Tav keeps the conversation going in his thoughts long after Astarion has stormed out of camp. He meant every word he said. Made his face open and his eyes vulnerable, but Astarion was blind to it all. Tav only stopped short of telling him he’s beautiful on account of his dismissive posturing, but he would’ve meant that too. It’s Astarion’s beauty that keeps the rising stakes of their journey and the growing pressures of leadership from crushing Tav’s spirit. Astarion’s beauty and the sweet yearning for his company, for which Tav happily trades his very blood even when his body cries for rest and recuperation. But it doesn’t seem to be enough.
His angry stare sweeps over the shards of the broken mirror. They glitter feebly in the dirt like so many distant, cold stars.
Astarion said he wants to know what Tav sees when he looks at him, but words failed. How do I show him?
The pewter frame lies by his feet, a few dagger-like splinters of glass still clinging onto it. Tav catches the eyes of his reflection. To be reflected in another’s eyes, Astarion said. I could do worse, he said.
To be reflected.
In another’s eyes.
Tav hums, feeling the familiar surge of raw, untested magic that so often visits together with ill-defined intuitions. As he lets it flow through and out of him, the shards of the mirror, every single grain and crystal, take to the air at his gesture. They swirl in a dazzling dance of silver light for a few moments, then rush back into the frame, each taking its place like a piece of a puzzle, until the surface of the glass is as smooth and unblemished as if it were new. The spiderweb of cracks lights up one last time and fades away.
Tav’s reflection gazes at him as he levitates the remade mirror in front of his face, bathed in the shine of a nameless spell he’s never cast before and might never be able to cast again, allowing magic to use him as a conduit with no attempt at control. His only thought, echoing through him like a mantra in a silent prayer, is show him what I see; show him what I see.
The mirror flashes in a burst of white light, showering the ground with harmless sparks, and Tav’s eyes widen as his reflection doubles, triples, extends to infinity. But as the glow of magic clears from his eyes, it becomes singular again.
“Oy!”
He jumps, nearly dropping the mirror, but it’s only Karlach.
“You fixed it!”
Tav smiles uneasily. He thought—he hoped—that the scene had been unobserved.
“That’s a relief,” Karlach goes on. “Last thing poor Fangs needs is another seven years of bad luck.”
“Not on my watch,” Tav mutters.
Her heavy arm wraps around his shoulders. It’s a bit like being draped with lava, but he doesn’t mind. “You’re a good one, you know that? He’s lucky to have you.” She kisses his temple and walks away.
Tav reaches for the bread but it… skitters away? Spindly black legs protrude from its sides and vicious hooked claws emerge from one end.
“There’s a bug in my bread,” he says stupidly as the bread, now punctured from all sides, begins to bleed profusely.
“…not yours,” says the voice, and Tav becomes aware that it’s been speaking for a while. About… his bread? No, that can’t be right. He turns and faces a tall, handsome elf, pale-skinned and raven-haired. His gaze is heart-stopping. “He is mine,” the man says, arching an eyebrow in a painfully familiar gesture. “Mine, forever.”
Tav starts awake, alerted by the scent of blood, though at first he can’t tell if it’s real or part of the dream.
Astarion crouches under the flap of the tent, neither in nor out. He’s drenched. His chin is painted black by the drying blood, his neck barely visible, his white shirt soaked almost to the waist. “What are you doing here?” he asks, not entirely unkindly, then finally enters and lets the flap drop behind him.
“Waiting for you.”
Astarion rolls his eyes. “That much is obvious.” He sits by Tav’s feet and takes his shirt off, then starts dabbing at his chest in a half-hearted effort to clean himself. “The question is, why?”
His efforts only make it worse. The shirt is so thoroughly soaked it leaves new stains on everything it touches, and soon his face is smeared to the cheekbones, his arms to the elbows, his torso down to his navel. It’s difficult to watch in the same way Tav assumes it’s difficult to watch him struggling to read. At which times there’s nothing worse than someone else offering to help by doing the reading themselves. Yet he can’t restrain himself. Not tonight.
“Let me,” he says, drawing closer, the dream still fresh behind his heavy eyelids. He fishes for the washing a rag in the bucket, then squeezes the water out of it. “You’re making a mess.”
“I’m perfectly able to clean myself, thank you very much.” Astarion’s tone is haughty, but he doesn’t move to stop Tav as he takes the rag to his face. Even his ears are bloody. He moans fretfully. “Did it get in my hair too?”
“Not this time. Hold still.”
The liquid in the bucket is more blood than water by the time Tav’s done.
“Thank you,” Astarion says, lifting his upper lip in that special, slightly disgusted manner that suggests malicious compliance. It’s easy to imagine him making that face a dozen times a night behind Cazador’s back while saying yes, sir, no sir in the demurest of his voices. Whether he sees Tav twitch with the sting of it or resolves to be less unpleasant for reasons of his own, he relaxes into something closer to sincerity as he adds, “I didn’t ask for it, but thank you anyway.”
Tav smiles, though his nerves are tingling. “My pleasure.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Astarion’s tone is halfway between playful and reflective. It’s always easier to talk with him after he has fed. “So. What can I do for you?”
“There’s something I want to try,” Tav says. Unsurprisingly, his voice wavers.
There’s a shift in Astarion’s posture, too subtle for Tav to make sense of it. But when he speaks again, with one eyebrow arched high and a devilish smile lifting the corner of his lips, it’s suddenly all an act again. “Oh, dear. Some exciting new position? Do tell.”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Oh?” The other eyebrow goes up too.
“Sorry to disappoint.” Tav smiles sheepishly to hide the burn of knowing with perfect certainty that Astarion’s utterance wasn’t one of surprise, but relief. “A magic trick,” he explains. “That might not work.”
“Oh.” Astarion’s boredom is immediate and palpable. “Can we do it another time, darling? I need my beauty sleep.”
“It’ll only take a moment.” Tav’s neck trembles with anxiety as he feels for the mirror among the cushions, but he’s rewarded by a spark of interest in Astarion’s eyes when he finally finds it.
“Is that the same mirror I broke earlier?”
“It is,” Tav says, letting Astarion take it out of his sweaty palm.
“Remarkable,” he murmurs, angling it this way and that. “Looks as good as new. And just as useless. But thank you, I suppose.”
Tav’s heart takes off on a gallop as he puts his hand over Astarion’s. But as he starts the incantation, the words crumble in his dry mouth, and the fragile glow of gathering magic dissipates into a silvery mist.
“What was that?” Astarion asks, blinking.
“A failed spell.” Tav clears his throat. “Bear with me a moment longer. I’ll try again.”
“I’ve never seen you fail a spell before.” A barely perceptible smile lifts Astarion’s features. Not mocking: gentle. His eyes are soft as he gazes at Tav in wonder. “Would it help if I told you you’re adorable when you’re nervous?”
A startled laugh fizzes out of Tav. He takes a breath, tightens his hold on Astarion’s hand and the mirror in it, and lets his magic flow as he exhales. “Ostende’i quod video.”
The whisper echoes and the mirror lights up as if turned to the sun. Astarion leans back, lifting his free hand to shield his eyes. And freezes in mid motion.
“What the…”
He tugs the mirror free of Tav’s grasp and stares at it with eyes wider than ever, his jaw hanging loose. “Is this…” He touches his face and winces, as if startled by unexpected motion. “Is this… me?”
“Yes,” Tav breathes, sweat trickling from the back of his scalp.
Astarion’s hand shakes and he brings up the other too, clasping the mirror like it’s trying to slip out of his grip. He looks about to cry. Part of it is just shock, for sure, but Tav can tell it’s not the happy reunion Astarion hoped for. He touches his cheeks, his nose, his mouth, traces the mesh of fine lines in the corner of his eye, while his chin quivers. “How?” he utters. “In all my reading… I never heard of magic that can do this.”
“The mirror is just a prop,” Tav confesses, his voice almost as shaky as Astarion’s. “It shows you what I see.”
It takes Astarion a while to pry his eyes from his reflection and glance at Tav. The glow of magic in Tav’s eyes matches that around the mirror. Tav shrugs, self-conscious. “No great magic. Just a cheap trick.”
“A ‘cheap trick’ none of the great wizards who wrote all those useless tomes of vampire lore had thought of. And some of them were vampires themselves!” The attempt he makes at dismissive laughter turns into something like a sob and he swallows it quickly, pretending to return to the careful study of his reflection, but Tav can tell he’s distraught.
“None of them—” Tav cuts himself just short of saying were in love with one. “—had a vampire for a friend, I suspect,” he manages clumsily. But there’s little reason to worry. Astarion is too preoccupied to notice anything outside himself.
Tav lays a hand on his knee, bracing, as always, for a grimace, a flinch, or a cutting word at the unsolicited touch, but there’s no rebuttal. “Do you see now?” he whispers. “How beautiful you are?”
Astarion sucks in a ragged breath as tears roll out of his eyes, throat working. At last he puts the mirror down, but doesn’t look at Tav. “I realize this will sound horribly selfish and ungrateful but… could you… give me… some time? To… think this through.”
Tav swallows. “If I leave, the spell will break.” Suddenly, he’s disgusted with himself. It didn’t occur to him till now how this ‘gift’ may appear, or perhaps how it really is: yet another way to make himself needed, to leash Astarion to himself by providing. Protection, blood, now this too. Words stumble out of him in an avalanche. “I’ll teach Gale to do it. I can probably teach Shadowheart and Wyll too. Or Halsin. And… and I’ll think of some way to make it work on its own. Attach the eye of some creature to it, put it in stasis or bind it with a command spell, or, or, a scrying stone! Like what we saw in the goblin camp.” Even as he rambles, he knows it’s a lost cause. Every scenario requires a sentient spectator. “I… I’m sorry.”
Astarion has gone back to scrutinizing at his reflection, turning his head this way and that, but now he looks at Tav again and says, “You’re being ridiculous.” He sniffs. “I’m not one to look a perfectly fine gift horse in the mouth.” He pauses to bare his fangs and study them with a frown. “Goodness,” he mutters. “How was anyone ever fooled?” Next, he lifts his chin and twists his neck, touching the bite marks. “To think, you were the first to ask about these in… half a century at least.”
Tav smiles, recalling their first conversation, back in another life, before the tadpoles, before his world was reshaped by this ill-fated, unrequited love. “Because most people know better than to ask about such things.”
“Yes… you and your Underdark manners.”
They laugh a little, but Astarion’s brows gather again, and a new pair of tears slides down his gaunt cheeks. “I was about 150 when I was turned. And I should’ve stayed 150 forever! The one perk of my condition. Instead…” He pinches the skin around his mouth, where his laugh lines are etched deep enough to be seen even when he sleeps, and the bridge of his nose, where a horizontal wrinkle has born witness to a million of his frowns. “I look as old as I feel.”
“We’ll do this again in daylight,” Tav says, giving Astarion’s knee another reassuring squeeze. “You look younger when you’re in a good mood.”
“I suppose.” He puts the mirror down and sighs. “You know what this means, right?”
Tav lets the spell fade. “What?”
“You’ll have to do this half a dozen times a day, obviously. And don’t you dare outsource it to Gale, Wyll and Shadowheart. I get enough of their distrustful squinting as is.” He huffs. “Let us keep this between ourselves for now.”
“All right.”
Astarion looks in the mirror again, then glances up at Tav guiltily, biting his lower lip.
“It’s a cantrip-level spell,” Tav hurries to assure him. “I can cast it a hundred times and not get tired.”
“You’ll get tired of looking at me.”
Never, Tav wants to say, but thinks better of it. Astarion doesn’t like it when people make light of eternity, and with good reasons. “Not any time soon,” he says instead and smiles.
Astarion smiles back uncertainly, then nods, and Tav whispers the incantation once more.
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