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Astarion sauntered back towards camp, sated and confident. A deer had made for an easy catch tonight, and he felt its blood warming and energising him as he quietly made his way out of the treeline.
A rustling by the cliffside had him dropping back into hunting posture. The clang of metal behind one of the rocks. He stalked closer soundlessly, trying to get a view of the threat. There was no sign of any of the others being awake in the ruins where they'd made their campfire. Surely he could take care of this one intruder himself…
Another light clang of metal, followed by a quiet huff of frustration.
“Dammit! ”
Astarion relaxed immediately. He peeked around the large boulders to confirm his suspicions. Shadowheart was sat on the ground, dagger in hand. She seemed to be trying to balance a hand mirror between her knees.
“What in the Nine Hells are you up to?” Astarion whispered, and Shadowheart flinched before turning around. The elf’s face fell into shock as he took her in.
“Oh, gods above,” he muttered.
One side of the bangs that used to frame Shadowheart's face was missing, chopped roughly off with the dagger. There was a cut on her ear to match. The look on her face was almost akin to guilt.
“Don't,” she said, voice quiet but stern. “I know. I wanted—”
Astarion held up a hand to halt her, ignoring her offended expression as he moved closer and kneeled behind her. Wordlessly, he reached toward her hairpiece, carefully prying it loose and setting it down on the rock next to him.
“What are you doing?” Shadowheart’s voice was uncertain, but she made no move to stop him as he undid the chain surrounding her braid.
“You can't just decide to cut one part of your hair without even letting the rest of it down,” Astarion tutted. “You need to undo this thing before you can get a handle on that.”
Shadowheart opened her mouth, then closed it again. Astarion smirked as he saw her face through the mirror, continuing to wordlessly dismantle her updo. He combed it out gently with his fingers, watching as the half-elf visibly relaxed at the touch.
“Now,” he started once her hair was cascading down her shoulders in light, even waves. “What did you have in mind?”
Shadowheart opened and closed her mouth, frowning as she tried and failed to find the words for the image in her mind. After a few moments, her eyes brightened with an idea. She reached up to tap her temple, giving the elf a questioning look. He nodded, and both closed their eyes as the cleric used her tadpole to let her thoughts flow to Astarion. He nodded to himself before picking up the dagger and slowly reaching for Shadowheart’s hair, giving her ample time to back away. She didn’t.
In fact, she sat obediently still as Astarion worked, the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips as he carefully sliced the dagger along her locks. Every now and then, he'd gently nudge her chin to turn her head, and she simply let him work, occasionally letting her eyes fall closed or letting out a puff of air to move a stray lock out of her face, which earned her a few almost-hidden huffs of amusement.
“There.” Astarion sat back, admiring his handiwork with a smug expression. “Take a look.”
Shadowheart picked up the hand mirror, unable to suppress a wide grin as she saw exactly the fringe she'd sent to his mind, playing with it a little.
Astarion pushed himself to his feet, holding out a hand to pull the cleric up alongside him. He gestured for her to spin, and she obliged, slowly showing off his results from all sides. She held the mirror up again, turning her head to examine the fringe.
“I know,” Astarion told her with a wave of his hand, “I’m a natural.”
“Hm,” Shadowheart pondered. Astarion's smirk was immediately replaced by a look of concern.
“What do you mean, hm ?”
Shadowheart narrowed her eyes, tilting her head inquisitively at her reflection.
“Something's missing…” she mused. Astarion looked at her with a furrowed brow and expectant eyes, until a mischievous little grin appeared on her face.
“I found something back at Last Light,” she said, holding up a finger and rushing to her tent. Astarion ignored the signal, following her.
“I thought it might be fabric dye, because I didn't look too closely at the label, but I was wrong,” she explained, rummaging through her pack. “There.”
She turned around triumphantly, with a bottle in her hand that she held out to him demonstratively. Astarion leaned in to read the label.
“It looks permanent,” he said. Shadowheart shrugged.
“I wasn’t planning on going back to Shar,” she quipped. Astarion still felt unsure, but the cleric was biting down on an excited smile, and he was sure that with a little less self-control she’d be bouncing on her toes. Who was he to tell her what she could and couldn’t do?
“Come on,” she added impatiently, “what’s wrong? Afraid I’ll wear it better than you?”
The vampire gave her a glare, but let his fondness shine through it as he plucked the bottle out of her hand, giving her a nod.
“Let’s do it.”
—
Soon enough, Shadowheart was hanging over the riverbank, Astarion carefully massaging dye into her roots with the gloves she knew Gale used for alchemy. That was a good thing, considering the caustic liquid was not really a dye, but something else infused with magic to create the desired result. Getting it on their hands could result in awkward questions later. He hummed as he worked, and Shadowheart allowed herself a fond smile, since it was hidden behind a curtain of wet hair anyway. It was rare that she got to see the elf so at ease, despite the unspoken bond they’d formed over the course of their adventure. The cleric and the vampire. She huffed in amusement, and the hands at the back of her neck stilled, Astarion’s humming falling silent.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she murmured, and she allowed her eyes to fall closed as the fingers in her hair resumed their movement. Eventually, the humming returned too, and it continued as Astarion carefully treated the rest of her hair, before using a cup to gently rinse the bulk of it out. Shadowheart had to dunk her hair into the stream to really wash the remains away, before casting a quick Destroy Water on herself to dry it off.
Astarion held the mirror out to her again with a smirk, and she took it, taking a deep breath before holding it up to her face.
There she was. She still looked like herself, she was relieved to find; but it was as if with the lightening of her hair, some of her naivete had been washed away as well. Shadowheart realized, now that it was gone, just how much the black had felt symbolic of the veil that had laid over her history, her fate, her truth. That veil had been lifted, and now she looked the part. She felt mature, somehow. She watched the smile play at her lips, and it felt like it belonged there.
“Well?” Astarion’s voice pulled her away from the mirror. His eyebrows were raised, and he was still smirking, although Shadowheart could see that underneath it all he was anxious for her approval.
“It's perfect,” she told him genuinely, “thank you.” Astarion chuckled, almost perfectly masking the way he floundered at her sincerity.
“You'll have to explain to me how to redo this braid,” he told her. “As nice as your hair looks down, we can't have you getting tangled up in the horns of every tiefling we come across.”
They sat themselves down again, and Shadowheart instructed the elf carefully, but after only two repetitions the process became simple and soothing, and Astarion needed no further guidance as he carefully threaded her locks back together.
“Where did you learn to do this?” Shadowheart asked after some time, eyes still cast over the river, observing the distant lights of the city ahead.
Astarion shrugged nonchalantly. “I have sisters, remember? Sort of. We all needed the occasional maintenance, and Cazador certainly wasn't going to send us to a spa. So we had to help each other.”
Shadowheart frowned at the mention of his master, but didn't pry, instead watching through the hand mirror as her braid was finished off by invisible hands. There was a faint flicker of recognition in her mind at the feeling, and she found herself observing it more calmly than she otherwise would have. It would come back to her, she knew, eventually.
Suddenly, another memory came to her: not of her own past, although it did immediately set her wondering about her own experiences, but of knowledge she’d gathered even while living as a Sharran. She didn’t remember why she knew, but that didn’t matter.
“Astarion?”
“Hm?” The elf’s voice was calm, seemingly just as set at ease as Shadowheart was.
“Isn’t braiding someone’s hair a pretty big deal for elves?”
Astarion’s hands faltered. He was silent for a moment, taking extra care with the next section of her hair, before he finally answered.
“It is,” he confirmed. “It’s an expression of… trust, I suppose.” His voice was steady and calm, but he didn’t say any more. Shadowheart smiled to herself.
The next morning, when Astarion dutifully informed everyone that she still didn’t have the best hair in the camp, her fond eye roll was only met with a small smile when everyone was looking away. Coming from him, it meant more than enough.