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.
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."
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 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."
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.
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."
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."
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."
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."
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."
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.
It matters little to Godfrey, truthfully, why it is Astarion is reticent to wait. Whether this is a tactical decision on his part, some kind of emotional reflex, or simply a grab at more control. Whether he thinks the rays of dawn will evaporate Godfrey's good will as they do the darkness of night. Whether Godfrey registers his concerns as sound or mere paranoia. All that matters is that he is reticent to wait; this is all Godfrey needs to know.
He plants his hands on his knees and pushes himself to his feet, exhaling as he rises. Godfrey regards him easily, blue eyes soft and kind.
"Then we spare ourselves the wait and speak with the others now." His face... it doesn't firm, not quite. This implies hardness, and Godfrey's expression is careful in this regard. But he does look suddenly serious, before he continues; "Tell me this, my friend, and speak true; what can I do to help ease this conversation?"
"Nothing - literally nothing, just - keep your distance, darling. I
was going to tell you. All of you," he adds, looking faintly aggrieved.
"Frankly, I don't need this to look any more like I've been marched over
there with my arm twisted than it already will."
Godfrey has no wish to force Astarion to accept his idea of help, of course. Not with something as intensely personal and daunting as this. He was here to help, not to push him.
This does not help the way that insistence squirms in his gut, however, that reflexive nervousness as his assistance is rebuffed. The motion doesn't offend him - Astarion has more than his share of reasons to remain evasive and cagey on the subject, and doubly so, considering who was attached to this helping hand being offered to him. The pervading feeling is concern. Godfrey's plan was to advocate for him to their companions, to address their misgivings and concerns directly instead of forcing Astarion to handle them. Vampires are known for nothing if not their social trickery, their ability to charm and deceive. He's perfectly aware of how easily the conversation could get out of hand, and how they might discard out of hand anything that Astarion could say to them.
But also, he knows that insisting and pushing the point would hardly help matters. Astarion has the right to decide his role in this conversation, far more than Godfrey does. He nods once.
"All right. I will speak only if my voice is needed."
With that, the matter is settled.
"I suppose, then, that one of us should return to the fire before the other."
"They absolutely should," Astarion says briskly, and starts closing the distance between their privacy and the campfire before Godfrey can have any thoughts about volunteering.
The revelation is actually something of an anticlimax.
Lae'zel seemed to have already known, and says some things about his scent that he feels are overly descriptive coming from someone with hardly any nose. Halsin, likewise, doesn't seem surprised and Astarion can only imagine he learned it from some adorable woodland creature who outran him recently. Shadowheart has apparently burnt through most of her racism while dealing with Lae'zel, and therefore doesn't care about the predator in their midst, so long as he predates elsewhere. Gale doesn't have a foot to stand on re. an unusual dietary habit to sate an unnatural hunger, and so keeps his mouth shut. Karlach is fine with it - what's one reasonably courteous vampire, after ten years in Avernus? - and Wyll at the very least affects fineness to better keep the peace with Karlach.
And then the question is asked about Godfrey's thoughts on the subject, which has Astarion calling over his shoulder:
"Darling! Please come over here and reassure the masses that I haven't put any holes in you."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
It matters little to Godfrey, truthfully, why it is Astarion is reticent to wait. Whether this is a tactical decision on his part, some kind of emotional reflex, or simply a grab at more control. Whether he thinks the rays of dawn will evaporate Godfrey's good will as they do the darkness of night. Whether Godfrey registers his concerns as sound or mere paranoia. All that matters is that he is reticent to wait; this is all Godfrey needs to know.
He plants his hands on his knees and pushes himself to his feet, exhaling as he rises. Godfrey regards him easily, blue eyes soft and kind.
"Then we spare ourselves the wait and speak with the others now." His face... it doesn't firm, not quite. This implies hardness, and Godfrey's expression is careful in this regard. But he does look suddenly serious, before he continues; "Tell me this, my friend, and speak true; what can I do to help ease this conversation?"
no subject
This requires not even a moment's thought.
"Nothing - literally nothing, just - keep your distance, darling. I was going to tell you. All of you," he adds, looking faintly aggrieved. "Frankly, I don't need this to look any more like I've been marched over there with my arm twisted than it already will."
no subject
This does not help the way that insistence squirms in his gut, however, that reflexive nervousness as his assistance is rebuffed. The motion doesn't offend him - Astarion has more than his share of reasons to remain evasive and cagey on the subject, and doubly so, considering who was attached to this helping hand being offered to him. The pervading feeling is concern. Godfrey's plan was to advocate for him to their companions, to address their misgivings and concerns directly instead of forcing Astarion to handle them. Vampires are known for nothing if not their social trickery, their ability to charm and deceive. He's perfectly aware of how easily the conversation could get out of hand, and how they might discard out of hand anything that Astarion could say to them.
But also, he knows that insisting and pushing the point would hardly help matters. Astarion has the right to decide his role in this conversation, far more than Godfrey does. He nods once.
"All right. I will speak only if my voice is needed."
With that, the matter is settled.
"I suppose, then, that one of us should return to the fire before the other."
no subject
The revelation is actually something of an anticlimax.
Lae'zel seemed to have already known, and says some things about his scent that he feels are overly descriptive coming from someone with hardly any nose. Halsin, likewise, doesn't seem surprised and Astarion can only imagine he learned it from some adorable woodland creature who outran him recently. Shadowheart has apparently burnt through most of her racism while dealing with Lae'zel, and therefore doesn't care about the predator in their midst, so long as he predates elsewhere. Gale doesn't have a foot to stand on re. an unusual dietary habit to sate an unnatural hunger, and so keeps his mouth shut. Karlach is fine with it - what's one reasonably courteous vampire, after ten years in Avernus? - and Wyll at the very least affects fineness to better keep the peace with Karlach.
And then the question is asked about Godfrey's thoughts on the subject, which has Astarion calling over his shoulder:
"Darling! Please come over here and reassure the masses that I haven't put any holes in you."