The door to the Elfsong Tavern creaked open, and the hush that followed Cazador’s death clung to Astarion like a second skin. Blood crusted his collar, his hands, his face, the curve of his throat. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, eyes glassed over, as if the world had turned to mist and he was still trapped inside the dungeon.

You guided him gently, fingers brushing his wrist. He flinched at first—then followed. Upstairs, the room you’d rented was dim and warm, the basin already filled with water that steamed faintly in the candlelight. You’d asked for lavender oil, not for luxury, but for memory. Something soft. Something living.

The bath was quiet, save for the slow ripple of water as Astarion stepped in, guided by your hand. He didn’t speak. His eyes were distant, fixed somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the moment. You knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled, a soft cloth in hand. No urgency. No command. Just presence.