"(Y/n)?" His voice was warm, like sunlight against withering flower petals, like the sound of bees and honey on a late spring evening. I looked at him, as I always have, our eyes meeting far too fast. His eyes reminded me of the stained glass windows in church, glowing refractions of blue that changed hue depending on his mood, like the dried corn flowers that hung from Grandma's kitchen. I found them comforting. "Did you skipped training again?" His hair was blonde, sunkissed locks of gold, and I knew it felt soft in between my fingers, like silk threads. "(Y/n)!"
"(Y/n)."
My eyes opened, a faint gasp escaping my lips.
How long has it been since I dreamed of you?
"Are you alright?" His voice was smooth like a fine brandy, like the sound of guitar strings being softly plucked to the sound of a crackling fire. I looked at him, as I always have, our eyes hesitating to meet. "You fell asleep again." Ah. Of course it's you. Wyll Ravengard. Those dark eyes that reminded me of simpler times of wooden swords and wands made of stick. I found them painfully nostalgic. He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest, his gaze flickering back the campfire ahead of us.
With Astarion draining my livelihood little by little every night, I've found myself feeling far more tired than normal. I drift to sleep during meals, or even in the early hours when I sit by Withers and let him talk about how my journey has some greater purpose. Between losing blood in my battles during the day, and to my Vampiric accomplice at night, I was running quite dry. And I was beginning to feel it.
I cleared my throat, staring at the flickering flames, the bright light making me squint through the slit in my helm. There was a silence between the two of us, as there always was when the two of us somehow ended up alone. Wyll has always been easy for me to read, to understand. I could tell from the way he scrunched his nose, to the way he tapped his foot anxiously into the ground beneath him, that he was afraid. It was the same fear I had seen in him when he asked Lisette Williams to tea on Sunday and when he had told Maysie Bayler he thought she was pretty. I frowned, a pang of guilt vibrating in my chest. I looked up at the night sky with a faint exhale, listening to the sounds of lightning bugs and water crickets that sang hymns far too quiet to fill the silence between Wyll and I.
"Is he treating you well?" Wyll asked into the night, my head turning to him with the soft sound of scraping metal. Wyll was already looking in my direction, wearing a light smirk on his lips, as if it were armor. "Astarion." He clarified, as if he needed to. I pursed my lips, with a soft sigh.
"It isn't like that, Wyll." Don't look at me like that. Wyll's expression softened, his eyebrows raising slightly as he drew in a deep breath with a nod. I can never be your Lisette Williams or your Maysie Bayler, so don't-. Don't look at me like that.
"I see." He said under his breath, "My apologies for...inquiring," Wyll cleared his throat, "I sometimes forget we are grown now," He laughed dryly at his own words, "and you are a woman." He offered me a sorrow filled smile, "An amazing one at that." I furrowed my brows, turning back to the night sky with a tightness in my chest and a tiredness that I mistook for boldness.
"You don't know me anymore, Wyll." I muttered, my eyes fixating on some far off twinkling lights.
"I will always know you." Wyll said, "I know you as well as the back alleys that ran behind your family cottage," I tilted my head to the side, "as well as the flower fields over Redbury hill." Wyll scoffed, as if I had said something close to the whims of insanity, "Out of everyone, (Y/n), you are someone I could never forget."
"Wyll-."
"No matter what happened between you and Falcäo..."
I wasn't expecting to have such a visceral reaction to hearing your name. If not for my helm, surely Wyll would be horrified to see the expression that was painted across my face. I could see Wylls lips moving as he continued talking, but I could no longer hear what he was saying. Your name had stopped that. I let out a quiet gasp, my hot breath bouncing off the inside of my helmet and back into my face. Falcäo. Your name was like a disease rooted inside my very veins with a tight grip around my lungs. I tried to breathe, to steady myself, to think of you as just a name. But I couldn't. Soon enough your name had me remembering things I had buried at the bottom of many, many bottles. I raised a metal shrouded hand to my chest, shutting my eyes.
Falcäo.
Falcäo.
Falcäo.
Falcäo.
Your name was all I could hear, like a damned ringing in my ears, a fucking curse grasping my throat. Fa-.
"I'm quite possessive, Warlock." His chiding tone rang through the air, "I sincerely hope you aren't trying to take what is mine." My head snapped in his direction, watching as the white haired vampire sauntered over to Wyll and I. His ruby eyes locked with mine through the slits of my helm. I didn't beg him for help with my eyes, or even hope he would, but Astarion's eyes widened slightly before he threw a nasty kind of glare at Wyll. It was like he saw right through me.
"We were just talking, Astarion." Wyll said, sounding rather defensive, "Swear." Astarion tsk'd, pushing past Wyll and offering me a hand. I looked up at him, our eyes meeting once more. His expression wasn't soft, or comforting, nor was it filled with concern or worry. If anything, Astarion seemed to be a bit embarrassed at his own actions, waving his hand in my face for a moment before speaking.
"Well," He scoffed, "hurry up." I furrowed my brows, not really wanting to take the vampire's help in fear of just digging myself further into blood debt. But what choice did I really have? I slammed my hand into his, feeling him yank me to my feet and lead me to his tent, leaving Wyll alone and probably more than confused.
As soon as Astarion dragged me through the silk flaps of his tent, I tore off my helmet and dropped it onto the ground beneath me with a clank. Falcäo. Falcäo.
"Here." Astarion piped up behind me, as I felt something tap my elbow. I turned around, looking down at the rather stout man with hair of white and eyes of red. His sarcastic smirk was nowhere to be found, and those thin pink lips were turned in a rather sorry looking frown. He was handing me an ominous looking bottle of green glass, a dark liquid sloshing around inside. "You look like you could use a drink."
