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With the ghostly lover now released back to the Ethereal Plane, the mansion practically stank of ozone. It was all very well and good that the idiot painter and his lady love were free to enjoy their marital bliss sans-specters, but now not only was Astarian assaulted by their revolting confessions of devotion but he was also covered in slimy ghoul juice. At least they had got paid.
Astarion tuned back into the conversation after delicately sniffing his armor. Ugh. He'd need to get out the essences of bergamot, rosemary, and brandy again.
It seemed his... lover he supposed... was trying to extricate herself from the conversation with the artist.
"Please - before you go. I must pay you back. Come upstairs to my atelier. I promise you'll leave with something priceless. Immortality."
Astarian scoffed lightly under his breath. So, he wished to pay his debts with paint, did he? At least he had good taste in muses, she truly was beautiful. Piercing eyes that always saw more than they said, long hair that she preferred to pull into a high tail and then drape across her back in a long braid, hands delicate and elegant despite their many calluses and cuts. A body some would sell their soul for. A soul that Astarian was worried how much he'd give for.
As they walked up the stairs to Oskar's studio, he admired the sharp jaw and high cheekbones he could see from his position behind her. Yes. He supposed a memento of this face is something worth treasuring.
He was so caught up in his musings that he hadn't realized they'd taken a turn away from the atelier and were instead heading into a small washroom.
"Well, I suppose wiping some of those bloodstains from your eyebrows is prudent before getting your portrait done. Though, I wouldn't object to that delicious visage immortalized."
She turned and gave him a look before rolling her eyes and wetting a spare handtowel probably worth a thousand gold. Ah, the amenities of the rich. 800 thread count Calimshan towels. They should be considered a basic humanoid right.
She turned and began reaching to rub the cloth across his face.
"Woah, what are you doing?" he said as he lightly grabbed her hand, stopping her.
"Didn't you just say that we should get the bloodstains off you before getting a painting done? Even though it does bring out the color of your eyes," she replied, amused.
"Yes, off of you, darling. Did you hit your head harder than I thought when the skull pushed you off the balustrade? Do we need to get Shadowheart to fix you up?"
"Astarian," and at this she reached up with her free hand to clasp their conjoined hands together, "I don't need a portrait. I can look at myself in the mirror if I truly need a reminder."
"Then what are we still doing here? This place stinks worse than Gale's boots."
She gave him another look.
"What? What am I missing? Do you want the portrait or not?"
"I don't need a portrait, Astarian. I can see my reflection. Besides, it will be nice to have a portrait of someone I actually like in our lodgings. Those old human men don't brighten the room up like you would."
"Hold on, you want to get a portrait done of me? I didn't even want to help the man!"
"You don't want to help anyone Astarion."
"Well. Not everyone. I don't mind helping you. If I didn't you be dead in a ditch somewhere."
"Yes," she agreed, "You help me. And now I want to help you. You haven't seen your reflection in 200 years. I know you want to see what you look like again. So. I am going to wipe the bloodstains that you can't see off your face, you're going to grab your favorite outfit from camp, and we are going to get your portrait done."
Astarion was a bit stunned.
She smiled up at him, just a small thing that barely pulled up the sides of her lips. She often smiled at him like that. Like she was afraid of giving him more than he could handle. Or perhaps more than she could.
"Lean down. You're too tall."
"Yes, my tyrant of a lover," he said, a purr in his voice and a wetness to his eye that he wouldn't admit to under torture, "I'll just have to get a statue commissioned of you in retaliation."
She snorted, rewetting the towel and wringing it out.
Her hands were gentle, carefully wiping away dirt and blood and grime. She didn't look into his eyes. The sounds of the city began to bleed in. Children playing in the streets. Drunks arguing over a woman. A guard chasing a thief. The sounds of life. Uninhibited, unrestrained. And here was Astarion, in a small washroom, with a woman who had fought for him, a woman who had cared for him, with no other motivation than that she cared. She did it for almost everyone. Like she was paying penance. Like if she stopped practicing she would forget how. Like she was afraid of losing a part of herself.
Astarion, alone in a coffin--praying to gods that never answered--would never have believed that this would be his future.
He closed his eyes, trusting in her not to lead him astray.
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They walked up the stairs together, shoulder to shoulder, hands barely brushing each other. It was funny, sometimes, to think that it was easier for them to have sex than the small intimacies that proved they were vulnerable at heart.
Astarion and her were not so different as he sometimes believed.
"Here she is - the hero of the hour. Brushes are oiled, the canvas prepped, and you... Well, you're comfortable. That's the main thing. So, shall we begin?"
The human in front of her looked much better than he had pre-exorcism. The glowing eyes had been a bit unnerving. As had the levitating. And the deadly furniture.
"I will not be sitting for the portrait, my companion Astarion will instead."
She exchanged gazes with the pale elf to her right. He gave her one of his signature smirks. It was slightly looser than it usually was. Less contempt. More content.
He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
The human cleared his throat before continuing, "Ah! Of course. Marvelous! Right this way, my friend."
She watched Astarion and the painter find the best pose, which of course included finding "the most strategic sunlight to bring out his highlights but not wash him out." Whatever that meant. At least he was happy.
She took up a stance near the door, carefully angled to keep all windows and entrances within her field of view. Habits developed over the many decades of her life would not allow her the easy relaxation that Gale or even Karlach, at times, had. There had been too many fights, too many betrayals, too many close calls. And she would take no chances with her people, her companions--especially not him. He was strong and capable, but with Cazador still out there she could never let down her guard. She's not sure she'll be able to even after that bastard is dead.
She wondered if she'd ever be able to mediate at night without the fear that all this would be taken from her. That her companions would be taken or killed. That she would be helpless to protect those who trusted her to lead them. Again.
If the gods actually answered prayers, she might ask them why it fell to them to stop a cabal of death deities. Why fate allowed illithids to cram worms in their brain, forever threatening them to continue their frantic pace. Why the celestials, fiends, and undeads of this world were allowed to rain havoc on the people she loved the most.
But she already knew the answer. And the gods didn't answer prayers.
Fate had brought her to these people, this life, this city. It could try and pry these things from her hands, but it would not find her an easy mark. She was not prey. She was not a toy. She was not going to let anything fuck with what was hers ever again. The gods could shove it. The powerful could choke on their own blood. Neither Devil, Queen, Emperor, Absolute, Archduke, nor Chosen could use and manipulate her or her companions. They were all done bowing.
Oskar put down his brush, gazing upon the painting proudly. He turned it around to show Astarion and her.
She smiled.
"A good likeness. Though I prefer the real thing."
Astarion laughed.