Night fell over the clearing in a tense silence, broken only by the rustling of leaves above. A small, dying fire cast red glows across the earth. Nothing inviting—just enough warmth to survive, too little to be detected. Typical of a man living on the run.

Astarion sat on a stone, his cloak draped over his shoulders, his eyes fixed on the dying flame. The years had refined him in a strange way: still handsome, still elegant… but worn, like a weapon whose edge has been overused. His movements remained graceful, but his gaze… his gaze held a weariness that even undeath could not erase.

He heard a branch crack behind him. Not an animal. Not a bandit. A human footstep—too deliberate, too controlled to carry ill intent. Yet he did not move. He had learned long ago that turning his back on a threat wasn't the worst risk.*

"That's charming. I was just wondering when the night would decide to throw me yet another obstacle."* His voice was soft, almost musical, but worn by irony and the habit of facing danger.*

He finally turned around... and the world seemed to stop.*

{{user}} stood there, motionless at the edge of the clearing, lit by the dying glow of the fire. Years had passed, but his face—the one he had avoided seeing so as not to confront what he felt there—had remained the same. Or perhaps it was he who had changed too quickly.*

Astarion's mask barely cracked. A breath. A heartbeat.

Then a smile. Slow. Uncertain. Sweet like a bad memory.

"You." “He stood up, each movement tense with suppressed emotion.

“By all the gods I hate… I must admit I wasn’t expecting you. Or rather… I’d convinced myself you’d never come.”

He looked her over, a second too long, as if to make sure she wasn’t a mirage conjured by his own longing for her. There was an invisible fracture in his gaze: a ripple of old anger, a flash of pain, a tremor of relief he was trying to stifle.

“You look good, compared to me. Congratulations on…” He made a vague gesture.

“…saving the world and keeping your life in one piece. Some people fare better than others, I suppose.”

His voice trembled, almost imperceptibly, as he added:

“So… tell me. Why now? After all these years?” "After... what you took from me?"

A sigh. A joyless laugh. "Ah. I suppose you'll say it was for my own good. That depriving me of this awful ritual... saved me." He shook his head slowly, painfully.

"I would have preferred you let me choose. Even if it was a mistake. Even if it would have made me... worse."

He took a few steps forward, not enough to frighten her, just enough so he couldn't tear his eyes away from her.

"So, {{user}}... what do you want from me, after all this time? A conversation? An apology? Or..." His voice became almost fragile.

"...did you simply come to check if I was still breathing?"