Chapter Text
Act Two
Astarion was never good at apologies. He had never had to before, never having to answer for his actions in the centuries he had been alive. What good would apologizing do for all of the wrongdoings he had brought onto the thousands of victims he led to Cazador?
Guinevere had a habit of taking the bedroll closest to Astarion ever since the night they had shared the moment in the clearing. She usually set her tent up beside Gale’s as she studied cantrips and spells, often sneaking into his tent to steal another spell book when she had gotten bored of the one she had been reading. She continued to do so, but she would always make it a point to sleep closest to the vampire. Astarion had no reason to sleep, nor did he ever need to due to his vampirism, but he would lay down and relax as he meditated. Vampires could still rest, they just simply did not grow fully unconscious. Astarion often let his mind wander as he recounted the many experiences he had lived out over the years, sometimes finding himself waking up in a cold sweat or a panic. He made sure not to wake any of his companions in the instances this took place, as Guinevere had proven to be a light sleeper and Lae’zel would not have taken kindly to being woken up.
While Guinevere had set up her tent, once again, beside Gale’s, she did something rather unexpected- to Astarion, at least. Maybe he just hadn’t been paying attention, or perhaps the poet had decided to throw him for a loop, but she took the bedroll in between Karlach and Wyll. Astarion found this odd, though he was not one that divulged in the dynamics of his companions or whatever theatrics they indulged in. Not unless they provided him proper entertainment.
Karlach was a newer companion much like Wyll was. The poet and the tiefling hit it off instantly, their personalities clashing in a harmonious manner. What had kicked it off was Guinevere’s blunt yet deadpan statement at the sight of Karlach’s burning skin and hair: “You’re hot.”
Ever since then, the two walked alongside one another. Karlach had taken over as somewhat of a pack mule for the poet, taking the backpack from the smaller blonde and tossing it over one of her broad shoulders. Shadowheart and Guinevere were admittedly amazed by the barbarian woman. Lae’zel and Astarion were not as impressed, as their more svelete figures did not have as much strength to impress any of the camp members with.
Wyll had kept to himself for most of the journey leading up to the Githyanki Creche, up until they had found Karlach. He was only concerned with finding the infamous tiefling he had believed was a devil, retrieving and killing her for Mizora to ensure his end of the bargain. Guinevere was not particularly enthusiastic about the thought of hunting someone down if it ensured their demise, but she found the notorious Blade of Frontiers to be rather charming and well-spoken. He made it seem so justified; he likely could have convinced her that the sky was purple. He was tall, dark, and handsome, not to mention a gentleman. He had called Guinevere “ma’am” at one point when she asked him to grab more firewood. The poet couldn’t help but feel the slight quickening of her heart at such a mundane yet respectful term of endearment. It had been a while since a man had given her such a title. Astarion had called her “little poet” so many times that she wondered if he even remembered her actual name while her fiancé had once called her “beautiful.” Guinevere had once thought it to be far too generic, but now she found herself missing the sweet nothing. Her fiancé was a kind man if not a bit dull and boring. He tolerated her quirks, her melancholic musings, and her high levels of anxiety that overtook her mind in the wake of her loss. He was safe for Guinevere, providing her with the comfort of a roof over her head and a companion when she was left alone without her family. Wyll reminded her of her poor blindsided fiancé, two good men with kind hearts, easy on the eyes, and pure intentions. Guinevere often found herself wondering how he was faring in Baldur’s Gate without her. He likely found another woman to share his life with by now; he was a good man with a hefty sum of money. He would have no trouble recovering from her breaking off their engagement.
Like her fiancé, Wyll was no angel. In fact, he was the far opposite of that. The man had made a deal with a cambion, one that he failed due to his refusal to kill Karlach. At least he had a moral compass. Despite that, he now brandished a red hue to his skin with large curled horns sprouting from his head. Guinevere had always found herself ogling at the Blade due to his stony eye, but now the horns took the attention off of it.
The poet had manners but Wyll’s new appearance was hard to avert her eyes from. She could not decide if it made her more or less attracted to him. Nevertheless, she plucked the strings of her lute in an attempt to retune it after the neglect it had suffered over the past few days. Guinevere had gotten so enthralled by the stuck pages of the conjuration spell book that she had nearly forgotten she had found the instrument.
The poet claimed herself to be a bard despite her aversion to performing. She was a decent musician and a better dancer, ballet coming naturally to her. Singing, on the other hand, was something she would never seem to master. She could never find a perfect pitch, and she most certainly could not detect her range. Guinevere’s voice was not so high that she was a perfect soprano nor was it so low that she could carry low notes perfectly. Her voice was somewhere in the middle with a hint of lilted breathiness. The poet was not fond of her voice, often cringing when she laughed or spoke too loud in a public setting. Having attention drawn to herself was something she did not find rewarding, hence why she elected to exert her talents in other areas that allowed her to perform in the background.
Now, writing was her calling. She could write sheets of music and poetry as well as screenwriting for plays. Had she not been abducted by the illithid ship, she may have been able to publish some of her completed work. If the group made it out of this journey safe and in one piece, this tall tale would likely be a bestseller in Faerun. Writing was safe. Writing did not put a target on your back. It was something of a safety blanket for her, which was likely why she had taken to it as they traveled through Emerald Grove and the Goblin Camp. Now that they were on the Mountain Pass headed towards Moonrise Towers, she found reserve in her journal far more often than normal. Unfortunately, she ran out of ink pots and the points of her quills were dull to the touch. She would either have to loot them off of someone or purchase them at the next vendor they could find. Her second option was to fiddle with her sole instrument on the trip after using her flute as a replacement weapon on the illithid ship.
The tweaking of the lute’s strings seemed to call out to a certain vampire spawn, the pale man approaching her cautiously as she sat cross-legged by the fire. Astarion loomed over her for a moment, his pointed ears attempting to recognize the tune to no avail. It seemed to be more of an original or simply just mindless strumming.
The vampire could never tell if the poet acknowledged his presence. She was hard to read sometimes despite her talent for reading every single letter or journal that they looted from abandoned areas or the bodies that lay strewn on the roads they traveled. She was an enigma of unintelligible emotions and mannerisms- she was difficult. Astarion did not like difficult. He liked simple, he liked predictable, and he liked detachable. But, by the Gods, did he find her ever so fascinating.
“This might be the first time I’ve heard you play any sort of music,” Astarion commented, practically announcing his presence to her. Guinevere did not stir, only continuing to strum her lute. His face scrunched into a frown. He cleared his throat, lowering himself down to sit beside her on her bedroll. He could smell the subtle fragrance of the chamomile soap bar that she packed in that overstuffed bag, though he could detect just a hint of vanilla in her hair. Shadowheart must have aided in the mixing of the two substances. He nearly pouted at her silent treatment, propping an elbow on one of his thighs as he rested his chin on a fist. His ruby-red eyes observed Guinevere's fingers delicately plucking the strings of the lute, doing so in a fluid motion. It was nearly magnetizing, pulling him in as he felt his body relax.
Astarion sighed, the air exiting through his nostrils slowly as he muttered under his breath, "You're rather good at that."
Guinevere took it for what it was. An olive branch. A half apology. That would be the most she would ever get out of him, she realized. So, she nodded. "Thank you."
It was a silent conversation, something of an agreement between the two of them that things would be okay between them.
Even so, Astarion felt an overwhelming sense of insecurity. Had he done it this time? Had he pushed her away to where she couldn't even look at him? This could be the end of the line for him. He needed to continue doing damage control if he wanted to ensure that he wouldn't be kicked out of the group.
"I know it was an accident," Astarion attempted after a brief lull in the conversation. "I was just angry." He paused once more. "And sore. The Revivify doesn't take away all senses of ailments. My body is still aching from the impact of the wretched building."
A brief exhale of a laugh. Good. That was a good sign. Guinevere loved to laugh. Granted, she laughed at nearly everything, but this was still promising.
"I'll make sure you're actually following behind us the next time I blow up a building," she jested back.
It was Astarion's turn to laugh, though it came out as more of a scoff. "Next time? No, no, no. If there is a next time, I will be the one aiming whatever all-powerful weapon you get your hands on.
This caused Guinevere to laugh more freely, a small snort escaping through her nose. The sound would have caused Astarion to cringe if it had been anyone else, but the sound was almost relieving him of his previous qualms. She sighed out once her laughter had quieted down, her fingers slowing down as her nose scrunched up in thought. "I don't know why everyone looks to me for things sometimes. I'm just a simple poet. I'm not magical or powerful or strong. I don't even know what I'm doing sometimes."
Astarion could not argue with her ramblings, something he noticed was rather frequent. Even in her sleep, she could not keep quiet. It often annoyed him, the sound of her mumbling in her sleep about everything and yet nothing at the same time. If this had been a patron at the Blushing Mermaid or the Elfsong Tavern that he had intended on seducing before luring them to Cazador, he likely would have smooth-talked away her insecurities. But this was not Baldur's Gate and he did not take orders from the vampire lord anymore. So he remained silent and simply listened to her. And it seemed to work, as she fell silent after letting out the burning thought that had seemed to be festering in her mind for a while now.
The two were silent for what felt like forever to the vampire spawn, the only sounds being the crackles of the fire and the sounds of Guinevere's strumming. Silence was something that Astarion did not care for. Silence reminded him of the kennel on the lower level of the Szarr's palace. Silence reminded him of the Spawn's living quarters. So, he began to hum, though it was so quiet that Guinevere almost missed it. Had she not recognized the tune of the song, she would have disregarded it as her mind gaining inspiration. It only occurred to her that it was the same tune that Astarion had hummed the morning after they fell asleep in the forest clearing. It had sounded familiar to her back then, and it was especially familiar now. Elfsong Tavern was known for often holding concerts of smaller musicians, so it would make sense that both Astarion and Guinevere had known the same song if they had heard it from one particular performance. That had to be the origin, though she could not remember which bard it had been that night. Just how many times had they been in the same location without knowing? How many times had they almost crossed paths? The very thought scared Astarion while it made Guinevere's heart race a bit faster.
Guinevere stopped her strumming momentarily, her fingers tapping on the wooden frame of the lute to catch the beat before beginning to pluck the notes of the song. Astarion was caught off guard briefly that she too recognized the same tune as him, but his look of surprise morphed into that of slight appreciation. He began to hum a bit louder, even mumbling some of the words under his breath as Guinevere continued to pluck out the tune with her nimble fingers.
"Your blood like wine, I wanted in. Oh, darling, get me drunk and make me feel."
Anger did not come naturally to Guinevere. She considered herself to be a level-headed, easygoing, perhaps even a pushover. But, when she came face to face with Araj Oblodra, she found her skin nearly crawling with disgust.
It did not initially start out that way. Lae'zel had decided to stay behind at the camp after suffering the repercussions of the failed githyanki cure for the tadpole along with Karlach and Wyll. This left Guinevere, Shadowheart, Gale, and Astarion to explore Moonrise Towers alone. Disciple Z'Rell had attempted to pry into the poet's mind, only to find memories of Astarion and her dancing in the forest clearing. The poet must have amused the disciple, narrowly escaping a more unpleasant confrontation and being granted access to a moonlight lantern to protect the group from the shadow curse of the land. Prior to heading in the direction of the Thorm mausoleum in search of Balthazar, Guinevere naturally grew curious about where the rest of the hallways of the towers led.
This was where the group came across the drow trader, in one of the lower-level rooms that almost appeared to be a laboratory. The woman was somewhat unsettling, her voice seeming to be in a permanent pillow talk mode that made Guinevere repulsed and annoyed all at once. Araj offered a trade of blood for a potion to enhance the group's abilities, but the poet immediately declined. Guinevere would not trust the woman to even hold her backpack for her, let alone prick her finger and take a sample of her blood.
The group had been ready to walk out when Araj continued to speak, "Although perhaps there's one more thing we could discuss: your friend."
Guinevere's eyebrows raised at that. "Which one? I have a lot, as you can see."
Araj's eyes were locked onto Astarion, not even acknowledging Shadowheart or Gale who just seemed confused at the interaction. "That one's a vampire, no? Or one of their spawn, at least."
Astarion was almost amused at the drow's observation. "Don't worry, we're all friends under the Absolute. I won't bite."
"Oh, I'd prefer if you did," was Araj's response. Her mannerisms immediately turned more sensual, almost excited at the very thought of Astarion biting her. Which she was. Guinevere was rather taken back by it; being bitten was not exactly enjoyable. The puncture wounds on her neck had faded, leaving two pale parallel marks where his fangs had entered her skin. If Guinevere was not already annoyed by the drow, she certainly was after her next question, "I assume he belongs to you?"
"Uh, no?" Guinevere said, her face riddled with bewilderment. "He's a person, not some pet. He doesn't belong to anyone."
This amused Araj for some reason, a reason that Guinevere did not understand nor did she desire to. "I'm sure he really believes that. How utterly adorable." The drow's attention turned back to Astarion. "Do you have a name, spawn?"
He let out a sharp laugh before answering, "Astarion, but hold on--"
"Good," Araj interjected. "Now, Astarion, I've dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl."
"I'm sorry? You want to be bitten?" Astarion appeared to be confused by this, as did Guinevere.
"It's not as fun or as sexy as you make it sound," Guinevere added with a brush of her hand, rolling her eyes at how aroused Araj seemed by the thought. "It's rather painful and uncomfortable. It feels like being drunk with a straw. My fingers were pruned for three days." Astarion gave her a scolding look, and it was only then the poet realized her mistake. She had only fanned the flame of the masoch*stic drow.
"You've been bitten by the spawn?" Araj asked, her excitement only growing. Even a trace of jealousy danced behind her eyes, seeming to fantasize about being in Guinevere's place. She quickly settled, finding herself in a bargaining state when she realized how close she was getting, "I'll compensate you with a potion of legendary power that increases your strength if you consume it. It's not for sale, but it's yours if you bite me."
Intriguing, yes. But it was not worth the cost. Astarion seemed so uncomfortable with the idea of biting the drow. The act seemed simple enough, but the weight of the request seemed to weigh heavy on him.
"I will have to decline," Astarion answered. Guinevere nodded, her arms crossing over her chest as she continued to stand beside him. Gale and Shadowheart stood behind the two, also nodding subtly in agreement.
Araj was not pleased. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and you're squandering it." The drow looked to Guinevere, her eyebrows furrowed in frustration, "Can't you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?"
Guinevere felt her skin grow hot with rage, her lips curling to the side as she watched Astarion's body language for any signs of the same anger. Instead, he just looked uncomfortable. That only made her more aggravated. She knew that her ears must be burning red, a telltale sign that she was feeling overwhelmed with emotion. Gale noticed the sudden shift of tension in the air, and he looked over at Shadowheart to see if the cleric noticed too- which she did. The two braced themselves for a possible fight, though it did not come.
The poet had grown eerily silent as she stared down Araj, her expression hardening as she spoke in a far more stern and icy tone, "He is not my charge. And he said no. End of discussion."
The sound of Guinevere's voice nearly sent chills down Astarion's spine. It was no longer soft or gentle- it was firm and confident. The poet had grown a backbone, if only for this moment. He had not felt this safe since he had been turned and taken hostage by Cazador. Astarion had underestimated just how much Guinevere cared for him it seemed. How foolish he had been.
"How disappointing," was Araj's final words to the group.
Guinevere quickly turned on her heel after the final syllable left the drow's mouth, not giving her a chance to say anything more. The speed in which she moved nearly gave her companions whiplash, the three having to chase her down. It was partly due to her being the one holding the moonlight lantern as well as the unfamiliar sight of her fury.
"Guinevere!" Shadowheart called out, finally catching up to the poet and gripping her by her forearm to halt her movements. "Calm down. If you keep moving any farther away from us, we'll get possessed by the shadows."
Guinevere had nearly forgotten that fact, her cheeks flushed with both anger and embarrassment. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking. I just wanted out of there."
Gale and Astarion caught up, rejoining the glow of the lantern to ensure their safety. The wizard was the one that spoke up, Astarion still rendered silent from the confrontation, "Is everything okay? You seem rather flushed. Have you grown ill?"
Gale was teasing her, and she knew that. The underlying hint of concern was there, though, and Guinevere could tell that Gale was more concerned with her spiked temper rather than a fever.
"I'll be fine," the poet snapped. "I just want to get back to the camp."
Shadowheart's eyebrows scrunched at that, her head co*cking to the side, "Already? I know it's dark here, but it is rather early to be turning in for the day."
Guinevere was not angry with Shadowheart for such an innocent question, but it had been the tipping point for her to explode with brimming rage. Her voice raised for the second time that day- as well as the entirety of their journey thus far. It bordered on shrill, her throat burning as she shouted and stomped her foot into the cobblestone pathway, "I don't give a f*ck!"
The three companions stared at her with wide eyes, Shadowheart's mouth gaping open before snapping shut. She nodded mutely, taking the lantern from Guinevere's hand before leading the way to the campsite. Guinevere felt guilt replace the anger that had nearly enveloped her mind, her eyes growing damp with wet tears as she followed behind Shadowheart and walked alongside Astarion. Gale picked up his pace to walk beside Shadowheart, attempting to offer a sliver of comfort after the brief altercation.
Astarion was unsure what to say, completely thrown off by Guinevere coming to his defense as well as her seemingly random burst of anger. He wasn't even aware that she was capable of being angry, though it had only been few short weeks- perhaps even two or three months since they had known one another. The poet seemed to find new ways to surprise her. Still, as touched as he was, he was also concerned.
"What was that about?" Astarion asked, keeping his voice hushed as he studied her expression.
Guinevere shook her head, pressing her lips together as she stared ahead. She exhaled slowly, attempting to calm herself down before mumbling, "Don't."
The vampire just nodded, respecting the quick shutdown of the inquiry. He grew worried, wondering just what it was that had caused such an outburst. Without a second thought, he brushed his right hand against the back of her left hand. Guinevere accepted it, slipping her hand into his own. Astarion squeezed it briefly, rubbing his thumb against the inside of her wrist. He knew that the conversation was not yet over and he would question her once they reached the campsite, but for now he knew that this was what the two of them needed.
Ḁ̣̠̺̀̓͛̓̅ͩͥ̾̌͑c̴̨̘̠̲̜̰̥̓̊̓ͯ̌ͭ͋̐͛̍̈ͣ͡_̢̦̥̠̦̏͊̋͗ͭ͌̽̀̕t̯̤͔̂̽͗_̴̢͉͈͔̱̻̠͔͙̦̪͓͆͑͐̈̒̽̍̐́̏͛ͨ̕̚͟͜͝ Ớ̘n̂ͦ_̘̿ͅę̷̶̷̖̺̞̲͓̙̱̰̫̳̪̬͎͚̼̼͖̹͍̜̗͂ͪ͗͒̒͊͒̓̋ͯ́͒ͨ͗͂͂̕͢͡
Everything had stayed the same after she had gotten off of the ship upon its crashing. She reunited with Shadowheart, keeping up the facade that they had never met before and that they hadn’t shared so many moments of friendship that meant so much to her. She met Astarion, though it had been so hard to hide the tears that welled up in her eyes when she saw him again.
It didn't take long for them to stumble across the wizard of Waterdeep in the portal once more.
“Say,” Gale had said, his eyes narrowing and his lips curling into a slight frown, “but I know you, don’t I?”
sh*t.
He was catching on.
Or, rather, he already knew. Somehow, he seemed to know that Guinevere had dimension-hopped. He was far more intelligent and versed in the realm spells than she had originally believed. Though, what did she expect? His mentor- and lover- was the goddess of magic herself, after all. Surely she had taught him the spell herself at some point or at least mentioned it a time or two.
The silence was becoming awkward, Gale seeming to be offering Guinevere a chance to either come clean or lie.
Which she did. Lie. In a way, at least.
“Yes,” she said, clearing her throat before continuing, “on the nautiloid. I… saw you. In one of the pods.”
Gale nodded, his face still in a pensive leer as he responded sharply, “Right. Very well.”
This interaction was far different than their initial one, not as friendly and not as long-winded with idle chatter. It put Guinevere on edge; he was usually so chatty and rambled on much like she did. It was why they had grown to be rather close friends.
She had a feeling that their friendship would either be null and void or far more tense than before.
Was dimension hopping worth it, risking an important friendship just to save her relationship with Astarion?
Guinevere knew it was more than just a meaningless affair. What she and Astarion had was real- to her, at least. And she knew that he felt the same. Why else would he have felt betrayed by her pulling out of the ascension ritual? This time, things would be different. Though it would seem that the differences in this dimension would be far more than she had anticipated.
“You,” Gale had said when they arrived at the campsite that night. Astarion was far too busy reading, though his attention seemed to be diverted when he saw the intensity of the conversation. “What have you done?”
Guinevere’s heart nearly leaped into her throat. He knew. Of course he knew.
“You know why,” was all that she said.
“This will have dire consequences,” Gale lectured, his voice lowering. “You cannot just meddle in this sort of magic without taking extra precautions. You could very well rip a hole in the continuum, and that is a far more dangerous threat than the parasites in our heads.”
Guinevere looked down at her shoes, the leather worn and nearly chipping from the wear and tear. “I know.”
Gale was frustrated, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shook his head in exasperation. “From the little I recall from our previous timeline, you were far smarter than this. Just what were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t,” Guinevere admitted, her voice hushed as she leaned in closer to Gale’s ear, the space between them now negligible. If anyone were to observe from the outside, their interaction could be interpreted as far more intimate than intended. “I just wanted to see him one more time, one last time where he doesn’t wish me dead. Amongst other things.”
Gale’s face softened, but his eyes remained firm as he turned his head to look at her. “I understand. But that does not negate the danger of this. Please, promise me this is the only time you will do this sort of thing.”
Guinevere nodded.
Once again, she lied. This Gale was not aware that this was not her first time doing so. This was only the first time she had gone back to the beginning.
