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[ It's almost painfully quiet tonight.
Astarion doesn't like it. It feels too quiet, with the others around them sleeping and him busy staring idly at the stars, as if they'd reveal all the secrets of the universe to him. It's a little baffling to imagine that he has somehow come this far and finds himself with so many more questions, but the end is in sight. That's what he tells himself when sleep eludes him, unfamiliar in the dark of the night when he is accustomed to being awake and alive.
At least he isn't entirely alone; Godfrey is still awake, for some reason, and nearby, and after a moment and a rather dramatic huff Astarion pushes himself up and waltzes over, all drama and effect as he crosses his arms and watches. ]
Does the sky ever respond when you stare at it?
[ It never does for him, irritating beast that it is. ]
Astarion doesn't like it. It feels too quiet, with the others around them sleeping and him busy staring idly at the stars, as if they'd reveal all the secrets of the universe to him. It's a little baffling to imagine that he has somehow come this far and finds himself with so many more questions, but the end is in sight. That's what he tells himself when sleep eludes him, unfamiliar in the dark of the night when he is accustomed to being awake and alive.
At least he isn't entirely alone; Godfrey is still awake, for some reason, and nearby, and after a moment and a rather dramatic huff Astarion pushes himself up and waltzes over, all drama and effect as he crosses his arms and watches. ]
Does the sky ever respond when you stare at it?
[ It never does for him, irritating beast that it is. ]
This late in the day? [ His proud nose scrunches, and he shakes his head. ] Not often.
[ Selûne and the Morninglord are something like cousins, but his prayers have never been hers to answer. The moon and the stars hold other, rarer voices than hers for Godfrey.
And really, that's another reminder that his continued consciousness is a disaster; his routines hanging precariously ahead of him. Godfrey didn't know how far away sun-up was, but he knew that he'd not slept through dawn prayer in years. One poor night wasn't about to make him start - as much as the Godfrey of tomorrow morning might grudge him for it while he rubs their eyes and pages through their book of holy scripture, trying to luxuriate in another sacred dawn.
He'd never grudge Astarion's company, but the sound of him dramatically circling to his bedroll is an especially welcome one tonight as he lays there, fingers laced behind his head, one ankle crossed over the other. Thoroughly unable to fall into sleep, and with naught but the soft breathing of their campsite and the crackle of the fire between all of them to accompany the impending pressure of a sleepless morning. Conversation is a dear distraction. ]
Seems as though the night is determined to give to neither of us what we need. [ He carefully untangles his fingers and rouses his arms from idle stiffness to prop himself up, giving both thickly muscled legs a trembling stretch before smiling to his visitor. ] Though I can't promise I'll be as impassive in conversation as the stars, I can still do my all in giving you what they won't.
[ Selûne and the Morninglord are something like cousins, but his prayers have never been hers to answer. The moon and the stars hold other, rarer voices than hers for Godfrey.
And really, that's another reminder that his continued consciousness is a disaster; his routines hanging precariously ahead of him. Godfrey didn't know how far away sun-up was, but he knew that he'd not slept through dawn prayer in years. One poor night wasn't about to make him start - as much as the Godfrey of tomorrow morning might grudge him for it while he rubs their eyes and pages through their book of holy scripture, trying to luxuriate in another sacred dawn.
He'd never grudge Astarion's company, but the sound of him dramatically circling to his bedroll is an especially welcome one tonight as he lays there, fingers laced behind his head, one ankle crossed over the other. Thoroughly unable to fall into sleep, and with naught but the soft breathing of their campsite and the crackle of the fire between all of them to accompany the impending pressure of a sleepless morning. Conversation is a dear distraction. ]
Seems as though the night is determined to give to neither of us what we need. [ He carefully untangles his fingers and rouses his arms from idle stiffness to prop himself up, giving both thickly muscled legs a trembling stretch before smiling to his visitor. ] Though I can't promise I'll be as impassive in conversation as the stars, I can still do my all in giving you what they won't.
It feels like first thing in the morning.
[ Astarion is still adjusting to being awake during the sunlight hours and not ducking and covering at every single moment. Being able to see things in colour, being able to enjoy the warmth of the daylight without the single of fire is a gift in itself, and it makes him feel a little bit too close to happy for comfort. Perhaps things would be easier if he was able to go back to being a creature of the night - but that isn't what he wants. This is what he wants - freedom, joy, the experience of living once again.
He's seen Shadowheart and Lae'zel kneel and do whatever thoughts and prayers come to their mind, just as he had watched Godfrey make his own each morning. Another thing he struggles to wrap his mind around; do their Gods truly speak to them, and hear a response? When he had cried out for salvation, for freedom, for - anything, really, he had been ignored. Silence had greeted him as he wept, and he could only imagine that he deserved it.
Huffing a quiet chuckle, he makes himself more comfortable, turning his head to look at Godfrey properly. An intimidating man by all accounts, but Astarion finds himself less afraid these days. He can speak his mind a little more, tiptoe around conversations that cause irritation - like the heroics.
Ugh. ]
You're far better company.
[ Shaking his head, he hums idly. ]
Why don't you tell me something from home, then?
[ Astarion is still adjusting to being awake during the sunlight hours and not ducking and covering at every single moment. Being able to see things in colour, being able to enjoy the warmth of the daylight without the single of fire is a gift in itself, and it makes him feel a little bit too close to happy for comfort. Perhaps things would be easier if he was able to go back to being a creature of the night - but that isn't what he wants. This is what he wants - freedom, joy, the experience of living once again.
He's seen Shadowheart and Lae'zel kneel and do whatever thoughts and prayers come to their mind, just as he had watched Godfrey make his own each morning. Another thing he struggles to wrap his mind around; do their Gods truly speak to them, and hear a response? When he had cried out for salvation, for freedom, for - anything, really, he had been ignored. Silence had greeted him as he wept, and he could only imagine that he deserved it.
Huffing a quiet chuckle, he makes himself more comfortable, turning his head to look at Godfrey properly. An intimidating man by all accounts, but Astarion finds himself less afraid these days. He can speak his mind a little more, tiptoe around conversations that cause irritation - like the heroics.
Ugh. ]
You're far better company.
[ Shaking his head, he hums idly. ]
Why don't you tell me something from home, then?
[ look bud you can take the lathanderite out of the church but you wont take the church out of the lathanderite
And, really, that's something he ought to open up with Astarion too, at some point. Much noise had been made about Godfrey's trusting him - and even Godfrey himself could see why the decision might be perplexing. But Astarion had managed his thirst safely until his lapse; had he wanted, he's more aware than the others just how easily he could have drained them all as they slept, and he hadn't. That was enough for Godfrey to extend some clemency.
But on the neglected other half of this exchange sits Astarion, no doubt knowing exactly what the Morninglord had to say about vampires and undead. Eradication was to be the salvation of those like Astarion - stakes, holy water, smiting. His scripture was unavoidably clear; the only way Astarion's new ally could make the God to whom he had so openly devoted his life happy was to reduce him to ash, and now he knew it.
Surely holding his head under the riverwater as he prayed at dawn would have been safer for him than Godfrey with the full knowledge of who and what he is - but he had also extended his trust. It deserved just as much recognition, if not more.
He might have begun forming these important words, had Astarion not asked something unexpected - to hear stories of Godfrey's life. He supposes it's expected, and he's entitled to as much - Godfrey had taken enough of the stories of his companions and given little of his own. ]
I surely could. [ He nods amiably - and really, figures that he should have guessed that someone would be curious enough to probe him back after he had pried so much at them. ] Although I'm not sure that anything I could give you of my home would be terribly entertaining. My life until recent events has been wonderfully mundane.
[ ... the bits he's willing to share have been wonderfully mundane. Godfrey turns to lay on his side, his weight on one elbow instead of two, facing Astarion fully as he starts reaching through his memory. ]
I'm Baldurian, just as you are... and I was a priest.
[ If the tadpole hadn't given their companions that much, then they had surely smelled the cloth on him despite him giving it up - it had forever been the first guess of countryside farmers selling their wares in street markets.
So, as Astarion had trusted him with so much, Godfrey would in turn trust him with something new; ]
I was married, too, once.
[ Of the two people who had taken over his life, he thinks, Vladimir has a better chance of amusing than Iltha - delightful as she is to Godfrey, he can't be sure yet that Astarion will feel the same about tales of her young wildness and proclivity to say just what she shouldn't. By contrast, his husband with all of his stoicism and seriousness seemed as though he would have inherent comedy to Astarion.
So he glances down the edge of himself, thoughtful contours of his face caught by the glow of the campfire at his back, trying to call back his ghost.
Abruptly, he catches on to something, and he smiles, and he recounts his memory in a low and soft voice. ]
You know-- for a time, he had been trying very hard to learn Elvish. I had helped him find all of these books, and he spent so many weeks reading from them. Reciting syllables. Only - my Vladimir, he was... he grew up in the countryside, came to the city to learn a trade. He just had that very dour, rough way of speaking - the kind of man you couldn't imagine speaking in any other way. And I don't need to tell you, Elvish is such a musical language, light on the tongue.
[ Godfrey himself knows precious little Elvish beyond the basics, but has heard enough of it to know how the language sat in his husband's mouth - awkward, broad, deadly serious. All of the things about him that Godfrey had always been inescapably fond of. ]
'He drops the words like stones,' is what I heard an Elven neighbour of ours tell her brother after she heard him practicing.
And, really, that's something he ought to open up with Astarion too, at some point. Much noise had been made about Godfrey's trusting him - and even Godfrey himself could see why the decision might be perplexing. But Astarion had managed his thirst safely until his lapse; had he wanted, he's more aware than the others just how easily he could have drained them all as they slept, and he hadn't. That was enough for Godfrey to extend some clemency.
But on the neglected other half of this exchange sits Astarion, no doubt knowing exactly what the Morninglord had to say about vampires and undead. Eradication was to be the salvation of those like Astarion - stakes, holy water, smiting. His scripture was unavoidably clear; the only way Astarion's new ally could make the God to whom he had so openly devoted his life happy was to reduce him to ash, and now he knew it.
Surely holding his head under the riverwater as he prayed at dawn would have been safer for him than Godfrey with the full knowledge of who and what he is - but he had also extended his trust. It deserved just as much recognition, if not more.
He might have begun forming these important words, had Astarion not asked something unexpected - to hear stories of Godfrey's life. He supposes it's expected, and he's entitled to as much - Godfrey had taken enough of the stories of his companions and given little of his own. ]
I surely could. [ He nods amiably - and really, figures that he should have guessed that someone would be curious enough to probe him back after he had pried so much at them. ] Although I'm not sure that anything I could give you of my home would be terribly entertaining. My life until recent events has been wonderfully mundane.
[ ... the bits he's willing to share have been wonderfully mundane. Godfrey turns to lay on his side, his weight on one elbow instead of two, facing Astarion fully as he starts reaching through his memory. ]
I'm Baldurian, just as you are... and I was a priest.
[ If the tadpole hadn't given their companions that much, then they had surely smelled the cloth on him despite him giving it up - it had forever been the first guess of countryside farmers selling their wares in street markets.
So, as Astarion had trusted him with so much, Godfrey would in turn trust him with something new; ]
I was married, too, once.
[ Of the two people who had taken over his life, he thinks, Vladimir has a better chance of amusing than Iltha - delightful as she is to Godfrey, he can't be sure yet that Astarion will feel the same about tales of her young wildness and proclivity to say just what she shouldn't. By contrast, his husband with all of his stoicism and seriousness seemed as though he would have inherent comedy to Astarion.
So he glances down the edge of himself, thoughtful contours of his face caught by the glow of the campfire at his back, trying to call back his ghost.
Abruptly, he catches on to something, and he smiles, and he recounts his memory in a low and soft voice. ]
You know-- for a time, he had been trying very hard to learn Elvish. I had helped him find all of these books, and he spent so many weeks reading from them. Reciting syllables. Only - my Vladimir, he was... he grew up in the countryside, came to the city to learn a trade. He just had that very dour, rough way of speaking - the kind of man you couldn't imagine speaking in any other way. And I don't need to tell you, Elvish is such a musical language, light on the tongue.
[ Godfrey himself knows precious little Elvish beyond the basics, but has heard enough of it to know how the language sat in his husband's mouth - awkward, broad, deadly serious. All of the things about him that Godfrey had always been inescapably fond of. ]
'He drops the words like stones,' is what I heard an Elven neighbour of ours tell her brother after she heard him practicing.
[ Astarion isn't certain what he expected to hear, but this wasn't it. He had never pictured their proxy leader as what sounded almost like a homebody, happy in their relationship with their God and their husband. The idea doesn't sit right with the life they're leading now, as if all of that had been somehow torn from him. It's clear as day that something happened to the husband, the spouse, and he doesn't want to push and prompt at what befell him. Now is hardly the time for quite that level of sadness, even with the darkness of the starlight resting on their shoulders.
What does strike him is how little he can imagine it. Being married - being in love, even, choosing to devote his very long life to someone. The very notion is something senseless, not when he is well aware of his position in life. This is not the type of story that he is ever going to be able to write for himself, especially not if he fails in his quest for eternal freedom. Cazador remains a threat hanging over his head, and Astarion thinks...
Marriage. Happiness. A life, with a family, with love.
The last two hundred years have been completely without the majority of those things. One might describe his 'brothers' and 'sisters' as a family, but it isn't the same, is it now? They were sired together, perhaps, with a single master, or father, but it wasn't a choice. He did not ask to dig his way out of his own grave, did not ask to be used as a tool to summon food back for his master while being given nothing but rats. That is not the family he chose, and the reminder leaves a dead, sinking weight in his stomach as he frowns, staring at the stars.
The night used to be everything to him; when he could move, when he could slip away, the flickering hint of colour in alleys. Seeing the world in the light of day, with all the colours and brightness it has to offer... Perhaps he hates the night a little more, now.
Swallowing, he flexes his hands, not quite noticing how they were clenched until he came back to himself, tugged out of his thoughts by the sound of Godfrey's voice. It's soothing enough, Astarion thinks, and he focuses, not wanting to miss any of this. He had asked, after all. ]
It is a bit of a nuisance to learn, isn't it? Not usually fit for the tongue of the common folk. Or, well, country folk, perhaps.
[ Calling your friend(?)'s dead spouse "common" was hardly the way to earn eternal sanctuary from the threat of damnation, after all. Astarion speaks it well enough, but never bothered to use it - the others in camp didn't seem to have much concern for it. ]
But at least he tried. For you. That's... Sweet.
[ The word tastes wrong on his tongue, as if calling the effort of anyone sweet was poison. There's an air, now, of pained frustration settling on his shoulders, and he waves a hand to try and shrug it away. Now isn't the time to really trip into being morose; that will come later, when he is alone with thoughts and memories that seek to drown him. ]
He sounds perfectly charming.
What does strike him is how little he can imagine it. Being married - being in love, even, choosing to devote his very long life to someone. The very notion is something senseless, not when he is well aware of his position in life. This is not the type of story that he is ever going to be able to write for himself, especially not if he fails in his quest for eternal freedom. Cazador remains a threat hanging over his head, and Astarion thinks...
Marriage. Happiness. A life, with a family, with love.
The last two hundred years have been completely without the majority of those things. One might describe his 'brothers' and 'sisters' as a family, but it isn't the same, is it now? They were sired together, perhaps, with a single master, or father, but it wasn't a choice. He did not ask to dig his way out of his own grave, did not ask to be used as a tool to summon food back for his master while being given nothing but rats. That is not the family he chose, and the reminder leaves a dead, sinking weight in his stomach as he frowns, staring at the stars.
The night used to be everything to him; when he could move, when he could slip away, the flickering hint of colour in alleys. Seeing the world in the light of day, with all the colours and brightness it has to offer... Perhaps he hates the night a little more, now.
Swallowing, he flexes his hands, not quite noticing how they were clenched until he came back to himself, tugged out of his thoughts by the sound of Godfrey's voice. It's soothing enough, Astarion thinks, and he focuses, not wanting to miss any of this. He had asked, after all. ]
It is a bit of a nuisance to learn, isn't it? Not usually fit for the tongue of the common folk. Or, well, country folk, perhaps.
[ Calling your friend(?)'s dead spouse "common" was hardly the way to earn eternal sanctuary from the threat of damnation, after all. Astarion speaks it well enough, but never bothered to use it - the others in camp didn't seem to have much concern for it. ]
But at least he tried. For you. That's... Sweet.
[ The word tastes wrong on his tongue, as if calling the effort of anyone sweet was poison. There's an air, now, of pained frustration settling on his shoulders, and he waves a hand to try and shrug it away. Now isn't the time to really trip into being morose; that will come later, when he is alone with thoughts and memories that seek to drown him. ]
He sounds perfectly charming.
Edited 2023-08-30 18:19 (UTC)
[ Not for him - not entirely. His stumbling and awkward attempt at pronouncing an old Elvish declaration of love to him, yes. The effort overall, though, was unmistakably for the girl they had between them.
Or so Godfrey thinks. He had never asked him when he had the chance, and nor did he ever feel the need to. The marked maps he had found spoke plainly for themselves, regardless of what Vladimir could tell him. He had wanted to be ready if the day came that Iltha wanted to find her mother.
But even in this rare moment of happy reverie, he can see that something he said has pulled taut through Astarion. The petty correction is hardly worth upsetting the tenuous balance they've begun to strike - and nor is rising to that veiled unkindness he pays. Godfrey spent too long serving the underserved from his church to rise to every provocation he finds, and besides, he can't expect Astarion to have all respect for a man he never knew.
So instead, he smiles, and he nods along. ]
He certainly had his way.
[ Which is to say: charming or completely impossible, and you can't pick your poison because he chooses for you. ]
But-- surely it's no wont for stories of domesticity that has busied your thoughts. Perhaps you could share something of what has, and we can hope that I'll have thought of something better to share before we've talked it through.
Or so Godfrey thinks. He had never asked him when he had the chance, and nor did he ever feel the need to. The marked maps he had found spoke plainly for themselves, regardless of what Vladimir could tell him. He had wanted to be ready if the day came that Iltha wanted to find her mother.
But even in this rare moment of happy reverie, he can see that something he said has pulled taut through Astarion. The petty correction is hardly worth upsetting the tenuous balance they've begun to strike - and nor is rising to that veiled unkindness he pays. Godfrey spent too long serving the underserved from his church to rise to every provocation he finds, and besides, he can't expect Astarion to have all respect for a man he never knew.
So instead, he smiles, and he nods along. ]
He certainly had his way.
[ Which is to say: charming or completely impossible, and you can't pick your poison because he chooses for you. ]
But-- surely it's no wont for stories of domesticity that has busied your thoughts. Perhaps you could share something of what has, and we can hope that I'll have thought of something better to share before we've talked it through.
[ Astarion doesn't want to turn the attention back to himself - for once - as the conversation is a little too... Real for him. The idea of admitting anything about himself aloud is a painful one, and his eyes glance over to Godfrey before he breathes out a little huff of noise, waving his hand absently. What a silly, foolish thing, to be so emotional over nothing more than a simple little story. ]
Many people do, or so I've heard.
[ The stars captivate him again, for a little while, and before he can get too lost in all his thoughts he tries to muster some kind of words. ]
Must there be something? When I look at the stars nothing in particular comes to mind. Simply the silence of a world that has rarely given any answer.
[ His expression flickers, and then he turns to look at Godfrey again, properly. ]
I don't have stories of husbands, or learning a language, or working in a church.
[ The notion of which makes his words curl with disdain. ]
Just what you already know.
[ The scrabbling of rats, hunger that never ends, his body under others with nothing but the darkness of a ceiling to keep him present in the moment. ]
Many people do, or so I've heard.
[ The stars captivate him again, for a little while, and before he can get too lost in all his thoughts he tries to muster some kind of words. ]
Must there be something? When I look at the stars nothing in particular comes to mind. Simply the silence of a world that has rarely given any answer.
[ His expression flickers, and then he turns to look at Godfrey again, properly. ]
I don't have stories of husbands, or learning a language, or working in a church.
[ The notion of which makes his words curl with disdain. ]
Just what you already know.
[ The scrabbling of rats, hunger that never ends, his body under others with nothing but the darkness of a ceiling to keep him present in the moment. ]
[ There are a number of things he would know, if he could.
His companions, on the whole, had been reticent where their pasts were concerned - and that was their right. He doesn't think any of them had Astarion's nervous and timid secrecy. It was something he'd thought he understood, once he'd learned one truth of him - of course he would be cagey and secretive of his past, lest someone discover his undeath.
Not that he'd expected that would be the complete end of it, as vampires so often left a trail of broken lives behind them. But there had been a sense of false understanding in him then; that this would be, perhaps, the biggest secret, and like a plug pulled, the rest might come more easily. Not so. Instead, it seemed to Godfrey that some new tragedy tangled there to stopper things again. There seemed to him a multitude of unfairness, of horrible sadness and trauma, almost too much to keep so neatly contained in such a body.
And it was, of course, his right to contain it all. Astarion owed him nothing - certainly not a look at what hurt him. But it has been a challenge to keep this barrier in place when he sees the pain so clearly as he does now - the mere reminder of a tranquil and domestic life souring his mood entirely. Questions well up in him; he wants to know what about his anecdote, specifically, had tugged his mood downward so. He wants to know if there's anything happier he remembers - any scraps from before his life had been yanked from him. He wants to know what his aspirations were then, he wants to know what he was like, what he dreamt of, what he wanted, who he knew.
Godfrey wants to help, and in the case of a man like Astarion, that's a detrimental urge to give in to. The more questions he asked, the further he would push him.
So, instead, he swallows them back and smiles. ]
There need not be anything at all. [ Godfrey picks himself up from his bedroll and draws a little closer. ] Restlessness without cause is just as much a detriment as the sort that leads your thoughts somewhere. I can make my presence a quieter one, if that would better suit you.
His companions, on the whole, had been reticent where their pasts were concerned - and that was their right. He doesn't think any of them had Astarion's nervous and timid secrecy. It was something he'd thought he understood, once he'd learned one truth of him - of course he would be cagey and secretive of his past, lest someone discover his undeath.
Not that he'd expected that would be the complete end of it, as vampires so often left a trail of broken lives behind them. But there had been a sense of false understanding in him then; that this would be, perhaps, the biggest secret, and like a plug pulled, the rest might come more easily. Not so. Instead, it seemed to Godfrey that some new tragedy tangled there to stopper things again. There seemed to him a multitude of unfairness, of horrible sadness and trauma, almost too much to keep so neatly contained in such a body.
And it was, of course, his right to contain it all. Astarion owed him nothing - certainly not a look at what hurt him. But it has been a challenge to keep this barrier in place when he sees the pain so clearly as he does now - the mere reminder of a tranquil and domestic life souring his mood entirely. Questions well up in him; he wants to know what about his anecdote, specifically, had tugged his mood downward so. He wants to know if there's anything happier he remembers - any scraps from before his life had been yanked from him. He wants to know what his aspirations were then, he wants to know what he was like, what he dreamt of, what he wanted, who he knew.
Godfrey wants to help, and in the case of a man like Astarion, that's a detrimental urge to give in to. The more questions he asked, the further he would push him.
So, instead, he swallows them back and smiles. ]
There need not be anything at all. [ Godfrey picks himself up from his bedroll and draws a little closer. ] Restlessness without cause is just as much a detriment as the sort that leads your thoughts somewhere. I can make my presence a quieter one, if that would better suit you.
Falling in with the paladin has been a...mixed blessing.
On one hand, it was simply very useful to have a wall of plate metal and (presumably) solid muscle between himself and the many, many entities who were interested in killing them all. Someone so luminous cast the kind of shadows that were very easy to duck in and out of, knife in hand, and Astarion has been taking advantage of that ever since they encountered the first wave of goblins. Lae'zel was no slouch with a sword either, but she wasn't nearly as distracting for their enemies.
Of course, Lae'zel probably wouldn't have even bothered getting involved in local politics, such was her determination to reach the Gith creche. That was one of the downsides - the investment in whatever heroic nonsense his faith demanded. Astarion would argue that anything not directly involving tadpole removal is a tremendous waste of their time, but not loudly. After all, when his choice is between enslavement to the Absolute and enslavement to Cazador, at least the former seems to be taking its time.
Then there's the other issue. Astarion is not a religious student by any means, but he has a distinct sense that the undead and undead-adjacent are not to be tolerated by those of Godfrey's faith. He's lost all sense of how obvious his vampirism...is. Yes, he has sharp teeth and red eyes and some rather distinctive scars, but he's also crossing babbling brooks in bright sunshine without even a twinge of discomfort. The average monster hunter would inspect their bestiary and give him a miss, surely?
As for his occasional nighttime dining, he's done his best to be discreet. Ultimately, one hunk of carrion looks much like another, drained or not.
It's for these reasons that he tells himself he has no reason for concern when the man approaches him at camp, after dinner.
"Our fearless leader," he says, setting his book aside. "Whatever can I do for you this evening?"
If he made an effort, he could probably stop everything he says from sounding like a come-on. He's not planning to try.
"Astarion."
A tautness at the corners of his lips, in his throat, pulling it tight.
One might think this all had started with the fangs flashing in his mouth, or his red eyes. These were giveaways which were easier to conceal at night, in forgiving shadow. In hard daylight, however, they were betrayed; one couldn't easily mistake the red for brown, as might happen in a dark street, and neither could his fangs be easily explained away by a mere trick of the light. Even his deathly complexion could be warmed by torch and candlelight to something almost forgiveably human. Daylight, indeed, laid all of these details stark and bare.
But it hadn't. In truth, it was much earlier.
It started with his chest.
As unlife settles in, such basic biological imperatives fall to the wayside. A vampire might breathe for some time out of simple habit, the dead muscles still remembering the necessities of life. But over the years, inevitably, there came a day where a vampire's chest may rise, and fall, and stay that way. Getting it to rise again with regularity, with that soft innate motion that came naturally to living beings, was something rarely mastered even among the proudest vampire lords.
Lathander knows this, and knows it well. It's just one of the things he has been trained to watch. Godfrey had already seen it in their first meeting, how rarely it moved when he was not speaking.
After that, the rest came in a landslide; his pallid face, the fangs hiding in his mouth, the red eyes, the old puncture scars just beneath the collar of his doublet. Though Astarion's apparent immunity to typical vampiric weaknesses was something to be concerned with, the truth had been laid plain to him early in their acquaintanceship; Astarion was not a living man, and most signs pointed to vampirism.
Godfrey had not moved yet on this knowledge, however. He has his reasons - a complex network of ropes staying his hand. Among them, the obvious; that Astarion has proven himself a friend, and that had left Godfrey reluctant to bring him to harm. His fellows might call this blindness, cowardice, stupidity - a heresy, at its worst. But Astarion didn't seem like a bloodthirsty monster to him. Godfrey had been watching, and he had not yet caused any harm that he could detect to their fellows. He had been slaking his thirst some other way, and the effort has gone a long way in Godfrey's estimation of his trustworthiness.
But their friends don't know what he does - haven't been watching as he has, and the bloodless animals have them asking questions. They have more than once named what Godfrey had already concluded, though not in Astarion's direction. Yet.
Such is what he comes, nervously, to discuss - it can't be an easy thing, being confronted by a man of his stature and leanings with proof that you are the very thing he should want to destroy. He takes a quick breath through his nose and squares his shoulders with it.
"I wish to discuss something with you. A... sensitive matter."
Away from the others.
A tautness at the corners of his lips, in his throat, pulling it tight.
One might think this all had started with the fangs flashing in his mouth, or his red eyes. These were giveaways which were easier to conceal at night, in forgiving shadow. In hard daylight, however, they were betrayed; one couldn't easily mistake the red for brown, as might happen in a dark street, and neither could his fangs be easily explained away by a mere trick of the light. Even his deathly complexion could be warmed by torch and candlelight to something almost forgiveably human. Daylight, indeed, laid all of these details stark and bare.
But it hadn't. In truth, it was much earlier.
It started with his chest.
As unlife settles in, such basic biological imperatives fall to the wayside. A vampire might breathe for some time out of simple habit, the dead muscles still remembering the necessities of life. But over the years, inevitably, there came a day where a vampire's chest may rise, and fall, and stay that way. Getting it to rise again with regularity, with that soft innate motion that came naturally to living beings, was something rarely mastered even among the proudest vampire lords.
Lathander knows this, and knows it well. It's just one of the things he has been trained to watch. Godfrey had already seen it in their first meeting, how rarely it moved when he was not speaking.
After that, the rest came in a landslide; his pallid face, the fangs hiding in his mouth, the red eyes, the old puncture scars just beneath the collar of his doublet. Though Astarion's apparent immunity to typical vampiric weaknesses was something to be concerned with, the truth had been laid plain to him early in their acquaintanceship; Astarion was not a living man, and most signs pointed to vampirism.
Godfrey had not moved yet on this knowledge, however. He has his reasons - a complex network of ropes staying his hand. Among them, the obvious; that Astarion has proven himself a friend, and that had left Godfrey reluctant to bring him to harm. His fellows might call this blindness, cowardice, stupidity - a heresy, at its worst. But Astarion didn't seem like a bloodthirsty monster to him. Godfrey had been watching, and he had not yet caused any harm that he could detect to their fellows. He had been slaking his thirst some other way, and the effort has gone a long way in Godfrey's estimation of his trustworthiness.
But their friends don't know what he does - haven't been watching as he has, and the bloodless animals have them asking questions. They have more than once named what Godfrey had already concluded, though not in Astarion's direction. Yet.
Such is what he comes, nervously, to discuss - it can't be an easy thing, being confronted by a man of his stature and leanings with proof that you are the very thing he should want to destroy. He takes a quick breath through his nose and squares his shoulders with it.
"I wish to discuss something with you. A... sensitive matter."
Away from the others.
"Oh?"
He's nervous. Visibly trying to steel himself. It's - adorable, frankly. Like a bear afraid of a mouse. Astarion has not discarded the idea of Godfrey approaching him with the whole the-Morninglord-does-not-suffer-your-kind-to-exist song and dance, but it fades into lesser likelihood with every passing day. If this is that, he has a couple of potions to hand which should facilitate a quick escape, and if it isn't...
Well, his evening has become unexpectedly interesting, regardless.
"By all means, lead the way." He gestures away from camp in a way he feels is appropriately grandiose. "I'm in your hands."
He's nervous. Visibly trying to steel himself. It's - adorable, frankly. Like a bear afraid of a mouse. Astarion has not discarded the idea of Godfrey approaching him with the whole the-Morninglord-does-not-suffer-your-kind-to-exist song and dance, but it fades into lesser likelihood with every passing day. If this is that, he has a couple of potions to hand which should facilitate a quick escape, and if it isn't...
Well, his evening has become unexpectedly interesting, regardless.
"By all means, lead the way." He gestures away from camp in a way he feels is appropriately grandiose. "I'm in your hands."
Godfrey's response is less of a nod and more of a tense, split-second incline of his head. Not so much agreement as it is acknowledgment.
Astarion is, as always, a difficult read. He seems agreeable now, certainly, and though his tin-soldier shoulders remain square and sharp, Godfrey finds himself grateful for this. He had no desire to embarrass Astarion or jeopardize his safety by divulging the truth of him where the others could hear. Only to find somewhere safe to discuss things.
He seems to so far be oblivious - but Godfrey would be a fool to think that Astarion could be summed up in a glance. There is every chance that he knows exactly what this conversation is bound to be beneath his easy exterior, and he knows that it can't help things, Godfrey walking tensely in front of him like this. Leading him to only the Gods knew where, alone, away from the few individuals he knows.
There's nothing Godfrey can do about the circumstances. Willing himself to calm does little to loosen his fingers, and if they were going to breach this subject with the rest of their companions, they had to do it as a united front. Godfrey divulging this out of the blue would only risk him unnecessarily. If he explained things at Astarion's side, though...
He doesn't lead him far into the woods - just out of earshot. He finds a passably flat stone and takes his seat, mountainous and tense.
Godfrey releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and slowly, he tries; "I wanted to call you here to discuss some things I've noticed."
He leaves it there, between them, and brings his eyes up to Astarion. Gently, "I think you know what it is I mean. Yes?"
Astarion is, as always, a difficult read. He seems agreeable now, certainly, and though his tin-soldier shoulders remain square and sharp, Godfrey finds himself grateful for this. He had no desire to embarrass Astarion or jeopardize his safety by divulging the truth of him where the others could hear. Only to find somewhere safe to discuss things.
He seems to so far be oblivious - but Godfrey would be a fool to think that Astarion could be summed up in a glance. There is every chance that he knows exactly what this conversation is bound to be beneath his easy exterior, and he knows that it can't help things, Godfrey walking tensely in front of him like this. Leading him to only the Gods knew where, alone, away from the few individuals he knows.
There's nothing Godfrey can do about the circumstances. Willing himself to calm does little to loosen his fingers, and if they were going to breach this subject with the rest of their companions, they had to do it as a united front. Godfrey divulging this out of the blue would only risk him unnecessarily. If he explained things at Astarion's side, though...
He doesn't lead him far into the woods - just out of earshot. He finds a passably flat stone and takes his seat, mountainous and tense.
Godfrey releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and slowly, he tries; "I wanted to call you here to discuss some things I've noticed."
He leaves it there, between them, and brings his eyes up to Astarion. Gently, "I think you know what it is I mean. Yes?"
Astarion lifts his eyebrows, smiling inscrutably. As if he knows any other way to do it.
"I'm sure you wouldn't be looking so solemn if you were here to discuss my increasingly depraved interest in your body, but I can never tell with you oath-taking types," he says, with lightness which then dissolves.
"...I don't like being asked to spool out enough rope to hang myself with, darling, so please. Use your words."
Jests and japes, all.
Not that he should expect anything less. Such a remark would be only slightly less easy to discard in the context of a normal conversation. Here, it could be nothing but a valve to release steam, or some form of light deflection. Or, if he's being uncharitable, some convoluted, last-ditch effort to pay insult to Godfrey before Godfrey could do it to him. A knee jerking in the face of what is to be a moment of tense discomfort - or so he hopes.
The stranger thing would be if he had meant this remark in complete seriousness, and particularly with how that levity falls away like brittle leaves when next he speaks. Godfrey's first instinct is to try and soften Astarion's words for him, as the conversation in his head certainly calls not for talk of hanging oneself. But he knows what this is - stalling - and he knows that Astarion would surely not appreciate the effort until he puts his hand down for him to see.
So; he takes another breath, touching Astarion's gaze with his own, and he speaks; "I know you're dead, Astarion. And I know why you still walk. It's high time we had a conversation about it."
There. He's let it out in the air.
Godfrey sits, completely still, elbows hanging from his knees, hands clasped.
He doesn't move.
Not that he should expect anything less. Such a remark would be only slightly less easy to discard in the context of a normal conversation. Here, it could be nothing but a valve to release steam, or some form of light deflection. Or, if he's being uncharitable, some convoluted, last-ditch effort to pay insult to Godfrey before Godfrey could do it to him. A knee jerking in the face of what is to be a moment of tense discomfort - or so he hopes.
The stranger thing would be if he had meant this remark in complete seriousness, and particularly with how that levity falls away like brittle leaves when next he speaks. Godfrey's first instinct is to try and soften Astarion's words for him, as the conversation in his head certainly calls not for talk of hanging oneself. But he knows what this is - stalling - and he knows that Astarion would surely not appreciate the effort until he puts his hand down for him to see.
So; he takes another breath, touching Astarion's gaze with his own, and he speaks; "I know you're dead, Astarion. And I know why you still walk. It's high time we had a conversation about it."
There. He's let it out in the air.
Godfrey sits, completely still, elbows hanging from his knees, hands clasped.
He doesn't move.
"I see."
Astarion steeples his fingers lightly. He has a vial of Invisibility in his sleeve; having to reach for a pocket is far too obvious.
"So - and this is sheerly curiosity, you understand. Is this a 'my mercy demands that I give you a head start before I hunt you down like the Hells-begotten wretch are are' sort of conversation, or is this a 'my honour demands that I pierce your heart in twain from the front and not the back' sort of conversation?"
It's a sensible response. A predictable one, even. That doesn't keep that sliver of hurt from lodging in his chest as Astarion expresses it, asks how it is Godfrey would kill him.
It has no right to startle him like this. This sort of concern is just what he was afraid of tripping over in the course of this talk. He knew how loudly his doctrine tended to speak for him - the overzealous parts of it, at the very least. He knew what Astarion would think when he opened this conversation. He knew there would be fear in him, that he might assume the worst. But there's something about hearing this particular charge, among the soft sounds of the night around them, which flashes reflexively in his face.
"Neither," His voice is light, soft, quick to reassure, "It's neither."
It has no right to startle him like this. This sort of concern is just what he was afraid of tripping over in the course of this talk. He knew how loudly his doctrine tended to speak for him - the overzealous parts of it, at the very least. He knew what Astarion would think when he opened this conversation. He knew there would be fear in him, that he might assume the worst. But there's something about hearing this particular charge, among the soft sounds of the night around them, which flashes reflexively in his face.
"Neither," His voice is light, soft, quick to reassure, "It's neither."
"...I see."
He straightens up a little, inching back from full flight-or-fight mode.
"Well, then. You already know what I am. You already seem to have decided what to do, or rather what not to do about it. What element of this conversation is there for me to participate in, exactly?"
He straightens up a little, inching back from full flight-or-fight mode.
"Well, then. You already know what I am. You already seem to have decided what to do, or rather what not to do about it. What element of this conversation is there for me to participate in, exactly?"
Godfrey watches a shade of the tension slip from him. Astarion is still poised to spring away at the barest hint of aggression, but he's relaxing, bit by bit.
He exhales, and lets his gaze low. Watches his hands wring between his knees as he slips a little further into the conversation.
"I've known for some time. I stayed my judgment and watched you - and the others. I wanted to know that you would not hurt them."
Because, naturally, that has always been on the table. He had watched Astarion tensely once, hand resting deceptively gentle at the hilt of his sword. He had been ready, in those early and nervous days, to end him at the first hint of harm - but not before then. The Oath calls for compassion to all - even his enemies, though tempered with wisdom. That is what he gave him.
And Astarion had proven himself worthy of it enough times over that, though it hasn't totally been taken from the table, his hands might set to separating Astarion from whatever altercation befell him before they went to his sword and his magic.
His thumb presses into the white inside of his fingers, and they curl around it. A birdcall echoes from somewhere in the woods, deeper still than they are.
"But they have not cultivated the same insight that I have. They have found what you've left behind, and they are... discussing amongst themselves what they have seen."
Godfrey sucks in a breath, his fingers hard against his knuckles, and he looks back up to Astarion.
When he speaks, it's slow. All softness, all gentle and placating reassurance; "I think if you had wanted to hurt anyone here, you would have. But you haven't. And I suspect that if we tell them together - if you would trust me to help - they may be more inclined to trust you as I have come to."
He exhales, and lets his gaze low. Watches his hands wring between his knees as he slips a little further into the conversation.
"I've known for some time. I stayed my judgment and watched you - and the others. I wanted to know that you would not hurt them."
Because, naturally, that has always been on the table. He had watched Astarion tensely once, hand resting deceptively gentle at the hilt of his sword. He had been ready, in those early and nervous days, to end him at the first hint of harm - but not before then. The Oath calls for compassion to all - even his enemies, though tempered with wisdom. That is what he gave him.
And Astarion had proven himself worthy of it enough times over that, though it hasn't totally been taken from the table, his hands might set to separating Astarion from whatever altercation befell him before they went to his sword and his magic.
His thumb presses into the white inside of his fingers, and they curl around it. A birdcall echoes from somewhere in the woods, deeper still than they are.
"But they have not cultivated the same insight that I have. They have found what you've left behind, and they are... discussing amongst themselves what they have seen."
Godfrey sucks in a breath, his fingers hard against his knuckles, and he looks back up to Astarion.
When he speaks, it's slow. All softness, all gentle and placating reassurance; "I think if you had wanted to hurt anyone here, you would have. But you haven't. And I suspect that if we tell them together - if you would trust me to help - they may be more inclined to trust you as I have come to."
Edited (immediately Bothered by a line) 2023-09-14 00:22 (UTC)
Oh. So what he's offering isn't, in fact, the necessary purification of a swift death, but...moral support?
Astarion supposes he might perform some indignation. Thank you so very much, great and mighty paladin, but I am in fact more than capable of showing my fangs and facing the consequences, I am not afraid of a lizard, a Shar-worshipping amnesiac and a man who can't even get his entire body through a portal.
But if that was true, he would have done it by now, wouldn't he? He wouldn't have affected ignorance when Lae'zel had found the husk of a boar he'd drained the previous night; he wouldn't avoid them when he hears mutterings of other such discoveries at camp. He's been letting the days roll by in the hope that, by the time they realise his ability to walk in the sun is an aberration, he's proven too valuable to dispose of.
Godfrey's no fool. He'll be as aware of that as Astarion is himself. So he really has no choice in this matter, has he?
"You do seem to have become the bar by which our choices are measured," he says, reflective. "So I can hardly deny that your endorsement would be valuable."
There. It's out.
Now all he has is to sit on his hands, regarding Astarion - watching for tension that might graduate beyond the thoughtful knot in his brow, the words he can see passing in his thoughts, like schools of shimmering fish - and hold his breath in the space that's left between the two of them.
Why should he be so nervous, in the face of a friend? Godfrey himself couldn't answer this question, were he asked. Not precisely, at least. He knew that it must lie between Astarion's evasiveness, his secrecy when it came to himself. Somewhere near the constant condescension he felt from him - the way he spoke as though every word he spoke was part of some larger joke that Godfrey would never understand. And naturally, under the ever-looming grander threat of it all; that he was exposing a larger and more threatening truth that Astarion had tried to hide. Dead or alive, this was tender territory for most thinking beings to tread.
Thankfully, his path has been thus far well-chosen. When Astarion does speak, he concedes to the wisdom of what Godfrey has said. He exhales, shoulders unwinding, and he nods.
"You have my endorsement, and more." His hands unwind and rest between his knees. "You have my word."
He does not overstate the importance of this, despite its immensity; to go back on his word would be to go back on his Oath. His promise to Astarion is as good to a promise to the Morninglord himself.
"... I wish not to pressure you, but- with how the others are talking, it may be best to breach this discussion sooner, rather than later. I feel we give ourselves the best chance if we head things off at the pass, rather than let them discover the truth themselves."
Now all he has is to sit on his hands, regarding Astarion - watching for tension that might graduate beyond the thoughtful knot in his brow, the words he can see passing in his thoughts, like schools of shimmering fish - and hold his breath in the space that's left between the two of them.
Why should he be so nervous, in the face of a friend? Godfrey himself couldn't answer this question, were he asked. Not precisely, at least. He knew that it must lie between Astarion's evasiveness, his secrecy when it came to himself. Somewhere near the constant condescension he felt from him - the way he spoke as though every word he spoke was part of some larger joke that Godfrey would never understand. And naturally, under the ever-looming grander threat of it all; that he was exposing a larger and more threatening truth that Astarion had tried to hide. Dead or alive, this was tender territory for most thinking beings to tread.
Thankfully, his path has been thus far well-chosen. When Astarion does speak, he concedes to the wisdom of what Godfrey has said. He exhales, shoulders unwinding, and he nods.
"You have my endorsement, and more." His hands unwind and rest between his knees. "You have my word."
He does not overstate the importance of this, despite its immensity; to go back on his word would be to go back on his Oath. His promise to Astarion is as good to a promise to the Morninglord himself.
"... I wish not to pressure you, but- with how the others are talking, it may be best to breach this discussion sooner, rather than later. I feel we give ourselves the best chance if we head things off at the pass, rather than let them discover the truth themselves."
Astarion looks back towards the camp with a faint, thoughtful frown.
"The others haven't turned in yet," he says, after a brisk headcount. "So we might as well."
It's not going to get any easier to swallow, and he's started wondering if Shadowheart in particular is just choosing her moment.
He's nervous, still.
Though he wishes he could dispel it, Godfrey knows that he likely won't be enough to evaporate his nerves totally. Revealing a truth like this is not something he can directly imagine, but he can conjure enough to understand that he will be afraid until it's over with.
So he watches him consider his options for a moment, staring through the leaf-cover to quickly analyze the figures beyond, lit by flickering firelight, their voices vague from the moment they've carved for themselves. Godfrey sits patiently, feeling his own nerves untangle as Astarion seems to settle more and more into his hands.
"If you need time, we still may take it." He settles on his stone a little more, and for the first time in their conversation, lets himself smile. "All I mean to say is that we ought do it tomorrow morning, if not tonight. I do not mind extending our wait that far, should it help."
But not much longer than that.
Though he wishes he could dispel it, Godfrey knows that he likely won't be enough to evaporate his nerves totally. Revealing a truth like this is not something he can directly imagine, but he can conjure enough to understand that he will be afraid until it's over with.
So he watches him consider his options for a moment, staring through the leaf-cover to quickly analyze the figures beyond, lit by flickering firelight, their voices vague from the moment they've carved for themselves. Godfrey sits patiently, feeling his own nerves untangle as Astarion seems to settle more and more into his hands.
"If you need time, we still may take it." He settles on his stone a little more, and for the first time in their conversation, lets himself smile. "All I mean to say is that we ought do it tomorrow morning, if not tonight. I do not mind extending our wait that far, should it help."
But not much longer than that.
Astarion presses his fingertips to his lips for a moment, then drops his hands.
"...No. No, actually, I think now is an excellent time. I'd rather they have the night to sleep on it than the day to spend inventing reasons to kill me."
Is this also a means of clawing back a little control? Maybe! Regardless, being offered more time feels like charity he refuses to accept. If this is happening, it's happening now.
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