THE DANSE MACABRE ¹ || astarion

seventeen || hangman's knot

At first it had been pure nonsense, the way the gurgle of a cauldron might be mistaken for a muddy incantation, yet the moment Astarion figured the whole endeavour to be moot, clarity struck. His eyes briefly skimmed Fallon, to make sure she was neither awake to hear the voice, nor its direct source, before leaning down to parse the whispers between the rhythm of her breathing.

Like trailing smoke from a smothered campfire, the voice thinned to a reedy muttering, and along with it, a familiar scent. The chill of midnight's air, the sweet of berry and poison's bitter aftertaste. Astarion recalled Dalaia's hand with its strange wound, that the pop of blisters sprouting on her hands had sounded like the smack of lips. There was a lyrical quality to the words and the rhythm, a steady patter that sounded like recitation. It sounded like ...

"... a prayer, my Dark Lady, kneeling at thy alter of stark suffering. Your erstwhile servant returns to carve a pound of flesh and pay penance for that which I have failed. Swear to you, resolute as the walls of you empire, that I shall not fail again. Emptied of worldly possessions and the shackles of familial imposition, my Goddess, I arrive to you as your most loyal servant. Your will be done, sure as this world is brought to its knees, sure as ..."

Outside the window, an owl hooted and tapped upon the glass. The sound of knocked Astarion to his senses. From the ache in his muscles, it felt as though he'd been bent for hours. What was he doing? He was meant to be leaving.

Forcing himself to his feet, Astarion attempted to shove all that he had heard to the back of his mind. His eyes caught on a distraction. Fallon's pack was pulled to the seams and yawned with the scent of the road. A little snooping couldn't hurt, perhaps she had some coin for the road. Inside he found little of interest, aside from a few spare pieces of gold ("so much for thievery") and a battered journal. Prying it open, he found her crowded penmanship swimming across the pages.

"Mine now," he muttered, and sandwiched the journal against the tight fit of his jacket.

But as he had made to leave, he had heard it. The distant thunder of footsteps, metal boots and the quiver of drawn steel. Atuning himself to the clutter of noise, he caught hint of their raucous cries, their intent. As he paused at the doorknob, Fallon's voice drifted into the ensemble.

"Who are you?" she said, hushed and shimmering.

"I am your mother, have you forgotten me so quickly?"

That had brushed against the grain. Even now, sobered by the distance, the gentle accusation buzzed around his head like an ambitious mosquito: it wasn't worth raising the wrist to swat away, at least not immediately. Was it the voice of the zealot? On the face of it, unlikely, but this conclusion was obvious. Too obvious. Regardless, he felt knew they were linked to the concoction, Netherese or not, that was Fallon's blood. 

That was, if her blood were still flowing.

Sun faded, night set. He spent his first night alone with his ears pricked to the stray snap of twigs, the shimmer of wind swept leaves, sucking down the meagre meal his hunt had procured. He'd ended the evening wishing he'd swiped Fallon's compass — the journal was placed a distance across a sooty campfire to be glowered at — and resolved to gather supplies before contending with the path home.

To no avail — the road was little else than an aisle of husk and char. Before he knew it, he'd looped back around to the tavern, or what remained of it. From the road he smelt the rot, and steered an ample course in the opposite direction. Another day passed and he'd made little headway, finding only the Absolute's footprint.

With only the landmark of the tavern to plot from, Astarion found himself contemplating his options in the ashen surrounds. Above, a storm threatened to break, the clouds swollen, his brow polished with kept moisture. Thunder growled in the distance, the wind a buffet of static. He took refuge beneath a cluster of pale firs, cursing Talos for his timing, and sunk down onto a mossy log.