  

“Gale, I have to,” Imogen cuts him off, grasping his hands desperately and pulling him towards her. “All I require is a portal to the tavern and I can handle it from there.”  

“At the very least, we should wait for Astarion to get back so we can discuss the benefits and the drawbacks of this delusional idea,” he insists, squeezing her hands as his brows knit themselves together.  

“No, it must be now. You know that he will say no. This is our only option. Please,” she practically begs, staring up at him in pure desperation. What were the odds that they would get a chance like this again?  

“For the record, I think this is easily one of the worst schemes that you’ve ever concocted,” he mutters, stepping away and seeming to prepare himself to cast a portal before her.  

“Just promise me that you won’t tell him where I’ve gone,” she adds, watching the blue glow forming in the middle of the room as she straps her lute to her back. “I cannot have him following me and getting us caught. And I do not want to disappoint him if I cannot find it.”  

“I will not deceive him, Gen. If he questions me, I will be transparent with him,” the wizard replies, earning a sigh of defeat from her.  

“Fine,” Imogen practically growls before diving through the portal, now wide open in front of her.   

The world spins around her, memories and flashes encircling her as she falls through time and space before the portal spits her out on a rainy street in Baldur’s Gate. Blinking the rain from her eyes, she gazes upon the familiar lights pouring from the windows of The Imperial Serpent. Her skin seems to crawl at the sight, her body itching to turn tail and run.  

After sucking in a breath through her teeth, she steadies herself and casts a disguise over her being so that all who look upon her simply see a halfling male. Once the disguise has fully settled over her, she steps into the tavern and heads for the bar.  

The place is not nearly as busy as she remembers from her old times here when forced to perform. Rather than patrons pouring over themselves from the lack of available space inside, there are now a few empty seats scattered throughout the room.  

She winds her way through the people there, ordering a quick drink from the bartender and tossing a handful of coins to the male. She then sips lazily, scanning her eyes all around to ensure that her father and brother were not present before sneaking down the hallway towards her father’s office. To her surprise, she finds the door unlocked. It swings open silently and she rushes inside, cracking the door behind her to avoid having to make any noise by shutting it.  

The bard rummages through drawer after drawer, sifting through papers and opening small boxes and chests in search of the ring. No matter where she seems to check though, the ring is nowhere to be found within the confines of the desk.  

“Gods damn it all,” she whispers to herself, biting down on her bottom lip in frustration. She moves to the bookshelf behind Virric’s desk, rummaging through the myriad of items and books stored there. It mostly seems like various knickknacks, bits, and bobs. A few shelves above her head though, she spies what looks to be a ring box made of gold, with three rubies forming a clasp to hold it closed.  

Imogen takes a deep breath to steady herself before she pulls out the chair to perch on. She stretches her arm out overhead, struggling to reach it. After a few seconds with no success, she drops her disguise, wishing for the benefit of her normal height once more. Finally, her fingers close around the cold metal of the box, and she pulls it down to examine it.  

Her hands are shaking almost violently as she begins to lift the lid. Without warning, a sharp pain breaks out across the back of her head, her scalp suddenly feeling warm and wet. Her legs crumple underneath her, her body crashing to the ground from where she had been standing on the chair. Through the blur of her vision, she watches a tanned hand pull the small box from her grasp, a sadistic laugh sounding over the ringing in her ears.  

A male voice registers next to her head, their warm breath washing over the shell of her ear, but she cannot make out the words. The sheer closeness of the gesture sends a shiver of discomfort through her bones. She shakily places her hands under herself, pushing to raise her body from the ground. Another strike lands on the back of her head and she collapses back down with a thud before losing consciousness.