The fire had long since burned down to embers, casting the camp in a low, restless glow.

You found Astarion alone, crouched by a shallow pool at the edge of camp, the moonlight silvering the surface. He stared into it, motionless, as if willing something — anything — to look back at him.

But there was nothing. Just the water. Just the empty night.

You stayed silent for a moment, heart twisting painfully at the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

When he spoke, his voice was rough — cracked with anger he couldn’t quite hide.

“It’s maddening,” he hissed, not looking at you. “Not being able to see. Not knowing if I’m real, or just… some idea I’ve invented to survive.”

His reflection rippled away under a breeze, and he flinched back, teeth gritting.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” he said sharply, finally turning toward you, his eyes burning like coals. “To never know yourself?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but he shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him.

“Of course you don’t. You take it for granted — every glance in a mirror, every smile you recognize. And I—” His voice broke. He pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, as if trying to crush the emotion away. “I’m just guessing. Pretending.”

The anger drained out of him as quickly as it had risen, leaving him looking hollow, exhausted. Not much was said from him the rest of the night, except an “I’m going to rest now.” Before his head hit the bedroll. But you sat awake, your sketchbook balanced carefully on your knees, your fingers smudged with charcoal and focus.

You drew him.

Every line, every curve of his smile, the sharpness of his jaw, the softness hidden in the tilt of his brow. You poured into the page all the ways you saw him — not just handsome, but real. Not just beautiful, but whole.

It took you days to finish.

And then, one night, you found him standing alone under the stars.

He was looking up, his pale skin almost glowing in the silver light, his white hair stirred gently by the breeze. He looked impossibly ethereal — like he belonged among the constellations themselves.

You swallowed your nerves and approached quietly.

He turned as you neared, a familiar, guarded smile flickering across his lips. “Can’t sleep either, my dear?” he teased softly. But there was a tiredness underneath, a quiet sadness he couldn’t quite hide.

You shook your head, heart thundering, and held out the folded parchment to him.

“I… made something for you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Astarion blinked at the paper, cautious. Suspicious, even. Slowly, he reached out and took it from your hands, the brush of his fingers feather-light against yours.

He unfolded it carefully, the stars casting faint light across the page and scoffed. “Who is this? Some idea of that Prince Charming you’ve talked about in those ridiculous stories?”

“You said you couldn’t see yourself,” you said quietly, stepping closer. “So… I wanted to show you. It’s you Astarion.”

He stared at the drawing for a long moment, utterly silent. His mouth opened once — then closed, like he couldn’t find the words. Astarion’s hand trembled slightly as he traced the edges of the page, almost afraid he might ruin it.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he looked up at you, something raw and unguarded flashing across his face. “You think I look like this?” he asked, almost disbelieving.