Chapter Text
The longer it took for the bruise on her arm to fade, the more she questioned her marriage.
Reminded of its sharp, nagging presence wherever her arms came to rest, leaning on tables or pressed against the edge of the altar during prayer. She prodded at the firm little mound, wondering how long it would be mottled green with reddish purple specks, and tried to replay events in her head of where exactly it may have happened. To no avail.
But then Astarion's letter arrived.
.
Tav's resistance to a daily visit begrudged her to attend a breakfast with her new mother once every week. Surrounded by other noble ladies of Waterdeep who'd been attending for years—back when it was assumed Morena Dekarios would have the honor of finding a suitable bride for her only son. But to her credit (and a message sent days prior to their arrival), the Lady Dekarios managed to greet her with open arms amidst an undertow of disappointment.
"Mother," said Gale, voice lilting and trepidatious as he stepped back to take the hand of a woman slightly taller than him—a raw beauty, scrubbed clean at least, wearing men's clothes (rough shirt beneath an unbuttoned doublet, both trousers and hiking boots flecked in mud).
"It is my ardent pleasure to present to you my love and saviour, Octavia Rose Argon," he said while urging her gently forward.
"House Argon?" Morena took both hands in hers and squeezed, glancing at the sigil ring on her index finger—the subtlest air of relief mixed with her delight when they exchanged a smile.
"Yes, ma'am."
"From Neverwinter?"
"Yes, but I live in Baldur's Gate, ma'am."
"Octavia Rose… What a beautiful name, my dear," she said kindly.
"Just Tav, if you please."
.
Gale's previous "ladies-in-waiting" stopped sulking the moment Tav's family arrived for the ceremony.
Renowned for its valor and (more modestly) its beauty, there wasn't a single member of House Argon in attendance who wasn't a paladin, a cleric, a knight or a squire training to become one. Rumored celestial lineage explained their otherworldly good looks—all with the same wispy, white blond hair, and piercing eyes the color of precious jewels. And a reputation of unyielding integrity made them highly regarded, even in places better known for bustling commerce and classism than jurisprudence.
"You'll have every lady in Waterdeep scrambling to meet you, dearest," Gale teased her, "now that they've seen what real heroes look like."
"Ridiculous," she murmured, poking him in the ribs when he decided to wrestle his point under pristine sheets.
"Surrounded by a legion of chiseled youth in shining armor," he continued, sliding comfortably between her legs and flashing a grin, "And me, the opposite of your brothers and cousins, and father…"
"A dashing and mysterious wizard," she added.
His warm gaze blazed a trail over the freckles on her bare chest, back up to her eyes, and he wetted his lips, "It's no wonder you couldn't resist my charms."
"You're just as much a hero as they are," Tav replied, running her thumbs over stubbled cheeks; responding to the wet heat between them where the length of his cock was pressed, rubbing back and forth as their noses touched—waiting to draw the smallest sound from her before Gale claimed her mouth (and body) again.
.
She missed him all the time at first, before Blackstaff had even begun sending him as an envoy for new students, when he still came home every night; eventually to find her standing in the same place, staring listlessly from the balcony—asking her what's wrong only to receive the same deadpan response ("Nothing") and refusing to accept it.
Not that she expected him to, not when he need only apply the slightest resistance to get her to express her true feelings.
It's just too bad it didn't change anything, she thought, leaning back in her chair against the wall—tilting her head to better see the performance on stage until Astarion blocked it by turning to look directly at her.
"Isn't that right, darling?" He said, going so far as to place a hand on her knee in clear view of the mercs they were sat with—no doubt discussing some varied details of skullduggery over cards.
Tav clenched her jaw and clapped a hand over his, "If it's to do with something I've said, yes," squeezing, removing it, "Darling." The table erupting with amusement, all eyes directed toward their nominated ringleader, an orc, who dearly loved to laugh.
"HEH! I knew you were the brain," he rumbled.
"That must make me the beauty, then," snipped Astarion, grinning over his ale, "You're a shameless flirt, Gorimm."
"No shame in appreciating somethin' so perdy, HEH!"
"Careful, now, my lady is the jealous type," purred the vampire, sliding an arm around Tav's neck and replacing her mug (nearly full) with his (empty), "she packs quite a punch."
"Only when provoked," she deadpanned, and another, louder round of laughter followed.
"Could always use another heavy weapon and someone pickin' locks," Gorimm and the halfling lady (Selfie or Selmie, Tav couldn't remember) exchanged a glance before he added, "you in?"
. . .
The search to find a way that would allow Astarion to walk in the sunlight brought anecdotal evidence aplenty that it could, in fact, be done. But with every actual lead ending in a scam, such tavern pursuits became less and less reassuring—dwindling fast alongside the weight of her coin purse.
"We're not stealing anything," said Tav, gathering the lead of her horse, a Belserran named Chuff, gifted by her father on her wedding day, and ignored Astarion's look of disgust when she handed off a hard bristle brush.
"Well, we're not working a thousand odd jobs to pay for it, either!" He snapped.
Lucky for him, his horse had gotten used to the grating personality of its rider. Chuff grunted and well, chuffed, eager to be away from the noise—perhaps nervous to be stopping at an old hunter's cabin in the middle of the woods at night rather than seek lodgings back in Candlekeep. Unfortunately, she had no way of explaining they couldn't afford it. Tav felt his muzzle encroaching, the blustery exploration when her hair tickled his nostrils, yet her eyes transfixed on Astarion. On the sardonic terms threaded throughout their friendship.
She said, "At this rate, we'll need to work a few just to eat."
"Speak for yourself," he replied smugly, satisfied by her scowl that staved off further counterproductive jabs.
Instead, she offered Chuff a soothing word and brought him to the river for a drink, while firebugs pulsed lazily through the reeds among trilling frogs, diffused to warm yellow orbs winking off the surface of the busy water. To her left stood the cabin, dark and silent, used sparingly if anyone still used it at all—likely a solid little home once, back when the Cloakwood was bigger. It squatted in rough overgrowth and brambles, coated lichen moss, with one side butted up against the river. A place with good bones, as her father would say. Suitable for one night (or day, rather, since traveling at night at become the new normal). Not for long, if they could make enough gold to pay for an item or wizard to make it.
"You wrote asking for my help, remember?"
"Yours, or Gale's. Or both—" Astarion gave pause (his animal handling skills left wanting with the Amphail gray; adopted from their last criminal encounter), then scoffed, "Scratch that. Both of you together are impossibly irritating."
"Gale wouldn't abide stealing either," Tav tasted the lie as it left her lips, frowning; a stubborn glare that suggested he should find something else if he wanted to argue.
"You never seemed to have an issue with stealing before…"
"I never stole anything."
"No, but you had me picking locks," Astarion's eyebrow arched pointedly, "and you didn't seem to have any trouble spending the gold, or using any of the gear—or the weapons we took. Hells, we secured a small fortune by the time we got to Moonrise…"
"Bloody drowning in gold," he muttered.
Tav shifted uncomfortably, thankful for Chuff's interruption when he swung around to dribble water on her in greeting, hidden by his massive head when Astarion finally thought to ask: "Where is Gale?"
"I told you, he's very busy at Blackstaff."
"Ah, yes, your magician is now a tenured professor," he handed her the reins, drawing closer than necessary, forcing her chin up to look into vermillion eyes while dexterous hands fumbled to release the hatchet on her belt, "you must be very proud."
"I am."
"I can tell."
Astarion liked to prod her, but at least it kept him from getting too serious with his line of questioning. "Just as much as you miss him, I wager," he threw over his shoulder, back where she waited with the horses—following slowly, focused on keeping them calm, as he hacked a rough path leading to the cabin.
"Sorry I missed the wedding," he said much later, when the fire died to embers in a stout cooking stove they found inside.
Both were stretched out on bedrolls with ample space between them—pleasantly surprised to find a thick curtain already covered the single picture window. Tav glanced his way from the ceiling, felt the weight of both rings on her left hand (the family crest and the new one). She remembed how Gale's hands trembled when slipping it on.
"I told him you wouldn't," she replied softly.
"Kind of him to send an invitation, though," he replied, "mingling with a crowd of paladins isn't exactly my idea of a party… Well, not a good one, anyway."
"I concur."
"Ha!" Astarion closed the book in his lap and laughed—the same way he laughed when he spotted her approach at the Blushing Mermaid, and Tav only just realized how much she missed hearing it.
"Was it really that bad? Oh, please tell me. What did your father think of his scrawny new son? A bookworm and a conjurer, oh! Did Gale try to show off his manliness?"
She rolled eyes and turned to her stomach, tucking both arms under a lumpy pillow before closing her eyes. Set adrift on his breathy chortling, impish now, in her soured opinion. Tav had grown accustom to broken sleep, digging in like a tick for short stints, off the deep end, but easily woken by the smallest shift in the air—a stirring of dust motes that suggested movement, a pair of hands intent on grabbing her.
"Pss—" Finger on his lips to command her not to talk, though at this point, both of them heard the horses outside, alerted by the approach of someone or several.
Tav was on her feet in a flash, raising a hand to keep him back as she moved toward the curtain, pierced by a sliver of sunset to look, seeing both horses grunting, pawing the ground, and movement of several at the far end of the unkempt trail—holding up a count of two, then stalking back to her gear.
"Who?" Astarion hissed, dagger in his hand.
She shrugged, shook her head, gathering half plate and mail and stowing it behind the cooking stove since she had no time to put it on.
"What are y—let's just," he motioned with his free hand, drawing his thumb across his throat.
"Want me to just open the door?" Tav shot back a shrill whisper.
Miffed by her own indecision, holding her weapons belt tight to her chest as the voices grew louder (picking out Chuff's grumpy snorts at the presence of newcomers), Tav stiffened at the unknown threat. Because perhaps they weren't a threat at all, she thought, therefore no need to create circumstances for such an outcome at least.
There were times before when she hesitated and it stoked his ire enough to berate her in front of everyone for the choices she made. For her altruism. But not now (no time for it now, most like). Instead, Astarion flagged her to a corner, where the curtain rod extended well past the perimeters of the window—as if someone spared furnishings that were clearly not meant for a dusty old cabin to try and spruce up the place. They hid behind an excess of moth-eaten drapery gathered there, squeezed together to avoid the window while daylight slowly chipped away.
. . .
There's really nothing special about blood besides some variation in quality.
For lack of a better word, Astarion might describe her as smelling "cleaner" than others, but he would not choose it as something he enjoyed. It was more like a sickly fascination—the same begrudging attachment one might have to oil or astringent, or the cloying, bitter scent of burning hair. Regardless, blood was certainly not at the top of his list.
Not unless he was hungry.
Mortals would never understand its true meaning, not unless they were actually starving, and even then, it was a pittance. He could never describe what it did—the way it illuminated every rushing vein beneath the skin, so clearly he could trace every detail with a quill and ink. Hearts thrumming so intensely it used to make his cock hard, embarrassingly so, and always at the worst times until he grew strong enough to suppress it. An esoteric hunger, he thought. Unbelievable until experienced. Trying to explain such things to anyone not already in it only served to scare them.
But she wants to be scared, right?
Tav watched the open gap in the curtain with a trench knife clutched against her breast while they listened to muffled conversation being had outside (muffled for her; he heard talk about stealing the horses, of her horse with its defining feature of a speckled rump, and debating whether or not the check the cabin by themselves), chewing—always chewing her bottom lip right before a fight.
It's a rare and thrilling thing for her, to be scared.
Right?
Hunger made the smallest cut a geyser.
He tried to ignore it when she broke the skin on her bottom lip. A nasty habit, really, if he could manage to bring forth some disgust despite her acknowledgment as she caught him staring.
Tav was… Sweet.
Expertly modest, at least in the eyes of her patron, and entirely too serious for any kind of flirting (perhaps that's why she found Gale's ceaseless prattle so endearing)—shifting her cold gaze with that fixed little wrinkle, riddling out his expression as best she could without the luxury of any sort of dark vision. Quick to hide behind her piety by raising a hand to her lips, but he would stop her, knowing she couldn't pull away without blowing their cover. Because deep down, she wanted it—wanted him, so long as there was an escape route for plausible deniability. The same reason she consented the first time he tasted her, rubbing against his knee between her legs, mewling like a kitten, though it nearly cost her life.
Astarion smirked as he recalled the right hook delivered to his jaw the following morning; placated by his wheedling apology—defending him against the others, even! The way she flushed whenever their eyes met, right up until they freed that hunky druid, Halsin, of which neither he nor Gale could compete.
How he longed to fluster her again.
Tongue first, then teeth, but only to draw her lip in between his, deftly suckling the minor injury. He could control himself that much, at least—exploring the flavor of her spit and his intermingled with that glorious iron nectar.
"Hey!" Tav spoke up from his left, standing just outside the curtain. "Let's GO," she said, peering like he was some kind of deranged animal in her charge.
Astarion purged his thoughts and followed, annoyed with her annoyance, but kept it to himself until he had the chance to feed.
. . .
They had taken the horses.
"Gods—" Tav broke off to circumvent blasphemy, standing just outside the doorway, keeping her voice low in the swiftly gathering dusk, "Damnit!"
She hastened to put on her armor while Astarion lingered nearby.
"Can you track them back to the road?"
"If we hurry," he replied, leaning on the frame with his arms crossed, "but first, are you going tell me why there's a couple mercs looking for you?"