Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion & callaern (OC)
Tags: post-canon, modern canon au, vampires, ritual suicide, cultists, philosophical
Wordcount: 3156
Notes: commissioned by sil | astarion was turned into a true vampire ignoring actual game mechanics bc i could, stfu

Summary:
astarion gets approached by a familiar face and asked about his purpose in life.

Excerpt:

"How are you holding up, after breaking up with that last sweet thing?”

The bottle didn’t slip out of Astarion’s grip, but it was a near thing. Its thick glass thudded loudly against the polished wood when he set it down, a tightness in his chest.

He narrowed his eyes at Callaern, but the vampire held his gaze without flinching.

“Such a horrible habit of yours, asking questions you already know the answer to.”

{ read here }

That night found Astarion sitting at the counter of a bar he liked, an expensive, quickly-emptying bottle at his elbow, and a broken heart unbeating in his chest.

He had lost many lovers to death and misunderstandings at this point, and yet with each his grief ran deep like the first time. He maybe had been alive for too long; no creature was meant to survive centuries — not even a vampire.

Some days, it felt like the memories melted in a long, silvery ribbon of blurry events, with bright spots of pain and pleasure knotted along it; and every new pain called back to every old pain, and every new pleasure called back to every lost pleasure…

He could have spared himself these meaningless games.

And yet.

He sighed, and drank some more liquor. Both taste and effects were inconsequential to his undead flesh, but there was a sort of empty relief in the gesture of pouring, sipping, draining, refilling glass after glass, feeling the kiss of ice against his lips.

The sounds of the environment washed over him when he closed his eyes—the clink of chilled glasses against each other, tumblers placed on wooden surfaces, the slightest hint of music in the background. And also: faint heartbeats, speeding up and slowing down with the lull of words and emotions, the rush of blood under the skin, the animal smell of living flesh and skin. Everything that Astarion lacked and, on some level, missed.

He sensed the vampire by the person-shaped emptiness moving across the room before he could hear the noise of their heels click-clacking on the polished floors, before he could hear them clear their voice just behind him.

“Is this seat taken…?” they purred, demure and soft-pitched.

Astarion didn’t need to look to know that their long elegant fingers were caressing the backing of the stool next to his. He didn’t turn around. He refused to give them the satisfaction, and focused on pouring himself another drink instead. Let them sulk, he sneered in his mind, feeling the disappointment almost radiating from his uninvited companion.

The vampire cleared their voice again. “I said—”

He scoffed. “Have you finally gone blind in your old age?”

“Astarion!” they gasped, a scandalised, exaggerated sound. “Your manners!”

“Oh, my apologies, was that rude? I was just expressing concern about objective facts,” Astarion replied, matching their honey-sweet affectation, the words slipping through his fangs like broken glass. “Isn’t community all about worrying for the most ancient of us, Elder?”

“You ungrateful little shit.” A sound of too-thin rubber scraping across the polished tiles, the squeak of the leather seat as they finally sat down with a huff. “It’s been a while since I came to visit, aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Ecstatic,” Astarion muttered to the bottom of his tumbler.

“You liar,” they reprimanded him without missing a beat, exasperated and fond. “If you must be such a rude goblin about it, at least look at me. I didn’t go through all the effort of squeezing into this skirt just for you to ignore me so entirely, you know.”

Astarion sighed and glanced at them. The slender drow wore a dark pencil skirt suit, a pair of uncomfortable-looking high heels and their silver hair had been carefully brushed and bundled in an elegant knot at the top of their head. Dainty pearl earrings adorned their lobes, complementing the outfit. They looked like an expensive business woman seeking to unwind after a long day of meetings, but the most feminine thing about them was the dangerous glint in their orchid-coloured eyes.

They smiled when they noticed Astarion looking, sharp fangs in full display. They struck a bit of a pose, ridiculous and vain as always. “So, tell me. How do I look?”

“Stunning, obviously,” Astarion bit out, feigning reluctancy, even if he sincerely meant it. “Must be all the ass-kissing you get from your minions—better than a face lift, no doubt.” He felt himself break character mid-quip, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Despite feeling aggravated for having to deal with them, he was glad to see them. Just a tiny bit. Not that he would admit it out loud, ever. “Hello Callaern.”

“Hello, you rude, horrible child,” Callaern replied, shaking their head. “Fishing for compliments from you is like drawing blood from a corpse. Life-draining.”

“Good thing we’ve been both dead for a long time, then.”

Callaern clicked their tongue. “You’re for sure looking the part. You look terrible, dear. You’re even paler than usual, have you been eating properly?”

Astarion avoided their violet stare, looking over their shoulder as if searching for something. “Where did you leave the husband? I believed you guys fused at the hip.”

“He doesn’t like this sort of establishment.” Callaern tapped a sharp claw against Astarion almost empty glass. “Me, on the other hand—”

Astarion got the hint and flagged the bartender down for another glass and more spirit. “So what, you left him in the car like a dog?” he laughed.

“He doesn’t mind. You’re avoiding the question.”

“Nothing gets past you.” He thanked the man behind the counter with a nod, then started pouring. “Ask more, I am trying to get better at ignoring them.”

Callaern tilted their head, lips pursed. “Sure, here’s a fun one. How are you holding up, after breaking up with that last sweet thing?”

The bottle didn’t slip out of Astarion’s grip, but it was a near thing. Its thick glass thudded loudly against the polished wood when he set it down, a tightness in his chest.

He narrowed his eyes at Callaern, but the vampire held his gaze without flinching.

“Such a horrible habit of yours, asking questions you already know the answer to.”

Callaern grinned at that, pleased at their skill.

It was hard to get things past their attention. Astarion used to believe that a vampire’s true sire could read into their offspring’s minds—but now that he had spawns of his own, he knew that it was no power at all; just a matter of careful observation, pattern recognition, and lucky, educated guesses. He had never had the knack nor the interest to develop that sort of trick, but Callaern had mastered it to such a point, Astarion sometimes wondered if they had been a spy in a previous life.

He clicked his tongue. “For the record, that’s me calling you meddlesome and insufferable.”

“Aw, don’t be like that!” Callaern cooed, uncrossing their legs so they could scoot even closer and touch two gentle fingers to the inside of Astarion’s elbow. “I thought you might want to talk about it with a friend.”

Astarion shook their hand off. “You thought wrong.” He gritted his teeth, then forced his jaw to relax. “Since when does the outcome of my romantic liaisons concern you?”

“Why, can’t a sire be worried about his favourite spawn anymore?”

“Your only spawn,” Astarion muttered.

“The only one left.” Callaern agreed. “The point still stands.”

The way they spoke gave Astarion pause. Because of the kind of person they were, Callaern always tended to sound like they were on a stage, performing in front of hundreds of people; right then, the mask had dissolved, the accent had disappeared.

They sounded serious and direct, like they did centuries ago, when they had offered Astarion to join the coven they called “the Greenhouse”: a chance at true vampirehood, and a community that saw undeath not as the trappings of a non-existence but as a freedom from the boundaries of time. Compensation for all that Cazador had done and taken from him: a new start, a sense of kinship, and a purpose.

The echo of that kindness softened him, despite everything. “Say your piece and kindly get lost, Calla. As you can imagine, I’m not quite fit for company right now.”

Callaern put their hand on Astarion’s arm again — a real gesture of comfort now, heavy and present against his skin even through the material of his shirt. “Listen, believe it or not, it hurts me to see you suffer so. And it hurts me seeing you stumble around, tumbling from relationship to relationship senselessly.” They hesitated, thumb tracing a pattern on his sleeve. “You haven’t given up on finding your purpose, haven’t you?”

All the time in the world to find your place, realise yourself in it, and die: that was the way of the true vampires that thrived under the Greenhouse beliefs. One could be anything, as long as it did not hurt their kin or the world; one could take as long as they wished, as long as they were always seeking and growing.

As long as they aimed for the sun.

Astarion twitched, as if he could push the thought out of his mind. “Have you ever heard someone’s purpose to be just wanting to live their fucking life?” he blurted.

Callaern startled. Astarion flinched, immediately regretting his phrasing. “I apologise, that was rude. I know this isn’t just about me, Callaern.” He covered their hand with his, trying to convey that he truly wasn’t trying to be a brat anymore.

He so hated to feel scared.

The other vampire didn’t look offended, though. “You don’t have to worry about me, Astarion. I may not be your true sire, but since that night, when I decided to take you in as if you were mine, I sealed us under the promise that I would be taking care of you, like I vowed to do for all my spawn.” They shifted so they could entangle their fingers with his. “I am here for you. This is why I am here. I will always be.”

It wasn’t the first time Callaern had told him that, but it never failed to make Astarion’s throat go tight. That sort of commitment was at the root of Callaern’s purpose — to never leave their spawns without guidance. It had made him feel trapped, at times, and at times it had been just what he had needed.

Callaern had been there for Astarion when, after the true bite, he had gone to meet his old companions and found a group of polite strangers instead; it had been nice to catch up, but the bond they had shared during their mindflayer parasite adventure had turned into something brittle, if mellow. A memory, fond and treasured, belonging to a past that wasn’t meant to come back.

Halsin alone among them had seemed to sympathise, maybe more used to the struggles of a long lifetime of twisting fates, and had been willing to keep Astarion company; despite the druid’s lifestyle not being compatible with the vampire’s shadows, their visits had been heartfelt and comforting for as long Halsin had been alive to welcome him. Life had been good then; he had enjoyed how alive it had felt. But again, he would have missed out on it entirely if it hadn’t been for Callaern encouraging him to go looking for the druid over and over.

Astarion swallowed thickly, fingers gripping tightly around his sire’s for a moment, before pulling away.

“What if my purpose was just to live? To be. That’s all that I ever wanted to do. Walking into the sun will put an end to this existence— what if my purpose in life is not to do that?” He looked at Callaern and found them pale, their expression faint. “I am not trying to be— blasphemous here,” he amended. “I am truly at my wit’s end. You’ve seen all I’ve done—”

He had tried turning to the study of law again, trying to find the spark of his magistrate days; but then books didn’t appeal to him anymore. When he heard that his own existence had alerted the coven of the existence of other vampires like Cazador —cruel, heartless creatures who exploited their spawn for their own selfish purposes—and that it had created the wish of finding and vanquishing such beings in many members of the Greenhouse he had joined in the effort for a while; but witnessing others living in the same conditions he’d been for so long only made old pains fresh rather than bringing a sense of accomplishment.

He had attempted his own shot at being a sire — a just one, like Callaern had been to him. He had chosen a mortal, turned him into a spawn, given him the Bite when it was time. He had given guidance every step of the way, sharing the teachings he had received. His offspring ended up finding and fulfilling his purpose soon, choosing to Walk even before Astarion had made up his mind about the whole experience. It left a void in his experience. He never tried again.

He spent a century killing, his craving for blood the only thing that made sense. And then he spent a century fucking, his craving for touch making him yearn for companionship. Countless bodies left in his wake, and his heart emptier after each of them. “I tried everything, Callaern,” he murmured, choking on his own voice.

A spiderweb of silence stretched between them, fractured and frail. Before Astarion could come up with anything to break it, Callaern cleared their throat.

“My sire— she fulfilled her purpose only a decade after she gave me the Bite.” Once again, their words were bared, devoid of any accent or affectation.

Astarion listened, frozen. He had never heard Callaern talk about this before.

“I still remember the feeling of the bond between us disappearing,” they continued, “like a dying star, shining the brightest for a moment before vanishing in the dark. You probably know what I’m talking about.”

Astarion nodded, mutely. It was a long time ago, but he remembered killing Cazador like it happened hours before— that clean fire burning through him, fueling his anger and his strength as he sank the blade in the body of his Master over and over.

“That experience shocked me,” Callaern continued. Their smile didn’t reach their eyes. “It shouldn’t have, but it did. I was the only drow in the coven back then, and still uncertain about my role within the House. Losing one of the few people that seemed to really accept me plunged me into a very deep loneliness. My nights were consumed with resentment for her, for having left me without guidance.”

“So you swore to yourself you weren’t going to do that to your spawn,” Astarion murmured, seeing the picture painted by their recollection.

“Among other things,” Callaern conceded, lightly. “But mostly I regretted judging her. She even gave us the last goodbye before Walking—not many get to do that. I still got angry at her, instead of celebrating her like I was supposed to.”

Something twisted in Astarion’s guts, familiar. “You were grieving.”

“I was being unfair,” Callaern dismissed his appalled remark. “I couldn’t accept that she had fulfilled her purpose, and I made it a problem for each of the few souls that were close to me.” They took a deep breath. “Versyn grieved with me, for me. It hurt him so much seeing me suffer, he ended up swearing he would only Walk after me. He made his purpose to help me fulfill mine.”

Astarion swallowed around nothing, thickly.

“I was very touched by it at the time,” Callaern kept going, maybe pretending to be unaware of Astarion’s growing unease. “I was young and I was selfish, and I believed it very romantic to have my lover’s destiny to mine. I didn’t give it much thought—I loved Versyn. I still do. The night feels as bright as the sun, while I’m with him.”

He smiled softly, gaze distant with memories. “We spent so long living like in a fairytale, raising our spawn together as a unit. And then we watched them find their conclusion, one by one, until only one remained.” Their pink eyes focused again, and pierced Astarion. “I wasn’t sure I was going to find you.”

The odd remark startled a chuckle out of Astarion. “Where would I go?” he snarked, and then something in Callaern’s gaze froze the amusement on his face. “Oh. Did you think— I wouldn’t.”

“I know that, now, but I’ve seen more than one vampire take the Walk before their time. The Coven doesn’t like talking about it, but it can happen.”

Astarion shook his head vehemently. “My heart does feel empty and broken right now. I am struggling to think about tomorrow, and yet—” He licked his lips, feeling them dry out with that strange fervor. “By the gods, something about it feels right. I want to feel like this. These relationships, the good, and the bad, and— I want them. I want to live.” He thought about surviving on rats and his Master’s pity, and shuddered. “I didn’t have a choice before.”

The beat of silence this time felt heavier; if Astarion’s heart could beat, it would have been hammering out of his chest. He watched Callaern’s long, elegant fingers as they absently stroked shapes into the perspiration clinging to their glass, their beautiful face unmarred by expression like a statue’s, and wondered what sort of lecture the elder vampire was carefully composing in their mind.

He did not expect them to smile softly, life touched into their features again.

“I’m being selfish again,” they whispered, “but it warms my heart to see how attached you are to your existence, Astarion. It truly does.”

“Why selfish?” Astarion asked, puzzled. “I thought you would be mad at me,” he finally blurted. “I’m the only thing keeping you from the sun.”

“You’re the only thing keeping Versyn from the sun,” Callaern corrected, softly.

Oh.

Astarion watched the sire that had chosen him turn away in quiet shame. The admission of blasphemy had somehow stripped the centuries from their graceful frame, and Astarion could see in them the gangly young vampire, scared of being left alone, that they must have been once upon a time, grieving for their Mistress.

As softly as he could, Astarion dragged his stool over next to Callaern’s, so that they were as close as they could possibly be. He took his time to pour a few generous fingers of liquor in each of their glasses, and took a deep breath.

“I am sorry, Lady Callaern,” he started dramatically, a veneer of fake-formality resonating in his voice. “I don’t think I have found my purpose yet, after all.”

His sire glanced at him, perplexed.

Astarion smiled brightly, and slid the fresh drink in their hand. “Yes, you’ll have to forgive me. But I promise I shall keep looking. Maybe for a couple centuries.”

Confusion cleared from Callaern’s expression. “My, Astarion. A couple centuries?”

“You’re right, I don’t trust myself to succeed so quickly. Make that five.” He grinned, offering his glass. “Do you think you might be able to hold out that long?”

Callaern finally picked up their glass. “I’ll take my chances,” they replied, brightly. Then, softly, as they clinked their own gently against his. “To a long life.”

A warmth spread in Astarion’s chest as he toasted back. “To a long life.”