thirsted | SALTBURNT

[ It's funny, really — they've only shared so much of their respective pasts to each other, yet the way they know how to navigate around each other, like two passengers upon a boat, each movement a shift in already-precarious balance, comes naturally. The providence of broken things, one might suppose. One blessing amidst the seemingly endless barrage of curses.

The line of her mouth shifts and he — ever more demonstrative, though in a more tempered way in these quieter moments — smiles outright, pleased that his offering is one she takes to. ]

Let's.

[ With that — and a little wiggle of his fingers — Astarion sets about digging out some of the spare linens tucked away in the room's shelves. ]

I only began to make camp relatively recently, [ he says, as he does. ] Even if the accommodations were less than plush, even with all of the danger that entailed — I suppose I found a certain joy in it.

[ A joy in choice, a joy in being away from that godforsaken manse. But that part of the equation, he keeps to himself as he takes a step back from the bed, arms full of fabric, mentally assessing the best way to go about putting together a little nest for the night. ]

—How long were you in the forests?

[ There's an implicit understanding, and Lauralae wonders how much of that stems from their natures (monstrous, as Matt called them, but in title if not in action, something more under their skin that offers them more than the horrors they are assumed to be) and how much of it might be from their places as companions in the same world. There is a unique bond that stems from that, and she does not wish to question it too far, fearing shattering it.

She has never been proficient at keeping friends. She does not wish to be proficient at losing them as well.

Making her way over, Lauralae begins to take some of the sheets and blankets, trying to mould a nest-like tent out of them as she listens to her friend speak. ]

I hated it. I grew up well, so the forest was strange to me, at first, but I find it better. There are no expectations, nothing except the world around. It was pleasant, for me, after everything.

[ And it meant less risk for herself, since all those she had befriended had been taken from her. Blood coated her hands.

Glancing at Astarion, hesitating over the blankets, she worries her lip before she sighs. ]

It has been... Perhaps eighty years. I may have lost count of the time.

[ The more they share with each other, the more he thinks he sees parallel paths. The privileged life (or at least, he thinks it must have been) he'd led when his life had still been his own, the abrupt change that the Szarr Palace had posed. The way the years slipped away.

Granted, it's a river that's mostly run one way — she's been more willing to share, more willing to trust him. Some part of him burns, at that; she shouldn't be. She should be more careful with her secrets, more careful with her heart. What good has trust and innocence ever won anyone? The question weighs more visibly on him than he thinks — a certain bowstring-straightness to his back as he hesitates, contemplating the piles of bedding they've gathered. ]

Even a day feels like an eternity, when the circumstances of it are out of your control.

[ His fingers brush her gloved ones as he takes the edge of one of the sheets from her, the touch careful and deliberate. As close as he's come to a comforting gesture, here.

Gently: ] What was your life like, before? Before the forest.

[ The touch of his fingers against her own, gentle and careful, is enough to inspire a flood of warmth inside of her. To be touched, even from behind the careful protection of her gloves, means more to her than she might be able to say with words, her heart aching from it. The urge to fold herself into his arms and not let herself go is too much, and she has to force herself to resist.

He is too kind to her. To take advantage of that kindness, and have him spurn her... It would be impossible to fathom.

Instead, she nods, as if all there was to concern herself with was following along the conversation, idle and monotone. ]

Before the forest?

[ She frowns. Before Myr, or before her curse? It's hard to parse what he might ask her for, so she goes back as far as her memory might take her. ]

I lived in the Feywild, in the Seelie court. My mother and father were whatever nobility might be found there, and I grew with them, as a guest upon the floor of the Queen. I was to be grown and wedded, as soon as I was of proper age.

[ A little princess. Her tale would be the envy of any bard and storyteller — a perfect tragedy borne upon the tides of changing fortunes. The kind of story every child wants to hear, the kind of story every child thinks they would adore to experience. But the reality of such things is, inevitably, much crueler than the tales make them out to be. ]

I think my mother and father wanted the same for me, [ he hums, the words delivered lightly enough that one might think he'd willingly share this with anyone else, too. ] To be married, that is. To live a respectable life. Well, I assume they did. I can't quite remember anymore.

[ He pauses, rising to the balls of his feet as he throws one end of a blanket over the posts of the bed. ]

If it was what they wanted, I didn't heed it, anyway.

[ He would have recalled, he thinks, if he'd left a husband or wife behind. ]

—Were you betrothed?

[ It is strange to admit that she had never been the kind of child to enjoy such idle stories, that she had not been of the ilk to wander into it and find such desires. She had always longed for power, for strength, to grow beyond the court; it had felt more like a prison than anything she had ever seen in the storybooks.

She had wanted to rise up and chase power, to be like the magic users in the histories. She did not expect the cost. ]

I did not heed it either.

[ What is respectable? Why does it matter, what parent wish for? Her own memory of them is foggy, but she does not know if that is because she chose to forget or if time had caused such a distance. It is not as if they cared much for her to begin with.

Walking around, she tucks some of the blankets and pillows around one another before she breathes out. ]

My parents had chosen one, I think, but I left before agreements could be made. I did not desire such a thing, not with a stranger. If I was to be with someone, it would be one I chose for myself.

[ She glances at Astarion, shy, cheeks a touch red. ]

When I was most small, I dreamed only of friendship.

Of course. To find oneself bound to a stranger for the rest of one's life does sound positively dreadful.

[ He meets her glance — and finds himself turning away as she does, perhaps afraid of acknowledging what such a look might mean. (She is a dear thing — the people in this house recognize that. He's seen it, in the company that she keeps. Any one of them, more demonstrative, kinder, better-suited to a lifetime's worth of company than someone like him.) ]

You've always been sweet, haven't you? [ A statement, really, rather than a question, in the way he delivers it.

A pause, then, as he circles the little tent they've made, inspecting it or any gaps, for anything that might improve it in some small way. Perhaps he ought to have fetched some food, but that would have required a little more forethought than either of them have really had the space to exercise. ]

What do you think, my dear? Does it need anything more?

[ Lauralae almost says something about knowing the sensation, being bound to the Archfey without consent nor consideration, but that seems a notion that might ruin the moment. Instead, she bites her tongue, almost literally, and focuses on the moment.

It is strange to her, to consider anyone friend, and were someone to ask who her friends in this place were she would hesitate to answer. There are people she is fond of - Luci, Alia, Matt, Astarion himself - but friendship? She would never dare to name any of the companions she has met here as such, as if being known as a friend of hers would be some form of ill blessing.

Instead, she frowns at Astarion, giving him what might be intended to be a stern look from under her lashes, but just comes across as a little bit of a pout with her expression. ]

I am not sweet. [ No one would ever call her that.

Climbing into their makeshift den, feeling strangely at home, Lauralae settles into it and curls up. The only thing missing is the comfort of his arms around her, but she doesn’t have the voice to ask for it. She’s quiet instead. ]

It is wonderful. You have my thanks, Astarion.

[ That look makes Astarion laugh — he can't help it. He'd be more cowed if he thought she were genuinely upset by the compliment, such as it is, but in this moment, all her reaction does is confirm what he already knows to be true. A sweet girl with a sweet nature, made to think otherwise by cruel circumstance. But he doesn't argue the point beyond that, simply nodding as though to say he'll agree with whatever she chooses to tell him.

His smile tempers itself a little as she crawls onto the bed, suddenly regretful that he hadn't had the time to fetch something for her to eat or drink, some further details that might have made her more comfortable. (He finds himself surprised, too, to have the thought at all. When was the last time he really cared, like this? He's been unlearning bad habits, over the past few months, but—) ]

Would you like me with you, for the night?

[ Perhaps he knows what it is she wants, perhaps he wants it himself; he finds it easier to give voice to, at least, and he understands the necessity of asking. Of making sure it's something they both want. ]

[ Her mouth drops open, and there's a brief moment where she looks as if she might say something, but then the words are processed in her mind and she snaps shut, the click of her teeth obvious. It was on her tongue to tell him that she would have him for more than the night; for the morning, too, and the wee hours between, when the silence becomes too much and his comfort is all she might dare ask for.

It is too intimate a thing to demand, too dangerous to bear herself so. Words are honour, truth, words have meaning, and a vow, a confession such as this would lie too heavy on her own shoulders. It is too much to place upon his, as well, to know how dearly she sees him and how she longs for his company, the man who promises to defend her at rest and chase away her nightmares.

Truly, he is too kind; she fears what it might mean, should he come to collect on such kindness.

Eventually, she manages to nod, shifting her weight and adjusting, offering one gloved hand out to him. ]

I would. It would please me, to have your companionship once more.

[ There is a version of him that exists — had existed — that would consider a debt owed. That would exact it from her at an opportune moment, because nothing in this life is ever truly given freely.

There is a version of him like that, but the version of him in the room with her, now — he sees that greediness, that cynicism, wavering behind him. The value that he puts upon kindness freely given cannot truly coexist with a desire to quantify it, to leech what he can from others. She would give it to him, he knows — whatever he asked, however great the cost. But he would not see her diminished in that way.

So he smiles, when she nods, toeing off his shoes — disappearing only briefly to turn off the lights — as he once again climbs into bed. (He wonders, idly, if she knows the nights they've spent at rest have been the longest he's ever allowed someone to touch him.) His hand finds hers as he pulls himself close to her, the light of the moon diffused through the sheets hung around them. ]

I'm here, little dove. As you fall asleep, and when you wake.

[ She does not know, of course, that the intimacy they share is as unique for him as it is for her, but it is welcomed all the same. Even with her gloves, she sometimes finds herself flinching from touch, backing away, the strangeness of limbs on her own novel and exciting. It instils fear in her, but when she is with Astarion, she does not think so much on it, does not let herself be stuck on her uncertainty.

The names he calls her are engraved upon her heart, foreign and fantastic all at once.

Leaning close, curling her body around his, both of them lithe, she relaxes. He might be able to feel how the tension bleeds out of her, the strange comfort of trust making her feeling as if she might well be able to rest properly.

She believes in his words. He will be here, for her, when she sleeps, when she wakes, when she needs him, and she would do the same for him. ]

If anything happens, wake me. I would help.

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