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Dark red blood flowed from the stab wound; the needle piercing the skin and reanimated meat. The calloused, dim layer was torn open and hung loosely from the hand, like a peeled fruit. Between hide and meat, a viscous alchemical grid was the only thing holding together the battered limb.
Astarion’s stomach turned, bile rising through his throat. The nauseating smell of mint and copper coming from the wound clogged his nostrils, every short and fake intake of air tainted by it. His chest tightened and a shiver ran down his spine, his muscles locking into a fleeing posture. His senses heightened and he noticed the scent of blood that didn’t smell like it. The dim light of the dying fire that would soon go out and abandon him in the dark. The cold of the Shadowlands, creeping from everywhere and resting on his bones.
Run. He needed to run away.
Then, the thing jerked away with a mumbled and pitiful apology that didn't belong to someone who had just mutilated his own hand.
Astarion’s head snapped towards it. He recoiled from the mutilated limb before his mind could catch up, his own covered in blood and something silver that was shyly emanating from the wound. For the space of a heartbeat, in front of him, there was a gigantic, vicious construct made for murder and blood. A thing with cracks over poreless skin instead of normal, human scars. A creature with black hair and shining glass-like eyes, capable of stepping over a fallen enemy and severing the spine with mindless precision and no remorse. A man who only a few minutes ago was sitting in front of him, humming a song and repairing the hem of his cloak with that very hand that was now threatening to fall apart.
A glimpse of the moment passed in front of his eyes: The cold light caught on his hard and stoic features, mouth pressed in a thin line. The needle looked so insignificant between his fingers, stabbing the cloth at the cadence of a soft unknown melody. Laurence had been replaced with the statue of a diligent tailor, absorbed in that worthless task only because he was concerned that the cloak would get trapped in some root and expose Astarion during a fight.
Laurence had been concerned.
He had.
He still was.
Astarion forced a ragged breath, a failed attempt to calm himself. He searched for the dusky complexion, and for that disciplined mouth closed in a painful thin line. His jaw was set, teeth grinding with the effort of rebuilding the stoic facade. But the muscle over the hinge jumped once, twice; and his eyes were too widened, the golden irises moving from Astarion’s face searching for injuries or disgust, to the wound and to the ground; another rhythmic attempt to regain his footing.
“You owe…” He gulped, allowing the shiver to finally come, and forcing himself to look at the wound and then to Laurence. “You owe me a new cloak, darling.”
Of all things, this was the only pathetic line he managed to articulate.
The once fine, elegant garment lay in the dirt, soaked with blood and torn during the struggle. It had been the only way Astarion could stop Laurence from reaching his own wrist with the needle when the Urge assaulted him. He had found the beautiful piece in a chest below the tollhouse, an exquisitely tailored and adorned cloak with details embroidered in golden thread. One of a kind, it was the type of clothes Cazador liked wearing during soirees and meetings.
Astarion’s hands itched from the very moment he set his eyes on it. The thick velvet, the glittering golden thread, and the delicate floral embroidery were a sight for sore eyes, sick of the dark and the mud of the Shadowlands. And now, as everything he’d owned during those years, was lying on the ground covered in blood and dust.
“I’m sorry” Laurence’s voice was barely louder than the logs cracking in the bonfire behind them. He turned his body, ready to leave, when Astarion yanked the golem’s hand with a sharp tug. The colossal man went limp in front of him, yielding under the pressure of the demand. The golden, shining eyes found him, bright with unsaid words. Feeling himself faltering, Astarion released him to look for the thread in the mess at their feet.
“You should be, my sweet” Talking would thin the heavy air between them, “I’m very fond of you, too.” With a quick and constrained movement, Astarion passed the thread through the eye of the needle and made a knot at the end of it, movements short and precise to stop the tremors. He grabbed the loose layer and forced it, he hoped, to where it belonged. Anything to cover the silvery alchemical grid that kept Laurence going. “Now, do that impression of a statue you always do. Gale is not around to explain to me how your innards work, so we’ll have to improvise”
“It will mend itself” Laurence tried once more to yank the limb away while murmuring those words, but Astarion stopped him with a disappointed tut.
“Yes, sure. And in the meantime, you'll keep dripping on me, right?” The first stitch already threatened to break the remaining hide. “No, I'll fix this”
As if Astarion were capable of fixing anything.
His fingers ached from gripping the needle so tightly but his body didn’t relax easily. It never did under such circumstances. He adjusted the grip once more and continued with the excruciating work of covering that disturbing sight. The skin had turned bluish and grey without the sustenance of the alchemical fluids and Astarion feared that it would turn into dust if he didn’t mend it as quickly as possible.
“I will do it”
The voice shook the ground below him. He looked up to the golem, raising a brow and searching for any sign that the man in front of him had, finally, broken down. “Do what?”
“I will find you a new cloak” Laurence’s head hung heavily, his features hidden under the thick curtain of black hair. His voice, however, had regained some of its deep and calm tone.
“You don’t find that kind of thing every day.” The new stitch came with the sound of a quill ripping through dry paper. He didn’t know whether mundane and magicless stitches would be enough to keep the construct together.
“I will buy one, then.”
Ridiculous thing. He barely understood how money worked.
“Will you? And how are you planning to do that, darling?”
“I will…” A beat. Then two. Laurence gulped, cornered by his own train of thought. “I will find a way.”
A breathless laugh escaped him while he resumed stitching the breach and sealed away the remaining leak. Before his eyes, the hide returned to its artificial hue in light pulses. With soft and careful dabs, he used the rag once more to get rid of the remnants of ichor and silver. The jagged grooves, held together by the red thread, looked back at him as a promise to contain the damage.
What was he supposed to answer to something like that? No, there is no need. No, we’ll do it together. You are more important to me than a damn cloak.
All of them sounded like a vile lie said under the flickering light on a suffocating tavern. Even if they felt safe, Astarion didn’t want them in his mouth.
Laurence’s hand moved once more. But instead of pushing him away, he brushed something away from Astarion’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. The skin was warm, almost feverish; and it softened while touching Astarion, the stitches holding it together and allowing the magical grid to imbue life in it once more. The soft stroke lingered longer than it should, a touch so bare and fragile it could have been broken by any sudden movement.
Astarion felt his muscles finally giving in, aching under the yielding tension. His stomach hurt with the sight of lingering blood, but at least his chest felt light once more. He leaned into the touch, deciding he deserved that moment of peace after playing surgeon with such an unconventional patient. The change in how he held himself together was all Laurence needed to cup Astarion's face and mark the moment with a brush of his lips on Astarion's forehead, as if that could fix what happened.
It didn’t. But it helped.