Chapter Text
The morning does not bring comfort. Nevaeh’s head is pounding, the type of wrath only terrible wine can induce. His thoughts are racing, the kind that only terrible choices can induce.
He can’t help but feel drawn to Astarion, and yet every part of him screams in warning. He hasn’t loved since Nym, and he’s determined to keep it that way.
Nym told him he was no longer worthy of love on a night not dissimilar to last, the kind of night with alcohol running in his veins and stupidity falling from his mouth. It cannot be a coincidence that last night, with his idiocy at its height, is the same night he wanted to kiss Astarion.
Ridiculous.
He hears it in the words of his teacher. Nym’s father. Ridiculous. Foolish. Stupid of him, to want anything more than survival.
He had been taught this over and over again. Nym, with her chaste kisses and hard hands, had always repeated this to him.
They were nothing but a means of survival.
And Nevaeh is almost certain that to Astarion, he is the same. A tool for survival. Something that makes living a bit easier, and sure, it might come with sex, with touches that burn a little too bright.
But Nevaeh can’t do that again. Nor can he let himself think too hard about it, as the last time he thought of Nym, he ended up in a brief coma.
He forces himself to get up, despite the pounding in his brain, and moves outside his tent. The sun is painful in his eyes, but he welcomes it. A reminder that he is still here, still standing, despite whatever damage his actions last night might have done.
Lae’zel stands suspiciously close to his tent, as if she had been preparing to barge through. He walks up to her, a weary but practiced smile on his face.
“Good morning, Lae’zel.”
She levels him with her amber gaze, and he knows today is the day.
“We must journey to the créche. Our continued survival depends on it.” Her voice is certain, clipped.
Nevaeh often wishes he had Lae’zels certainty. In any part of his life, really. But he nods, once, and smiles.
“Alright, Lae’zel. Let’s go.”
—————
Créche Y’llek is remarkably similar to the College of Swords. The cold, barren walls, the stench of blood, and children desperate to be good enough are all painfully familiar.
Nevaeh does not feel present here. Every step feels fake, like he’s moving through water. Every face he sees is blurry. He recognizes his mouth moving, knows he’s speaking, but he cannot fathom what he’s saying. Lae’zel doesn’t stomp on his foot, so he assumes it’s alright.
He feels Astarion staring at him distantly. But he can’t bring himself to look at him, not after last night, not with the echoes of Nym’s voice crashing against his skull.
Memories swim just underneath his consciousness, waiting for a chance, just waiting to be heard, to be seen, to be known. It takes all of his concentration to keep them down.
The Créche passes by him in phases.
They journey past the portrait of Vlaakith, and Nevaeh cannot help but paint it, if only for a chance at grabbing his sense of self back.
Lae’zel snarls at him for it.
He barely hears her.
Lae’zel steps inside the zaith’isk, and her screams are the only thing that shocks him into action. He begs her to get out, and he doesn’t even use Friends, he just wants her out and safe now, and remarkably, she listens.
Ghustil readies her blade. When Nevaeh kills her, he can’t help but feel that she deserves it.
Astarion, who has been remarkably quiet this entire time, murmurs,
“Good riddance.”
Nevaeh cannot help but agree.
They journey deeper into the Créche, and at the sight of the Infirmary, Nevaeh stops short.
He knows the woman outside the monastery wanted that egg. For science, maybe. To turn it into something new, something fashioned in the gaze of academics.
Nevaeh’s heart pangs at the thought of surrendering it to such a fate. Of leaving it to be molded in the image of someone new.
He can’t help but think of himself, tripping over his tail on the streets of Baldur’s Gate, begging for scraps at the feet of bards. The swords insignia gleaming above him seemed to promise a life of wealth and adventure.
This egg, like him, might grow up wrapped in false promises.
Or, like him, it will grow locked inside cold walls, learning nothing but where to stab first.
“Why are we hesitating? We must speak to The Inquisitor.” Lae’zel’s voice is harsh behind him, shocking him into action.
“Astarion, we have to steal that egg.” His voice is raspy, quiet. Astarion’s ear twitches, though, so he knows he heard him.
“Darling, I don’t think that this is a pressing matter.” Astarion’s voice, dripping in disdain, is a tether to reality that Nevaeh desperately needs. Unfortunately, it’s saying annoying things.
Nevaeh turns to him, a wild fire in his eyes.
“It’s pressing to me. And since you’ve all assigned me leader, I’m not asking.” He knows it’s stupid to say. Cruel, maybe. But he can’t think beyond imagining a young Githyanki, small and terrified, clutching a sword. The image keeps morphing into himself, white hair tangled, panic bright in his eyes, turtleneck too big, too tight, too much.
The swords insignia on his chest like a brand, a claiming of his new identity.
He can’t think straight. His memories are morphing into his thoughts, and he has to move, has to save that egg now. He has to breathe, he has to get out of here, he has to move he has to move—
And then, warmth burns through his shirt. It’s not enough to burn, not quite, but it shocks through his system nonetheless. He whips around to see Karlach, her hand hovering just above his shoulder.
Her eyes are crinkled in sympathy. He wants to bite, to act out like the dog he’s always been.
But her hand doesn’t move, and it burns just enough to send a shock through his system, enough to remind him where he is.
He’s not there. He’s not home.
Nevaeh sucks in a breath, and it’s ragged, forced, painful.
“There you go, soldier. Breathe. We’re gonna steal that egg, don’t you worry.” She makes a curt gesture with her head towards Astarion, and the elf opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and sighs.
“Fine, fine. Sure.” Astarion slinks to the shadows, but Nevaeh can almost feel his sulking.
“Astarion. Wait.” His voice is raspy, but it feels good to speak. To hear his own words, something that belongs to him. Karlach’s hand is still close to his shoulder, a grounding warmth. “Let me help.”
He pulls out his flute, a damaged little thing. Music is why he became a bard in the first place, the thought of affecting people with the small talent he’d learned on the streets of Baldur’s Gate.
Nevaeh didn’t realize, when he signed up to become a part of the College of Swords, that they would replace his flute with a dagger.
It still comes in handy now, even though he’s rusty, even though he knows the notes are a little too sharp. The feeling of his hands moving across the instrument are a comfort. Yet another reclamation of himself, of who he is beyond an extension of his sword.
He casts Invisibility on Astarion, a few winding notes that carry through the stale air and swirl around the vampire. Nevaeh can’t help but add a small flourish at the end of the song, something he used to love to do.
Astarion disappears in front of him, and he smiles. At least this hasn’t been taken from him.
“Thanks, Astarion. This should help, I hope.” The magic thrums through his body, and he can’t hear Astarion’s footsteps but he knows he’s walking away, knows he’s doing what he asked. Despite the fact that it’is a stupid thing to ask, that it doesn’t help their survival chances whatsoever.
Nevaeh takes another deep breath, this one grounding instead of ragged.
“Thank you, Karlach. I’m okay now, I think.” He still feels shaky, the memories still threatening to come up, but he finds himself able to think clearly now.
The Inquisitor should be easy.
They should be in and out.
———————————————
The Inquisitor is exhausting. Astarion can feel every muscle of his body screaming, despite the amount of Githyanki blood he’s gorged himself on. His blood vessels feel like they are pulsing, but even that is not enough to withstand hit after hit of this.
Nevaeh, to his credit, has been switching rapidly between his bow and his flute, sending high arcs of arrows one moment and healing songs the next. It’s nice to know that he’s still worth something in battle, even if he seems to be losing his mind more and more by the day.
But he doesn’t have time to ponder the worth of his potential-seduction-target, as the second The Inquisitor falls, Vlaakith rises in his place. Vlaakith is a towering thing, and Lae’zel kneels, her God in front of her.
Astarion can’t help but think that for a god, the Lich Queen is rather ugly. He keeps these thoughts to himself, however, as Lae’zel is not doing well.
Or at least, she’s pretending to do well, as she is meeting her God for the first time. Astarion finds it all a little tiring, for someone as entertaining as Lae’zel. But, then again, who is he to judge?
He’d never prayed to Vlaakith, out of all the gods he’d begged to. Maybe she would have answered.
Yet, as she demands for them to kill the guardian in their heads, he finds himself sure she’d be like the rest. It’s not often a God cares to listen to their subjects. And with the way she speaks to Lae’zel, he’s sure Vlaakith is a liar like the rest.
Nevaeh kneels as Vlaakith demands, but his fists are clenched.
What are you planning, little devil?
Astarion watches as Nevaeh agrees to kill the dream visitor, as he ignores Shadowheart’s protests with a quick glance, as he motions for them to step inside the astral prism.
Astarion watches, and he follows, as he can’t deny he’s intrigued. Lae’zel seems satisfied, at complete odds with how everyone else is feeling. But Nevaeh stares ahead, a sort of vacancy in his eyes that Astarion has come to understand as a bad sign.
When they step into the Prism, everything is quiet. He looks around with a sort of wonder at the cascade of stars, a kind of beauty that even in his centuries, he has never seen.
Lae’zel seems at peace here, and for a moment, he wonders at what it must be like to have this as a home. Somewhere beautiful, somewhere endless, somewhere free.
His home lies under layers of sediment and blood. How wonderful it must be, to ride among the stars. He scowls a bit, and the action brings him back to reality.
Nevaeh is telling them all to stay behind, to stay back. Astarion thinks it’s rather stupid.
“Darling, last time we let you take the lead on things, you ended up in a bit of a coma.” He smiles with fangs. He’s not over Nevaeh rejecting him once again, and he’s going to force the tiefling to live with that decision.
Nevaeh’s eyes flick towards him dismissively, and he bristles.
“And yet, I survived. I don’t necessarily think defying the creature that lives in all of our heads is of our best interest.” Nevaeh motions towards their environment, “Not to mention that we are in an entirely different plane of existence, one our dream visitor knows well.”
It’s now Lae’zel’s turn to bristle.
“These stars are familiar to me as well, istik. I know them as well as I know the arc of a sword, as well as you must know the dirt that fills your plane.” She practically spits this at Nevaeh’s feet, and Astarion chuckles under his breath.
Nevaeh breathes in, and out, once.
“Be that as it may, I have to go in there alone. Understand it or don’t, I don’t really have the time to convince you.” His tail lashes behind him as he says this, annoyed little flicks that Astarion can’t help but watch.
Lae’zel stares him down defiantly. Astarion looks at Nevaeh, who stares back. Back to Lae’zel, who is not blinking. Back to Nevaeh, who has blinked, but doesn’t look away.
Eventually, after what feels like an hour of psychic warfare, Lae’zel steps back.
“You have a warrior’s eye, istik. This alone I must respect. Drive your dagger true, in Vlaakith’s name.”
Nevaeh nods, but there is regret in it. Something Astarion notices. He’s memorized the tells of deception long enough.
Without another word, Nevaeh turns around, and moves into the portal.
As soon as he leaves, Astarion turns to Lae’zel.
“I have to ask. What about the bard gave you anything remotely resembling a ‘warriors eye’ or what have you? He’s fine in a fight, sure, but he’s not exactly a barbarian. No offense, Karlach.” He adds the last bit flippantly.
Lae’zel looks at him, her amber eyes piercing.
“In Créche K’liir, we recognize the strength of eyes forged in steel.” She says it with a quiet confidence, the kind that flows through all of her words.
Astarion thinks of Nevaeh on the ground, covered in mud, saying ‘festivities’. He thinks of Nevaeh’s eyes in that moment, filled with mirth. Comparing that Nevaeh to the one staring down Lae’zel is...strange.
“I like to think of it as eyes forged in stupidity, but!” He clasps his hands together. “I suppose that remains to be seen.”
They stand in an awkward sort of silence. Nevaeh had brought Karlach, Lae’zel, and Astarion to the Crèche, and it’s clear their rapport is not quite there without Nevaeh to lead the charge.
Karlach, to her credit, tries.
“The stars here are beautiful, yeah?” She smiles, a soft thing. “When I was in Avernus, I used to say if I had a hug and a night under the stars, I’d feel a lot better.” It’s an awkward attempt at conversation, a bit too sad to invite a response.
Karlach notices this fairly quickly, and counters with, “Well. At least these days, I have one of those.” She gestures to the skies above them, and Lae’zel hums.
“There is no grander place to battle than here, among the stars of my people. I can understand how the sight would strike wonder into the hearts of those unused to such greatness.” Her voice is struck with a quiet reverence.
Astarion shrugs. “I’ve gotten quite used to stars. I used to resent them, honestly. Big bright lights in the sky, mocking me from their elevated position. Never the sun, always the same blasted stars.” He’s rambling, until he remembers he hasn’t quite told them about the whole vampire thing. He thinks Karlach knows, with her propensity to call him fangs, but Lae’zel is a different issue entirely. “I mean, er, the stars are simply pathetic when you compare them to—“
Lae’zel’s eyes flick towards him
“If you are speaking of your status as undead, I do not care as long as you keep your hunger elsewhere.” She says it so flippantly, Astarion is shocked.
Karlach laughs a little bit, and shrugs.
“Yeah, sorry Fangs. We knew. I don’t think Gale knows, though! So you can tell him that one yourself.” She grins.
Astarion is a bit stumped on what to do here.
“So, no pitchforks and torches? No death threats lest I come for your pretty little necks?” He feels a little off-balance, unsure. And it’s not just being in the Astral Plane, of all places.
“You would not make it to my neck before my sword had run you through.” Lae’zel says, stony in her certainty.
“Yeah, you’d burn up before you got there with me!” Karlach smiles, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. “Sorry fangs, I’m sure you were uh, hoping for a dramatic reveal, maybe?”
“What’s more dramatic than the Astral Plane?” Astarion retains his bravado quickly, gesturing around them. “I couldn’t hope for better of a setting—“
“Quiet. The bard returns.” Lae’zel cuts him off, her eyes laser-focused on the entrance to the portal.
Nevaeh walks through, entirely clean, without a spot of blood on him, and all hell breaks loose.
————-
They’re transported back to the Créche, and Lae’zel’s hand is firmly clasped on her sword.
Nevaeh knew Lae’zel was going to feel betrayed, but he had no choice. How was he meant to kill the thing keeping them alive? Not to mention, the guardian took on the form of, well. His teacher. Nym’s father.
He’d already seen him die once. He couldn’t do it again.
Lae’zel draws her sword, and all thoughts of what he saw in the prism fade.
“We had an agreement. You have betrayed mother-gith, and in doing so, betrayed me.” She points her sword at his throat.
Nevaeh doesn’t move. He knows how to wield his weapons, but against Lae’zel?
One of his first lessons at school was when to know when your opponent is stronger than you. Nevaeh isnt stupid. He knows he doesn’t have a chance against her.
So instead, he uses the only other weapon he knows.
“Lae’zel. Your whole life, you’ve been a weapon. You woke up, swung your sword, and knew it was the right thing to do. You knew that your violence was for devotion, right? That it didn’t matter who died, because you were doing it for a purpose. A cause. The right thing. “ He sucks in a breath and continues, “You said I had eyes forged in steel, right? It’s because we’re the same. But we don’t have to be weapons anymore. We can pick up a sword, and use it for us.”
It’s half to Lae’zel, half to himself. He doesn’t even believe it, really. He just knows it’s the right thing to say.
Lae’zel lowers her sword, but not all the way. Nevaeh breathes, once.
“I miss it, you know? It’s so much easier to fight with a purpose. To know whoever you killed died for a cause. To know the blood on your hands has purpose.”
Nym’s face flashes through his mind, next to her father’s. Her father’s hands, clasped around Nevaeh’s, showing him how to swing, how to cut, how to dance with your dagger. The first time he killed. The first time Nym held his face, covered in blood, and kissed him like he was finally worth something.
“But it never did, Lae’zel. The purpose was never yours. It was always theirs.” He finishes, and raises his hands in surrender.
“Tsk’va..” Lae’zel spits, but she sheathes her sword. “We shall speak no more of this. All of Créche Y’llek will be against us.” There’s a pain in her eyes, mixed with a confusion that Nevaeh knows well. It is nearly impossible to comprehend your worldview being completely shifted. He cannot blame her for a second.
She is right, however, that they have a fight ahead of them.
Nevaeh breathes in, and draws his blade.
———————
There is a certain calm that comes in battle. Astarion has always been skilled in two things: sex and violence. The first was never very fun, but the latter?
He’s always felt the most like himself when he’s covered in blood. (The Nevaeh that now lives in his head whispers ‘vampire pun’.) Astarion ignores it in favor of stabbing yet another member of the githyanki créche.
There is blood in his veins, singing through his system, and it makes him strong, strong enough to keep going. He knows why Cazador never allowed him this, now.
A pet that’s starved is less inclined to bite the hand that feeds them.
And now that he’s well fed? He never wants to go back.
His musing is interrupted by yet another gith on his flank, their sword an inch away from his ribs.
But Astarion, despite lacking formal battle training, has memorized how to avoid a blow. He sidesteps to the left, leaving the gith to stick his sword in the dirt.
In the millisecond of time he has, he takes out his dagger and sinks it into the gith’s back, relishing in the gurgle that bubbles out of them. Yet another bonus of being well fed: he’s fast.
It’s effortless to slink into the shadows, watching quietly while Nevaeh twirls across the battlefield, his scimitar in one hand, flute in the other.
There’s that same smile on Nevaeh’s face, the one he’d seen in the goblin camp as it burned, a strange sort of contentment. As if here, among the carnage, is where he feels at home.
Astarion should feel alarmed, or scared, even. But he can’t help but feel a bit…interested. In the arc of Nevaeh’s arms as he swings, in the blood that sprays onto his face as he sinks his blade into yet another githyanki. In the way his smile grows a bit manic as he brings his flute to his lips, playing a harsh little tune.
A cloud of daggers appears around the poor wretch who he’d stabbed last, and they fall in a chorus of screams. Slaughter and his flute coming together in a twisted sort of harmony. It’s beautiful, in a way. It’s clear he was taught how to kill as a performance, how to dance and leave a trail of red behind him, his own red carpet.
Astarion is so distracted watching Nevaeh he almost doesn’t notice when another githyanki soldier comes up behind him, and for a moment he freezes, his reflexes not working. The githyanki strikes, and in his moment of hesitation, he’s not fast enough to dodge. Pain blooms along his shoulder, and he hisses, rearing backwards. The gith snarls at him, greatsword dripping with blood.
Astarion makes a decision quickly, and dives towards the gith’s neck, fangs bared. He manages to sink his teeth into an artery, and he pulls, and pulls until the skin holding their throat breaks, leaving behind a gaping wound.
The githyanki curses, falling back with a hand pressed to their throat. They’re backing up, gurgling and spitting, when abruptly, their eyes glaze over. The hand pressed to their neck falls slack.
And they fall, first to their knees. As if death is some kind of worship.
When their face smashes against the concrete, Astarion belatedly wonders if they prayed to their goddess. He doubts she answered.
Behind their corpse stands Nevaeh. His scimitar is buried in their back, and he wrenches it out of their body with a sickening crunch.
“You alright?” His voice is steady. Completely calm, unbothered by the myriad of corpses around him.
Astarion smirks. Another piece of the puzzle that is Nevaeh slots into place.
“Fine, darling. I didn’t need your help, but it’s…Appreciated, nonetheless.” Astarion stands, brushing the dirt off his trousers. “Are we almost done here? It’s starting to smell.”
Nevaeh smiles.
“Almost. You’re doing well.” With that, he jumps back into the fray.
The praise warms some part of Astarion he forgot existed. He shakes his head, willing the blush on his cheeks to disappear. It’s stupid. Of course he’s doing well, he doubts Nevaeh has killed more than him.
But he can’t deny the small part of him, that scared, pathetic elf stuck in a coffin, wants to be praised. To be told he’s done well.
It’s pathetic.
He can’t help it.
