its clear that astarion covers up his hurt with anger, as seen when you 'replace' him with another companion in act 3. he instantly backtracks and calls the entire relationship a mistake.
with that in mind, I wonder how he must've been feeling after you reject helping him in the ascension ritual and he storms off, wishing that you'd die screaming. i wonder how he felt when he comes back to his senses, finally free from the blood that was confusing his mind back in dungeon, and realizes that he is completely alone again, without the party, or the rest of the vampire spawn, or, hell, even cazador to go back to. i wonder how he felt when the party defeats the absolute, and what he must've thought when he realizes that he can no longer walk in the sun anymore. when his skin starts burning, he has no one to mend his wounds, say a soft word, or look after him.
do you think he keeps to himself in your old campsites, wishing he hadn't left? hugging his knees, wishing he could take back what he said? after a long time of traveling with others, do you think he can bear the emptiness that he becomes far too aware of every second he's awake? do you think he forces himself to get up when he hears the crowds chanting your name and the others, his feet stumbling over each other, in the desperate hope that he'd get to see your face and the others'? but perhaps, by the time he clumsily manages his way out, the parade has already passed by, and all he can do now is watch your dwindling figures from afar, as he's left behind in the shadows.
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Soff n spoopy idea for the spoopiest day!
You end up making a mask matching FL’s and he is just OVER THE MOON- you’re twinning for a day!
Plenty of face bonks for each other but he might end up snapping off one of the horns cause they’re just paper mache :’3
a day late for spooky day but this is still SO CUTE!!!
you start making the mask a couple weeks in advance- paper mache isn't exactly a fast thing to craft- Legacy often peering curiously over your shoulder. he nudges you, chirping questioningly, but you playfully refuse to tell him what you're making. slowly the mask comes together, the horns looking more pointed and the structure becoming sleek and sharp the longer you work. Legacy lets out a trill of utter delight when you finally paint and wear the mask, holding it up to your face with a laugh. you're like a tiny him!! headbumps are many and plentiful, even if they do eventually end with one of your carefully crafted horns breaking off. he feels so bad, whimpering and whining and pressing his head into your hands for forgiveness, but it's okay- you can just make it again next year!
however, if you don't feel like making the mask again, there is another option- Childe's Harbinger mask! it's even better if you can get your hands on one of his uniforms, so you can really scare people into thinking you're the Eleventh Harbinger. Legacy thinks it's hilarious and even gives you Childe's bow (without arrows) to carry around- it's a little surreal for the people who know about Foul Legacy to see you and him walking around, and once Legacy relinquishes control of Childe's body, the actual Eleventh Harbinger lifts the mask off your face and gives you a gentle kiss of appreciation
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[THURSDAY]
Buried Alive - Outlived Family - "Not growing old was fun at first, but then everyone around me started dying."
Hi! Hello! We're here, Late To The Event. Technically, we have plans for all these days! We only remembered this event was ongoing halfway through the week, and by then... well, you know how it is. Technically, this isn't fully compliant with the prompt, but it's close enough that we figure it counts, since outliving his entire family was actually slightly less impactful than outliving his husband for our boy.
Fic below the cut, and @species-whump-weekly we sincerely hope this isn't too late to count.
You have been asleep for long enough that you aren't even sure if he'll still be alive.
His swarm finds you before you find them.
Marina gasps when she sees you. She's years older, now - wings worn at the edges, shell thin and flimsy, aged far beyond the young butterfly you saw her as last.
She looks older than you ever have been. She looks older than you suspect you ever will be.
Her father, your friend – your paramour, your years-long companion – isn’t with her. You fear, for a moment, you’ve stumbled upon them too late. You nearly cringe away from the migration them and there, fearful of discovering yet another thing that’s slipped away while you hibernated.
But you don’t have the heart to walk away.
He’s been waiting for you.
He is old, and frail, and dying. You can taste the creeping end in his veins from the moment you step foot into the tent. His shell is pitted with age, now, cracked and chinked in places, brittle enough that you fear taking his hand will hurt him. Time has weathered him, his wings transparent and paper-thin around him, and you… you stay the same, looking just as young as the day you first met him on the stolen life of those who unearthed your grave.
“I knew you’d come back,” he tells you. “You wouldn’t die that easily.”
You hold his frail, trembling claw in both of yours. You aren’t sure how he can say that so confidently. He has always had more faith in you than you have in yourself.
He invites you to drain him.
You hesitate, at first. Every instinct you have picked up over your long, long life is screaming for you to run. To survive, to keep your secret- he knows, and it's against everything you've ever learned to remain, to let him speak, to not preserve your life-
He knows. But maybe he's known for a long, long time.
You take his offer. You take his life.
You know what it is that killed him the moment you bite. The magic of the wastes, the low hum that seeps into your bones, the constant background noise that sometimes threatens to tear you apart - it gathers within him, down to the deepest parts of his shell. There are lumps of flesh in his heart, his lungs, full of the same mind-jarring, skull-shattering buzz.
He has the wasteland sickness.
You think that, perhaps, he has had the wasteland sickness for a long time.
You drain him until he is dry, until every last flicker of the wasteland sickness is gone from his body, until he is stiff and his flesh holds the texture of jerky, and you let your fangs linger on his shrivelled veins until you can't bear to remain anymore.
You are sick, the next day.
And the day after that, and the day after that.
The buzz is in your bones, now - too close, too loud, rattling through your shell like a twisted beast. You have the wasteland sickness, stolen from his dying body, and it is trying to take you the way it took him.
You do not die.
You don't know if it's a blessing or a curse, anymore.
It is energy. It is vitality, the buzzing, throbbing pulse beyond the heart of a beast on a scale you cannot comprehend.
It is life force, and you can stomach it just the same.
A week passes. Two weeks. The symptoms slow, as you digest it. It becomes your life, your energy, it bends to keep you alive, it becomes you, while you lie weak and dizzy and throwing up blood.
It becomes you. You become it, in turn.
It is the last pulse of your husband, and you refuse to waste it.
You stumble out of the tent two weeks later, exhausted and bearing injuries you cannot see with your naked eyes. You are tired, and hurt, and you have burnt through most of the life you had, but you are alive.
His body is still waiting for you.
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