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chapter seventeen. hangman's knot
Astarion had thought the ash would have long rinsed from the skies. Instead it clung to the air, casting the thicket of trees in a sullen veil, obscuring ridge from ravine, forest from the trees.
He'd managed a fair distance from the tavern before he'd stopped to catch his breath and put a name to what he'd done, or rather, what he hadn't. Images of fire, soot and scorched earth rushed up to greet him, and were promptly shoved to peripheral view. Breathing a sigh of relief, he'd made sure he hadn't been tailed and stolen away into the night with a grin pushing his cheeks taut and the type of giddy pride only collected by getting away with it.
He was alone, as alone he'd been in the nautiloid's wreckage, this time without the uncertainty of his circumstances or any troublesome company. Not just alone but free. Long overdue, he assured himself, for this was how it should have been from the start. Two centuries of savage noise and unerring terror, and he could think of no more hellish a bookend than playing jester in someone else's court.
Dawn broke across the horizon, sun's yolk lashing heavenly beams of vivid heat against his skin. The distant echo of water hitting rock led him to a thin mountain stream, glittering with opalescent gems at its bottom. He'd plucked a handful from its depths, cold mountain water kissing his skin, and when he'd held them to the light above, they'd near blinded him with their brilliance. It was only when his quiet chuckle had subsided that he'd registered the error of not carefully choosing.
Atop the bunch sat a tear drop stone of ink and violet.
After wrestling with the temptation to toss them back, he shoved the gems in his pocket and shook his head of superstition. It was merely a coincidence, but even if it wasn't, who was he to be afraid of a rock? He'd sooner believe in fortune telling than register a guilty conscience after all these years. Frankly, pissing off had been child's play.
But now that he was on the subject, maybe there wasn't harm in letting loose a little anger. Because he was indeed angry, and justifiably so. Astarion had seen her, face to face with that devil, looking entirely too comfortable and definitely like she was engineering the mechanics of his downfall. Of course he had left! What, was he stupid? Should he have been taken for a fool? The disrespect to think she could pull a fast one on him. The arrogance!
Astarion should have left then, but the timing felt wrong. There was no guarantee she wouldn't sick the cambion on him once she'd realised he wasn't coming back. Lull them all into a false sense of security — by dawn he'd have passed through Wyrm's Crossing and marched immediately to the nearest tailor (the state of his clothes!). To consider what he intended to do thereafter, considering Cazador's inevitable hounding, had been the furthest thing from his mind. At least that'd been his intention, but then he'd heard the voice, or rather, it wormed its way into his ear.
