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#the black saint and the sinner lady

pazzesco · 8 months

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Moanin'

Better Git It In Your Soul

Haitian Fight Song / Hog Callin’ Blues

Track A - Solo Dancer

Track B - Duet Solo Dancers

Track C - Group Dancers

Mode D - Trio and Group Dancers

Pithecanthropus Erectus

Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting

Pussy Cat Dues

Cover art for Charles Mingus: Mingus Ah Um, 1959. Columbia Records by: Neil Fujita

I selected Fujita's "3 Figures" as the cover for this jukebox. Info about him is attached to the cover.

Psychoactivelectricity’s Jukebox Guide

The Mini-Jukebox Page

Click -> HERE <- for an updated Guide to the Mini-Jukeboxes

#mini jukebox #charles mingus #mingus #the black saint #ah um #The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady #Blues & Roots #blues #roots #sinner lady #bass #pithecanthropus erectus #jazz

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jazzdailyblog · 6 days

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Charles Mingus: Jazz Icon and Musical Visionary

Introduction: Charles Mingus, a towering figure in jazz, was more than just a virtuoso bassist and composer—he was a visionary whose music transcended genres and boundaries. Born one hundred and two years ago today on April 22, 1922, in Nogales, Arizona, Mingus grew up in Watts, Los Angeles, where he was exposed to music at an early age. Despite his mother’s insistence on only allowing…

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#Beneath the Underdog #Buddy Collette #Charles Mingus #Dinah Washington #Duke Ellington #Jazz Bassists #Jazz Composers #Jazz History #Lionel Hampton #Louis Armstrong #Orval Faubus #Red Callender #The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady

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diceriadelluntore · 11 months

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Storia di Musica #279 - Charles Mingus, The Black Saint And The Sinner Lady, 1963

Jimmy Knepper è stato uno dei più grandi trombonisti del jazz. Dopo una straordinaria “gavetta” nei locali più famosi di tutti gli stati uniti negli anni ‘40, suonando nelle più prestigiose orchestre, a metà anni ‘50 ha l’incontro della sua vita, quello con Charles Mingus. Mingus lo scrittura per moltissimi lavori ma, come si è già detto nella storia precedente, Mingus aveva un rapporto quantomeno singolare con i suoi collaboratori: non rare erano le urla durante i concerti perchè non suonavano come voleva lui, le liti, le mani addosso. Ma con Knepper successe qualcosa di inaudito. Inizio anni ‘60, dopo il grande successo di Mingus Ah Um, il grande contrabbassista suona prima con il suo mito Duke Ellington in Money Jungles (1960, immenso capolavoro anche con la collaborazione di Max Roach) e poi inizia una proficua collaborazione con Eric Dolphy, con cui c’era anche una sorta di amicizia spirituale, non nuova nelle relazioni di Mingus ma sempre piuttosto movimentate: faranno insieme un leggendario tour europeo, poi si divisero perchè Dolphy rimarrà nel Vecchio Continente, dove morirà in circostanze mai del tutto chiarite nel 1964 a Berlino, ad appena 36 anni. Knepper lo segue ovunque, e sta preparando con lui i brani per un concerto presso la Town Hall di New York. Parlando del lavoro da fare, Mingus chiese a Knepper di suonare diversamente un assolo, ma al rifiuto di Jimmy, successe l’incredibile: si scaraventò sul trombonista, e con un pugno lo colpì sul viso, rompendogli un dente e rovinandogli l'imboccatura, che per un trombettista significava smettere di suonare come una volta (ci vorranno anni per il ritorno di Knepper al trombone, nonostante ciò dovette cambiare stile e perse per un certo periodo la totale estensione del suo strumento). Knepper non fece finta di niente e lo trascinò in tribunale. Lì successe una cosa che spiega benissimo il carattere del nostro Charles: nonostante il suo avvocato lo supplicasse di stare in silenzio, Mingus sbuffava ogni volta che il Giudice lo definiva musicista jazz, alche Mingus chiede al giudice: “Non mi chiami musicista jazz. Per me la parola jazz significa negro, discriminazione, cittadinanza di serie B e tutta la storia del dover stare in fondo all’autobus”. Fu condannato ad un anno con la condizionale. Ma il rapporto Knepper Mingus non finì certo qui). Eppure Mingus continua a sperimentare, ed è sempre un grandioso musicista: lo dimostrano dischi come Charles Mingus Presents Charles Mingus e Oh Yeah (scritti tra il 1960 e il 1961, appena prima della lite con Knepper). Ma qualcosa è rotto, e il famoso concerto per le cui prove picchiò Knepper alla Town Hall fu un fiasco colossale, fu persino fischiato. Mingus sente che è tempo di pensare a sé e fa una decisione straordinaria: sull’orlo di una sorta di crisi personale, di sua spontanea volontà si ricovera al Bellevue Hospital per farsi curare nel reparto psichiatrico. Lì conosce il dottor Edmund Pollock, che diviene il suo psicoterapeuta e che scriverà le note del libretto del disco di oggi, uno dei più grandi capolavori del jazz: The Black Saint and The Sinner Lady. Registrato in una sola, incredibile giornata di registrazioni, il 20 gennaio 1963 a New York con l’ausilio del grande produttore Bob Thiele, Mingus ha in mente un album, parole sue, di ethnic folk-dance music. Con una band di 11 elementi scrive un concerto pensato per un balletto, che piuttosto che alla grazia del corpo e dell’armonia musicale ha una propria e dirompente natura politica, per delineare le tappe della emancipazione afro-americana, diviso in 4 suite (che hanno un titolo ed un sottotitolo e la cui quarta parte ha 3 sotto sezioni), di 40 minuti, dove rielabora la musica pianistica, il blues, brani da dance hall sofisticate, addirittura la musica andalusa in un continuum sonoro senza soluzione di continuità trascinante e incredibilmente emozionante. Solo Dancer accende la miccia, tra una batteria che ispirerà persino la funk music anni ‘70, e un volo di sax leggendario; Duet Solo Dancers ha un interludio clamoroso di chitarra; Trio Dancers è un complesso, e magnifico, gioco tra orchestra e sax trombone, che davvero richiama il tanto odiato free jazz per la sua aerea composizione; Trio and Group Dancers è l’apoteosi, 18 magici, ipnotici e trascinanti minuti di pura potenza mingusiana, un vulcano in piena, nello stile incredibile e forsennato di un genio. Il Dottor Pollock scrive in copertina:”Mingus ha qualcosa da dire e usa qualsiasi cosa per far interpretare il suo messaggio (…) la sua musica è un appello all’amore, al rispetto, alla reciproca accettazione e comprensione, libertà e amicizia”. Costantemente tra i dischi più belli della storia del jazz, è una parentesi di genio in un periodo di profondissimo disagio: iniziò a litigare con chi lo chiamava Charlie, gli organizzatori, i proprietari dei Club (sfasciò un faro di illuminazione al Village Vanguard che divenne una sorta di reliquia per gli avventori)i critici e ovviamente il free jazz. Per un certo periodo decise di non suonare più, e si rintanò nel suo appartamento: finì per essere sfrattato e lui trasformò quel mesto trasloco in una semidelirante manifestazione affidata ad un cineasta che lo riprendeva (Thomas Reichman) e accompagnata da lettere indirizzate a papa Paolo VI, il Presidente Lyndon Johnson, Charles De Gaulle per accusare l’FBI di averlo sfrattato. La situazione peggiorò moltissimo quando scoprì di avere il morbo di Gerhing, che ben presto lo costrinse alla sedia a rotelle. Tra coloro che lo andarono a trovare, c’era pure un trombettista a cui una volta ruppe un dente. Lo aveva perdonato.

#charles mingus #the black saint and the sinner lady #1963 #recensione

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zooptseyt · 1 year

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4.5 minutes into this is just about the best thing anybody ever did.

#jazz #charles mingus #the black saint and the sinner lady

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soracities · 2 years

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When hard rain comes, you learn / quick. You straighten your shoulders and hope / this is better than touching.

Morgan Parker, from “The Black Saint & The Sinner Lady & The Dead & The Truth”, pub. Harper’s

#q #lit #quotes #poetry #morgan parker #the black saint & the sinner lady & the dead & the truth #this too sullied flesh #m #x

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statiifilia · 11 months

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The Black Saint & The Sinner Lady & The Dead & The Truth Adjust, by MORGAN PARKER

For one thing, I hate stillness. On the front porch, waiting, I see an animal I don’t recognize:

feet of a bird, wings of a leaf. The grotesqueness of attachment, the loudness of the woods, I knew it

when I was dead before. I died for my sins and because of this, I am in the woods now,

aching. It is June. I am used to being a certain kind of alone. Soon my photosynthesis

will complete, and I will be the gap between Angela Davis’s teeth. Do you ever

love something so much you become it? Like how when hard rain comes, you learn

quick. You straighten your shoulders and hope this is better than touching.

I say casual death , and the half-moon is my enemy, some uncertain white girl.

I wish I didn’t care. I am myself shaking hands, so subtle no one notices.

Sometimes, it’s my rib cage, or my throat does the same damn thing as my skull,

the little bear inside it. Please don’t make me repeat myself.

#The Black Saint & The Sinner Lady & The Dead & The Truth Adjust #Morgan Parker #poetry

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actually-the-sun · 2 years

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stoic and solemn elderly jazz scholar, discussing Charles Mingus' landmark 1963 album The Black Saint And the Sinner Lady, not missing a beat: he put his whole mingussy into this one,

#music #jazz #charles mingus #charles mingus - the black saint and the sinner lady

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aridante · 2 years

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the black saint & the sinner lady & the dead & the truth, morgan parker // the truth the dead know, anne sexton.

#words #morgan parker #anne sexton #comparatives #*#w*

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metamorphesque · 11 months

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musings on June

1.anne sexton ("the truth the dead know"), 2. anne sexton ("suicide note poem"), 3. mary oliver ("august"), 4. l.m. montgomery ("anne of the island"), 5. morgan parker ("the black saint & the sinner lady & the dead & the truth"), 6. found poems: sylvia plath / peter k. steinberg ("percy key among the narcissi") artwork by hugo grenville

buy me a coffee

#web weavings #june #summer #art parallels #parallels #quotes #literature #classic literature #anne sexton #mary oliver #l m montgomery #morgan parker #sylvia plath #hugo grenville #art #paintings #cw suicide mention #nature

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llovelymoonn · 11 months

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on june

emily dickinson complete poems of emily dickinson: “all these my banners be” (via @soracities) \\ annette wynne why was june made? \\ pablo neruda one hundred sonnets \\ virginia woolf the waves \\ l.m. montgomery anne of the island (via @metamorphesque) \\ sylvia plath the unabridged journals of sylvia plath, 1950-1962 \\ mahmoud darwish a river dies of thirst \\ emily dickinson complete poems of emily dickinson: “ourselves were wed one summer--dear--” (via @soracities) \\ philip larking cut grass \\ morgan parker magical negro: “the black saint & the sinner lady & the dead & the truth”

support this blog

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on-poetry · 2 years

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“It is June. I am used to being a certain kind of alone.“

“The Black Saint & The Sinner Lady & The Dead & The Truth“ by Morgan Parker, in Harper’s Magazine

#poetry #june

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ecoamerica · 24 days

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 7 months

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Saints Are Sinners Too

Summary: Y/N has some confessing to do.

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Smut - this is just all smut. Pretty much zero plot to this porn. Blowjob, face fucking, deep throating, rough fingering, spanking (very minor).

** This fic is about Priest!dean and Nun!reader. They're undercover, and not actual members of the clergy. Nevertheless, it's probably obvious that there is a LOT of sacrilegious imagery, dialogue and situations in this one. So, be warned. **

Pairings: Priest!Dean Winchester x Nun!reader

Word Count: 1,427

A/N: This fic came about as a response to this post, and this post. It will also be used to fill my first square on my @jacklesversebingo card. The square I will be filling is "Does it turn you on that we might get caught?" The quote will be bolded in the fic. Hope you all enjoy my smutty offering.

Gotta go confess now. 😁

The beautiful divider at the bottom was created by @talesmaniac89. Title card above and gif below were created by me.

“Forgive Me Father, I’m about to sin.”

“Y/N?” Dean’s surprised whisper came through the thin wall that separated the priest from the petitioner.

“Nope, I’m just a sinner here in need of forgiveness.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean asked.

Seconds later, Y/N opened the door to his side of the confessional and walked into the incredibly small, crowded space.

He frowned up at her as she shut the door behind her, dimming the light inside the tiny box once again. “You’re supposed to be searching the rectory for the bone of a saint. And I can’t very well get confessions of evil out of our would-be suspects if you’re in here with me.”

Y/N pulled a little bag out of a hidden pocket within her borrowed nun’s habit. Inside the bag was a small white bone. “Got it already.” She said, turning mischievous eyes on him. “What about you? Heard any sinful confessions?”

Dean shook his head. “No, just a couple old ladies confessing to cheating at bingo, and getting drunk on church wine.”

Y/N snickered and then sank to her knees between Dean’s open legs, biting her lip as she reached out and pushed aside his black jacket before popping open the button on his pants. Dean’s expression was equal parts lust and worry. “Y/N, what are you doing?”

“Confessing my sins, Father.”

“Y/N, we can’t do this here, they’ll - “ Dean’s words trailed off into a moan as Y/N pulled down his zipper and stuck her hand inside to grip him through his underwear..

“Shh.” Y/N admonished. “Gotta keep quiet or they’ll hear you.”

“Y/N.” Dean tried again, but she pulled his briefs down far enough to let his hardening cock spring free, and he bit into his lush bottom lip to stifle another groan.

“Don’t you wanna hear my confession?” Y/N asked, her voice and expression all innocence.

Dean nodded absently, all his attention focused on not yelling out loud as she sucked one of his balls into her mouth and rolled it around on her tongue. She gave the same attention to the other one before licking a stripe up the underside of his cock.

Dean’s hard fingers were dug deep into the padded bench he was sitting on, and the veins in his neck bulged as he strained to stay quiet.

“My confession, Father, is that I’ve been lusting after you all day. Since the second I walked into the motel room this morning and saw you dressed like this, all I’ve been able to think about was this moment. All I’ve wanted is to get on my knees and show you heaven.”

With that she took him all the way down her throat, swallowing him in one go. Dean sank his hand into her hair and yanked it. “Fuck, Y/N, fuck.” He whispered, strained and desperate.

Y/N came off of him, breathing hard, cum and spit running down her chin. She used her mouth to spread it up and down his dick before taking him in her hand, squeezing tight and pumping him hard. She watched his jaw clench, as he breathed harshly through his teeth, and she felt her panties flood.

Her voice was thick as she reached under the black skirts she wore and rubbed herself over the damp cotton. “Does it turn you on that we might get caught? Hmm?” She asked as she kitten-licked the angry, purplish head of his straining cock. “Is it making you hard to know there’s only a thin door keeping us from being seen? That any minute someone could walk into the booth and see us through that partition.”

She nodded up at the open wicker grating that allowed light to seep in from the other side of the confessional. With jerky movements, Dean reached over to yank closed the tiny curtain that covered the window.

Y/N chuckled darkly. “That’s not gonna help much.” She said, gently squeezing his balls and making another harsh and entirely too loud moan leak out of Dean’s beautiful lips.

“Please Y/N, goddamn.” He mumbled nonsensically, sweat dotting his forehead as Y/N pushed down on him again, taking him completely, but gagging a bit this time. “Fuck.” Dean cried out hoarsely as he took her head between his hands. She looked up at him from where she was sunk onto his cock, and saw the desperate question for her in his eyes.

“Mmhmmm.” She answered around him, knowing what he was asking, her mouth watering in anticipation.

Gripping her head tightly, he pulled her back, so she only kept the tip of him between her lips. Then he hammered his hips forward, fucking her face hard and deep. Over and over he hit the back of her throat raising a gluck, gluck sound as she choked around him. He pulled out of her mouth completely and she pulled harsh breaths into her abused throat.

They weren’t being very quiet anymore, but she couldn’t care. She hoped the booth was far enough away, and the soft organ music playing over the church speakers would drown them out at least a little. But she was too far gone to stop, whatever the consequences.

She continued to work her clit as Dean began ravaging her face once again. When he pushed deep down her throat, she slipped two fingers inside herself and stared up at him, rapturously. His broad, powerful chest was heaving as he fought off his climax. His lips formed an O and he pushed air between them harshly, desperately trying to control himself.

Finally, he pushed on the back of her head so that she was smashed tight against him, every inch of his thick cock filled her mouth and stretched her esophagus. Then his face contorted and he was spilling down her throat, fast and hot. She swallowed around his cock, trying to gulp it all down, but she couldn’t and as he pushed her off of him so she could breathe again, she coughed hard, spit and cum spilling down her chin and onto the habit she wore. Still breathing harshly, Dean grabbed her upper arms and wrenched her up off the floor. Barely managing it in the tiny space, he swapped places with her so that she was now standing in front of the bench.

Rather than sitting her down on it, however, Dean spun her around so she faced the back wall of the confessional and pushed against her back, forcing her to bend over. Seconds later he had her black skirts rucked up around her waist and her panties down around her ankles. Y/N just barely managed to stifle a shrill scream of pleasure as he sank two fingers deep into her cunt. He fucked her hard with them, pulling out of her only once to give two loud and stinging slaps to her bare ass.

She moaned deep, long past caring about being found out as he buried his fingers, three of them this time, back into her slick and throbbing pussy. He was knuckle deep and then he pulled out and shoved them back inside again, rocketing his fingers into her body hard enough that the little box surrounding them shook slightly.

He knew she was incredibly close; all he had to do was press his fingers against the secret sweet spot he knew how to find every time. He pressed there and Y/N gulped air into her lungs for a scream, but he took his free hand and clamped it over her mouth just in time. Her slick cunt clenched powerfully around his fingers at the same time that she bit into the palm of his hand in an attempt to lessen the noise of her climax. Dean gritted his teeth as he buried his face in the side of her neck.

Her body shuddered and shook as her high ebbed away. Dean pulled his hand out of her body, dropping her skirts back down and pulling his pants back up, before shifting them both slightly so that she was sitting in his lap. They put their foreheads together and shared breath as they tried to stop their hearts from hammering.

Dean smiled at her and licked his lips. “Well, son of a bitch, sweetheart - you’re absolved.” Y/N snorted and grinned at the dubious pardoning. Dean frowned quizzically and looked around the itty bitty wooden box.

“Now, do you know a back way out of this place?”

1 - Jensen RPF + Any/All characters Jensen plays. @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @impalaslytherin @maggiegirl17 @akshi8278 @candy-coated-misery0731 @deanswaywardgirl @slytherinlyn314 @globetrotter28 @jensensgirl @perpetualabsurdity @tristanrosspada-ackles @djs8891 @muhahaha303 @kayyay1219 @emily-winchester @recoveringpastaaddict @maximumkillshot @mimaria420 @sacriceria @envyaurora95 @lacilou @jc-winchester @spnwoman @mimi-luvzyu

2 - Dean Winchester Fics Only. @carryonwaywardgirl

3 - Any/All Fics (regardless of fandom/character.) @kazsrm67 @sexyvixen7 @alexxavicry @nancymcl @spalady26

4 - Everything (includes fan vid/DOOL edits as well) @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men @maliburenee @supernatural4life2022 @spn730015 @kickingitwithkirk @waywardbaby @foxyjwls007 @deanwanddamons @deandreamernp @deanwithscissors @myloversgone @snowlovespie @leigh70 @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @charred-angelwings @hopefuldreamers-world @jensensgotyoudean @thoughts-and-funnies @magssteenkamp @princessmisery666 @eevvvaa @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @waynes-multiverse @mrsjenniferwinchester @bernasaurus @jensenslady79 @courtn92 @avanatural @ellie-andthemachine @this-is-me19 @roseblue373 @katbratsupernaturalwhore @fanfic-n-tabulous

#dean winchester #dean x reader #dean x y/n #jacklesversebingo23 #dean winchester smut #priest!dean

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acupofqueercoffee · 1 year

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Everything I’ve written

Bleach

➞ Unohana Retsu ✿ Unohana Yachiru

A match made in heaven

u.r x female shinigami reader ▸ soulmates / light angst / fluff

A healer, a lover, a killer

u.r x female reader ▸ gore / hurt-comfort / fluff

Forevermore

u.r x female reader ▸ birthday ficlet / short / simple / sweet

Arcane

➞ Ambessa Medarda

Save me once and I’ll save you forever (loosely interrelated one-shots)

a.m x female reader ▸ gore / angst / hurt-comfort / fluff / smut

Everything comes full circle

I am, darling, yours

A wolf has no mercy

Marked me like a blood stain

Love and hate, how much more are we supposed to tolerate?

a.m x female reader ▸ angst

Saint, I’m a sinner

gorgon a.m x blind female reader ▸ smut

Resident Evil Village

➞ Alcina Dimitrescu

Your lips were soft like winter

a.d x female reader ▸ angst

Star-crossed

siren a.d x female reader ▸ angst

➞ Donna Beneviento

Giving you all my love

d.b x white fox reader ▸ hurt-comfort / fluff / a hint of a smut

Where it’s so sweet and heavenly

Touch me with a kiss, feel me on your lips

Dear stranger (Donna)

d.b x female reader ▸ self-indulgent hurt-comfort

The School for Good and Evil

➞ Lady Lesso

So deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me

l.l x ever reader ▸ angst / hurt-comfort / fluff

l.l x ever reader ▸ light angst / jealous-possessive-protective leo / fluff / a sprinkle of spice

Sleep tight, sweet delight

l.l x ever reader (requested) ▸ fluffy fluff

Die a little death

dark! l.l x female reader (requested) ▸ smut

Kiss me better

l.l x female reader (requested) ▸ fluffy fluff

Told by the stars

bottom! l.l x female reader (requested) ▸ fluffy smut

Make me proud

l.l x reader (requested) ▸ fluff / hurt-comfort-ish

Love thrives on coffee, dark and creamy

l.l x female reader (requested) ▸ fluff / sick fic

Lost heart, unreturned

l.l x reader ▸ angst / lesso playing cello

Unequivocally, irrevocably

l.l x female reader (requested) ▸ fluff / a dash of hurt-comfort

Home is found within her arms

l.l x female reader (requested) ▸ fluffy fluff

Say yes to heaven, say yes to me

l.l x female reader (requested) ▸ fluffy fluff / chrismassy fluff / domestic fluff / and ungodly amount of fluff

Kisses and cookie

l.l x female reader (requested) ▸ fluffy fluff / domestic fluff

The moon that chases the sunflower

l.l x female reader (requested) ▸ soft smut / fluff

Cinnamon Cookie

l.l x female reader (requested) ▸ family fluff

The Old Guard

➞ Andromache the Scythian

With her sweetened breath and her tongue so mean

a.s x witch reader (requested) ▸ light angst / hurt-comfort / soulmates

With her earth brown hair, her arms hard and lean

a.s x witch reader (requested) ▸ fluff / a wee bit of spice if you squint

Offer me the deathless death

a.s x female reader (requested) ▸ smut

The legend of Korra

➞ Lin Beifong

On again, off again, love you like oxygen

l.b x female reader ficlet ▸ angst

Black Panther

➞ Shuri Udaku

Nice and toasty

s.u x female reader ▸ fluff / light smut

Wednesday

➞ Larissa Weems

Messages for her, hidden in the flowers

l.w x female reader ▸ fluff / sweet / light angst

Yellow Tulips

Pink Camellias

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lucyvsky · 2 years

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break me into bigger pieces, so some of me is home with you - c!quackity, and burning and swallowing and leaving

czesław miłosz / jenny holzer, “protect me from what i want” / yves olade 'when rome falls’ in bloodsport / dunkirk (2017) / annihilation (2018) / the green knight (2021) / fall out boy, fourth of july / laura makabresku, the flame of contemplation / bust of persephone, fifth century bc / tumblruser rbhvleo / david curcio, sunny’s burning (flame on!) / dorothy allison, two or three things i know for sure / giorgos seferis, “dream” / amy canning, your heart / ana teresa barboza / anne sexton, the truth the dead know / morgan parker, the black saint & the sinner lady & the dead & the truth / blythe baird / ana teresa barboza / ocean vuong, on earth we’re briefly gorgeous / jorge luis borges, two english poems / halsey, whispers + staglieno angel / ada limón, the hurting kind / vi khi nao / ana teresa barboza / andrés cerpa, the vault / looper (2012) / archivistbot

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elegantduelliste · 3 months

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Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

The companions deal with a hag and Tav makes a hard decision.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Chapter 13: End

Ao3

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 5.1k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Language, Blood & Violence, Trauma, Act 1 Spoilers

Hag song was HEAVILY influenced by 'Hey Girl' sung by Lady Gaga and Florence Welch

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

They say that the heart is a heavy burden. Undead, an infernal engine, a mortal organ. They can all carry the same weight. And when you have had nothing to care for it for so long, It’s like a fucking chokehold the moment even a single jab of sweet honey infects it.

— Karlach, scrawled thoughts on a torn page from one of Gale’s books

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

A devil’s servant was near: looming by her side, whispering a litany of canticles, bidding for her to wake.

The swordswoman awoke in a foreign room with paint peeling off the walls, like the droves of oppressed women by the men that promised to be their caretakers forevermore.

As Tav’s view unblurred, she noticed a priest passively swinging a thurible, releasing an unnatural pitch black colored smoke. The incense smelled of corrupted boils made to summon eldritch visitors.

And then pain. Her body felt like it had been tossed around in a rocky undertow. Each nerve ending aflame. Bruised. Defiled.

Her dried tongue attempted to coat itself in saliva as she tried to speak. “Wh—”

“Saer, she is awake,” the priest clad in a plain gold and black robe spoke aloud.

A figure was at the foot of the bed she laid in, clasping his hands together. “Fantastic!”

Algos.

She tried to move, pushing her weight on her elbows, but the soreness that shot through her was unbearable. Tav cried out roughly, falling back onto the pillow beneath her head.

“Careful my love, you’ve undergone a change—quite literally—overnight,” the rasp of his lilted tone seemed to slice through the curls of smoke filling the room. “Priest, grant me a moment with her.”

The pious stranger nodded, leaving the room as Algos approached her bedside, his boots clinking heavily across the wood floor.

Tav hysterically searched her surroundings for any indication of where they may be. She studied a singular dusty window with beams of sunlight straining to shine through. Then, the rotted floor, clearly missing a few boards. But, when she finally looked at the sheets and comforter thrown haphazardly onto her body—sullied in possible blood stains—she froze.

Placing a hand on her forehead while she was distracted, he smiled down at her. She flinched, breaking out into a cold sweat.

“Please…where…”

“Shush now. You’ll need all the rest you can get, that is, if you can even survive through the day.”

She peered up at him in horror, tears stinging in her widened ducts. Panic and the sensation to writhe under his touch set in. “What’s going—?”

His dark eyes bore into her, slowly narrowing into something cruel and unknown. “Isn’t love grand, Birdie?” The strength of his grip found her chin and he held it firmly, lowering himself to place a cold peck on her lips. “10 years I have loved you and finally you granted me the purest gift of your devotion to me.”

Tav gasped, pacifying any movements in her aching pulsating muscles. “Gift? I don’t…understand.”

Algos released her, taking a step backwards. He gestured dramatically towards her covers. “Now, unfortunately, I have already had to part with it; but know that it provided me with exactly what I needed. Anyways, I shan’t babble on about such negotiations, but maybe you should have a look for yourself?”

She grazed the stitched hem of the blankets covering her and steadily lifted them from her bare figure. Her tempest eyes traveled down the mounds of her breasts then to her torso and legs. She violently trembled in fear. “Algos, what have…have…you done…?”

He snapped his fingers in thought. “Ah, there is one more thing I must attend to.” He turned to leave, waving a quick goodbye. “If you’re still alive by the time I return, I believe that will have earned you a proper explanation, don’t you?”

Tav dropped her coverings and reached out towards him, screaming hoarsely over and over again in torment. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! ALGOS! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Why did she kill for him?

Gale had warned her about Astarion. About the webs he would tangle her in. Spread out ornately on patterns of silken fibers as the tightrope artist approached her from each strand that represented his life. Even should the bough upholding his intricate designs begin to shake, she would remain: a votive offering for every shade of his light, his dark, his gray.

Guilt. The self-condemnation for her turning him away whilst the skeletons he housed took his hand to dance with them. His cross to bear: inscribed on their left over bones. The beasts within that fed on him as his soul still cowered in fear. An unyoked expression—the disconnect—on his face as he pushed his sex into her over and over again was a familiar reflection she had seen of herself before. That she still saw during the erosion of her body clashing against her past.

Had she made the right decision bidding him to leave?

Then, there was a moment between the aftermath of the confrontation with the hunter and these troubling thoughts, that both Tav and Astarion regarded one another in uncomfortable silence. Briefly, a bout of regret flickered behind those mesmeric garnets when his gaze traveled down to the area he bit the previous evening, hidden behind the stays of her corset.

”Why?” The spawn mouthed, anchoring his jaw tautly.

“Because you—”

Tav furrowed her brow concentrating on his question. He wasn’t asking why she had decided to run to his—their—aid, no, he wanted to know why she decided to come after what he did to her. How she could still bear to look upon this rabid self that stood before her after his teeth enacted a sacrilegious communion in the name of Cazador Szarr.

The answer vacillated through Tav while the crimson from Gandrel’s death wept from her gloved hands into a trinket of a puddle. She had run to her crew half-dressed, hearing their desperate crows during her midday training. And the moment she saw the vampire entangled in the vine spell, she knew her impulsive arrow would whistle through the breeze to pierce the hunter’s flesh to shield him.

Her stomach churned as she watched the waves of Astarion’s coif falling forward, while he bent over to search the man’s corpse. “Are you certain he was one of Cazador’s?”

“Well, he was, “ he smirked outturning the deceased’s pockets, discovering little more than a bag of gold and lint. “I have history with them; the Gur were responsible for nearly murdering me the night I was turned into a spawn. Only Cazador would know to send one now to capture me. I’m sure he found it quite humorous.”

“Whew-weeee! You sure know how to make an entrance!” Karlach flung the rest of the vines she cut in half off to the side, beaming at Tav. “Either way, the problem is taken care of, yea? Comrades have to take care of each other, but hopefully this won’t come back to bite us in the arse later on.” She pointed towards Astarion with a long fingernail. “Don’t get any ideas.”

He shrugged at her, tying the coin bag to his belt. The dagger in his hand slid across Gandrel’s shirt, wiping it clean of blood and debris as he continued squatting near his lifeless body.

Tav ignored Karlach, conflicted over her own earlier actions. “Astarion, are you absolutely sure?” She peered down at him, pondering which collusions were quietly branching off inside his mind for him to answer her with.

Her thoughts were suddenly addled with the urge to seek forgiveness from the gods for the unimaginable deadly sin she committed that staggered on the lines of her ward for Astarion and wrath itself. She wanted to believe him. Believe that the possibility was charitable enough that Gandrel worked for Cazador and would have trafficked him back to the city. She wanted to place her faith in him that somewhere inside his tortured existence that his intentions were, at the very least, mottled enough with the concept of “good.”

He stood upwards, readjusting his armor. “You don’t trust my word? He was a Gur. Why should it matter?”

Tav shook her head. “This isn’t only about trusting your word: it’s about trusting your decisions. This, “ she motioned around at the tiny ponds of blood and viscera decorating the ground. ”impacts more than just your impulses now. The volition of your path, Karlach, Wyll, our acquaintances, me—it impacts it all.”

Astarion murdered for her once; Priestess Gut at the goblin camp. The debt of her life owed was just repaid in kind. The Madonna with her slender rapier, piercing through the qualms of her own heart for a man who’s humanity was dangling from rafters above layers of stained glass.

Why did it matter? She wasn’t keeping score. Helping those in need came without questions. Tav had ended lives for others without another thought. To save. To defend. But the difference—the bloody difference—was that it never involved a personal attachment for someone like Astarion. If she cut down an innocent man for him on his false instinct, then she…

Astarion crossed his arms haughtily. Even with ichor splattered on his fair features, he was still lethally gorgeous. “My dear, mayhaps you need to be reminded that it was not I that asked for anyone’s help with tearful pleas. By your own resolve, you are here now.”

Hey,” Wyll spoke up softly, failing to grasp their attention.

“But, Astarion, you knew we wouldn’t let you face Gandrel alone,” the bard unwaveringly replied. She pulled at the lengths of her dark ashen brown locks, winding them up into a messy hair bun. “Look,” she started with a hairpin in her mouth. “I’m only trying try to point out that not every Gur you meet is a horrible person to blame for what happened to you before you were turned. And that if we’re to get involved, it’s something to consider in the future.”

“Oh, please! Why defend those vagrant cutthroats? I think it’s only understandable that I do, in fact, get to blame them.” He hesitantly inched towards her as if she would crumble the very second he was within reach of her.

Tav rested her hand on the hilt of her blade sheathed at her side. She concentrated on his shallow breathing, watching his features alter several times. He was patently unnerved.

The pallored elf’s hands landed onto his hips. He leaned in towards her with barbs on his tongue. “Sending that hunter was a blatant message to show the power Cazador still has over me. Have you any real clue as to how strong he really is, Tav? The abilities he possesses? He could turn into mist, sneak into our camp in the dead of night, and strangle us all before we even opened our eyes.”

With a sudden jerk in her voice, she ground her boots into the mud to tower her posture. “Astarion, please—”

Astarion stepped further in, halting only feet away. Vexation and anguish masking his vision. He roughly pulled down the collar of his shirt, revealing his two jagged fang scars on the right side of his neck. Faded in color, but not in memory. “And if death isn’t enough—not to fret! You could be chosen to serve as his newest slave and live eternally as a meaningless vessel in the body you once knew,” he spat.

This was not the first time the womanly elf had laid her eyes on these scars—she saw them nearly everyday—but it was the first time watching him directly acknowledge them. Two petite bursts of whitish fireworks healed over. His master’s hallmark for legacy.

The intensity of his emotions viciously hid themselves in her heartstrings, like stubborn grit underneath fingernails. She placed a flat hand over her left breast. “Be-inway, Astarion. Be-inway, I hear you,” she quietly sing-songed.

He leaned back away from her, viewing her in one of his usual repertoire of reactions. “Would you reevaluate having that look broadcasted on your face when we disagree for once?! Those wretched huthammur. Gods below,” he blurted in frustration, glaring away from her eyes.

“Enough! Quell this before I kick both of you into the Chionthar river!” Wyll shouted abruptly. Fixing his stony eye on Tav, he moved in between them to act as a volunteer mediator. “You two quarrel more than bloody Shadowheart and Lae’zel.”

“What’s done is done,” he continued, the balm of his voice sweeping into the air. “If we are to believe Cazador hired this man, as Astarion said, then we need to believe that he knows our location. Our fanged friend is right: anything related to the vampire lord—short of himself—could strike at any moment. If the Gur’s death was indeed a mistake, then we’ll atone at the pyre during our final rites.”

“I always knew I could count on Wyll’s sensibility whilst you fiddle around with your own concerns,” the vampire fluffed out his hair, chiding Tav with a prissy titter.

Instead of her typical reactions caked in silence or offering challenges for him to consider, she simply spread out her arms to bow, catching his smug guise flipping into incredulity. “As you wish—your highness.”

“‘ey! Maybe we could save the melodrama for later?” Karlach horned in, breaking the subtle silence. She scratched the side of her cheek looking back and forth between all three of her companions suspended in pose. “Ethel’s teahouse isn’t far from here. She heard all the commotion and came to check it out. Said we are invited into her home as a reward for taking care of that monster hunter once you two were done bickering.”

Tav and Astarion sheepishly stared at each other past the warlock. Past the barbarian. Past their surroundings. Unmoving. Unblinking. Unorthodox beliefs in opposition gliding across paralleled strings.

He broke their quietude first. “I swear, if this demented crone only offers us tea and biscuits, I’m going to throw myself into the…urm, well, not the sun anymore. Anyways, shall we?” Astarion offered, extending his arm out in front of him, ushering Tav and Wyll along.

Tavelle, Tavelle, with her burnished battle symphonies surrounded by Astarion’s flags of scarlet, had taken another risk allowing herself to further interlock their lives together by having the stench of this stranger’s death on her hands. But, she knew it was for a reason she resonated with. A kindredness in once belonging to those that subjugated them with relational bonds affixing themselves as an addiction to the love and misery they provided.

So, why did she kill for Astarion?

Because she knew this would be the only chance he’d ever get to possibly escape for good.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

“Tav, keep singing! It’s working,” Wyll yelled at her, preparing an ‘Arms of Hadar’ conjugation. “Almost ready!”

The group had fought off the hag’s illusions until they were able to single out her monstrous corporeal form. As Mayrina bawled from a cage suspended over a fathomless pit, Tav combined a hasty doggerel alongside her ‘Vicious Mockery’ cantrip—adequately causing serious damage to the witch's ears.

It was the first time Astarion heard Tav’s voice since they entered Ethel’s residence. Clipped and off-kilter to her usual songs, he could sense she had dipped her thoughts into a place she would not allow any to follow by the unusual strum of her pulse.

♫Hey hag, what will you do? After we scorch that litter in your hair. Hey hag, have you any clue? Your illusions do not scare.

Hey hag, the bargains made, Around that brew you stir. Curses, scry, changing weather, Your end is on the way.

Hey hag, hey hag. Where’s your coven to save you? Hey hag, hey hag. It’s time to perish away.

Hey hag, hey hag. Hey hag, hey hag. It’s your end today. But, know that we gut you. Please know that, Please know that, we gut you.♫

Near the end of the last verse, Tav faltered; disrupted by the locusts of her ruminations, swarming to devour the fields of her concentration. The perfect momentum for the hag to take.

Auntie Ethel managed to steel her resolve long enough through the misstep to cast a bladed gust of wind, slicing open Tav’s forearm. She wheezily wailed at the bard, “You..rude…little…cunt!”

Thrown off balance, she fell to one knee, clutching her lute tightly.

Astarion ran to the ledge of the pit. He watched as Ethel started dragging her wart covered body in Tav’s direction. “Get up, damn you! Wyll, we’re going to need that spell!”

Karlach roared, charging forward. “YOU FUCKING BITCH! YOU’RE GOING TO BURN!”

“Karlach, no! You and Astarion need to save Mayrina and the baby,” Tav commanded, lifting her head at them to heavily take in gulps of breath.

Hells, not this drab self-sacrificing shit again, he reprimanded inside his mind.

“You idiot! Have you noticed that you have acquired a rather nasty gash? One more distraction and the hag will have sliced bard for breakfast! That woman made her choice,” Astarion grumbled loudly over the wide chasm, pointing towards the cage. “She was going to trade her own—“

Tav willed herself to stand. He could see her blood surfacing on the wound causing a desperate pang in his stomach he fought back.

“I KNOW,” she hollered back, seemingly conflicted by her next choice of words. “Trust me—I know.” Her tone became a diffused strain, showcasing that compassion she carried on her sleeve. “We don’t have time to argue, but life can be fucked up Astarion and sometimes we make ignorant choices when we are suffering. She may not deserve it, but let her have a second chance to choose to do right.”

A second chance.

Second chances were not allowed where he once resided. Second chances were unforgivable acts considered an intentional rebellion against Cazador’s commandments. Second chances meant having a spawn’s mouth gagged with foul-tasting fruit until their cries for mercy ceased. Second chances were for the weak and imperfect.

Second chances didn’t exist for Astarion because first chances lacked possibilities and dreams.

And those ideals were more dangerous to his master than allowing his children to ever turn into full-fledged vampires.

But, he was not at the Crimson Palace. He was not under Cazador’s command. And he very much did not want to deal with the repercussions that impossible elven bard would administer should he refuse.

He deeply exhaled, turning his head to view the barbarian over his shoulder. “Fire girl?”

“Yea, fangs?”

“How much weight do you think you can lift with your axe?”

She knowingly smirked, “Enough to give a boost to a handsome vampire.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere with me,” he grinned coquettishly. A red gaze briskly found its way back in Tav’s direction as he removed a dagger from his hip. “Songbird, if you slump over, please remember: I told you so.”

Astarion heard her chuckling echoing off the cave's walls as he walked towards the tiefling. She angled her axe towards the ground, allowing him to secure his footing on the weapon’s steel.

“Any ideas on how you’ll get back down?”

He unbuckled the side of his chest armor and fumbled around inside a concealed pocket. “Ah, there we are! I was going to make trade with it—seeing as it looked fairly rare—but I can always borrow another one from Gale when the time comes.”

Karlach eyed the ‘Scroll of Dimension Door’ dangling betwixt his fingertips like a horse’s carrot. “You stole that from Gale? He’s going to be quite unhappy when he finds out.”

Astarion pursed his lips, shoving the scroll back into its cubby space. “Well, the only way he’ll find out is if you decide to tell him.” Crouching down slightly in preparation to jump, he fisted the hilt of his dagger with both hands. “Besides, it’s not as if Gale was going to use it anytime soon. The man seems to have taken up the hobby of hoarding all means of magical properties since he joined us. I can assure you, it won’t be missed.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Whatever you say, fangs. Ready?”

He nodded. “Do it.”

And up he flew as Karlach hurled him towards the cage with her oversized weapon, forcing the airflow upwards. Astarion shot through the moving air and shoved his blade into a thick branch fastened around the gargantuan bones making up the small prison. With a strong grip, he pulled himself up enough for his foot to gain traction on a piece of wooden board that served as a floor base in the cage.

He swung his body into the cage, bowing quickly at his waist. “Darling, your hero has arrived! Forgive me, but let’s not tarry, eh?”

Mayrina backed away from him in a fright. “Ah! Who are you? Go away!”

Astarion tutted in disbelief, wagging a finger at her. “Oh, no no no! I did not sign up this. We have to go—now!”

The woman held out the length of her arms while he steadily paced himself further into the cage. “Get back! Or I’ll…I’ll…”

“Or you’ll scream? You’ve already been gracing us with your screeching vocal chords in that regard,” the vampire sneered. “Now if you’ll pardon my ungentlemanly conduct, I am going to have to use force in this annoying rescue or else that bard down there will have my pretty head on her rapier.”

Sidestepping her, he deftly situated himself to cuff her wrists in one hand and artfully plucked the teleporting scroll from behind his armor. He recited the script written in a mystical hand while imagining a safe location close by. A bright hazy mist enveloped both him and Mayrina, as the scroll disintegrated into sparkling particles.

The flash and crackles of energy following their reappearance behind Karlach, was enough to distract the hag from her continued pursuit of Tav.

The songstress cried out, rapier postured to thrust forward, “Wyll, now!”

Black tentacles slithered around the warlock’s body, writhing to satisfy a dark and ancient hunger. Arcane circles surfaced around him in shades of seafoam green, matching the bright glow of the castor’s eyes. “Morē!”

The arms shot out, capturing Ethel in their grasp. Limb after limb: disjointed, pulled apart, and infected with necrosis. Until, her putrid body had been thoroughly feasted upon and fell with a vibrating rumble to the ground.

Wyll staggered back, resting against his quarterstaff. “It worked. She’s dead.”

Mayrina scurried around the edge of the bottomless hole, holding the heaviness of her stomach in tears. She fisted her golden coils when she reached Ethel’s deceased form. “What have you done?! You’ve ruined everything!”

Tav approached her cautiously, an unreadable gaze transfixed on the woman’s rotund stomach. Her sleeve had been torn during her incurred injury, tattered shreds hanging loosely off her arm. “No more bargains,” she flatly imparted.

“All I wanted was my husband—my Connor—back! I can’t bear to live without him,” she sobbed loudly, wet droplets streaming down her dirty face. “Ethel promised to raise my baby properly, but you’ve gone and—“

Astarion quietly trailed after Mayrina upon stealthy heels. When Tav’s frame came into view, he noticed chunks of her hair had fallen out of place, cemented to the sweat soaked nape of her neck. The sight of the clean cut on her arm, now bathed in her own blood, caused his mouth to ache.

But, what caught him off guard was her heart. If not for the faint swell of her chest when she inhaled a breath, he would have thought she were as dead as him: it was virtually muted in its beats.

The bard shook her head. “This was not your final option. You simply choose to ignore all the others out of desperation before settling on this one.”

Mayrina fell into Tav’s arms, clamoring for hope through a squeaky raw throat. “Help me! You must know someone. I’ll do anything! Please bring him back. Bring Connor back! His coffin is outside. We could leave now; it isn’t too late—“

She remained stone-faced as she allowed the pitiful human to twist her shirt. “Listen to me carefully because I will not repeat myself: this is the last time you can play so frivolously with life and death. Another miracle will not mysteriously save you from your decisions. We can help bury your husband, but that’s all.”

Tav untied a satchel filled with coin and held it out to her. “Take this. It’ll help get you back on your feet for a while. There’s shelters in Baldur’s Gate that help young mothers out—it may be worth it to consider seeking them out.”

Mayrina shoved herself away from the bard. “Didn’t you listen to a single word I said?! I want my husband back! You don’t know anything about what I’m going through right now or how much it hurts. I don’t need your damned money! If you can’t help me, then I’ll find someone that can.”

Swiftly drifting forward like a waterfowl skirting above the water to land, Tav roughly hooked the crook of her inner elbow. “You cannot forsake yourself or this babe. You must protect what is yours at all costs. Do you understand?” She assertively snarled. “Do not squander this opportunity, for you will not get another. Take the money and leave Mayrina. I will NOT say it again.”

Astarion had never witnessed such unconstrained passion in her eyes before. A swirling hurricane that pushed and pushed and pushed, until it was created out of her warm and calm reservoir. There were numerous personality quirks he had prescribed to the bard, but this withdrawn frigidity in her actions were ones he did not foresee.

Mayrina was in shock. Wide-eyed. Petrified. She made eye contact with Astarion, pleading with him out of swollen sockets to convince his partner to remove her grip.

“Darling, you’re bleeding,” the vampire mentioned gently, endeavoring to gain her notice towards the dripping deluge of blood from her forearm.

She did not respond, continuing to stare at Mayrina and the growth filling out her womb.

Protected by the lady of her heart lochs, her secrets were thrown far into the depths of her wading marrow. “You shall not know them,” she exclaimed, “Because they are wrought with uncontested sorrow.”

Until, a rush of trembling drums flooded behind her ribs and Astarion could hear each rhythmic clench of her valves opening and closing. Emotions refusing to still.

He squeezed her shoulder, articulating her full name in a low pitch. “Tavelle?”

Tav released Mayrina from her hold, looking at the pale elf from the side of her peripherals, not giving him her full attention. “Hmm? Yes, sorry. Astarion do you want to—?”

He nodded at her, lifting her forearm to his mouth to greedily review her cut. Heavenly puffs of air exited onto her skin as he sweetly plunged his tongue in between the broken flesh, tasting every drop of lush fluid. He languidly swiped his tongue in long strides up to her wrist, pressing chaste cool pecks in gratitude along the way.

But, Tav was completely despondent to him: never once wincing or flitting her view back in his direction. Never once blushing or rousing his name from her rosy lips. Never once politely asking him to stop the mania of his hunger for her blood.

Still, Astarion persistently licked, and licked, and licked at the wound that never did seem to close.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

The day ended with burying Mayrina’s husband in a shallow grave.

Tav’s nails caught the inside of Astarion’s wrist, lightly scratching translucent skin, as their two companions strode ahead to the camp nearby. He could hear the resounding ravines inside the bard’s arteries filling with a festering apprehension.

He turned to face her, drooping curls attacked by the humidity, following suit.

Her expression had returned to its usual state of demurred humbleness. The whites of her eyes were more luminous than the surface of the moon. Shiny and waning beneath gibbous lids. “Speak with me?”

It was almost difficult to believe that this was the same woman from earlier that held an unholy union between her indignation and goodwill. With her tongue as her sword and her weathervane perception, she professed her creeds uncovering a sliver of her inner self.

Yet, he could not outpace the pictured sight of her inanimate body pressed into his side as he succumbed to the metallic taste on her arm.

Where had she gone at that moment?

What had she been thinking about?

Who had she been thinking of?

The spawn arched a refined eyebrow, clearing his throat with uncertainty. “Yes?”

She crossed her damaged arm against her chest, casually holding onto the bicep of her other one, inspecting him under softened brown lashes. “What you did for Mayrina and her unborn baby today…I realize it may not have been something you’d typically do, but please know, I appreciate the kindness you demonstrated.”

“Kindness? No, no, my sweet. What I did was purely to avoid having to deal with another tiff between us—as we are so prone to do,” he commented with slight rebuff. “You know we may have condemned that child to unhappiness in relation to his mother’s catastrophic life, don’t you?”

Tav hummed, avoiding the garnets of his blistering gaze. He noticed her fingers digging into the upper portion of her arm uncomfortably.

“You didn't ask to speak with me privately to thank me, did you?” Astarion questioned, feeling a dip in his stomach.

“A part of me did,” she murmured delicately through guarded partially opened lips.

The rest of the words would not escape her mouth. Trapped in the netting of her lyrical throat. She blinked up at him, heartbeat soaring away. Finger pads now skimming to touch the forbidden area he had bitten, as if to remind her of what she needed to do.

He shook his head firmly. “No, Tav. Say it.”

The door to her was closing. Her melodies that beckoned dormant blooms to bend towards the moonlight, the source of his aegis and crimson nourishment, would soon be gone. And he was still miles away from her doorway, slashing through the abstracts of their pasts.

He felt ill.

Tenderly, she laced the ends of her finger joints with his without accord. Her ardor blanketing his undead chill: a solace and a curse.

Astarion refused to suffer for her sympathies or careful considerations. For her fucking tears now veiling her eyes. For the pity she would shower him with, again and again and again.

“Say it.”

The sun setting from the west, wove together golds and purples to cast upon their silhouettes as a final goodbye. A dying day for their last sighs.

And then, her fingers slipped back out of his hand.

“Astarion, I don’t think we should be distracted anymore. Whatever this was between us—I want it to end.”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Notes:

Elvish Words

Tav: Be-inway = wake

Astarion: Huthammur = storm clouds