Chapter 2
Again, Tav can’t sleep. Anxious thoughts assail him from every corner of his mind like hounds on a bloodtrail. In his growingly desperate attempts to find something nice to focus on, or at least something boring, he goes all the way back to the mage hand exercises the withered old bitch, his grandmother, forced him to do day in and day out while all the other boys were out smacking straw-man targets with practice swords and learning to string a bow. She would spill a cup of rice on a thick carpet and then doze off, work on her writings, or go do her errands while Tav painstakingly collected it, grain by fucking grain, with the fucking mage hand. He couldn’t cheat and use his actual fingers even when she wasn’t around, because she tied him to the chair. He remembers, once she left him for what must’ve been half a day or more. His legs went to a sleep so deep he was unable to wriggle his toes. But that was hardly the worst of it. He held his water till the urge to pee turned to stabbing pains and then he could hold it no longer.
Talice laughs inside his skull, the same exact cackle that drove him to tears that day, when she found him. I remember, she confides, as if she needs to. Mother forbade you from changing into fresh clothes for three days, as punishment.
And here he is, a grown man, staring wide-eyed at the shadows of foliage dancing over his tent because if he blinks, Talice will have the satisfaction of seeing his tears again.
Something else, then. He’ll think of something else.
But there’s nothing. No memory, no daydream that doesn’t fill him with either dread or unhealthy excitement.
You’re just tired.
“If you must speak to me, at least tell me something I don’t know.”
Shadowheart can make you a powerful sleeping drought.
“Hm.” It’s too late for that now, she’s likely fast asleep, but perhaps he’ll ask for one tomorrow. “That’s actually a decent idea.”
I’m actually here to help you.
“You’re a symptom.”
A symptom can still be helpful.
“Please, just leave me alone.”
What if I told you your boyfriend’s having nightmares again?
That shuts him up. He sits, closes his eyes, and perks his ears. It isn’t as quiet as when he first heard Astarion toss and turn, reliving horrors that put Tav’s own sad history to shame. Tonight, the wind rustles in the trees, flaps the decorations on the tents, hums and hisses through the seems. A chorus of frogs drones on from the river. He thinks he hears the distant roar of thunder. But no sound from—
There it is. An indistinct groan, followed by a shuffle. A moment of stillness, then a muttered no.
Before he know he’ll do it, Tav’s up on his feet and out of his tent. The dog lifts his head, ears sharp. He’s curled up on top of the torn blanket they left out for him. Tav freezes, expecting the dog to bark, but after a moment, he yawns and rests his cheek on his paws. “Good boy,” Tav whispers.
Another raw, heartrending moan from Astarion’s tent reminds him of his purpose. He lifts the flap and pokes his head inside just in time to see Astarion thrash on his bedroll. Fighting some unseen foe, or struggling to escape? The temptation to use the tadpole for another uninvited glimpse at his inner life comes over Tav like a craving for sweets, so intense his eyes water. But he masters himself and kneels by the bedroll.
“Astarion?”
He turns with a yelp, head whipping from one side of the bolster to the other as if punched, but doesn’t wake.
Tav shakes his shoulders. “Wake up.”
And he does, in a flurry of panicked motion. He slaps Tav’s hands away and slithers from under his blanket, backing up as far as the tent will let him, faster than Tav could say hi. He’s never seen Astarion like this. His face is all eyes and teeth, his hair a mess. “Leave me be,” he hisses, feeling for the knife on top of his book. “Get away from me, you mon—”
Fortunately, he comes to his senses before he finds it. “Oh.” He blinks at Tav owlishly. His chest rises and falls as if he’s been running. As if he needs to breathe. “It’s you. What the hells are you doing? I could’ve stabbed you!”
“I’m sorry,” Tav blurts out. His hands are in the air, in front of him, and his gut drops as he realizes that he was about to cast a thunder spell in self-defense. Lies pour out of him in a torrent, quicker to come to mind than the truth, because he doesn’t understand the truth. “I—I heard you move about. I thought you couldn’t sleep either. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Slowly, Astarion’s breathing subsides. He runs his fingers through his hair, combing it back into some semblance of its usual neatness. It seems to help him settle in himself again. “Perhaps it’s for the best.”
“Bad dreams?”
Astarion eyes Tav with unveiled distrust, like the question might hold a hidden trap, or worse. Tav opens his mouth to take it back, but Astarion speaks first. “Every godsdamn night.” His gaze flicks over Tav’s features: one eye, the other, the crease betraying his concern between them, the helpless quiver of his lips, the apple of his throat. “You too?”
Tav huffs. “I’ll tell you when I manage to get some sleep.”
The last vestiges of the animal fear fade from Astarion’s posture and he pulls away from the tent wall, letting it resume its normal, flat shape. “Well. If you’re looking for a nice, warm cuddle to ease your mind, you’re in the wrong tent. Try Karlach.”
“Not my type.”
“Wyll, then. Ask him to tell you about his adventures and you’ll be asleep in no time.”
Tav humors him with a chuckle. “I’m exactly where I meant to be. But I’ll leave you alone if you want to go back to sleep yourself.”
Astarion shudders. “Not any time soon, I don’t think.”
There’s a silence. Astarion sits crouched like a cat, his knees in front of his chest, his arms around them, no longer frightened but far from relaxed. He watches Tav fidget till his patience runs out. “So,” he drawls.
“So.” Tav pushes Astarion’s dagger off the tome, careful not to make any sudden movements. “What is it you’re reading?”
Astarion sighs dramatically. “It’s a collection of essays about some of the most momentous events in Elturel’s criminal history. I found it, and a few other titles of interest, among the possessions of the people slaughtered by the gnolls.”
Ah. That explains the dark stains on the cover. “What are the other titles?”
“A treatise on the poisonous plants and mushrooms of the region, a manual on making improvised weapons, a history of trade along the Chionthar prior to the founding of Baldur’s Gate, transcripts from the Hollowdown Uprising trials, and a tome on Infernal law, to name a few.” He inclines his head prettily to look at Tav from under his lashes. “Comatose yet?”
“I’ll admit I was hoping for something with more… story.”
“Like I said, darling, you’re in the wrong tent. Gale has accumulated quite the collection of useless prose, if that’s what you’re after. You’ll find none here. I despise fiction.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s nothing to learn from it. I don’t care about the adventures and love affairs of real people, let alone made-up ones. And no fictional plot can possibly beat the weirdness of history. It’s all conceit and exaggeration. Ugh.”
“A story can move you in a way no manual on making weapons can.”
“But could it save your life?”
It might save your soul, Tav thinks, but decides to drop the issue. Instead he opens the book and turns a few pages. Apart from the ornate chapter titles, the print is too fine to make out in the dark. “I was going to ask you to uh… read to me,” he murmurs. The dusty scent of old paper tickles his nostrils like a promise. How he loves the smell of books! “It doesn’t really matter what.”
Astarion laughs, throwing his head back, and if not for the blush burning in Tav’s cheeks, he’d enjoy watching this unusual phenomenon. “Oh,” Astarion says when he finally looks at Tav again. “You’re serious?” Apparently, that’s even funnier. He laughs till tears gleam from the corners of his eyes. “If it isn’t the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s not an ‘excuse’. I can’t sleep, and there’s nothing better for it than reading.”
“Well go ahead and read, then,” Astarion says, pushing the tome towards Tav. “Take it. Just return it when you’re done. Some of those case histories are truly fascinating.” He crosses his legs, tucking his feet under his knees, and his shoulders relax at last. The mirth lingers about his features like a soft glow. It makes him look younger by decades.
Tav gives him a pained smile. “That’s the thing,” he mutters. “I can’t.”
“You can’t… read?” Astarion’s brows rise. “That’s… well. That’s something.”
He’s struggling not to laugh. His cheeks twitch and his eyes glimmer with merriment that reminds Tav of the night they met. He’s glad to see it, despite the raging embarrassment.
“It’s not for the lack of learning,” he explains. “I speak half a dozen languages, and know the letters of half a dozen more. It just takes such an effort to put the words together from them that the meaning gets lost. When I must read, I have to go over each line times and times again before I can make sense of it. It kills all the fun. You laugh, but it’s one of the great tragedies of my life. I do so love stories.”
“I’m sorry,” Astarion says, wiping his eyes. “It must be terrible—” he bursts in laughter again, but it’s tinged with hysteria and sounds on the edge of turning to sobs. He covers his face, drawing a deep breath. “Ugh. I need a moment.”
Having given him the most truthful account of himself so far, Tav feels both giddy and exposed. Astarion’s laughter doesn’t bother him. It seems born of surprise and the absurdity of the situation, not mockery. But Tav is altogether too deeply invested in the hope that Astarion will agree to his ridiculous, haphazard proposal, to join in the cheer. Because, of course it was an excuse, even if he’d had no inkling that he’d use it, or that he needed one. The truth is, if he could, he’d spend every moment of his time trailing Astarion like a shadow.
Talice rolls her eyes in the recesses of his brain but she won’t get a rise out of him this time. He gently pushes her irritating presence away, like any unwanted thought that might undermine his concentration. Her barbaric methods aside, the old hag had taught him well.
“I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves,” he says, more to say something than out of concern.
“Worry not, my dear.” Astarion dabs at his face with the hem of his sleeve, voice still a bit choked. “Your secret is safe with me. Oh, I can’t remember when I last laughed like this.”
“Happy to help.”
Astarion regards Tav for a moment, eyes glistening wet. “You are, aren’t you?”
Encouraged, Tav stretches out along Astarion’s bedroll, fitting his elbow on one of the cushions, and taps the book.
Astarion sighs. “All right. I suppose I owe you. For the other night.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Hm.”
Tav smiles, barely holding back an onrush of giggles. “Come on. Read me your favorite.”
“I don’t have a favorite. I’ve only read a few so far. We’ll start a new one, I think, and hope for something bloody.” He picks up the tome, arranges it in his lap, then looks around. “I’ll need to light a candle. If you could—there’s one just outside.”
“Fiat lux,” Tav whispers, gesturing lazily in Astarion’s direction, and a garland of dancing lights flickers into being over his head.
“I’ll admit it’s useful, having sorcerer for a friend,” Astarion says, blinking. “I wonder what else you can do. Besides burning people to cinders, that is.”
For some reason, Tav thinks of the mage hand, and blushes fiercely before he even manages to conjure an image of something blush-worthy to do with it. Gods, Astarion doesn’t even have to try. His very name makes Tav aroused.
And he knows it full well, judging from the sly curl of his lips. “Well, then.” He clears his throats, and begins.
Tav wakes at dawn, on Astarion’s bedroll, covered with his smelly blanket. Alone. The tome lies by the bolster, earmarked somewhere around the middle, for all the good that’ll do. Tav can’t even remember the chapter title. He must’ve gone out like a snuffed candle. Worse still, he obviously slept through being rolled over and tucked in.
Check your neck.
That sobers him quicker than a bucketful of freezing water. “He wouldn’t,” he whispers. But he sits up and feels the sides of his throat anyway. Thank the gods, nothing new.
Check the rest too.
“There’s nothing,” he murmurs, after looking at every bit of skin he can see and feeling every other for the familiar sting. “Begone.”
You’re a fool to trust him.
Tav presses his palms to his ears and starts humming the anthem of his House. Talice hated it when he did that.
It seems she still does, because he doesn’t hear from her again that day.