Lie to Me - PallidMoon (2024)

Chapter 1: Whispers of Darkness

Chapter Text

Your blue-roan stallion moves in an easy lop beneath you through the dense thicket of towering pine and evergreen trees. Snippets of the sky can be seen through the canopy. It’s darkening quickly, brimming with thick, dingy clouds. A storm is quickly moving in, and you wonder why in the Hells you decided that travelling through Misty Forest at this time of year was a good idea. You should’ve continued the main road, but a decade of travelling alone has left your tolerance for people withered. Well, that and you’re still tormented by flashbacks of your past. You may have escaped your father, but your addled mind still holds fragmented memories that burst forward like fireworks, causing you to lose control of your magical talents.

Sometimes, the consequences are humorous. A merchant or trader polymorphed into a sheep, an easy fix, but more often than not, you take life. Pull yourself together, wretched thing, you admonish yourself while easing Hethtalos into a gallop. You need to find shelter for the night before you get caught in the brewing storm. Rolling your hips with the stallion’s long strides and your hair whipping wildly around your face, your mind wanders, an often dangerous prospect.

You think of your friends - if you could call them that anymore. How many years has it been since you’ve seen any of them? It must be ten or eleven years. You’ve lost count at this point. You hadn’t even bothered to attend the reunion, not able to face them, but mostly, you weren’t able to face him. The pale Elf, your first love, gained and lost. In every face, you still see him, a ghost of your past that will not stop tormenting you.

Throughout your adventures, for lack of a better word, Astarion had been your rock, a safe place. He understood you and your blighted mind on a level no one else could. When the other became suspicious and wary of you, Astarion’s eyes never held a glimmer of pity or caution. Hells, when the others recoiled, he didn’t so much as flinch when you admitted to killing that bard.

"I think I must have killed her.”

It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep your eyes on your friends, and not allow them to draw down to the bloody mess at your feet. Your mind yearns to relish in it, and you flex the fingers of your dominant arm that still aches in pleasing pulses.

“The blood speaks for itself,” Shadowheart concludes, her brows pulled down, one slightly arched as regarding you warily. “Why?”

“I… I can’t remember.” Her blood is still sticky on your skin. You didn’t even try to hide it. “I don’t know why I did it.”

Shadowheart’s glower eases ever so slightly, “The parasite must be affecting you deeply.”

A convenient excuse. The worm in your head is sleeping peacefully. You know it is not the cause of your brutality. Something else lurks deeper and is far more ravenous.

“I… don’t know,” you admit hesitantly, “It could have been the tadpole."

“Even if it was the worm, this was peculiar indeed. I will be watching,” Shadowheart retorts, eyeing you with distrust.

An uneasy feeling settles in the air around you as all your companions scrutinize you through narrowed eyes, foreheads creased in deep scowls. You take a deep breath and stifle the giggle that wishes to erupt from your throat. Getting away with murder… Well, that was certainly something, but you must gain control of yourself. You cannot allow this darkness to strike again. You stare at the body blankly before you catch Astarion’s puzzled gaze in your peripherals. He’s the only one who does not look at you with caution, just curiosity. There is understanding in his eyes, a recognition. With a sigh, you walk on shaky knees to the stream and start trying to scrub the dried gore off your skin, a portrait of your sins.

Astarion’s voice makes you jump, “So… why?”

“I don’t know, Astarion,” you mutter, closing your eyes, trying to stop the surges of excitement you feel as the river water runs red. “I must have killed her.”

“Look, I know I have a casual relationship with murder - I don’t remember everyone I’ve killed, but I do remember everyone I’ve killed in the last 5 minutes!” His voice is raised slightly, but there’s no real anger in it.

Whirling, you grab Astarion’s arm and lead him into the forest, far enough from camp that no one else will overhear this little discussion of yours.

“Darling, if you wanted to scamper away for a cuddle, you hardly had to slaughter that minstrel,” he snickers.

“Ha ha, you are so very funny.” You roll your eyes at his taunts. You could actually use a lot more than a cuddle right now, but you’re not about to admit that. “I don’t remember anything, Astarion. I don’t remember my past, who I am or who I was. My memories are all just ash and meat. I woke up standing over her already mutilated corpse, but I don’t know why I killed her, okay?”

"I have had unusual symptoms from my parasite - perhaps this is a side effect of yours? I’m just not sure where this leaves us? It’s hard to trust someone who blacks out and stabs you to death.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, and the way he is eyeing you, he’s heard it kick up into your throat. Out of everyone, he is the one you want to lose the least. There is something so odd about him. He treats you well, mostly - perhaps with some disdain when you do something selfless. Yet, there is something so totally familiar about him - one monster recognizing another.

“If you want to leave me, I understand.” You say in a voice soaked in reluctance, scuffing your foot across the dirt, unable to meet his gaze.

Astarion looks taken aback, as if he expected you to try and force him to stay, “I could, but we have the same parasites - maybe it will happen to me next. At least together, we can keep an eye on each other. Even if the parasite caused your little “episode,” it better not happen again. People just can’t be murdered in camp,” he smirks, “some of us are important.”

You can’t help the wheezing breath that bursts from your lungs. Thank Gods, you think. co*cking your head to the side, you grin foxlike, “Yes, Astarion. You’ve made it very clear how important you think you are. I’ll be sure to kill the others before you.”

“That had better be a joke!” He scoffs, “Although, if you’re going to kill the Gith, do wake me for the show. I expect she will rip out your spine, but on the odd chance you may win, I wouldn’t mind a taste,” he winks, “if you catch my drift.”

“That thought experiment of yours might be going too far,” you laugh. “Don’t let Lae’zel hear you talking like that, or my spine will not be the only one ripped out.”

“Oh,” he giggles, his fangs glinting in the sunlight, “I do very much like spicy food.”

“Apparently, I like minstrels,” you shrug while bumping your shoulder against his, “Who would have thought?”

“Joking about your brutality already? My dear, a woman after my dead heart.” He smirks, bringing his hand to his chest. “Not to worry, I will alert all the bards and minstrels of your perversions long before you can do away with them."

“And here I thought you were the fun one in this little band of misfits,” you chuckle, shaking your head.

“I never said such a thing,” he snickers, “but thank you for noticing. We had better return to camp. I’ll help you, uh, clean up your little mess.”

Astarion takes a few steps before you can manage to speak again, “Astarion?” you whisper.

“Yes?”

“Thank you - for this and for not looking at me like the others.” Gratitude feels odd in your mouth, prickling your tongue.

He smiles brightly, “You’re welcome. I’ll keep an eye on you. We can look out for each other, you and I, to Hells with the others and what they think.”

As you walk toward the camp, you stop abruptly, “Astarion, tell me everything is going to be okay.”

“Darling,” his brows knit together, and he clicks his tongue at you disapprovingly, “That would be a blatant lie, and I am many things, but a liar is not one of them.”

“Lie to me,” you whisper, in a pathetically weak voice that makes you cringe.

Astarion slips his arm around your shoulder, and he purrs, “Everything is going to be okay.”

A shiver runs down your spine as you push away the reflection and exit Misty Forest. If memory serves correctly, which it often doesn’t, if you follow Delimbiyr River, there is a little town where you can probably find lodgings for the night. The thought fills you with dread, but you have little choice. You’ve been on the road for a ten-day without stopping. Hethtalos needs a break, and you’re in desperate need of a bath and additional supplies to continue your ceaseless and entirely pointless roaming. You’ve been wandering Faerûn for a decade alone. Sometimes, you pick up random work here and there; bounty hunting and mercenary work fit your skillset nicely and act as an outlet for your urges. You would be lying if you said that they had disappeared completely when you were revived. Those old impulses still rear up, but at least they no longer force you to black out. Blood, death and killing continue to thrill you, visceral and instinctive. It was what you were made for, after all.

The wind is starting to howl, and rain flattens your hair, drops dripping down your forehead as you trot down the main road of the little town of Secomber. People scurry through the muddy streets as they rush to get home before the storm, and shop owners pull in their wares hastily. Your eyes scan the buildings and land on the inn. It’s a small, two-story wooden building, the only two-story building in this place, with a big yellow door.

The citizens eye you warily as you hand off Hethtalos to the young stable hand and fill his palm with more coin than he probably sees in a year, “Take good care of him, please. He needs food, water, and a good rub down.”

The boy smiles broadly at you and nods so enthusiastically you’re worried he might break his neck as he leads Hethtalos away to the small stable near the back of the property.

In The Singing Sprite Inn, the walls are brightly painted, but the paint is old, discoloured and peeling. The mud-speckled floors groan under your feet as you approach the counter. An obscenely thin, frail woman greets you. Her skin is heavily creased with age, and her hair is long but sparse, patches of her scalp showing through the roots.

She flashes you with a gummy smile, “Good afternoon, dear. I take it you need a room?”

“Yes,” you hesitate before taking another step toward the counter. “For one night, please.”

“Of course, of course,” her dull, bloodshot eyes meander around the room, “Are you travelling with anyone else?”

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s just me. How much?”

“Oh,” her eyes widen, and her decrepit hand comes to her mouth. Her veins bulge out from skin so thin; you wonder how it isn’t translucent. “What’s a little thing like you doing travelling alone? It’s dangerous out there, you know. All manner of brigands, thieves and fiends on the road these days. It’s not safe for a dainty young woman like yourself to be out there all alone.”

Good Gods, you put considerable effort into fighting the urge to roll your eyes and scoff. If she only knew who she was speaking to. Donning a fake smile as sweet as honeyed tea, you chime, “Thank you for your concern. How much for the night?”

“Three coin.” As you hand over her coin, her hands tremble so ferociously that the coins slip between her fingers and drop to the counter repeatedly. The woman laughs lightheartedly as shetries to pick them up, only to drop them again.“These hands are not what they used to be.”

It’s so slow and laboured that it wears on your patience, and your mind starts to slip into your grim thoughts.

It would be better for this woman if I just ended her miserable life now. Put her out of her godsdamned misery, you think, while a cruel smile parts your lips in a half-snarl. Catching yourself, you shake your head to dislodge the ghastly notion that your ruined brain has conjured up, “My room? If you would not mind. I am rather tired.”

You need to get away from this woman before you do something horrendous. Again. You hate that you're revolted and equally thrilled at how vulnerable this poor wretch is. Hells, she would almost be too easy. You prefer your victims to give you more of a challenge. Killing this woman would be no more trouble than swatting a fly, a target unworthy of your talents, and yet you’re tempted all the same. You blink and grind your teeth, forcing those racing thoughts away. No. This is not who you are anymore… right?

Perhaps it is always who I will be. Maybe there is no running from your destiny, after all.

“Yes, you look spent. Room 5. Up the stairs, down the hall, on your right.”

Thanking her, you quickly step away and jog up the rickety stairs. Slamming the door when you get into your room, you gulp down the air and try to calm the noise in your head. A decade later, and you’re still just as broken as when you saved that damned city and fled it as soon as you could, vowing never to return. The room is small, and the mattress makes you cringe, dirty and probably flea-ridden. Your skin itches just looking at it. You’re more than likely going to end up sleeping on the floor because even that looks cleaner. Thunder booms outside, rattling the thin windows in their frames and rain splatters against the glass as if angry.

After getting settled, you go to the local tavern. If you must sleep here, you would rather be a little drunk. The Seven-Stringed Harp tavern is in even worse condition than the inn. A small ramshackle building that borders a pond. It looks like it’s made up of scrap boards from multiple sources. The building has too many oddly placed wings, with varying styles of roof that make it look peculiar. There is a glowing harp made of magic floating directly overhead. If nothing else, it makes the place easy to locate.

The interior is just as disorganized as the exterior. For such a sprawling building, it’s oddly cramped inside, with furniture clearly salvaged and mismatching. The ceilings are low, which only adds to your claustrophobia. It’s busier here than you expected, with merchants hocking their sales pitches and the townspeople stomping their boots and clapping to whatever hymn the minstrel is currently strumming.

Finding a spot as far from anyone else, you bring the flagon to your lips and cringe at the overly bitter and blatantly old ale. You’re not picky by any means, but even this is bordering on undrinkable.The ale gets more palatable the more you drink, and soon enough, your vision is blurry, and your limbs buzz. You almost laugh at yourself – a child of Bhaal reduced to nothing but a wandering nobody with nothing who gets drunk on stale spirits in some backwater hellhole.

My. How far the mighty have fallen.

Managing to stumble back to your room, you bathe in icy water that makes your teeth chatter and lay your bedroll on the floor, flopping down with a thunk. Closing your eyes, the room spins, and you grumble to yourself for being so careless.

It does not take long to push yourself into your trance, and you slip away into the festering wound that is your mind.

Air so hot it singes your nostrils fill and burns your lungs, but you barely notice the sensation. Fires eat everything around you as you walk through the dirt-packed street. Ash rains from the dark sky like a blizzard, and the sweet sounds of death skate around you, filling your ears and pleasuring your mind. You pirouette in the street as if dancing while you step over body after body and admire your handy work. Blood still drips from the ends of your hair, and your skin feels tight, caked in a crimson memoir of your destruction and devastation.

Bodies lay in heaps around you, scattered across the ground that is starting to become swampy as the earth refuses to be fed the blood of your victims any longer. You wonder why your father would send you on this errand. It is below your station to attack such unworthy targets. A small town, unnamed and unmarked, in the middle of nowhere. These people have never seen battle in their sad little lives. Hells, they barely have weapons.

Other acolytes of Bhaal race around you like rodents. Father’s orders to take them for training, but you could have dispatched this place alone. Your sister, Orin, would have been better suited to such child’s play, but you were tired of sitting idle anyway, and one does not simply say no to the Lord of Murder.

A man with a pitchfork hurtles toward you, face red with rage and blackened with soot, and you giggle at him happily. You pivot, lithe and limber, with wicked laughter. You continue this dance, a predator playing with their meal, simply for your amusem*nt. You taste his hatred in his screams, and you relish it as if you were sipping a fine wine.

Another woman joins your morbid recital. She swipes a dagger at you furiously and is completely inept with the weapon. You were born for this dance of death, and it ignites your senses and makes your nerves hum with adrenaline. On the next dodge, you cast Bone Chill, strong enough to disadvantage the man but not enough to kill him. You are not done playing, after all. The man keels over, and the woman lunges. You twirl, grabbing her wrist with a snicker and using her momentum to throw her to the ground. You cast Scorching Rays and kill her without effort with a chuckle.

Too easy. These townsfolk are too easy.

The man howls, screaming the woman’s name into the sky. A wife? Sister? Friend? Lover? You wonder, but it matters naught to you. His pain only increases your elation further.

“Who are you?” The man chokes out, gruff and full of mind-caressing pain, “Why are you doing this?!”

A maniacal smile splits your face, and you laugh loudly, “Reason? Why, I need no reason to bring death and make the sky rain red, but if you must know,” you shrug, “I was bored."

Fire hails from the sky as you cast Fireball. Throwing your head back, you giggle and settle into a fit of exultant hysteria as you continue your dance in the sanguine lagoon of your making.

Screams wake you, and your eyes snap open. Fire rages, the air thick with black smoke. You wonder if you’re still stuck in your dream or memory. You cannot be sure which anymore. Reaching out to the fire, it licks your fingertips and scorches them.

Not a dream. f*ck. Not again, not this again. Leaping up, you grab the belongings that have survived the inferno. This is the reason you don’t stay in inns. How many times has this happened now? How many times have your dreams bled into reality while you were asleep, and your magic surged, causing death and ruin in your wake?

Too many. Gods. Too many to count.

Hovering your hand by the door, you can feel the heat radiating off the boards, and the metal handle is starting to glow red-hot. You will not be able to escape through the inn. Smoke stings your lungs, and sweat seeps from your pores in the smouldering heat. Coughing, you eye the window. The fall will not kill you, but it will not be pleasant. Tossing yourself through the thin glass, you plummet to the wet earth with a terrible thump. Lightning streaks above, cracking the inky expanse in half with bursts of light and rain torrents from the sky. Mayhem greets you as the townsfolk throw buckets of water, trying to stile the flames. It’s a useless endeavour.

Pushing yourself up, you take several steps back, eyes watering from the heat, or perhaps it’s your anger at yourself. You curse Withers for ever bringing you back and forcing you to live out this twisted, feeble existence you call your life. Why could that bag of bones not just leave well enough alone?

The townsfolk's shouts and the strangled cries of impending suffocation are starting to seep into your bones, melting them away like caustic acid. You stare up at the building, flames licking the heavens and smoke choking out the sky, and you can almost swear you hear your father laughing in your head. People pull at your clothes, begging you to save their husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers and children. Hands grabbing at you, tugging you this way and that. Their eyes are wild and white, glossed with tears, skin burnt white and blistered, soot and ash in their hair. You wonder why these people think you can save anyone until you realize you’re still brimming with magic, eyes glowing brightly in the darkness as the Weave shimmers over your skin in a radiant halo.

“I… I can’t,” you try to pull away, but their grip only intensifies, fingernails digging into your skin. “I’m sorry. I can’t. Please,” you beg, “Please stop.”

Distraught, your pleas mean nothing to them, and the frenzy of fingers and hands trying to drag you only increases. Your chest heaves, your heart a battering ram pulverizing your ribs. Panic is gripping you. All these people, their hands touching you, pulling you. All these voices and screams. It’s too much. It’s too much noise, and it takes you under. You feel it, the wave of your magic ripping you at the seams, and try to quell it, but your efforts are for naught.

Chain Lightening ejects from you in a violent flurry, streaming through all the citizens around you. They fall to the ground, skin still sizzling and smoking, eyes milky with their mouths open in the silent outcry of death. By the Gods, what have you done? What have you f*cking done? Perhaps the sickest part is that small whimper in your mind that covets the massacre you’ve unleashed on these poor folk.

When you look up, all eyes are on you. “I’m sorry,” you sputter, taking steps back.

Frenzied people are starting to rally on you. You spin on your heel and run toward the stable, whistling loudly. Hethtalos appears from the gloom, galloping toward you, tail held high in the air. As the stallion passes you, you grip his mane, hurtle onto his back and urge him to bulldoze through the oncoming attackers, knocking them to the ground. You fly through the night at a breakneck pace. Hethtalos eats the ground beneath with long, powerful strides toward the Trade Way until you urge him to stop with your words.

“Easy, Hethtalos,” you coo, and the stallion’s ears flick around toward you. He slows into a walk, snorting loudly.

You lean forward and pat the horse’s neck, slick with sweat and steaming into the night. His nostrils flare as he pulls in deep breaths of air.

You’re so tired - of fighting, of this aimless wandering that feels like a slow death, but most of all, you’re tired of being alone. There’s nowhere to go that you are not endangering others. You have no friends and no family to speak of, and Gods, after a decade, you’re desperate for connection.

You howl into the night, angry and afraid. Is this how your father will remind you of what you really are for the rest of your life? Are you cursed to live out your existence as a ticking, unstable time bomb? Is there nothing else? Why do you go on living? What is the damn point of this?

You have nothing left to lose, nowhere else to go, and no one else to turn to. With a whimper, you turn Hethtalos toward the one place and person you’ve spent a decade avoiding.

Astarion.

A wayward pin pricks your skin as the seamstress’s apprentice adds another to the fabric swathing you with shaky hands. The girl’s eyes flick to you wide with worry. This is the umpteenth time this girl has been careless with her placement, but you don’t react. What is a pinprick to the skin? At the very least, it keeps you lucid in the moment, so you don’t have to continue agonizing over what you’re about to do. Ten years and your best plan is to simply show up on Astarion’s doorstep and ask for what? Shelter? Help? Him? You have no idea. You’ve almost surely gone mad.

“What do you think, saer?” The seamstress steps around you, pointing out different spots for the girl to place more pins.

Looking into the mirror, you gaze at yourself wrapped up in the vividly red silken dress with an asymmetric neckline that exposes one of your clavicles and the side of your neck. A conscious choice on your part - after a decade, you refuse to show up looking like a mangy stray. The silk flows over your hips and dusts the ground with a long slit up one side to expose your leg up to mid-thigh.

“Yes, this will do nicely,” you agree while scrutinizing your eyes. Gods, they look so much darker than you remember. When was the last time you looked in a mirror?

“Is there anything else we can assist you with? Perhaps different a different cut or colour?”

“I need an entire wardrobe, actually.” The clothing that made it out of your latest inferno is singed, dirty and filled with poorly mended holes. “Dresses, trousers, shirts, everything you can think of. I would say 10 or 15 outfits.”

The woman’s eyes bulge, and you canveritably see coins raining down over her dilated pupils. The apprentice stifles a groan, and you feel guilty. Poor girl. She will surely be doing the majority of the work.

“Absolutely,” the woman grins widely. “We have your measurements. It should not be a problem. We can have half delivered in 2 days and the other shortly after. Where should we deliver to?”

“The Crimson Palace.” A little presumptuous of you, perhaps. You have no idea what you’re walking into or if Astarion will allow you to stay there.

The woman’s eyes bulge and a sheen of sweat instantly veils her skin, “Oh… The Lord is rather picky about what his servants wear. If you are to be in his service, you cannot show up looking like this.”

“I am not in his employ.” You arch a brow at her. Picky about what his servants wear? Astarion would be strict about presentation, but the way this woman is staring at you makes your skin crawl. You could try to pry information out of the woman, but her lips are set in a thin line, and her jaw is tense. She’s purposefully not saying anything further, and you decide against pushing her. “I will pick up the rest if you do not wish to deliver there.”

“Yes,” she says a little breathlessly. “Yes. I think that would be for the best. If you are here for the Gala, you are quite early. I believe it is still a ten-day from now, but if you plan on attending, you will need a proper gown.”

“Gala?”

The woman almost sputters and looks at you like you’re an imbecile, “Yes. The Lord hosts a Masquerade Ball every day on the anniversary of the attacks. I believe this year’s event is upcoming. It is said that many of the heroes who saved the city will be attending. I would not know for sure, of course. These events are not held for people of my station, you understand.”

The heroes of the city? Does that mean that all your old companions will be in the city? Can you handle seeing everyone again? You disappeared without a word to any of them, even him.

The Gala is a very convenient excuse to show up though…

“Yes, the Gala. How silly to forget to mention I would need a gown for that.” You chime, pretending to know what you’re talking about. “Please make something spectacular. Coin is not an issue.”

“Yes, saer. We can make you something that will outshine even the brightest star.”

You smile widely, “I want to outshine the Gods themselves.”

Walking up to the door of the Crimson Palace, guards stop you, “No visitors. This is a private residence. If you have business with Lord Ancunin, you must request an appointment.”

You snort, Lord Ancunin. Ugh. Of course.

“Let me pass,” you chime with your silver tongue working its persuasive melodies. “Your Lord is expecting me. He will not be happy when I tell him that his guards retained me.”

The pair look at each other uneasily as your persuasion takes hold, “Oh… Yes. Of course.” The pair bow in perfected unison, and it’s only then you recognize compulsion at play in their listless eyes. “Please tell Lord Ancunin that we gave you no trouble.”

You’ve seen that look of terror before. Too many times to count. Astarion likely rules with an iron fist. Either that, or you’re far more intimidating than you give yourself credit for, even wrapped up like a present fit for a king in the flashy red dress that took two people to get you into. Your make-up is done to perfection in the style he would be accustomed to. Eyes lined in blackest black with a shimmering silver bordering your lower lash line. A dark maroon eyeshadow compliments the colours of your eyes and the dove-grey hue of your skin. Navy blue hair cascades down your back in a waterfall of waves, with one side pinned up to keep your lovely neck exposed.

The door closes behind you, and the weight of a decade weighs down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. So much has changed. Gone are all the tacky paintings and art he hated so much. The wallpaper has been stripped and redone in a deep purple and gold, although the style is similar to what it was before - dark and oppressive. New chandeliers, new wall scones, rugs and furniture. You’re shocked at how many people are meandering about the halls. Servants dust, sweep, and polish things that don’t even look dirty. An enormous portrait of Astarion hangs on the wall. Whoever he commissioned did an excellent job. It is nearly as beautiful as he is, but it still somehow does not do him justice.

It does not take a genius to understand what the seamstressspoke of when she commented on Astarion’s servants. They all wear matching black, red and yellow robes. Hells, it’s your robe - the last one he would have seen you wearing before you fled. They all wear golden collars etched with an inscription, but you cannot make out what it is from this distance.

A small, young man carrying towels stops before you and gives you a quizzical look while you stare in a mixture of confusion and awe, “Miss? Can I help you?”

“Where is Astarion?” You murmur while still staring into the striking red eyes of the painting.

“Lord Ancunin is indisposed. He is not taking visitors today. How did you get in here?” The boy’s eyes are crazed while he looks around, “You must leave. Quickly. Before he finds out! Oh, he’s going to be so angry!”

“Just tell me where he is.” You attempt to make yourself sound reassuring. “I will deal with his ire.”

The man drops the plush towels and frantically attempts to push you back to the door, “Please, saer. Leave quickly!”

“Do not touch me!” You screech, pushing him away a little too harshly.

More servants start to take notice of you and come in a rush to the man’s aid. They all beg you to leave, fingers fluttering over your skin, hauling at your dress. Gods, they are terrified of him. Maybe you should be, but that does not cross your mind. The only thing on your mind right now is getting these people and their filthy hands off you. You cast Thunderwave and send them all scattering backward, throwing them to the ground. You don’t check to see if you killed any of them before you start dashing through the halls. Hells, so much has changed, and you don’t recognize where you’re going. The layout looks different than you recall, but your memories are unreliable at the best of times, and after a decade, time has likely stolen details.

“Astarion!” You call out while people scatter toward you, throwing themselves at you from all directions. You dance around most of them gracefully as you regret wearing heels. “Astarion!”

A woman and a man halt your progress, and when you look into their sanguine eyes, black and red, you recognize spawn immediately, “Don’t f*cking touch me!” You snarl at them.

Of course, they don’t listen to you. Why would they? To them, you’re nothing but an intruder in their Master’s home. The spawn start to drag you back toward the entrance as more servants come to help while you flail.

Too many hands. Too many fingers. Too much noise.

Magic is glowing on your fingertips when you hear his voice booming from the top of the staircase before you, “Unhand her. All of you.”

All the contact is immediately rescinded from your body, and they all drop to their knees on the ground instantly with their foreheads to the floor. You inhale sharply as you suppress the urge to kill them. Gods, you hate being f*cking touched. Astarion stands with an iron countenance at the top of the stairs. He commands attention intrinsically, even yours. His expression is severe when his eyes meet yours.

“Alita?”

Chapter 2: Untamable

Chapter Text

What does he have to do to get rid of Cazador? New furniture, rugs, fabrics, chandeliers and wall scones. Everything is new, and yet nothing has helped. He’s had the walls sandpapered, stripped and lacquered multiple times because even the chemical fetor stinging his eyes is better. The smell was hard to describe - festering wounds, a solvent eating away the membranes of his nostrils, spoiled blood, impurity and the malodour of helplessness. It seems that no matter where he goes or what he does, Cazador haunts him.

The vile bastard. It would be right up his alley to continue to plague these halls.

What else could he possibly do short of tearing the whole damn palace down and rebuilding it anew? For some reason, Astarion is sure even if he tried that, it would get built the same and still carry the putrid smell of his old master.

Perhaps this is just another price of freedom.

He keeps himself as straight as possible lest the girl pricks his alabaster skin with another wayward pin. His patience is running spectacularly thin for this one. It might be time to start looking for a replacement.

“You better be bordering on quite done with this. I am a busy man. I do not have time to waste sitting here being poked and prodded with pins,” he growls, low and threatening, “It would be an utter shame to have to replace you, my dear.”

The woman drops to her knees immediately as if she could not get to the ground fast enough with her forehead on the floor, “Of course, my lord. We will have everything completed flawlessly well before the Gala.”

“Yes, you will,” he growls, “Or there will be consequences. I expect you understand unless you prefer I elaborate?”

“No, my lord.” The woman shudders on the ground and holds her palm up in a show of subservience, “Your instructions are clear. We will not fail you.”

“Do not disappoint me.” He sneers as he shrugs the coat off, a well-fitted piece of silk linen in blacks, deep purples and golds.

A young man off to the side of the room wrings his hands nervously, catching Astarion’s attention. “You!” He crooks a finger at the young man. “Come.”

The man’s face instantly flashes pale and unsure. He plummets to his knees on the floor.

Astarion growls, “I will not ask again.” The young man approaches with slumped shoulders. His hands shake fiercely. “Stand tall, pet. Do you have no respect for yourself?”

“I’m sorry, my lord.” The man sputters through quacking lips.

He looks the young man up and down. Something isn’t quite right about his attire, and it irks him. The servants had simple instructions. Dress in what he asked of them and do whatever he ordered. In return, he provided food, safety and shelter.

“You have been here a while, yes?” Astarion arches a brow as he scrutinizes the man, “How long?”

“Five months, lord.” The young man stutters, keeping his eyes cast to his feet. At least he has learned that much. You do not get to look in his eyes unless given permission.

“Five months….” Astarion purrs, “Five months, and yet you forget that your robes are supposed to be maintained and pristine at all times. You are always to wear the collar. Even when you sleep, that collar should be snuggly wrapped around your neck. These were the agreements established when you arrived.”

The man’s robe is a mess of food, ink and stains that Astarion does not care to know the origin. Buttons dangle, and metal claps are loose. His man’s makeup is too lightly applied and smudged. His eyes should appear in a smoky back, but he’s barely managed to get the silver right. They could never look like her, but they are damn well supposed to try.

“Did no one ever teach you not to bite the hand that feeds you?” He inquires while his fingers flit over the stained robe. He takes it as a personal offence, “Five months of eating my food, sleeping safe and sound in my home, and you cannot even be bothered to show up in the required garb? Do you mean to upset me?”

“N-n-no.” The man’s voice shakes, and he drops to his knees, with his forehead pressed to the floor, “I…I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. It will not happen again, lord.”

“It absolutely will not.” He picks the man up by his neck. Tears start to brim in his eyes as he recognizes impending doom, “I want you to remember, you brought this upon yourself.”

Astarion punches a hole clean through the man’s chest, his fist rupturing from the man’s spine with his still beating heart in his grasp. Blood spurts over the seamstress, floors, and walls as the last gurgles of death escape the man’s throat. Astarion squishes the heart, pulverizing it into nothing but a blubbery, thick paste. He drops the man lackadaisically and flicks the remaining gore off his hand.

“You two get to work on my outfit. If there is blood on that it, start over.” He says, turning back to the mirror, grabbing a bolt of fabric to wipe his blood-slicked hand off, and tucking his shirt back in, “I will send the spawn to clean up this mess.”

“Yes, lord.” They nod at him from their knees and rise slowly, picking the coat off the floor and hauling it away.

Astarion’s eyes glow, irises skirted in squirming black tendrils that cavort across his sclera, and his spawn is immediately summoned, “You called, Master.”

“Dispose of this and get the servants in here to clean this up before it stains,” Astarion waves dismissively toward the mutilated body. “Be sure to remove the robes, and by the Gods, hide them somewhere appropriate this time. If you do not, you will be next to suffer the same fate but considerably worse.”

“Of course, Master. As you wish.” The spawn drops down to kiss his shoes and then his family crest.

“Be gone now,” Astarion instructs.

The spawn collects the body, looking at it with greed, licking its lips, and disappearing. He takes a deep breath, cherishing the solitude, but it does not last long as he hears a heartbeat and pounding steps running toward the room. He sighs as he turns around with his arms crossed and a sombre scowl, waiting for her to burst into the room.

“I beg your mercy, my lord,” the woman drops to her knees, forehead to the floor as soon as she sees him. This woman at least keeps her clothing clean and her collar on. “You have a visitor. They have requested to see you.”

“I have no appointments today,” he retorts, waving his hand dismissively.

“This one seems to have charmed the guards. We know not how, but she is in the foyer requesting you by name - your first name…” she stutters. No one requests him by that name any longer. “We asked her to leave. She is making quite a commotion.”

“We will need to hire better guards after I kill those two imbeciles, I suppose. A commotion?” His brows furrow. He does not likedisorderlinessin his house. He may have to teach this visitor a lesson, “Speak plainly.”

The woman trembles, sensing his increasing frustration, “She appears to be a magic user, a sorcerer or wizard - I cannot be sure.”

“Let the spawn handle her,” he growls, irritation making him clench his teeth together. Why was everyone failing him today? “They are probably hungry anyway.”

“Only two spawn are currently inside the residence, my lord. She seems to be overpowering them. She is running through the palace halls. We are trying to subdue her, but she is quite hard to restrain.”

Astarion drags his hand over his face. Is he completely surrounded by incompetence? Closing his eyes, he connects to the spawn and catches glimpses of dove-grey skin and navy hair. Something feels amiss yet entirely recognizable. It puzzles him until he hears a familiar voice stroking his ears. No, it could not possibly be her. He’s been holding these godsforsaken balls every year in the hopes she attended, but she never did. He presumed her dead.

She should not have been able to even enter the city without him being alerted. He had scouts on every gate, ingress, waypoint and corner, all watching for her. If every one of them failed, he’s going to have quite the massacre to attend to later. Kicking the servant out of his way, he strides down the hallways toward the cacophony of chaos. As he approaches, he straightens his back, tugs his jacket and sleeves to perfection, and smooths his expression into a severe mask of indifference.

As he crests the top of the stairs, he sees her. His spawn and servants attempt to restrain her, but she fights with the furry of the Hells with glowing death poised on his fingertips and shimmering over her skin like an aura.

“Unhand her. All of you.” He bellows the command, bubbling with irritation.

Everyone drops to their knees, foreheads on the floor. Everyone except for her. She straightens her spine, rolls her shoulders back and stands tall. Her fists are balled up at her sides as she scowls at the array. She’s contemplating killing them. He can see her eyes darken ever so slightly as her fingers flex. She turns to him, her expression softening, and those heterochromatic eyes arrest him almost as severely as they did when he first gazed into them - one eye green as a poison lake and the other a summer yellow, radiating a vibrance that could rival the brightest star.

“Alita?”

She relaxes her stiff shoulders, stretching her neck, forcing his attention to the striking red dress that pays homage to her delicately freckled dove-grey skin and hair as dark blue as the ocean at midnight. She’s done this on purpose, exposing her neck to him as if it’s his for the taking. It is his for the taken though, isn’t it? Anything and everything is his for the taking now, even her.

“Astarion,” she accentuates his name, making her denial to call him lord evident in her intonation with a defiant glower. “How lovely to see you again, old friend.”

Friend? Friend!? He almost wants to shout at her but commands composure to the degree he can. He descends the stairs rigidly, blinking hard as if to make sure she is not an apparition his mind is playing tricks on him with. He feels hot, too hot, all of a sudden, but he restrains himself from wiping his brow. He will not give away how much her sudden appearance has shaken him. Astarion’s fingernail trails a long laceration down the banister as he descends, but he barely notices the wood splinters mooring into his skin. The wood groans under his tight grip. He folds his other arm behind his back, a reminder to keep his spine straight because it begs him to lean forward - if only to get closer to her.

As he approaches, everyone in the vicinity cowers, trembling with soft whimpers escaping their lips, but not her, never her. She stands with an immovable calmness that no one can equal. Good Gods, she looks like a visage, transported from his memories to reality.

“Be gone.” he hisses the command through a tightened jaw, “All of you.”

The servants scurry like rodents fleeing from a starving cat, disappearing down hallways and into various rooms. The halls empty promptly as he comes to stand before her.

He waits for her to speak, for those pouty, perfect lips to begin moving and explaining this incursion on his home. Yet, they do not move. They do not so much as twitch as she regards him through narrowed, striking eyes like vibrant polished jewels, glinting and whispering chaos. They bleed into him and invite him to be devoured by her. Worse yet, he’s tempted. She smiles at him, copying his stature with a mocking flair. She is brazen. He will give her that much.

Finally, he tires of the shrouded silence, “Why in the Hells,” he takes caution in enunciating the words, lest his tongue slip and reveal his uncertainty, “Have you returned? Come to try and kill me again, darling?”

She takes cautious steps around him, taking him in, and he can veritably feel her eyes stirring his skin. It feels like the flames of the Hells themselves are licking across his flesh as his skin prickles under her inspection. He can’t help himself as he attempts to straighten his back further, squaring his shoulders.

“You look well,” she purrs in an angelic baritone that sounds odd, bounding off her tongue. “I’m here for the Gala. Did you misplace my invite?”

She may be a practiced liar, nearing as good as he, but her voice quivers uncertainly - however unsubtly. She’s lying through those red-stained lips. His eyes narrow with suspicion. What is the real reason she’s come?

He had sent multiple invitations to her by every method he could possibly conceive, even hiring mages to track her. It proved useless. She was a demi-God, after all. Although, which God, Jergal or her father, Bhaal, she was bound to now was up for debate.

“I do not believe I received your RSVP,” he keeps his eyes staring straight ahead with considerable effort. They yearn to watch every movement of her lithe body, swaying hips, and those godsdamned salient eyes. “I do not take in strays. You are welcome to stay the night, for old time’s sake, but you are to be gone by morning. Do I make myself clear?”

She halts her patrolling in front of him. She swaddles herself in a facade of confidence, but he can see the ripples of her muscles tensing and relaxing under the silk, varnishing her body tightly.

“Yes,” she purrs, cool as a glacier. “Of course. I will depart before the sun breaks the horizon. My thanks for your generosity,” she hisses, “Astarion.”

He nearly snarls at her absolute unwillingness to give him the respect he deserves. In his own home, no less. No one challenges like this - no but her.

He snaps his fingers, and a woman appears, “Show our guest to her lodgings for the night,” he commands, and the servant bows her head in understanding. “It was nice to see you again. Keep well, Alita.”

She sneers at him as if she can tell he’s bluffing, and Hells, it’s possible she can. She disappears with the servant down the hallway and around a corner, and he immediately keels forward, hand to his chest, panting hard. What in the Hells has she done to him? He could not possibly be this unnerved by her. Taking inventory of himself, he tries to perceive any magic at play, but she has not cast against him. Gods, he should kill her, turn her, just to show him she can’t come back a decade later and toy with him.

He snarls while climbing the stairs, fingers gliding against the walls like someone trying to find their way in the dark and returns to his study. Astarion crooks a finger into the collar of his jacket and hauls it away from his neck, ripping it. Hells, he feels like he’s suffocating under the weight of the fabric. Undoing the claps with fevered haste, he hurls the stifling coat to the side. It’s not enough. He still can’t f*cking breathe. He unbuttons his chemise, leaning his back against a chilled wall.

The last time he saw her, she was walking away from the docks with her eyes on her feet, expecting to see her later, only she had not shown up. They had waited for her all night, and he stayed in that damned tavern until sunrise, long after the others retired, hoping she would walk through the door.

She never did. She left him without a word of goodbye and vanished just as quickly as she appeared after the crash.

A soft tap on the door makes him snarl a reply. A servant enters and drops to his knees, “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lord.”

He rolls his eyes and forces himself to stand straight and commanding. “What is it?”

“My lord,” the man’s voice shakes. They all shook like leaves in a breeze when they knew something would upset him. “It seems your guest killed two of your servants.”

Of godsdamned course she did. Death followed in her wake like her shadow on the ground. The idiots must have touched her. She was unlikely to kill innocents, especially mere servants. There was no thrill in it, and if he remembers correctly, she itched for the challenge. They should have known better than to lay their hands on her. Perhaps they need a reminder of their “training.”

“Take them to the spawn in the dungeon,” he instructs without concern. Two servants are easily replaceable. He’s lucky she hadn’t shaken the very foundation of the palace and brought it down around his ears. “Don’t get too close to the cells,” he snickers. “They are ravenous down there.”

If she is going to show up at his doorstep, flaunting herself, his lost mad love, disorienting him and killing his servants, well… two can play this game.

He summons his spawn with naught but a thought, “Yes, Master. How may I serve?”

“Summon Lyra, instruct her to dress for dinner and have the servants set an additional place at the table. We will be hosting our guest tonight,” he sneers with a wicked grin that bears his fangs.

He will illustrate what she’s missing.

He will make her rue the day she denied herself to him.

And then… when she’s begging for him, he will take her as he should have done the first time because nothing, not even her, is beyond his reach.

“You’re room, saer.” The woman bows as you walk past her into the large guest bedroom before she starts lighting all the wall scones. Gods, you can hardly remember how you got here. These hallways are a labyrinth that makes your head spin. You contemplate requesting the woman show you to the door, but your feet feel nailed to the floor, an invisible force keeping you in your past, or is it what could have been your future? Perhaps it’s both simultaneously. The room surrounding you is lavish with a large, immaculately made bed with matching plum-stained tables, wardrobes and dressers. Behind a divider sits a ceramic tiled tub that looks like it belongs in the pleasure dens of Sharess' Caress and not in a guest bedroom.

This had gone much worse than you’d anticipated. Despite the fact he’s commanded you leave in the morning, you saw the uneasy way he moved, the sweat on his brow, and the twitching in his muscles and face. He was not as indifferent to your appearance as he had let on. There’s a strangely titillating excitement to being able to unnerve him that makes you grin to yourself.

“If that will be all, saer. I must take my leave.”

The woman drops to her knees by your feet, and you frown at her. They had all dropped to their knees as soon as he was near.

Sheep - they are all pathetic f*cking sheep in the cage of a lion. Too stupid to run, too weak to fight, and too petrified to do anything other than smile while he disembowels them.

You roll your eyes and shake your head, “Stand. You do not kneel for me. What is with these robes,” you inquire, plucking at her attire with a sneer, pulling the corners of your lips down. What did he think he was f*cking doing? Making them all wear these and a f*cking collar?

“I do not know, my lady,” she shrugs as he pushes herself up from the floor but keeps her eyes cast down. She will not meet your gaze. Another instruction of Astarion’s, you presume. “This is what the lord requires of us. It has been so for many years, and we dare not question him. You would be wise not to either.” She warns, and her hands shake.

You scoff. Gods, they are worse than sheep. Fleas on a mangy mouse. Kill them all, your foul mind whispers to you; kill them and let their blood stain these pretty floors red. For a moment, you consider it and then bite your tongue with a sharp breath that hisses through your clenched teeth.

“You may go,” you conclude. “Thank you for showing me to my room.”

“You’re welcome,” she nods curtly and begins to leave. The collar glints in the glow of the scones, and you remember the inscription you couldn’t make out before. A couple of hasty strides, and you grab the woman by the collar and stop her.

She gasps and tries to drop to her knees, but your hold is steadfast, keeping her on her feet while your eyes scan the inscription with wide eyes.

“Oloth elgg ssussun. Ai armiel telere maenen hir, Ilyrana.”

Your heart pounds against your sternum as if playing it like a bone drum, “Do you know what this inscription means?” You stutter.

The woman’s eyes gape wide. “You should not be touching that, saer! It will anger the lord.”

“To the Hells with your lord.” You snarl at her and give the collar a yank reflexively. In your past life, you must not havebeen accustomed to people ignoring your queries, “Answer the question. Do you know what this means?”

“No,” she sputters, “No, we are not to read it.”

Not read it?

“Are there any other spawn or servants that are Elven?”

“Oh,” her eyes dart around in their sockets so quickly it’s a wonder she does not make herself dizzy. “No… no, I suppose there are not. The lord is very picky about his attendants.”

You force your fingers to surrender their death grip and take several steps backward. You’ve struck terror into the poor woman, and your stomach curdles sick while your heart pines and flutters, “I’m sorry. I should not have done that.”

“That’s quite alright, saer,” she smiles and hurries out of the room.

Before she can close the door, you hear hurried footsteps running up the hall, and an older man, clearly a spawn with black sclera and glowing eyes, appears in the doorway. They speak in hushed mutters, “Saer, the lord requests you join him and his consort for the evening meal.”

His consort? Your eyes narrow as your brows pull down, and a barrage of jealousy that you shouldn’t feel climbs up your throat in the form of burning bile. Had you really expected him not to take a new lover? Of course not. Does it still agitate you? Clearly.

Your magic surges unchecked and unbridled, and your body tremors so harshly that it sends you to your knees as it’s unleashed. Your eyes squeeze shut, a blinding white light flashes, a scream resounds, and then all is quiet.

sh*t. I killed them, didn’t I?

Whatever you’ve done, you must face it now or later, so you force your eyes open and push yourself to your feet. You’re pleasantly surprised when you see the older woman standing there. She is staring at you like you’re cursed, but she’s alive, at least.

You rub your temples, trying to get your vision to clear, and mutter, “I’m sorry. What happened?”

The old woman only points to a potted plant sitting on the floor by her feet, and you can’t help the giggle that rises from your throat, “When’s dinner?”

“It’s being served shortly,” her voice trembles. If she hadn’t been afraid of you before, she sure is now. “Ellis was supposed to escort you to the dining hall.”

“Ellis?”

The woman only points to the plant with a trembling finger, and you bring your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle your further giggling. You smooth your dress, quickly glance into the mirror and wrangle some unruly curls while replacing a couple of pins.

You pick up Ellis from the floor and smile broadly, “Please show me to the dining hall.”

You saunter into the hall with confident steps. Astarion is seated at the head of the table, dressed in an opulent black coat with a high collar. It’s extravagantly embroidered with opals sewn onto the breast. A stunning woman with raven hair done up in elaborate braids, pale skin, and the void black and glowing eyes that signify she’s a spawn. She wears a green silk ballgown with what must be pounds of lace and a corseted strapless bodice. Her neck is also adorned with a collar, but it’s more luxurious than that of the servants, with dainty chains that flow over her shoulders and down her chest.

Astarion’s hand is placed over hers, and they smile at you pleasantly. He watches you with a studious gaze and his hand on his chin. A man standing in the corner of the room quickly runs out and pulls a chair out for you. Astarion has tried to dictate where you will sit, and you will not allow him to believe he has any control over you.

With a smirk at Astarion, you walk to the seat directly across from his consort, plunk the plant on the table with a loud plop and sit. The poor man’s grip on the chair he pulled out from you strains so hard his knuckles go white, and his eyes bulge as he stares at Astarion.

Astarion rolls his eyes at you and shakes his head while waving to the man, who quickly collects the dishes and assembles them while he side-eyes you. From the utter shock on the man’s face, pale and drained of blood, you imagine they’ve never seen anyone directly defy him, even for something as small as this.

“Where is Ellis?” Astarion’s eyes flit to the woman who guided you here. She sits at the entrance on her knees, staring at the floor.

Before she can answer, you push the plant across the table and give it a jiggle so it dances around on its stem, “I present you your spawn, Ellis.”

Astarion scowls and then chuckles, “You turned my spawn into a bloody plant?”

Leaning back in your chair, you take a sip of wine, “He makes a lovely centrepiece, don’t you think?”

“And,” Astarion leans forward threateningly, “How long will this last?”

You shrug nonchalantly, pretending not to notice his menacing posture, “A day? Two? Three? A year? Forever? Who knows. Remember to water him, or he will wilt terribly. Now, you’re being rude, Astarion.” You gesture toward the woman staring at you with apprehension and fear. If it’s you she fears or him, you can’t tell. “Introduce me to your lovely bride.”

“Consort,” Astarion scoffs, leaning back in his chair, “I do not take brides. Introduce yourself, darling.”

The woman fabricates a smile, and you nearly roll your eyes. It’s so phony that it’s just plain tragic. You expected better of him. He could at least pick someone who has a chance of fooling you. Sloppy, you think, he’s gotten sloppy, or he doesn’t remember who he’s dealing with.

“I’m Lyra,” she holds her hand out, and you stare at it. You do not like being touched, and you can’t help but wonder how many times those hands have touched him.

“Very nice to meet you, Lyra,” you chime in a voice of icy mocked honey, refusing to take her offered hand.

She continues to hold it out for you for far too long until Astarion pats her hand, and she rescinds it. “Mast-” she scrambles to correct herself when Astarion scowls at her. “Lord Ancunin tells me you’re one of the heroes of the city. It’s an honour.”

You roll your eyes at her and shake your head, “Yes, I’m sure your Master, ” you hiss while accentuating the word and staring at Astarion with a heated glower, “has told you a great deal.”

Servants bring out the main course, and you dig in without worry.

Astarion scoffs, turning his nose up, “Not even going to check for poison? Darling, I thought you were smarter than that or have the years enfeebled that wrecked brain further?”

“Astarion,” you purr, taking another bite, chewing slowly and swallowing, “Poison was never your cup of tea. Need I remind you that I requested a beheading? If you’re going to kill me, I do hope you at least make it interesting. It’s not every day I get to destroy the Vampire Ascendant, or you get to kill a Bhaalspawn. We could make it a glorious, bloody show. You’re favourite.”

Astarion’s lips twitch, and his fingers curl into fists at your taunts, “You think you could destroy me? HA! You’re talented, but you’re not that good. You have about as much of a chance at executing me as this plant does.”

“I always did like a challenge.” You snarl, “You would do well to remember who made you what you are now. Without me, you would be another pathetic spawn, like your pretty little Lyra here. Destined to live out his days in the shadows.”

You know it’s not fair, but you want to hurt him like he hurt you so many years ago, and now he’s trying to rub this dog muck of a woman, whoever she is, in your face. That damned inscription on her polished golden collar keeps gleaming in the candlelight, taunting you with its words. Even the opals on his coat are another jab. This whole thing has been perfectly orchestrated to provoke and ridicule you. If Astarion thought you wouldn’t take notice, he is sorely mistaken.

Lyra stands abruptly, baring her teeth and lunges across the table. Your adrenaline hums, zipping through your nerves and making them alight in a glorious rushing buzz. You were prepared for this outcome, and you effortlessly pop up from your chair and veer to the side as the woman scrambles, spraying food, wine, dishes, and even poor Ellis, the plant, athwart the room. She spills over the edge, a tumbleweed rolling off a mesa, and lands on her hands and knees on the floor. Giggling, you skate backward in refined steps and let her rise to her feet. You assess her movement, posture, and stance. This poor woman is no warrior. She’s a showpiece, an accessory, something pretty to wear on his arm and flaunt - nothing more. Hells, you almost feel sorry for her.

Your instinct is to kill her and do away with any possible competition for Astarion’s heart, but when you look at him, he simply sits there calmly with his eyes trained on you. There’s no concern for his consort, and he does not move to protect her. Truthfully, it takes the wind out of your sails a little bit. Lyra charges with a growl, and you swiftly skirt around her, hook your fingers into the golden collar and yank it off her neck, breaking the clasp. Placing your foot on her back, you shove her, sending her sprawling to the floor again and cast Hold Person on her.

Your urge chitters in your mind, whining at your restraint, pleading and begging to be unleashed. You grit your teeth and force your feet to walk away.

Astarion watches as you approach, and he glances at the woman held in your fabricated cage, “Still hindering yourself, I see,” he pouts, “Pity. You had so much potential.”

“Take your own f*cking garbage out,” you spit harshly through clenched teeth. You scatter the plates in front of him with Gust of Wind and slam the collar down on the table. “Explain this to me, Astarion. What the f*ck is this?”

He doesn’t even glance down, looking irritatingly unphased, “It’s a collar. A sign of ownership. They belong to me. Surely, I do not have to explain that to you.”

“Stop being willfully ignorant. Stupid is not a good look on you. It ages you terribly.” You lean over him, “The inscription - Oloth elgg ssussun. Ai armiel telere maenen hir, Ilyrana. It’s Elven. It means “Darkness slays light. You hold my heart forever, Opal of Rare Beauty. This is what you said to me before we entered the ritual chamber and you Ascended.”

He picks up the collar and sweeps his thumb over the inscription, “I’m surprised you remember. Your memory was always fickle. What of it?”

“What of it?” You reel back, look at Lyra, consider killing her just as an outlet for your sorrow, but stop yourself by digging your nails into your palm. “Why is it inscribed on their collars, and why are they all wearing my f*cking robe? What is going on here?”

“Are they?” He sneers, pushing himself up and advancing on you slowly, “I hadn’t noticed. What I do in my house, with my servants, and spawn is none of your godsdamned business. It stopped being your business the moment you left me! All of this could have been ours for eternity. I offered to share my power, wealth, and body, and you turned your back on me.”

“You offered to make me a slave again, like these poor people. I would have ended up wandering these halls in whatever outfit you deemed appropriate, with a f*cking collar around my neck. If I wanted power, I could have accepted my birthright, the Chosen of Bhaal, and become a mindless slave to my urges. I have no use for your power or wealth. I wanted your heart, not your godsdamned body.”

“I should have made you my spawn just to show you I can take whatever I want!” He shouts, looming over you and snarling in your face like a wild animal, “No one is beyond my control. Not even you! Allow me to demonstrate.”

His eyes set ablaze, glowing bright like molten steel, tendrils of shadow squirming from the edges of his irises, writhing across the whites. You try to turn your head, but he catches your chin in his hands and jerks your eyes back to his, “Kill Lyra.”

Your body is not your own. His command oozes into your bones, muscles, and tendons like venom. You’re helpless to stop it as your arm rises and your magic swells. Sweat breaks out, shrouding your skin in a tacky film as you try to campaign against his authority. Your mind is alert, but the carcass of your agency lies defeated. This feels too much like when you lose control of your magic, and you scorn that he would do this to you. He knows what it’s like to be a puppet, to have your control stolen from you, and here he is, repeating the cycle you saved him from.

“Please, Astarion.” Tears start well in the corners of your eyes, tottering on your lashes. “Stop this. Don’t make me do this.”

Astarion’s lips pull back in a wicked, self-satisfied grin, and he laughs as your fingertips start to glow and your heels click across the floor as your legs force you forward a few steps. You want to close your eyes and pretend this is another dream, but you force them to stay open, or perhaps your urge does as it titters happily in the back of your mind. A green ray shoots from your fingers as you cast Disintegrate. Lyra doesn’t even have the time to scream before she crumbles into a pile of ash on the ground. Once the command is satisfied, you’re filled with endorphins as your control returns and the marionette strings on your body snap.

Hells, it feels divine to serve.

“Good girl,” Astarion purrs from behind you as sobs wrack your shoulders.

You should never have returned. With a bitter scream, you whirl and cast Telekinesis, throwing him into a wall so hard it leaves a crater, “You f*cking monster!” You spit harshly, “I will kill you for this.”

Astarion disperses in gas in midair and reappears next to you. You see the glint of steel in his hand, and your body reacts instinctively and avoids his blow. Casting Misty Step, you reappear across the room, giving you space and casting Greater Invisibility on yourself.

“Alita!” he roars, shaking with rage as he descends into a defensive stance, “Don’t be a f*cking coward.”

Lightning Bolt streaks across the ballroom floor toward him. He pivots, efficiently avoiding your attack, streaking toward you in a flash so quick, you can barely perceive his movements. You’ve managed to keep yourself invisible, but it’s only a matter of time before your luck runs out. You were not made for stealth. You prefer to kill up close and personal, but it’s unlikely you will be able to kill him. You’ve signed your death warrant by attacking, and a part of you cannot wait for the peaceful obscurity he’s about to gift you.

You dart across the room, lithe and nimble, and your muscles settle into this familiar dance, and Gods, it feels exhilarating. Your urges warble the carol of death, and your muscles quiver with the promise of battle. It feels good to reunite with yourself, your mind, and your urges. Fire buffets Astarion as you cast Scorching Rays. He growls under your attack, but it barely wounds him other than that opulent coat he was wearing that now looks like burnt parchment clinging to his body.

You remove your heels, throwing them to the side as Greater invisibility fades, and he rushes you. You sprint toward him, drop and slide through his legs. Bounding to your feet behind him, casting Gust of Wind and knocking him slightly off balance. He twirls quickly. Your feet dance to the tune of demise that only you can hear thrumming in your ears, and you dodge the swipe of his dagger by a hair’s breadth. You Misty Step away and dodge another attack with swanlike grace, but he manages to graze you, and blood paints your skin.

You’re horrified to realize that you’re having fun. You haven’t even bothered to attack again. To you, this is a game of cat and mouse, and you’re enjoying the thrill, the challenge, the drone of your adrenaline surging, and the drum of your heart beating so hard it aches pleasantly. Good Gods, you’re f*cking laughing, an eerie sonorous melody of your enjoyment. The realization breaks your concentration as confusion settles. You should be fighting for your life, no? This should not be fun. What in the Hells is wrong with you?

You’re staring at your palms as if staring at the hands of a stranger when you’re lifted off your feet and flung to the floor with enough force to confiscate the air from your lungs.

The razor-sharp edge of a dagger presses to your neck, and Astarion looms over you with his face twisted in manic rage. His scarlet eyes hemorrhaging hysteria, “Any last words?”

You can feel blood dripping down your neck as you swallow, “Lie to me.”

Astarion sneers as his voice takes on the soothing tenor from your memories. He purrs, “Everything is going to be okay, Alita.”

His fangs sink into the supple flesh of your neck, an icy chisel you could never forget. As he gluttonously guzzles your blood, his arms wrap around you, holding you tightly to his chest. You don’t fight him and accept your demise, a consoling balm to your troubled soul. Your hand snakes up his shirt, aching to feel his skin one last time as your heartbeat slows to a feeble thump and a cold sweat lustres on your skin.Gods, he feels good.

He cradles your head when it starts lolling to the side as your muscles are deprived of the sustenance they need to function.

Take it all. Take everything. Take all that I am and all that I ever could be, you think, as you slip into serene unconsciousness, and everything goes dark.

Chapter 3: Counting Sheep

Chapter Text

Good Gods.

His eyes roll back in his skull and close. There are not enough words to describe what her blood tastes like. It’s like no other sanguine nectar that’s blessed his tongue. He can’t help the animalistic groan that resounds from his throat as he siphons it from her in savage gulps. She tastes like chaos, madness, and depravity, a volcano meeting a cyclone that makes the earth convulse, threatening Armageddon.

A wicked ambrosia bound by suffering and sin, treading the precarious line between divine and unholy. It smoulders in his belly as if her blood was made from Hellfire, boiling in his veins, combusts across his skin and cuts into his sinews, twice as sharp as any blade ever could be.

It foretells his demise and invigorates him at the same time. Hells, he’s missed this taste. It has been a distant memory for so torturously long that he almost slips until he feels her grip on his skin go lax, and her hand drops to the floor beside him. With a resentful growl, Astarion discontinues his fevered consumption and draws back. She looks like an angel, tranquil and peaceful, senseless in his arms.

“Master?” The voice of his spawn breaks him from his absorption.

“What is it now?” He spits with words shrouded in venomous contempt.

“Shall we transport her to the dungeons?”

“WHAT?!” He snarls with brows pinched with an inflection course as sandpaper. How f*cking dare they assume he would order such a thing when it comes to her. He slips his arm under her knees, supporting her neck, and stands. It’s been so long since he felt her against him like this, and he gazes down at her with awe. “No one touches her - servants, guards or spawn alike. If anyone lays a hand on her without her expressed permission, they will face a very slow, painful death by my hand.”

The spawn drops to their knees and crawls across the hall to kiss his shoes, “So you say, so shall it be, Master. I will alert the other spawn, servants and guards of your instructions.”

“Be sure that you do, or they will face their end, and it will not be quick or peaceful,” he barks. She does not like being touched, not by anyone - anyone but him. He glances at the pile of ash on the floor and giggles, “Clean up Lyra’s remains while you’re at it.”

The spawn’s jaw drops as they ogle the dusty cloud on the floor, and they swallow hard, “Shall I assemble an arrangement of possible consorts?”

“No,” he almost screams. How could he possibly consider taking a new consort with her, his mad and only love, in his arms? He’s had enough of the imposters he’s been trying to fill his life with. “That will not be necessary.”

Astarion exits the hall and instinctively takes the route to his room, located on the topmost floor of the palace. This is the only place he can get a modicum of peace from the turbulence of life. Hardly anyone dared disturb him in his chambers unless there was an urgent need. It’s a grand room, nearly as large as the ballroom, filled with extravagance in every direction.

This should have been their room, with their possessions and bed. It should have all been theirs. She had been too f*cking stubborn or stupid to accept his most generous offer. She left him alone.

But he is alone no longer.

He lays her gently on his bed and watches as her chest rises and falls feebly. The sight is mesmerizing. She is finally where she belongs, where she should have been all this time, and Hells below, she looks celestial on his sheets. He loses himself in her, allowing his mind to wander.

Her body quivers beneath him as he urges her senselessly toward her euphoria. He watches raptly, storing her moans and whimpers to memory as his fingers find a pace that makes her body jerk and tremor beneath him. He rubs slow circles over her swollen flesh, and her cries ring out into the night air. He hopes he’s chosen a place far enough from camp that the others can’t hear her wanton wailing.

“Do you like that, Alita?” He growls breathlessly. Stupid question. He’s not even sure why he bothered to ask. He can see the whites of her eyes through the narrow slits in her hooded lids as she loses herself in him, which is precisely what he intended.

“Yes,” she whimpers under his merciless tempo. Her body spasms and convulses, and he feels that disgust rearing up, not disgust with her as he breaks her down, only with himself. Why was he even bothering with this charade?

“Come for me,” he instructs while increasing his pace. Her muscles tense and tremble. She’s about to peak, and he grins to himself while purring, “Scream my name. You will never forget me. I will be the only one you can never forget.”

Her fingers dig into his flesh, marking him, and he f*cking hates it. How easily she can leave the tracks of his sins on him. What he is doing is unfair - this tactical manipulation she does not deserve. She has been good to him since he started travelling with her. Yet, his first instinct is to take advantage of her. He loathes himself for it.

“Astarion…” she pants. Her eyes squeezed shut and her body spams beneath him, “Astarion. F-f*ck!”

A part of him relishes it - this control he has over these mortals. They are so effortlessly influenced by their carnal desires that it makes them easy prey. He can lure and wield them with as much finesse as he can a dagger.

Easy. Too f*cking easy.

He parts her folds with his co*ck, slathering himself in her pleasure until her convulsing has abated. He knows better than to rush these things. Although, he’s astounded to realize that he’s breathing heavily and yearning to be engulfed by her. His co*ck twitches and pulses in his hand. This is typically the part he enjoys least, but this night, he craves it.

He craves her.

When she finally stills, and his swollen head is pressed against her entrance, he plunges into her in one smooth, greedy motion, and she cries out. A howl that is a mix of pleasure and pain, and he stills as the smell of fresh blood begins permeating the air. It’s not coming from her lovely neck, which she offered him earlier this evening. No, this is a different scent altogether.

Astarion’s eyes widen substantially, and he’s glad for the darkness that will obscure his confoundment, “You…” he stutters as he quells the urge to continue thrusting, “You’ve never done this before?”

She bites her lower lip while opening her eyes one at a time. The green, emerald pool and yellow sunshine embedded in her eye sockets focus on the crimson of his with a mixture of pleasure, desire and pain.

“Astarion,” she almost giggles as she clenches around him, eliciting a sharp breath to hiss from his lungs. “I’ve told you I do not remember my past. Whatever came before this is indistinct, a puzzle missing most pieces. You would know better than I. Have I done this before?”

There’s a trust in her eyes that he loves and hates in equal measure. He doesn’t need to, but he looks down regardless to see the scarlet of her purity blooming vibrant against his engorged, ivory girth.

Ah, Hells. If he did not feel enough guilt before, now it seeps into his bones, drying them out and splintering them. Her first sexual experience is destined to be nothing more than a clever ruse. He must switch up his strategy on the fly. This is hardly the first time he’s been someone’s first, but he tends to avoid it when and where he can.

Does he lie to her? If he does, he’s lying to comfort himself more than her.

“You’re a virgin? You’ve never had sex?” Foolish questions and pointless at that. He can see and smell she hasn’t. He corrects himself and states candidly, “You’ve never had sex before.”

“Interesting...” She contemplates it for a moment and shrugs, “I did not know. Apologies. If it makes you uncomfortable or hungry, we can stop now.”

Her walls continue to flutter around his erection, begging him to take her, fill her, claim her as his own, and it takes every ounce of control he has to keep still.

f*ck. f*ck. f*ck.

He must switch his approach. He means to drive her to her pinnacle time and time again relentlessly until her legs are too weak and wobbly to walk, but he can’t do that now. He must restrain himself.

“I will be gentle.” He purrs, trying to assuage her into a sense of comfort. Or is it himself he’s trying to appease? It’s hard to tell in his utter shock. “You tell me what feels good and what doesn’t, yes? We can stop whenever you need.”

To his utter astonishment, she scowls at him harshly, brows pulling down, baring her teeth and scoffs. A wicked smile expands over her lips, “Set me on fire, Astarion. Take me and watch me burn in the pleasure - make me feel alive. I like the way it hurts.”

By the Gods. Who is this woman?

She bucks her hips, sinking him into her deeper with a thirsty whine. He grunts, his eyes going round momentarily before the desire floods him, and they hood with lust. If she wishes to be set alight, he can certainly do that.

“As you wish.” He growls as he pulls back slowly and plunges back into her hard time and time again. The lewd, wet sounds of his skin striking her thighs mauls his ears.

Her moans sputter into the night like a light rainfall, but he wants a f*cking storm ripping from her throat. He wants, nay needs, her to overpower the tornado of guilt devastating him, and he increases his tempo to a brutal pace gradually while watching for any indication he’s taken it too far.

His guilt, shame, loathing and disgust start to make him disoriented from the moment, and he starts to slip out of his body. His typical reaction for these moments.

He feels her warm fingers on his chin, guiding his eyes gently to her, and she pleads with him, “Stay with me, Astarion - keep your eyes on mine and stay here with me, or stop. You don’t have to do this. We do not have to do this.”

How in the Hells she knew is beyond him. He could stop, should stop, but his eyes gaze into hers, and he’s lost in her mind, body and soul.

And good Gods, for the first time in centuries, he’s entirely present, his mind does not slip, and he dissolves into ecstasy. His hips drive forward as he sinks into her deeper and deeper, engulfing his co*ck in her wet, heated sex until he’s all but panting her name as if praying to the only God who has listened to him in 200 years.

Your eyelashes flutter against silk like butterfly wings as you wake. Your head pounds with a headache, not unlike the ones you used to get when your urge violated you. A whimper escapes your lips, and you wonder if your father has finally decided to reclaim you. When you open your eyes, are you going to find yourself in the middle of another field with heaps of mutilated bodies under your feet? Will your skin be slick with syrupy blood? Perhaps a better question - will you be upset or relieved? Freedom has gotten you nothing other than swallowed by a deep, dark well of sorrow.

Opening your eyes, you realize it’s not silk your eyelashes are fluttering against but skin pale as wintery sunshine. You’re pressed against Astarion’s side with your head cradled in the crook of his shoulder, his fingers wrapped around your waist.

“Welcome back,” Astarion purrs pleasantly. “I may have gotten a little carried away. Apologies.”

“You held back,” you spit harshly, flicking your eyes to his as your brows pull down in a scowl. “You’re much faster than that and far more deadly.”

“Am I? Perhaps I have gotten sloppy,” he chuckles with a shake of his head, “Stop glowering at me. I was not the only one who held back. You are leagues more powerful than that, sorceress. I would be disappointed in you had I not had so much fun. It has been some time since anyone was stupid or presumptuous enough to waltz into my home, completely uninvited and unannounced, and attack me at supper.”

“Then you must lead a very boring life in your castle of sheep and slaves,”you retort as the pad of your finger idly and rather clumsily strokes the valley between the muscles of his stomach, and you have to force yourself to stop.

You make a feeble attempt at pushing yourself up, but your muscles feel like soggy parchment, and you flop back onto him. He laughs at your pathetic attempt lightheartedly, and your heart palpates in your chest. It sounds cheerful and full of genuine mirth. It has been some time since you heard him laugh like this. Your mind whirls with questions, but when he gently takes your chin and guides your gaze back to his, you’re dumbstruck to see a gentleness in his eyes. He looks at you softly with crimson, calm affection, like before.

“Sheep, slaves and now a plant,” he muses. “Ellis was one of my favourites, you know. He was ever so subservient, a very good pet. Why ever did you decide to turn him into a plant?” Astarion’s brows pull down in a bitter scowl, and his mouth twists, “Did he f*cking touch or harm you? Tell me. Now.”

“Do not make the mistake of thinking you can order me around like one of your pets, Astarion,” you grunt. If your arms didn’t feel like wet noodles, you might slap him for taking such a tone with you, but you’re not sure you can even get your arm to move, and you’re not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how frail and helpless you are. “The reasons I do things are none of your f*cking business.”

“I could make you tell me,” he threatens, grabbing your chin as soon as you try to cast your eyes away from him.

“Do that to me again,” you speak in a slow growl to make sure your threats roll off your lazy tongue full-bodied and severe, “And I will not hold back next time. I will tear this place down around me if it means burying you in it.”

“Come now,” he sighs, his hand rubbing his face as if moulding the scowl off his features like clay. When he looks at you again, his expression is lax and gentle. “We need not ruin this moment with our perpetual bickering like two lions vying over a kill. Gods, it’s been a decade, Alita. Can we not let bygone be bygones and just talk?”

He’s hard to read like this. There is always an inflexible confidence in him now that hadn’t been there before, and you kept away from him as much as possible after he broke your heart. You haven’t spent enough time with this version of him to be able to read him accurately. The spiteful words he said to you often did not match with how he acted. He would still watch you with reverence when you walked through camp, tenderness even when he thought you weren’t looking. In battle, he would still put himself in harm’s way to shield you from attacks despite his utter conviction that he did not care about you or your life.

“You want to talk?” You can’t help the anger that’s starting to strangle you. After the bullsh*t, he just pulled on you? “After you took away my control and made me kill your pretty little show pony? No. I’m not interested in talking.”

“Don’t be so sour,” he scoffs, “You wanted to kill her anyway. I could see it in your beautiful eyes. All I did was allow you to do so without having to blame yourself. I took the burden of guilt from you. You should be thanking me.”

You had wanted to kill her. Your thoughts had been swirling with the temptation since you saw his hand holding hers, when he drawled the word consort, and when you realized she would simply be an easy release for your pain, but that is not who you are anymore. Unless it is? You’re a stranger to yourself as much as he’s a stranger to you.Regardless, if he thinks he deserves gratitude for such an act, he might be more lost than you thought.

“No, Astarion. I want to f*cking kill you for that. You know I’ve had my control stolen from me before, and I know that you know the feeling well enough. You’ve become the very thing you hated.”

He arches a brow at you as his fingers come to his chin, considering what you said, “So was it the order to kill my show pony or the compelling that you’re upset about?”

“I could not care less about killing your f*cking spawn accessory. Death was likely a better fate for her than being at your command.”

Astarion grins, pushing your hair out of your eyes. Every time you try to look away, he draws your gaze back to his and gazes into your eyes, “I will have you know I am quite pleasant to my accessories as long as they do what they are told.”

There is a hint of a suggestion that stirs your hatred. Is he still caught up on this? Has he not let go of the idea of turning you?

“I will never be your slave.”

“Oh? And have you checked for fangs since you woke?” Astarion must be the terror and rage that starts transforming your face, or maybe it’s the way your fingernails curl so hard into his chest that they leave impressions because he quickly adds, “Don’t fret. This time, you will not find any fangs in your very pretty mouth, but I could have. I could make you my spawn, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me.”

You know he could and are surprised that he didn’t. This man can take whatever he wants, so what stopped him? Maybe you are no longer what he desires. He likes order, and you’re a walking cataclysm. It makes your heart descend into your stomach. Are you so broken that not even he wants you any longer?

With a substantial amount of effort, you manage to stand even though you totter like a wind-swept leaf on your shaky legs, “I never should have come. I will leave as soon as I’m able.”

Astarion stands and regards you. He looks ready to pounce, “Are you going to tell me the real reason you came? Why now?”

“I told you I heard about the gala, but it’s clear I was not invited.” You take shaky steps forward the door, “I shouldn’t attend anyway. I’ll be taking my leave now. If you want Ellis back, simply break the pot.”

“Alita…”

The intonation of his voice cuts into you, caring and warm, laced with concern, and you hurry back to your room as fast as you can lest you forget what he is and what he’s done.

Sandalwood and lilac-scented steam rises around you from the hot water as you lay back in the enormous ceramic-tiled tub in your room. Since the servants have seemingly been instructed to avoid you, it took forever for you to find your way back to your room. You meant to leave right away, but a glance in the mirror had proved to make you rethink that particular course of action. Tributaries of caked, drying blood ran down your neck and chest from the holes he left, and your arms had not fared much better throughout that fight. Astarion’s daggers caught you more time than you thought, and your flesh is marred with fresh lacerations and gashes.

And truly, who could pass up soaking in a tub of this size?

Pressing your fingers to your teeth, you double-check for newly grown fangs. Astarion did not lie. He had not turned you. You mull over the fact that he had commented you held back, and Hells, you did, albeit unconsciously at the time. You had not been casting at full power throughout that fight. Worse yet, you simply stopped attacking, at some point deciding to enjoy the thrill.

What kind of twisted death wish do you have that you would come here and try to goad him into killing you? Was that what you had planned all along? Were you truly hoping that he would end your suffering? The ruthless chittering of your urge has eased since killing the woman, Lyra. You’ve appeased it for now, but it never stays quiet long. At least you can enjoy the solitude and respite from your corroded psyche. Should you feel guilt over the woman’s death? Probably. She didn’t deserve death, and yet, death may have been better than living an eternity with the monster you created when you let Astarion usurp the ritual.

Yet, that monster held back considerably during your altercation with him. Why? You’ve seen him fight too many times to count, and even as a spawn, he had been deadly. As the Vampire Ascendant, he was nigh-on unstoppable. He didn’t drain you dry and turn you into his spawn, and instead simply put you in bed and stayed until you woke. You know monsters, you have seen true evil. Hells, you are a monster yourself, and his actions, once again, do not match his words of indifference or cruelty.

It’s absurdly frustrating. Part of you wants to shout at him, ask him to pick a f*cking side and stay on it so you can know how to read him and how to feel about him, but your frustration is because you know that regardless of the side he chooses you will continue to love him like you have been doing for a decade from a distance. Whether he is evil or not does not matter. When everyone was weary of your sh*t, he never tired, never faltered, and never stopped saving you from yourself, even after his Ascension.

Until now.

The Blushing Mermaid floors are tacky with spilt ale, and only the Gods know what else as you make your way to the bar. Bosun Gannet recognizes you and starts to smile, but his smile quickly fades as he notices that your eyes are excessively bloodshot with dark, puffy bags extending out under them. Black eyeliner smudges down your cheeks and across your temples from wiping your tears away. Hells, even your nose is noticeably pink and raw.

The other patrons stomp their boots and clap to whatever silly tune is being played by the minstrel, and you hate him for it. You frown at the jubilated man, playing his lyre and prancing around, and your urge whispers grim promises of happiness if only you kill that disgustingly flamboyant, flouncing fool. It promises to eradicate the sorrow that is balled up in your throat and twisted into your soul like barbed wire.

You’re tempted, so unbelievably tempted, and why stop there? This entire tavern is full of lives that are yours for the taking. A simple trade - their pain for yours.

Gritting your teeth, you try to quiet down the warbling in your head and the deadly hymn buzzing about in your nerves.

“Is everything okay, my lady?” Bosun Gannet surveys you with an acute glare.

“I’m fine,” you hiss, “Ale, and keep it coming. I mean to drown tonight.”

A terrible idea. Alcohol loosens your inhibitions. Your control becomes more like an overstretched elastic band than a steadfast mooring, but you’ve just had your heart broken by Astarion for the third or fourth time in as many nights since his Ascension, and you can’t take it anymore. This pathetic misery is fracturing you, tearing you apart at the seams of your very being, and relief is the only thing on your mind. Well, that and death, killing, blood and gore, but those always seem to be on your mind.

Astarion’s sharp words still float around in your mind.

“The gravest crimes committed in this world as committed for love. A hunger crueler than bloodlust. I know how to play with it, and I can’t resist playing the hand I know. I would have ruined your love, used your trust until you were nothing .”

“I’m not interested in having this conversation again, Astarion.” You sigh. This is not the first time he’s said he would have destroyed you in one way or another. “You’ve made it clear that you don’t love me. Please, stop with this. Once this is over, I never want to see you again.”

Your footsteps pound on the wooden floor of the Elfsong Tavern as you try to escape from this torment he continues to drench you with. Every night, a new way to tell you that you’re nothing to him as if your pain is blood and he is insatiable.

“I was trying, with you, you know. In the only way I can try. ”

Whatever that means, you think as you pour another pint of ale down your throat. You’re starting to sway on your stool. Your heart is pleasantly numb, all the fragmented pieces suffocating under the lake of ale, but your mind is far from silent. That minstrel is playing music you hate, and you swear he’s doing it on purpose, fluffy love songs one after another after another, rubbing you the wrong f*cking way. Stumbling, you make your way up the stairs to where that godsdamned man is taunting you and glare at him with your urge roaring in your head like mountain torrents. Make him watch while you kill them all so you can wipe that happy-go-lucky smile off his f*cking face. It snickers to you, pave a ballad in blood, an ode to tragedy.

Gods, yes! Your fingers twitch and spasm at your sides. The muscle under your green eye twitches incessantly, vexing you further. The voices implore you to let them come out and play. They are ever so bored of your self-imposed cage of restrictions.

Walk in death.

No.

Despite your limbs being wobbly, you stalk rigidly away from the minstrel. Every step has to be taken with intention toward your objective. It’s time to leave before you stain these floors with tragedy.

“Your eyes, miss. I could get lost in them for days,” hiccups an older man with a thick brown and silver beard while he tries to take your hand, puckering his spit-slathered lips toward it.

Ripping your hand away, you snarl a warning, “Don’t f*cking touch me.”

The man’s face transforms from kind to sad*stic. His rotting yellow teeth bared, brows pulled down so low over his eyes that the bushy caterpillars obscure most of them, “Lads. This little lady has a vulgar mouth indeed. Such a filthy little tongue on you, I wonder what other obscene things it can do,” he winks.

The other men and women playing cards at the round table behind him smile snake-like and churlish while they rise from their chairs, drawing weapons of all kinds.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

A savage smirk traverses your lips. Stupid fools. They have no idea what they’re unleashing. You didn’t start this, but you will finish it, “Oh,” you giggle, unable to help yourself, “I am more than happy to show you the immorality I am capable of. Touch me again, wretch. I dare you.”

The man’s hand quickly wraps your long hair around it, and he tries to haul you to the ground, but your feet stay firmly planted. Your eyes begin to glow with the Weave, and it shimmers in the air like a vapour. Mania sinks into your bones, and you laugh as you make short work of most of them. Feeble little runts. All of them. It’s barely a challenge, but you fade too far into your delight in the game, and a dagger sinks into your side from behind you. Physical pain is hardly a hindrance to you. Hells, you even savour that caustic stabbing in your gut because it takes away from the only pain that’s ever managed to truly torture you. Heartbreak - a death so cruel that it kills you and leaves you alive to feel it.

Regardless, you are still mortal, built of meat and bones, and a wound like this will slow even the best down.

You turn with a growl as the dagger is ripped from your side and prepare to cast, but the magic glowing on your fingertips recedes when you see Astarion who slits the man’s throat with a fountaining gush of blood that spurts like a geyser. Astarion doesn’t look at you as he starts dashing around the Blushing Mermaid, assuring death with every step and swipe of his weapon. You join his Danse Macabre with a gleeful laugh. In this moment, you forget what he is and what he isn’t as you dance to the same tune as one.

You’re not sure when exactly you passed out, but you wake in Astarion’s arms, “f*ck! Wake up, Alita. You will not die on my watch, my sweet, bloodthirsty friend.”

Friend… Just friends…

“I’m awake. Stop your caterwauling.” You cough. The agony of thousands of daggers stabs at your wounded side, and you smile, glad to feel anything that isn’t despair. “Good Gods.”

“What were you thinking? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” He admonishes you. Do your ears detect distress in his voice? No. You halt the thought. No, you must just be dying along with your ability to read him. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yes. You keep telling me that.”

“At least you didn’t kill the minstrel this time.” He chuckles, “However, I do believe that he will be scared for life.”

“Why are you even here, Astarion? Why are you doing this? This isn’t your problem anymore.”

“By the Gods, Alita. Grow up.” Astarion rolls his eyes, “I’ve still got you. I’ve always got you, my love.”

Wrapped in one of the plush towels, your bare feet pad on the chilled floor as you pull out your riding outfit. You’re still weak and considerably exhausted, still suffering the effects of your blood loss. Gods, the bed is inviting, but you cannot stay. You cannot be this close to him without wanting to run back into his arms. If he sees your weakness, he will take advantage and exploit it until you’re nothing. He admitted as much himself.

When you turn around to run a comb through your damp hair, you’re startled to see him standing there, leaning against the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest, observing you. He would do this - enter silent as a phantom and watch while you look like a drowned rat.

“You’re leaving?” He drawls, arching a brow while looking at your pack and the clothes on the bed.

“Did no one ever teach you to f*cking knock?” You remark with a biting intonation, “You’re observant as ever. Yes, I will be taking my leave.”

“You are still quite weak,” he retorts. Is that a hint of concern you hear in his voice? “I would advise against it.”

“Thank you,” you wave dismissively at him and continue sifting through your belongings. “Your advice has been noted.”

“Allow me to get this straight,” he talks slow, in a deep baritone, accentuating his words, “You came back, killed some of my servants, turned my spawn into a plant, brought your godsdamned chaos to my home, only to leave again?” Anger starts to burn in his scarlet eyes, “You came back to me, only to abandon me again?!”

“Abandoned you?!” You stride up to him and shove your finger into his chest. “You became Cazador the moment we walked out of the ritual chamber. You wanted a pet slave by your side, not a f*cking partner. It was your decision that ended our relationship. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” Astarion looms over you. His hands curl into fists at his sides, “You wanted sweet, cuddly Astarion. You wanted the idealistic version of me that you had in your head, one that I could not have lived up to. I would have only disappointed you. Rite or not.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” You chuckle, whirl and walk away from him, “A convenient lie. I will give you that. When did I ever require sweet, cuddly Astarion? Name one time! I didn’t step in when you were going to roast your brother. I didn’t comment on or alert your siblings when you blatantly lied to their faces. I didn’t waiver when we sacrificed the 7000 souls even after your transgressions were spread out before me. I just wanted an Astarion that loved me as I am. You will have to face the truth one day, Ascendent.”

Astarion paces back and forth, unbuttoning several buttons of his shirt and combing his fingers through his hair, “I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me why you’re really here. The truth. Now. I will not ask again.”

You sigh, bringing your hand to your forehead, “It doesn’t matter why I came. I’m leaving.”

“Then you give me no choice,” he says, shaking his head, with the corners of his mouth downturned in a sombre expression, “I’m sorry, Alita.”

Astarion crosses the room in 2 long strides, grabs your chin in his hand and forces your eyes to his. You try to close them, but it’s too late. The glow in his eyes has already caught you and put your control into a deep slumber. No matter how hard you try, you are stuck standing here, awaiting his command like an obedient mutt.

“Tell me what you want from me,” he commands.

Good Gods, you can’t stop the words from spilling from your mouth, “I want you to lie to me.”

“And exactly how would you like me to lie to you this time?”

“I want you to be him, just one more time, before I leave and never return,” you whimper, weak and pitiful. If your face had permission to cringe, you surely would be cringing at yourself. “The version of you that loved me all those years ago.”

“Pathetic,” he sneers.

Astarion’s fingers drop from your chin, and he’s out the door as the authority over your body snaps.

The door of his bedroom slams shut. His chest heaves as he sucks in sharp breaths, only to realize that her scent lingers in his room, or did it follow him from her room? It washes over him, bringing up memories in his mind unbidden.

Had she been right? Has he been lying to himself for a decade, telling himself it was her who left him? Is it truly his fault that he has spent the last years without her by his side, his mad love with her skin on the pads of his fingers, her body pressed tight to him, her desire sweet on his tongue and the ambrosia of her blood on his lips? No. It could not be true? He offered to lay the very world at her feet, and she had turned her back on him as soon as he stopped playing her little games. Right?

She was telling the truth. She never stepped in when he lied to his siblings, and she would have watched him burn his brother alive. Hells, she even held Dal back at the time when his sister took a step toward him. She comforted him when he was forced to face his conquests in their cages - ghosts of his past to haunt him, but her eyes never held an ounce of shock or repulse, even when he admitted to stealing the children. Hells, what had she said?

“We are survivors, you and I, and we do what we must. Sometimes, the price of survival is not pretty, but it must be paid. I will never judge you for the things you did. No one ever should, and if they do,” she smirks and leans close, “What’s one more body, hm?”

Good Gods, his heart pounding in his chest with spite it does not even have when amid an arduous battle. He can hear the damn thing thrumming in his ears, and he has never wished it would still again so fervently.

She thinks she can just stride into his home, kill his servants, turn his spawn into a f*cking plant, and then ask him to play pretend? Who in the f*ck does she think she is? He should have turned her or killed her because she is making him completely fracture.

His hands wrack through this hair, nails on his scalp, tousling and mussing it until it’s messy. He is a strong man, but right now, he is weak. His palms pang with a desperate throbbing to feel her skin, his eyes ache to take sight of her under him, writhing under his touch with her face twisted in bliss, and his tongue craves the silky sweetness of her pleasure.

He’s unsure when he changed clothes or started his hastened stalking through these halls in a fog as his servants dove to their knees, foreheads on the floor. Hells, he is surrounded by sheep, and Astarion craves nothing more than the company of another apex predator. He craves her, and he will take her in any form she’s willing to givehim.

She comes around the corner, her pack slung over her shoulder. Idiot. She is still wavering on her feet from his overenthusiastic consumption. He had not meant to take quite that much.

He feels too hot as her eyes burn into him, “Astarion….?”

“This is what you want of me?” He gestures to his clothes. Brown trousers and white chemise with laces at his chest, reminiscent of his camp clothes.

“N-n-no,” she stutters, eyes wide and her mouth dropping open as she takes him in.

More lies. His eyes catch hers and compel her, “Is this the lie you want of me?”

Her body stiffens as he takes her authority. He can feel her fight it - an odd feeling. Most minds were too feeble to have any fight. Perhaps he should not be surprised.

He drags it out of her, increasing the grit of his compulsion, “Yes.”

“If I do this,” he works to keep his voice steady and indifferent. “You will stay?”

“Yes.”

It feels good to command her, to make her obey, to make her his, but he lets the compulsion fade, the glow receding from his eyes, and watches the vibrance return to her eyes. He does need another sheep grazing in these halls.

“For tonight,” he lies to himself, “we are us again. Kiss me, Alita.”

As his compulsion recedes, her body tenses, muscles humming. The delicate features of her face mutate into an odious scowl, and she growls low, “I warned you, Astarion. I will not hold back this time.”

With an angry, broken roar, she casts quick as lightning streaks the sky, and with twice as much fury.

She is glorious.

Chapter 4: Magic Word

Chapter Text

Sunbeam splits from your fingers with a brilliant flash, lighting and blinding anyone in the vicinity and washes over Astarion, a radiant wave skipping across his pallid skin. You will not be controlled like a dutiful pup, even if it does feel spine-tingling wonderous to serve. He cannot be allowed to drag your weakness out and lay the corpse of your past at your feet in plain view. You don’t want to see it, and perhaps that’s the real reason you’re so angry with him. It’s not the authority he chokes you with. It’s the unpleasant truth he wrenches from your lungs and draws from your mouth like breath.

Sometimes… sometimes nothing hurts more than having to face the truth you’ve been hiding from yourself.

You are weak. A broken soul of smouldering sorrow.

You’re swept under a rogue wave and immersed in an obsidian and crimson sea of snapping teeth and clawed hands. Pointed fangs and talons shred your skin with a bitter cold buzz that hums through your nerves, like jumping into an icebound glacier in the dead of winter as spawn feast on your flesh. You’re jerked up, down, and side to side as they feud over you like a pack of starving wild dogs, and you’re the last meal before the clock strikes catastrophe.

Too much noise. Too many hands. You cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot even writhe under the weight of the fathomless ocean crushing you. You’re drowning in the stygian abyss of raven and glowing crimson moons. You’re a vessel caught in storm-tossed waves of teeth, and you close your eyes to wait for the inevitable sinking. Where will you go? Will your father bring his defective daughter home and make an example of you? Will you slip into a peaceful nothingness, or will that godsdamned skeleton poke his lack of a nose where it does not belong? Again.

Nothing hurts anymore.

The swell of spawn frothing over you stills. Their claws puncturing your skin no longer tear. Their mouths no longer suckle your essence. Everything is blissfully quiet, quiet, quiet. Have you finally died? You don’t feel dead. You don’t feel anything. When you open your eyes, you’re met with a concrete echo. The spawn are as motionless as pallid statues. Not even their pupils dilate or contract as they stare blankly.

They disintegrate, swept away like ash on the wind, and Astarion’s face, with a horror-struck expression, comes into view as the dust cloud recedes. He looms over you, and you wonder if he wants to finish the job himself. If you’re going to die, you would prefer he does the honour anyhow, but his palm comes to your cheek. His skin is ruddy and burnt in various patches, but it’s healing before your eyes as if he simply wiped his wounds away with a rag.

“Hells, Alita.” Astarion shakes you. His thumb sweeps ash off your cheek, “Are you okay?”

“What did you do?” You grumble at this jostling. “The spawn. Where did they go?”

His face darkens into a scowl, “They disobeyed my orders, so I destroyed them. They were not to touch you. No one will touch you as long as I draw breath.”

Just as you’re about to asphyxiate, Astarion is there to resuscitate you. His eyes are soft, and his voice is intoxicating, lined with fleece and laced with moonshine, making you feel warm and drunk in equal measure. You clamber, hasty and ungraceful, wrapping your arms and legs around him, pulling yourself as close as possible. His arms fold around you in a hug woven with the same fervent need.

Your lips mould to his, desperate and spiced with despair. He coaxes your mouth to part for him, and he tastes you with a longing groan that makes heat pool in your belly and drain between your thighs with a panging need. Your fingers find their way into the silver silk of his hair at the nape of his neck, and good Gods, you drink him in.

If the only way you can have him is a lie, you will take it because he lies oh so good.

Astarion stands, pulling you up with him, and halls pass by you in a daze. You will go wherever Astarion takes you as long as his arms are wrapped around you, his fingers in your hair, and his flavour, dark, dangerous and rich, dances on your taste buds.

Astarion slams the door, and your back thuds into a wall, nearly knocking the breath out of you. His fangs drag down your neck, and you whimper at the familiar sensation. Opening your eyes, they meet his, hooded and seductive. He looks at you like you’re an oasis in the desert, and Hells, you would give anything to see that look again.

His hips buck against you with a breathy gasp that sighs from his lips. His desire for you puts delicious friction on your swollen flesh, and you can’t help but writhe against him, needy and demanding.

Astarion throws you assertively onto the bed, pulling his shirt off and yours as if the damn thing might suffocate you. The silken skin of his lips glide down your neck, and you roll your head to the side with a shudder as he continues down your chest. Astarion’s tongue flits across the stiff peaks of your nipples, a low groan rumbling in his chest, and your body jerks. Your body hungers for him so wildly that you could come unstitched at the seams for this alone.

“Tell me you want this,” He groans with a panting breath, bending his fingers into the waistband of your trousers. “Tell me you want me, Alita. I need to hear you say it.”

Hells below. The scarlet liquid yearning fusing his eyes on yours could make you combust. You wait to see if he’s going to compel you, and you’re horrified that part of you wants him to because it feels f*cking sublime to serve.

“I want you.” An army couldn’t hold you back from him right now. You’re so pathetically desperate for a connection you would lay waste to thousands, millions, the realm, you care not, to get to him because no one touches you like he does. No one f*cks you like he does. No one even comes close.

Your acknowledgement is all he needs, and your trousers are off, his lips crashing into yours as his fingers part your folds. Astarion deftly avoids your swollen cl*t as he entices breathy moans and whimpers from your throat until your hips are bucking.

“Astarion…” you beg against his lips, “For the love of the Gods, Astarion!”

“What’s the magic word, little love?” He smirks against your lips, and you don’t need to open your eyes to know it’s arrogant, “Wherever have your manners gone?”

You’ve never had manners, but you will. If it means he will give you the relief you crave, you can lie too, “Please. Astarion, please.”

“I do like it when you beg for me.” The pads of his fingers circle the swollen flesh, and he chuckles low, kissing your neck, “I suppose since you asked so nicely.”

Your back arches as his fingers finally, f*cking finally, find their target, and you sputter out nonsensical praises. He’s always been able to completely undo you, rip you apart and put you back together with pleasure alone. Gods, part of you hates how easily he can set you alight, make you drip for him, and obliterate your senses.

How come the wrong things often feel so f*cking right? What wires in your brain are so crossed that when you look danger in its sanguine eyes, you see safe?

Unadulterated, breathy moans cry from your throat as Astarion finds a rhythm that makes your body undulate and spasm beneath him. Tension coils, broiling in your stomach and your muscles seemingly vacillate under your skin.

“Look at me, Alita,” Astarion instructs in a baritone swathed in velvet. “Look me in the eyes while you come undone for me.”

White-hot pleasure clouds your vision. You can barely breathe, let alone take orders, and Astarion slows his pace when you don’t obey. Somehow you force your eyes to open and fix them on his.

“Good girl,” he purrs, increasing his pace steadily.

Those vivid, ruby-red eyes threaten to swallow you whole as your heart skips in your chest. As your pleasure rises, you feel the familiar tug of your magic being drawn outside of your control.

No, no, no. Not now.

You try to quell it, squeezing your eyes shut, but it won’t stop, and you burn with hatred for the lack of control - over yourself, over your urges, over your thoughts, over your magic. You’re always spinning out of control, constantly slipping and sliding across an icy mountain that never seems to end.

This does not usually happen. No one plunges you into pleasure so intense that your magic bursts. No one but him. It would do it now, though. Wouldn’t it? It would ruin this f*cking moment, this beautiful lie, because it ruins everything.

“Stop,” you manage to shake out. “We have to stop.”

Astarion’s fingers halt immediately, “Why? Did I do something wrong?”

When you open your eyes, you know they’re aglow with the Weave. You can see the pink glow washing over his alabaster skin, giving it a rosy cast.

“Ah, Hells,” he chuckles with an arched brow. “This again? Do you trust me?”

“f*ck, no,” you retort blatantly and try to push away, but he holds you steadfast. You have no idea what you will do to him or yourself, and you must put distance between you.

It could be something as simple as teleporting yourself across the room, intoxicating yourself, or making yourself mute for an unknown amount of time. Or, vastly more likely, something sinister like fire hailing from the ceiling, lightning chaining across the room, or a billowing, poisonous cloud.

“Let me help you,” he purrs. Astarion’s eyes glow with the compulsion you recognize.

You do not trust him. What in the Hells is he doing to force upon you now? Yet, he speaks no commands while his eyes radiate brightly. He waits patiently, but your magic is violently convulsing, and you nod.

He speaks slowly, accentuating his words in a laboured inflection, “You will not cast until dawn.”

The magic plummets, relinquishing its threat to surge and lays dormant. You are godsdamned free. For the first time, since your memories are not a patchwork mess, you don’t have to worry about taking life uncontrolled, turning yourself into cheese, or any other co*ckamamy scenario.

“Better?” Astarion kisses your forehead as you breathe a sigh of relief.

Your answer is simply to kiss him, deep, wild and unfettered. You can let your desire run wild without worrying over a possible slip.

“I think the words you’re looking for are - “Thank you, Astarion. That was very kind.” he grins as you giggle at the memory, “Shall we continue, or would you like to stop?”

“Don’t stop,” you buck your hips into him. “Please.”

Astarion’s fingers return to their mind-numbing pace expertly, and you writhe under him, panting heavily. The pressure builds, your muscles tighten, and you arch into Astarion, crying his name in reverence as the blinding pleasure ruptures through you, dissolving you in ecstasy.

You haven’t so much as caught your breath or had your vision return when you feel Astarion’s co*ck tease your entrance. He thrusts into you hard with a snap of his hips, burying himself deep in your c*nt. His arm wraps around you, pulling you close to his chest, and he plunges into you again and again and again with a frantic and desperate pace.

You melt in his arms, hips tilting to meet his every thrust, sinking him deep. Your fingers curl into his hair, and his head drops to your neck. You worry he’s going to bite you. Typically, you loved that mixture of pleasure and pain, but how much blood could you possibly have left in your body at this point? The spawn had siphoned some out of you before Astarion killed them, and you were already rather unsteady on your feet. It’s a godsdamned miracle you’re still conscious now.

But Astarion doesn’t bite. He rests his forehead on your shoulder, squeezes you closer and pants, almost nothing more than a breathy whisper, “f*ck. I missed this. I missed you.”

It pains you physically to hear it, and you can’t tell if this is part of the lie. But Gods, you sink into it, lose yourself in it like a deep, dark forest because you will eat the lies he feeds you.

The quiver of your impending org*sm begins, your walls gripping and fluttering around him, and he hisses a sharp breath near your ear. You savour that sound and commit it to memory. You must leave come morning.

A problem for the future.

For now, you wrap your legs around him, pulling him hard into you. His fingers dig into your thighs, nails pressing into your skin, and your gut tightens.

“Astarion,” you pant his name in repeated sputters as your vision blurs, and you free-fall into an intense org*sm, clenching around him so hard you can feel his co*ck twitch inside you.

Astarion’s lips meet yours, and he groans while he rocks his hips into you, working every last shockwave out of you until your body stills. It only takes a couple of hard thrusts, and he joins you in bliss with your name rolling off his tongue like a symphony.

The fire roars in the middle of camp as the stars scintillate above in the midnight sky. Insects warble an array of chirping songs into the still air. He is tired. He reflects on the ache in his muscles and the heavy weight of his eyes - an odd feeling. He has not felt the need to trance in 200 years. Whenever he did, it was more or less out of boredom or if he had been wounded. The tadpole suppressed his healing slightly as well. Perhaps it’s also affected him this way - an annoying side effect, but the sun more than makes up for the downfalls.

He refuses to fall into his trance this night. Nightmares of Cazador have been plaguing his dreams, and he does not wish to see that face, hear his voice, or feel whatever pain may come. A coin dances across his knuckles, one way and then the other, as he ruminates.

A scream rings out in camp, shrill and ear-piercing, and he’s on his feet in a split second, drawing his daggers. Pained mumbles come from her tent, and he rushes toward it. Is he truly worried something is harming her?

Hmm... no matter.

He pulls back the flap on her tent. She thrashes on her bedroll, sweating and pale. She screams again, her body jerking awkwardly, arching off the ground. He leans down and shakes her, “Alita. Hells, Alita. Wake up!”

She does not wake. The others run toward him, scowling at him.

Gale grabs him, “What have you done, Astarion?”

“Me?” He shakes the wizard off. “Do you see any bite marks on her? I have done nothing. She’s having a nightmare, Gale. Good Gods.”

Karlach’s axe buries itself in the ground beside him. Had she been ready to behead him? He could think of worse ways to go, “Well, what are you waiting for? Wake her up, soldier!”

“Yes, thank you,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes. “I am trying.”

“Hey, wake up.” He shakes her again, harder this time. He brushes the sweat-drenched strands of hair that cling to her pale cheeks out of her face. “Wake up!” He finally shouts.

Her eyes snap open with a howl, and she casts Shocking Grasp on him and then Thunderwave. It knots his muscles and throws him soaring through the air backward off his feet. His body ricochets off the boulder in the middle of camp with a sickening thud and the cracking sound of breaking bones. She plummets to her knees, blinking hard. Good Gods. Her heart is practically rattling her ribs, thundering hard in her chest, and she gulps air down as if she’s suffocating. Gale touches her shoulder, trying to comfort her, and she pitches back with a scream.

The wizard is going to get himself killed if he keeps this up, but he would not mind seeing that.

Damn idiot.

Shadowheart jogs over, with the light blue phosphorescence of healing magic already primed and ready on her fingertips, but he cares not about himself. He’s watching her. Karlach, Wyll and Gale surround her. Her eyes are wide in panic, her mouth dropping open. She looks at them like she doesn’t recognize them. Even though they talk in soothing tenors and approach her, she scrambles away. He can’t take it anymore. They are frightening her further.

“Stop,” he chokes out. “You godsdamned idiots. Get away from her.”

At the sound of his voice, her head snaps to him, and those captivating eyes fix on him, glossed with tears that shimmer and reflect the firelight.

“Astarion…” Her fingers dig into the ground, curling into fists, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s-“

He does not get to answer before she leaps to her feet, casts Misty Step, and disappears. He can hear her careening through the forest, darting like a scared animal with reckless abandon. Shadowheart lays her hand on his shoulder, reciting the incantation. The magic washes over him, and the sharp, shooting pain in his chest recedes and dissolves.

“Are you well?” Shadowheart queries him.

He nods, leaping to his feet and scowls, “What in the Hells are you thinking? You do not corner someone terrified!”

He sprints into the forest after her, ignoring the frowning faces staring at him. He does not care what they think of him. He’s not even sure why he’s so damn angry at them. He moves nimbly through the forest, used to the shadows, and his footsteps barely make any sounds, even at his hastened run. He feels shaky, his muscles taut and humming with the trill of anxiety playing them. He smells the air. He can smell her for miles if need be.

He bursts into the familiar clearing. This is where he took her. Her muffled sobs permeate the air. A sound not nearly as sweet as the moans that filled this place.

She sits by the river. Of course. What is with her and water?

Astarion keeps his distance from her, not wanting to startle her further, and crouches. He keeps his voice as low as possible, “Alita?”

She jumps, swivelling her neck awkwardly with wild eyes and splashing into the shallows of the cold river. He wants to grab her before she gets swept away, but if he moves, it will only serve to spook her further and possibly earn him more broken bones.

“Easy, darling,” he purrs in his most soothing inflection with his hands up. “It’s me.”

“Oh,” she sits in the shallow water absentmindedly. “Astarion. I’m so sorry. I hurt you, didn’t I?”

“Nothing fatal. If you mean to kill me, you’re a little late for that particular party,” he chuckles. “I’m fine. Truly. Think nothing of it. You’re lucky it was me that woke you. You may have killed a puny human with that shot. I am impressed, sorceress.”

A small smile erupts across her lips, and if his heart could beat, it would surely palpate. He waits for her heartbeat to slow before standing slowly and approaching her.

She does not scatter away, but she does put a hand up to halt him. “Stop. Don’t get too close.”

He takes a couple more steps and descends into his crouch, “You do not frighten me, Alita. I can handle whatever madness you may throw at me. I am not fragile.”

“I don’t think you're fragile,” she sighs. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“I trust you.” Does he? He trusts no one. No one except her. Hells. He swallows hard, confused with his feelings. He extends his arms, desperate to hold and comfort her, and motions her forward. “Come out of the river, sweetheart. You’re shivering.”

“Astarion,” she taunts, with an adorable lop-sided grin. “Are you getting clingy on me?”

He drops his arms and rolls his eyes with a smirk. Is he? He does tend to keep near her unconsciously. He has noticed that his feet tend to drift to her when he is not paying attention. She shifts quickly and springs forward, tackling him and pushing him to his back with a laugh. This would usually bother him, and yet, he finds it... cute?

Cute? Cute?! What in the f*ck is happening to him?

“Hells, you’re mucking up my clothes and getting me wet!” He feigns irritation, but she can tell. “Come. Let’s get you warmed up. Your teeth are chattering, and it’s annoying.”

“You’re annoying,” she quips with a sharp eye.

“Thank you for noticing,” he coos.

She helps him gather dry tinder and logs, rolling her eyes and scoffing at him when he assures her he can do it. She’s sopping wet and shivering. She barely notices as she glides around gracefully, staring at the stars as if looking for home. She is beautiful beyond words, and he finds himself watching her.

He builds the fire quickly and casts, “Ignis.”

“Your incantations need work,” she laughs, holding her trembling hands out to the fire. She’s still shivering, but he cannot provide her warmth from his body. This is the best he can do. “I could teach you to cast that a little more powerfully.”

“Excuse me? I’ll have you know I’ve been casting since before you were born, but if you can teach me, I won’t say no,” he sits beside her. “Do you want to talk about what happened tonight?”

She wraps her arms around herself, a protective gesture. “No.”

“I understand,” he nods. “I will not pry, but if you ever need to, you can talk to me.”

She leans in and kisses his cheek quickly and chaste. He arches a brow at her, “What the Hells was that?”

“Affection, idiot.”

“It’s revolting…” He grimaces and then grins, “Do it again.”

She giggles, leans close and kisses his cheek, her warm lips lingering there a little longer. He wraps his arm around her, pulling her up against him.

She leans into him and chimes, “Cuddles? Revolting.”

Your body aches as you wake slowly. The bite marks, cuts and blood loss have taken their toll. It’s a pleasant sort of pain. Your hand trails across the bed, searching for Astarion, but it’s met with only cold, empty sheets. Your eyes snap open and fix on him standing in the sun, once again dressed in extravagant attire before a large window with his hands clasped behind his back. You can tell just by looking at him that he wears the mask of indifference he had before. You don’t bother speaking to him while you slide off the bed and redress. You got what you wanted. Astarion participated in the lie you wished of him, and now that lie is over. It’s time to return to your shattered reality.

Astarion hears you and whirls, “Ah, you have awoken.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t because you’re not ready to give up the lie. You can still see the scarlet affection in his eyes, hear his fleece-layered voice, and feel his enthralling touch, “Yes. I’m awake,” you answer curtly and coldly.

Gods, you are precarious on your feet, but you must force your muscles to obey commands.

“You may join me in the morning for a meal. Or not,” Astarion asserts in a voice of frigid iron. “It matters not to me.”

“Great,” you grumble while slinking out of his room unsteadily with your hands trailing the walls to keep you stable as you roll your ankles several times over.

You’re weak, and your magic is still suppressed. It felt good to be free of your calamity, but now you feel helpless. There’s a sense of incompleteness. An empty hollow void stirs within you, and you scramble down the halls as quickly as you can.

The servants start falling to their knees before you, making you arch a brow at them. What in the Hells is this? They scattered and disappeared before, like insects running into crevices, but now they kneel. Truth be told - you revel in it, and a wicked grin creeps across your lips. You have vague memories of being treated with similar honour, and sheep should cower when a wolf emerges.

All these pretty subordinates, grovelling at your feet as they were always meant to.

But the question remains - why are they kneeling for you?

Attempting to ignore them as they fall like snowflakes, you keep ambling until you finally reach your room. When you enter, a young woman sits on the floor. As soon as she sees you, she falls forward, folding at the waist, palm up in subservience, “Mistress,” she says flatly, “Welcome home.”

Home? Mistress?

You wrack your fingers through your hair as agitation starts to gnaw at you, “What in the f*ck is this?” You growl over her. “Why is everyone kneeling? Why are you in this room waiting for me?”

She does not look up. She does not even twitch, “Lord Ancunin has instructed us to do so. He has appointed me your chambermaid. I am pleased to serve, mistress.”

Of course. He would do something like this. You stare down at the woman. She’s human, young, barely crested womanhood if your estimations are correct.

“Hells below. Get off your knees, girl,” you scoff, crossing your arms and sitting on the plush bed with a sigh.

She rises slowly, unsure of herself. Her strawberry-coloured hair is pinned away from her face and neck. Astarion’s doing, you imagine. Easy access whenever he gets peckish. She hangs her head, refusing to meet your gaze with her hands folded in front of her.

“You can look at me,” you assure, conforming your voice into a soothing timbre. The girl shakes like a wind-swept leaf, “I assume Astarion doesn’t allow you to.”

“No,” she swallows hard, her fingers fidgeting. She still does not look at you, “We are not to look upon the lord without his permission.”

“Please, sit,” you point to a chair, and the woman slowly descends into it. “Do you have a name?”

“No, mistress,” she shakes her head, still avoiding eye contact. “We surrender our names.”

Annoying little insects. So soft. So weak. So wonderfully vulnerable.

You shake your head and are suddenly thankful for the suppression of your magic. “Look at me, girl,” you finally command. Her eyes snap to you. “The spawn have names, and you don’t?”

“If we serve him well, the lord will gift us eternal life and a new name upon our rebirth,” she smiles happily, almost dreamlike.

Has she seen the spawn? They are his eternal puppets and nothing more. You nearly explode under your annoyance, and a low, rasping growl emanates from your throat outside of your control. You can’t tell if these people are actually this dimwitted or if he’s compelled their intelligence away.

You rub your temples. That chittering in your head is slowly rousing, “Do you remember your name, or does he steal that from your memory?”

“My name…” Her eyes shift side to side as her brows pull down. “I cannot recall. I’m sorry, mistress. I accept my punishment.”

Punishment? Hells.

If you’re going to punish her for anything, it’s going to be because she’s so painfully dull. You sigh, “Well, pick a new name for yourself then. What would you like to be called?”

“You will allow me a name?” She brightens, “I… would like to be called Claire.”

“Okay, Claire.” You nod, stand and remove the collar from her neck. It’s less about her comfort and more about that inscription still mocking you in the candlelight. If she is stupid enough to let someone force a collar around her neck, she deserves to wear it. “You will not wear this while I am here.”

Claire grasps the collar, trying to heave it out of your hands with an erratic cry, “No! If the lord sees me without it, I will be punished. Severely,” her eyes water and her lip quivers.

You scoff, “If you wish to wear it outside my room, that’s your decision. If your lord has a problem with it, tell him I commanded it, and he can speak to me about it. Understand?”

“Yes, mistress.” She nods, touching her neck with wide eyes.

How long has it been, you wonder, since her neck was free and bare from her mark of servitude?

“Now,” you rub your hands together and sit on your bed with a conniving glimmer in your eye, “Tell me everything you know about this place and your lord.”

You sneak through the quiet halls with your pack slung over your shoulder long before dawn threatens to break the horizon. The sheep have returned to their pens for the night and only spawn roam. They walk precise circuits, following a specific pattern. They are sentries on duty, and you wonder what in the Hells Astarion fears might attack him at night for him to post guards. They eye you attentively but bow their heads as you walk by. You must leave. Not because Astarion ordered it, but because the longer you stay, the harder it will be to force your feet to walk away from him again.

“Mistress?” Claire rubs her sleepy, red eyes. “Where are you going?”

Where are you going? You have no idea, but you mean to run as far as you can, and this time, you will never return.

“I’m taking my leave,” you turn away from the girl, but Gods, you cannot leave her to become another of Astarion’s puppets. “Come with me, Claire. I will take you safely out of the city and somewhere where Astarion can never hurt you again. You need not stay here. You should kneel for no one.”

Claire backs away with a gasp, hands clutching her skirts so hard her knuckles go white, “Oh, no, mistress. I am happy to serve the lord. I am happy to serve you.”

They are just begging to be slaughtered, aren’t they?

You have half a mind to drag this imbecile out by her tiny little ear, but you shrug, “If this is the life you want, I wish you happiness.”

Gruff, pained shouting echoes through the halls, and you recognize Astarion’s voice immediately. The spawn and Claire turn to look towards Astarion’s room on the upper floor, but none move to assist. Your heart pounds in your chest. What in the Hells was going on? He sounds like he’s dying, and they are doing nothing.

“Nightmares,” Claire murmurs as if telling you a secret. She must see the horror on your face, “The lord has nightmares.”

He still has nightmares? You suppose it should not be a surprise. He had them occasionally in camp. Waking Astarion up from them had been dangerous. He lunged at you plenty of times with a dagger when you woke him, but waking him up now? What horrors would his half-aware self inflict?

Leave it be. Ignore it and leave before he wakes.

You swallow hard as another cry resounds, gritting your teeth and forcing your body toward the door. You move sluggishly as you contend with your foolish heart, dragging your feet across the floor. Another shrill, ear-piercing howl, and it’s too much. It tears your heart open, rending it inside out. Astarion has always been your damn weakness. Dropping your pack, you break into a sprint.

Claire screams, running and trying to grab you, “Don’t! Mistress, please! We are not to wake him! He is dangerous!”

Yes. He is, but then again, so are you.

The spawn try to block your progress, but as soon as you get close to touching any of them, they shrink away. They have been ordered not to touch you. Your heart clenches in your chest. Astarion remembered how much you loathe being touched. Your mind chants with every footstep as you ascend the long, dark staircase leading to his room 2 or 3 steps at a time.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

You burst into his room. He thrashes in his bed, sweat beading down his face, hollering at the top of his lungs. This is so much worse than you imagined. His nightmares were not violent in camp, but Gods, he’s shaking the room.

“Astarion, wake up,” you speak softly, coming around the bed, but he doesn’t rouse at your coos.

“Wake up,” you say a little louder, hands trembling over him, but he continues his thrashing with roaring bellows of pain.

“Hells,” you stomp your foot and shake him, screaming, “Wake the f*ck up, Astarion!”

Astarion lunges upright with wild crimson eyes, snarling and baring his teeth. A dagger flashes in the low, faint moonlight streaming from the window. You smile. Some things never change. He had always slept with a dagger hidden somewhere near his bed. You pivot, grab his wrist and wrench him forward with all your might, using his momentum to send him sprawling to the floor. But he’s too quick now, and he streaks through the room, grabbing you by your neck and slamming you with a hard thud against the wall. His dagger plunges into your shoulder, and you try to invoke the Weave, only to remember that your magic is latent until dawn.

This was very stupid, indeed.

His grip on your throat is tight, and you barely manage to get a whispering wheeze out, “Astarion. Stop.” You run your thumb over his sweaty cheek and push damp hair away from his eyes. “It was just a nightmare.”

“Alita?” His hand jerks away from your throat, and he stumbles back, muttering and disoriented.

You yank the dagger out of your shoulder with a whimper. Good Gods. You’ve been injured more times in the last day than you have in the decade of your wandering, but it’s nothing compared to the hollow loneliness that’s been devouring you.

“Hells,” he breathes. In this light, with the moon illuminating the uncertainty brushed on his features, he almost looks like the Astarion you knew. You could float back into the lie. His fingers wrack through his hair, mussing it handsomely. “I’m sorry.”

Is the Vampire Ascendant apologizing? Absurd! With a flick of your wrist, the dagger flips in the air, and you catch the bloodied blade in your fingers, handing the hilt back to him.

“You better not waste that, Ascendant,” you giggle, giddy at the sight of blood, even your own.

Astarion seizes the hilt, and you release the dagger and lick your blood from your fingers with a small laugh at how dumbstruck he looks.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirks, purring and licking the blade with a long, broad tongue.

He looks so mind-numbingly handsome that you nearly forget you were about to leave, flee, run from him and this place.

Astarion notices your state of attire, “You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” you bite your lower lip. “It will be dawn soon.”

“No, you’re not,” he growls, slamming the dagger onto the dresser and taking assertive steps toward you. His unshakable confidence is back, and he pins you with his hips. His hands splay on the wall on each side of your head with a thud as if to cage you in with his body, “Stay.”

“Are you going to make me, Astarion?” You scowl at him. You shouldn’t challenge him right now without your primary way to defend yourself but to Hells with it all. You can use a dagger should you need to, and you glance at the one he put down, judging the distance. “Are you going to compel me again?”

“I could,” he purrs, in a velvet intonation laced with danger. You could get intoxicated by that sound. Despite his boldness, Astarion’s eyes are soft and threatening to consume your logic. “However, I would prefer you stay of your own accord.”

“You want me to stay?” You are proud of yourself for keeping your voice flat and emotionless.

“Yes,” his fingers run through the waves of your long hair that are flowing over your shoulder and sticky with your blood, “very much so. Come.” He takes your hand, tugging you toward the bed, “Rest with me tonight.”

You laugh but pull back and glower at him, “What’s the magic word, Astarion?”

He chuckles and squeezes your fingers, “Alas, my dear, I don’t think that word is in my repertoire any longer.”

“Pity,” you pout, pulling your hand out of his. “I guess you will be resting alone tonight.”

“Do not test me,” he growls in warning. “I will make you if you force my hand.”

You chuckle at his display, “Astarion,” you growl mockingly, adorning your face with a scowl to match his, “That did not go well for you last time, and it won’t go well again.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, love.” He smirks, “I seem to remember it going splendidly well. I can still hear you crying for me. I’m sure everyone in this place heard you.”

You stretch theatrically and pretend to yawn, “I’m still waiting, Astarion. If you want me in your bed again, you’re going to have to learn some new tricks, old man.”

“No one speaks to me like this,” he hisses. “What makes you think I will allow you to?”

“Farewell, Astarion,” you shrug, opening the door.

Astarion grabs the door and shuts it slowly, pulling it out of your grasp and putting himself between you and it, “Stay.”

You lean into him, fainting your lips over his, and his breath hitches. You have more power over him than he’s trying to let on. Kissing his chest, you mutter, “I need to hear you say it, Astarion.”

“Hells below,” he crosses his arms with a contemplative frown. “You cannot be serious. Anyone would be lucky to receive an invite to share my bed.”

Lacing your arms behind your back, you flaunt your best angelic smile and wait quietly.

Astarion rolls his eyes, scoffing and rubbing his temples. His hand comes to his hip in his “I am not impressed” stance. He cringes as if the word is sour, “Please.”

You laugh, turning, undressing tortuously slowly while his eyes leave blazing trails of heat all over your skin, and climb into his bed, “I’d have thought begging was below the Vampire Ascendant,” you tease.

“Alita,” he growls low and fierce.

You do really love rubbing him the wrong way. The man needs someone to counteract his ego. “Oh, spare me your facade and stop your grumbling. Get into bed, Astarion.”

His scowl eases, and he shakes his head, strolling over and climbing into bed. His fingers graze over the wound in your shoulder, “I’m sorry. Truly.”

You look at it. You have a sick, twisted fascination with gore. It smarts fiercely but is nothing but a simple flesh wound. Another scar on your body to match the scars on your heart. Why is it that everything that kills you makes you feel the most alive?

Your fingers press harshly against the wound, coating it in fresh, vivid blood. You stare at the captivating crimson veil, bring your fingers to his lips, and smear your blood across them. He groans as he licks his lips clean, and you press your fingers against his lips again with pressure, coaxing his mouth to part. Astarion’s eyes hood seductively, and he opens his mouth for you.

Pressing your fingers against his tongue, you instruct, “Suck.”

He moans as his lips wrap around you, and his tongue laps and flicks, cleaning your fingers. You can’t help but imagine his tongue dancing like that against your cl*t, and your skin prickles with a shudder.

Astarion pulls your fingers out of his mouth but does not release your hand. He looks deeply into your eyes, awestruck, “Good Gods. You’re something else entirely, you know that? There is no one like you.”

“I am pretty special,” you smirk.

“You are,” he agrees, laying back and pulling you so your head rests on his chest.

“Cuddles?” You giggle.

He laughs, kissing your temple with his nose in your hair, “Revolting.”

Chapter 5: Home

Chapter Text

He hears twigs snapping and pebbles being ground into the earth underfoot, and he pulls himself out of his trance. The dark maw of the midnight sky gapes back at him with nebulous clouds threatening rain. Pushing himself up, he surveys the camp of weirdos, marking them off in his head. He’s really gotten himself into it this time, hasn’t he?

A wizard with an explosive orb in his chest, a murderous Githyanki, a snooty Sharran cleric, an all-together annoyingly too good warlock, a fire-encrusted Tiefling from the Hells themselves, a druid Elf who has no business being that large and her; a frighteningly powerful sorceress that has unchecked, chaotic magic, who does not remember her past, blacks out and deals death.

Wait, where is the bloody sorceress? Gods. If he gets up, is he going to find another mutilated body?

If he does, he hopes it’s Wyll’s.

He grumbles as he rises to his feet. They only made camp mere hours ago after a rather arduous battle, and he wants nothing more than to get his beauty sleep.

Astarion follows her scent through the forest to a rocky crag where she’s crouched with her quarterstaff, staring at the goblin encampment. The fires still rage, the drums still beat, and the vile little pests still party, unaware of the fact that their leaders have been decimated right under their noses.

“What are you doing out here?” He asks, crouching beside her and arching a brow.

She does not jump. This one is not easily startled.

She nods toward the camp with an impassive expression, “Vile little creatures, aren’t they? Vile and stupid. We walked right in, killed their leaders, walked out, and they are none the wiser.”

She had scowled all day with her face twisted in an adorable grimace. He chuckles, “Yes, they are quite disgusting. I won’t even bite them.”

She smirks, “What does their blood taste like?”

“Darling, I would not put my mouth to one of those grotesque necks if it were the last living thing in Faerûn. I have standards.” He tuts, “I imagine they taste much like putrid rats, and I’ve had my share of those. I’m not about to taste-test them for your morbid curiosity. You bit the toe off one. You tell me, what did it taste like?”

“Bite one yourself and find out, vampire.” Her face darkens into a menacing grin. There’s a madness rife in those beautiful eyes. “His meat tasted a little bit like what I imagine a rancid scrotum would taste like.”

“Hells below. The mouth on you,” Astarion dissolves into laughter. “You certainly have a way with words. I can’t help but wonder how many rancid scrotums you’ve tasted.”

“Me too,” she shrugs. Her brows pull and pinch, creasing her forehead. “If I ever remember, I will be sure to tell you first.”

“You honour me, sorceress,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “So, did you just come here to stare daggers at them all night?”

“Oh, no,” her fingers wrap around her staff so hard her knuckles go white, and she casts Mage Armour on herself. Derangement streaks through her eyes like lightning flashes in the sky. “I’m going to go slaughter the lot of them. I was planning my approach. I considered being stealthy about it, but it seems like too much effort. I’m just going to walk right in and start murdering.”

“You’re going to return and kill the remaining ones?” His jaw drops, brows climbing his forehead. This woman is insane. He loves it. “Why? Our job is done.”

“Why?” She arches a brow at him as if he’s just asked why the sky is blue or water is clear. “Because they are gross, runty worms, but mostly because,” she shrugs, “I really, really want to.”

“Have you not had your fill of death today, my sweet?”

“Tell me, Astarion,” she smirks wickedly, leaning down and pushing his mouth open. She presses her finger to his sharp fang, cutting herself and wiping it on his tongue. “Do you ever have your fill of blood?”

“Of yours? Never,” he savours that taste. She tastes like shade and sin. “And you were planning to what? Go massacre an entire camp by yourself? Are you completely mad?” He groans, “Ugh. Don’t answer that.”

“Are you worried about me?” She giggles. She giggles!? Of course, he’s f*cking worried. “Cute, but you need not be,” she purrs. “They should all be running.”

“You weren’t even going to invite me? Darling, I’m hurt,” he smirks. Though he is a little peeved she would not invite him to such fun.

She smiles, beautifully corrupt, “Come,” she nods toward camp. “Go get your weapons and armour. We have a party to attend. It’s going to be a terribly, bloody good time.”

She walks straight into the middle of camp, giggling, taking a tankard of ale and throwing it back. She cheers to the goblins and raises a toast. He stares at her, confused. They are here to kill them, no? She flits around as if she’s one of them, talking, laughing and joking with them. He plays along. He is a charlatan, after all. This is hardly new to him.

“What are you doing?” He whispers in her tapered ear, “I thought we were here to kill them?”

“Good Gods, Astarion,” she giggles, taking another gulp of ale. “It’s so much more fun when they are surprised. The party the Tiefling’s throw is sure to be a bore. I thought you liked debauchery.”

She strolls, confident and sure, into the center of the fray, tosses the empty flagon to the side and draws her quarterstaff with a glint in her eye and an eager smile slinking across her full lips. The Weave sparkles around her in a radiant tornado she wraps herself in. It galivants over her fingertips, and he watches her mystified. She controls the Weave with the finesse of an artist, threading the fibres together in a rich tapestry. Her eyes snap to him, and he nods curtly. It’s time, and he draws his blades. She casts Stoneskin on him but does not bother with herself. She is quick with her spells. Far quicker than the wizard, as if she’s done this thousands of times. She is precise, practised, and so deliciously deadly.

She casts Cloud of Daggers, hindering some of the goblins’ ability to move, then Web, immobilizing them further. She makes this too easy, and he’s slicing and dicing through the horde, thrusting his dagger into chests, necks and eye sockets. She laughs wickedly as she gracefully parries attacks and glides around like a serpent. Bodies drop around her like flies, and she throws her head back and... dances? She’s pirouetting and twirling as if listening to her favourite ballad. Magic leaps from her fingertips, and she winks at him when she catches him staring.

Despite her prowess, he will always keep an eye on her. He cannot help himself, and when she might falter, when there is even a slight chance, he is there to keep her safe because he always wants to keep her safe.

“Alita!” he howls, “Behind you!”

He hurls a dagger. She titters, giggling hysterically, swivels on her toes and catches the blade slicing throats in her spin. She is positively sequined in blood and gore. She is a sight to behold.

She laughs, and Misty Steps to his position. She rolls over his back, sinks his dagger into the chest of the goblin, threatening him from behind and hands it back to him. “I do not need your weapons, but thank you for the consideration.”

She’s gleeful, happy, and oh-so-f*cking beautiful.

By the time they have laid waste to the encampment, flesh, limbs, intestines, brain matter, and all matter of body parts lay in a bloody bayou.

“Well,” he chuckles, wiping the blood from his blades on a corpse at his feet. “That was quite the party.”

“You and I must party more often,” she snickers, leaning down and coating her fingers in the blood of their victims. She rubs them together, judging the consistency and then, to his confoundment, shoves them in her mouth. Her lips smack together as she considers the taste. She giggles, and her eyes meet him, “You’re right. I would not recommend it.”

He smiles, his fangs glinting in the firelight. He does not need to hide himself from her. She is nearly as sick as he is, after all. “Who the f*ck are you?”

She shrugs, “I’m not entirely sure yet, but I see you, Astarion. I see you, and you are brilliant beyond words.”

You’re in the courtyard of the Crimson Palace, a placid space with well-groomed trees, several fountains and gardens of lilac. The water from the fountain slips through your fingers as quickly as your life seems to crumble down around you. Your black and gold dress flutters around your knees in the breeze as your bare feet pad over the sun-washed paving stones. Dawn has broken the bruised purple sky, and the sun sits severed in half on the horizon. Your magic has returned, filling that void in your soul like the comforting hug of an old friend.

“Mistress?” Claire arches a brow at you, flinching through the courtyard without her collar, which you removed as soon as she was in your presence. “What are we doing out here? The morning meal will be served soon.”

You’ve never had an appetite except for killing, and you shrug, “I’m not hungry. Tell me, Claire, do you have any magical talents?”

You clap your hands together and split them apart slowly. The Weave shines between them as you force it to be perceptible to her eyes. It lustres between your hands like an accordion, and you play it as well as any minstrel or bard can play their instruments.

“No,” the girl steps closer, reaching out to the enthralling rosy glow, before stepping back and folding her hands. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had such a talent.”

“I see,” you come close to her and with a simple dance of your fingers, the Weave encircles you both. It smells like roses in the sunshine and gives off a warmth that’s just as comforting. “What’s your favourite animal, Claire?”

The girl reaches out, and her hand is engulfed in the blushing glow, “Horses.”

“I like horses too,” you shift that flushed glow into a rosette steed, galloping seemingly in place with a flowing pink mane and tail, bucking and rearing, and the girl giggles happily. “Do you ride?”

She is so young, innocent and easily corruptible. It’s pathetic. You shake your head and focus on the Weave, eyes shining as brightly as the impending sunrise.

“No,” she shakes her head. “I don’t think so. If I have, I cannot remember.”

“Do you remember anything before coming here?” You arch a brow at her.

How much does Astarion take from them? How far does he bury their past? Are the memories stolen or just suppressed like he did to your magic?

Disgusting little mites! Your urge chatters at you. It’s loud today, a roar in your ears, an itch that can’t be scratched, and you’re having trouble ignoring it. You grit your teeth and try to refocus your efforts. It is not usually this troublesome.

Skipping to the other side of the courtyard, you raise your hand into the air, and dark clouds accumulate in the otherwise clear sky, flashing blue and white, booming thunderously. Claire stares at the sky, mouth agape at your display of power. Flicking your fingers, lightning strikes all around but never hits you, and you laugh, dancing between the bolts as they strike again and again. You’ve found that if you stretch your magical muscles, so to speak, it will surge less often and powerfully.

“Interesting spectacle,” Astarion purrs with his arms crossed, but he turns to Claire with a keen eye, staring at her neck. She drops to the ground immediately. “Where is your collar, girl?” He hisses.

“Her name is Claire, and I commanded her not to wear it in front of me,” you walk toward him, and the bolts continue striking around you. “If you have a problem with it, I suggest you take it up with me.”

Astarion ignores you completely. It’s as if you aren’t even there, and he bends down to grab the girl by the robe. She quakes violently but does not try to defend herself. It would not do any good against him, but Hells, are they all like this? So, pathetically spineless? How boring.

Ants! Ants! Ants! Kill them! Burn them! Clean the slate! No mercy! No mercy for insects!

You cast Telekinesis quickly, picking the girl up and shifting her to the other side of the courtyard, away from him and his ire. Letting her down, you softly place her on the grass. She stares at you with wide eyes, as does Astarion.

“Protecting the weak?” Astarion drawls and scoffs. “That is hardly like you. You do not get to dictate what my servants wear. She will wear her collar, as instructed, or I will kill her and make you watch."

“Hmm,” with naught but a thought, you mix the lightning with fire and make it rain down around him with a chaotic laugh, “I think not. You appointed her to me, and she will do as I instruct while she is in my presence. If you have a problem, we will work it out right now.”

Astarion scowls at you, streaking across the courtyard toward the girl, and you quickly cast Misty Step, forcing him to barrel into you instead. He hits hard, and you fall to the ground, but not before you manage to grab his dagger. Your muscles tense and respond reflexively, and you roll to your feet. You cast Telekinesis, throwing Astarion backward, but there’s no aggravation behind it. You’re not even angry, but you will protect the girl. It’s rather unlike you, but it’s not truly about the girl’s life. It’s simply a f*cking good time to irritate Astarion.

“You were to leave at dawn,” Astarion growls as he watches you twirl his dagger. You are not nearly as adroit as he is, but you can hold your own with the weapon.

“You said I could join you for the morning meal,” you shrug. “I have not had my meal yet. You’re being a terrible host. I expected better from you.”

You skip around him in a circle, lightning and fire still striking and hailing from the sky. Claire watches you with her hand covering her mouth as if trying to stifle a scream and tears in her eyes. She clearly thinks Astarion is going to kill you in front of her, and perhaps he will.

“The meal was served,” he frowns as if contemplating if he is truly being a bad host. “You were not on time. Therefore, you do not get to eat.”

“Have I ever told you how annoying you are?” You giggle, throwing the dagger into the air, casting Telekinesis on it and making it dance around you like a whirlpool.

He rolls his eyes, “Yes, darling. Plenty of times.”

“Good,” you cease all magic and snatch the blade out of the air. “Do you truly want me to leave?”

He scoffs, folding his arms behind his back and puffs out his chest, “I do not take in strays.”

He’s wearing his confidence like an ice-bound veneer. You can see it in his eyes when they waver as you push yourself against him and slip the blade into its leather sleeve at his hip. You swathe yourself in the same unshakable charade and say nothing as you walk away from him again.

Everything must be perfect for the upcoming gala, and Astarion pours over catering menus, orders, guest lists, and decor, as well as the wall that now needs to be fixed that she sent him sprawling into, and the blemishes from her adorable little display of defiance. Why does he bother with this every year? So much to do, so many decisions to make, and his mind is not cooperating.

All he can think of is her.

The words on the pages before him blur into a conglomerate of messy ink, and he groans, flopping the paper down in front of him, racking his hand over his face and rubbing his eyes. Astarion attempts to make himself focus, and yet his mind drifts back to her. It was necessary to make her leave. She would only cause trouble if she remained. She was challenging him before his servants and spawn, making him appear weak, and he could not allow that to continue. He has spent too many years being ruthless, ruling with authoritarianism, punishing and killing any who dare defy him.

He is feared and distinguished, and he intends to keep it that way.

She is madness incarnate, but her presence in the palace had brought a sort of light. The halls feel cold, dark and desolate once again now that she has gone, and he can smell Cazador everywhere. Her sweet scent had permeated the air and replaced that fragrance of helplessness that bites at his throat and settles on his tongue.

Gods. He cannot focus on this rudimentary bullsh*t, and he walks through the halls, eyeing his servants as they fall to their knees before him. Astarion is looking for one in particular - a woman with blue hair and green eyes close to her eye. His favourite pet.

“You,” he finds her finally and crooks his finger at her with a devilish grin. He does not remember this one’s name any longer, but then again, he does not remember most of their names. It’s of no consequence to him. “Come, pet. You will join me in my study.”

“Yes, lord,” the woman answers. Her voice is a touch too deep and not nearly as sweet, but she will do. She does not rise from her knees. What a very good girl this one is.

He stands over her, grinning callously at her obedience, but it thrills him less than it typically does. It’s awfully boring, “Rise and follow.”

The wall scones in his study are lit, making it too bright, and he extinguishes the flame from several of them and closes the heavy drapes. It’s better if it’s dark. It’s easier to lie to himself this way.

“On your knees,” he commands, pulling his trousers down. “You know what to do.”

The woman’s lips wrap around his co*ck eagerly. His pets are always so eager to please him. His fingers curl into her hair, and he closes his eyes. Usually, if he lets himself drift, he can imagine it’s her lips, her tongue tasting him, her hair gripped in his fingers, but this one is not her.

She does not smell like her, does not feel like her, and does not moan like her.

It’s all f*cking wrong.

His eyes open, and he stares at the ceiling with a growl. Has she ruined this for him, too? Is everything tainted now that he’s tasted her again?

“Stop,” he barks with a sigh. This is not working for him. He grips her collar and pushes her away, pulling up his trousers. “Stand, pet.”

She stands, eyes always staying cast down. A very, very, good girl indeed. He usually rewards them for being so exceedingly docile, but the thought disgusts him. Her timidness disgusts him.

How very f*cking dull. Ugh.

Astarion unclasps the golden collar, his thumb running over the inscription, and the woman bares her neck to him automatically, “Tell me you love me,” he purrs, sinking his fangs into her neck.

His pet shudders with excitement, but it feels wrong to have his hands on her.

“I love you, my lord,” she moans breathily.

“Astarion,” he chastises sourly. He keeps his eyes closed. If he can drift… it might just work, “You will call me Astarion this time.”

He drinks as she repeats, “I love you, Astarion. I love you. I love you.”

Her blood is bland. It does not contain the spice of sin. It does not make his tongue sing, or his stomach burn. It is not the nectar of a goddess.

No. No. No. None of it feels right.

Her voice does not stroke his ears. Her blood does not sate him. Her mouth does not please him.

Astarion descends into his chair and waves her away with a groan. “Be gone.”

She hesitates, unsure. This is not how these visits to his study usually end, after all.

“Get out!” He bellows at her a little more harshly than he means to.

Good Gods. He’s losing it. He cannot focus on his preparations. He cannot enjoy carnal delights. He cannot relish the flavour of blood. He’s becoming completely unhinged, and it’s her f*cking fault. She bloody did this to him, and he is going to make her f*cking pay for her encroachment on his merriment.

Yes. Yes. He will make her f*cking pay in blood and tears.

Astarion walks quickly through the halls, trying to choke the urge to start jogging. He needs to keep up appearances. His subordinates cannot know how rattled he is. It is not becoming of the Vampire Ascendant to be so knotted up. She is beating him at his own damn game!

“You!” He snarls at the fair, red-haired girl he appointed as her chambermaid. She is still not wearing her collar, but he’s too deranged to fuss over it. Perhaps he will kill the girl later, in front of her, or maybe he will make her kill the girl to show her who is in control. “Where is Alita?”

“Gone, my lord,” the girl’s voice trembles violently as her fingers go to her neck. She has realized she’s not wearing her collar, and he can hear her heartbeat escalate, panicked.

He could punish her. He should. The other servants surely notice, and if he does not, it will make him look weak. If he cannot keep order in his home, how many will start disobeying him? He snaps, “How long ago did she leave?”

“Two or three hours, I think.”

How far could she travel in two or three hours? He does not have time to waste on disciplining her, “Get your collar back on,” he instructs. “I will let this slide only once.”

f*ck. f*ck. f*ck.

He can veritably hear the girl’s eyes widen as he pivots and streaks through the halls at a breakneck pace. The servants do not even have time to drop to their knees, but he cares not. He’s shrugging out of his coat before he gets to his room, throwing it to the floor. He connects to his spawn and instructs them to return to their posts until he returns. Astarion bursts through his bedroom door and is out onto the terrace in a flash. His spine shifts, bones cracking and realigning and clawed, silver-scaled, membranous wings unfurl and expand. He arcs them, and with a powerful downbeat, he’s rising into the sky, a silver shooting star.

Hethtalos trots steadily down the Coast Way. You kept your composure while leaving the Crimson Palace, anesthetizing yourself to the pain and keeping your tears at bay, but now they stain your reddened cheeks. Merchants with large carts pass, and your stallion stomps and snorts at the other horses. You ease him into a canter off to the side. He’s spent too much time in a stable, and he bucks happy to be out of a stall and moving. You coo at him, patting his neck. If nothing else, it gives you something to focus on besides the ache warping your heart and the urge to kill the merchants when they give you strange looks.

What had you expected was going to happen? Did you truly believe he would welcome you back with open arms and let you stay? When are you going to give up these silly dreams?

Stupid woman.

You have looked everywhere for somewhere you belong, but where can you possibly go? If it’s not your dreams hemorrhaging into reality, it’s your magic rising and causing death and mayhem. Perhaps it’s just time to accept your fate. You will spend the rest of your life alone, living out of caves and camps, only seeking the company of others when you’re desperate for connection.

The sun beats down, making you too hot, and you pull your robe off. Your urge is trilling in your head much too loudly today, and you grit your teeth. You groan as another clunking wagon passes. Wooden wheels thudding over rocks and bumps make your vision pulse with every clack, clack, clack.

I have SUCH a headache.

Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.

It repeats in your head, and good Gods, you’re tempted simply to get that godsdamned noise to stop. Bringing Hethtalos to a walk, you rub your temples and forehead. The sun is too damn bright, too f*cking hot, and there is too much noise inside and outside of your head. The inflation of your magic is abrupt and erratically soaring with a verve it does not usually have. Is this a consequence of Astarion’s compulsion forcing it to sleep? Has it decided to come back with a vengeance to condemn you for bulldozing it down?

You leap off the horse and dart away. That damn horse is your only friend, and you will not risk killing him. Entering the hilly grassland, your magic mutinies your control and knocks you off your feet. When you open your eyes, the ground spins, and you sway on your knees. You giggle. You’ve intoxicated yourself, which is not an entirely unpleasant surge, especially right now when you could use a little, or a lot, of inebriation.

Trying to whistle for the stallion comes out as more of a blubbering, slobbery mess than anything, making you laugh senselessly. You’re unhealthily drunk and mighty unstable, but you somehow return to the horse, earning yourself even more peculiar looks. You stick your tongue out at their foolish, sun-tarnished faces. At least your headache has dispersed. It’s easier to ignore your urge when your head isn’t throbbing.

Mounting Hethtalos proves to be more of a challenge than you thought it would be, and you fall repeatedly. Hethtalos snorts as if chortling at you.

“Shush, Hethtalos,” you mutter back at him. “No one asked your opinion.”

You’re talking to your horse? This is almost as absurd as the Vampire Ascendant apologizing for stabbing you - that asshole. Your hand drifts to your shoulder, and you press on the wound. For what reason, you don’t really know, but the pain is kind of… nice? It serves as a reminder that you did spend the night with him, wrapped in his arms and resting on his chest.

You are sick in more ways than one, and you throw up.

I must be a sight to behold right now, you think, giggling as you stumble back and try to get into the saddle. You fall to your back, again, and again, and again.

Good Gods.

Gravel crunches under several pairs of boots if your ears are correct, which they might not be, and you turn to see a mob of gruff, unsavoury ne’er-do-wells. They smile at you with yellow, rotten teeth and snake-like grins. You have to narrow your eyes, attempting to make out a head count, but even then, you’re unsure how many there are. Your vision is blurred, and everything is double or triple. There could be 5, 10 or 20.

Lovely.

They look around, making sure the stretch is relatively empty before they draw their weapons. A brutish Orc woman steps forward with a sly grin and a grumbling laugh, “Having trouble, girl? Travelling all alone, are you? Bold, but stupid.”

Girl? You loathe being called girl unless it’s Astarion saying you’re a very good girl.

You snort, arching a brow at her, “You… you really don’t want to do this,” you slur your words with a cackle, “Trust me.”

The woman ignores you and gives your horse a once over that you do not appreciate, “That’s a very nice horse. Sturdy and well-muscled. Those packs look quite plump. What does a nice girl like you have?”

Kill them! Your urge bays in your head with a pounding. Make them puddles of meat and bone! Puddles to dance in! Meat to eat! Bone to pick your teeth!

“Ohhhhh,” you sneer, taking a very precarious step forward with your finger pointing at the woman. It’s doubtful you look very intimidating right now, “don’t threaten the horse. You may threaten me all you like, but the horse is off-limits.”

“You are a brazen little thing.” She chuckles, “I would give you a night you could never forget in a different scenario, but… here we are, and I require a steed.”

“One word,” you gesture toward her, cringing, “Yuck!”

Spinning, you command, “Hethtalos Ikwe.” Elven instructions, meaning “Hethtalos get back.”

The stallion breaks into a gallop and disappears into the distance, and you giggle at their stupid faces. You bumble into the road and then remember your quarterstaff and robe are on the damn horse you just sent away.

Well, no matter. You don’t need them anyhow. You cast Mage Armour, “Are we doing this? I tire of the sounds coming out of that disgusting hole in your face.”

The Weave coruscates around you as they charge you with mad bellows. You’ve obviously offended them, but their caterwauling makes your head hurt. You giggle as they attack you. Even drunk, your feet and body know this dance, although you are exceptionally clumsier and get sliced by a blade here and there.

You throw them off their feet. For brigands, they are terrible fighters. Heavy-handed, using weapons that are far too big and heavy for their body types, sloppy footwork, even sloppier than yours is right now, and that’s almost impressive. You’re laughing as you totter around them on swaying legs.

You fall, and they advance quickly, but you cast Thunderwave and throw them all back. Too easy. Always too f*cking easy. A shadow passes overhead, but you barely perceive it, assuming a stray cloud blotted out the sun for half a second. You are far too invested in this ballet as your urge croons death and your blood whispers demise.

“Ah, precious, little Bhaal babe,” you hear his voice on the outside warbling in your head and spin with a smile splitting your face. “Are you playing with your food?”

“Astarion!” You giggle and point at him, spinning to dodge an attack, “Nice wings.”

“Your meat is getting away, darling,” he nods curtly with his arms crossed, and you look to see them fleeing as if fire from the Hells themselves is licking their ankles.

“Oh, it seems that it is. Well, f*ck!” You wail, enraged at their retreat. They started this, and then they dared to bring Hethtalos into it. It’s a slight you cannot allow, “Astarion, can you herd the worms back this way? I think it’s your fault they ran off.”

Astarion grins, “As you wish.”

He shoots into the sky and slams down a second later in front of the group, startling and halting them in their tracks. You can’t sprint, but you manage a clambering jog. Astarion watches you with an arched brow.

“You stupid sacks of useless flesh,” you hiss at them. “You do not get to run away like vermin. You wanted to fight, so fight!”

“Do you want a hand with this?” Astarion purrs with a smirk, “You’re looking rather… unsound.”

“The Orc is mine,” you sneer at her.

Astarion nods and pounces like the predator he is, hacking and slashing his way through while you cast spell after spell. You and Astarion deftly prance around each other. Blood sprays, people howl, and limbs fly until it’s only the Orc that remains.

“I’m sorry!” She stutters as you approach, dripping crimson and wiping an ear off your shoulder, “I’m sorry! Please!”

“It’s too f*cking late for apologies,” you spit, wavering on your feet and giggling. “Astarion,” you snap your fingers, “May I borrow your dagger.”

You prefer to kill up close and personal, watch the light go out of their eyes and make sure your face is the last thing your victims see. Astarion tosses the dagger in the air, and you cast Telekinesis on it and send it barreling through the woman’s sternum straight into her heart while you crouch with an unholy smile on your blood-streaked face. Once the throws of death have been completed, and the woman no longer gurgles or twitches, your urge is finally f*cking quiet again, and you rip the dagger out of her chest. You stare at the crimson-shrouded blade with veneration. It’s truly captivating, watching the drops of blood roll down the smooth chrome surface like little sanguine raindrops.

You shake your head to bring yourself out of your reprehensible admirations and turn to see Astarion.

Gods, you’re still quite drunk, and you don’t even think twice about his wings. Instead, you run up to him, wrap your arms around him and hug him with a sigh, “Astarion,” you slur with snickering and giggles, “You’re very pretty.”

“Yes, I am very… pretty,” he smirks. “What in the Hells is wrong with you?” Astarion pushes you away, and you frown at him, “Are you drunk?”

“Oh,” he pushes you a little too hard, and you nearly fall back on your ass, but Astarion stops your ungraceful plummet. You lean into him, inhaling his scent and letting your hand wander, “Yes. Incredibly. My magic surged. Oops!”

“You’re a godsdamned mess, Alita. Hells below,” he giggles, grabbing his dagger from your hand, “I think I will be taking that. In your state, you will cut yourself.”

You stick your tongue out at him.

He groans, “Very mature.”

“Bah, you’re no fun anymore, vampire,” you wave at him dismissively and walk around, staring at his wings furled behind his back with contemplation, “These are very nice. Spread them out for me.”

He grumbles under his breath, rubbing his face, “I am not a spectacle to be gawked at.”

“Oh, come now,” you scoff, crossing your arms, “You always adored attention, and now you don’t want it?”

Astarion’s wings expand to their full width. Each one spans 6 feet in either direction. He beats them hard, and the gust blows your hair back, nearly making you fall, but you suspect he could have if he tried. You should be surprised, no? Horrified? Terrified? You see only beauty.

“You can fly?” It’s a stupid question, but your mind isn’t thinking straight. You’re not even sure what you’re seeing is real. You let the pads of your fingers glide over the membrane and talons. It feels real enough.

“Last I checked,” he chuckles, “That’s what wings are for, no?”

“Neat!” You squeal and remember you were heading to spend the rest of your life alone, probably in some cave, with your horse. Wait… Why is he even here? Maybe he is not, and you’re just hallucinating. You do that sometimes. You try to bow but wobble, “Well, thank you for your assistance. I should be on my way.”

“You are in no state to be travelling,” he coos, grabbing your arm. “Come. I can fly us back to the Crimson Palace.”

The Crimson Palace… He made you leave earlier today, did he not? Now, he is here telling you to return? “You,” you shake a finger at him with a scowl and fight back tears, “Told me to go, so I am going. Farewell, my love.”

Astarion pulls you to his chest and purrs, “Oloth elgg ssussun, Ilyrana.”

Good Gods. You can’t handle him speaking to you in your mother tongue, and those tears break free. You push away reluctantly and wipe your tears, “Stop. Please, stop with these games.”

Astarion paces in front of you. His wings quiver, arc upward and fold again, “Why did you come back?”

What’s the point in lying any further? “I have nowhere to go,” you admit, swallowing that smouldering sorrow that’s balled up in your throat. “I don’t belong anywhere.”

Astarion’s arms are around you before you can blink, “You belong with me. Come home.”

“Home?” You push him away, but Gods, you cannot do it. He has a gravitational pull, and you crash back into his arms.

“Home,” he purrs, rubbing your back. “You can stay at the Crimson Palace as long as you want. Stay with me.”

“We’re going to fight - a lot,” you sniffle and giggle as your head spins happily. Home? A real home? Where you are known. Where you are seen. Where you can be your wicked self shamelessly?

“Oh yes,” he snickers. “We are going to have a wickedly good time. It’s going to be fun. Come.”

“No!” You squeak, “I will not leave my horse.”

Astarion arches a brow at you and scoffs, “Your horse? Truly? Leave the beast.”

“No!” You stomp your foot, “I will meet you back at the palace.”

“Alita,” he drawls, looking at his nails, “Can you even get in the saddle right now?”

“Unlikely,” you laugh, “I have been trying for at least an hour. This has lasted quite a bit longer than usual.”

Astarion looks around, “I don’t see any horses around. Where is your beast?”

You try to whistle, but it does not work. Your tongue and lips are not complying with your orders, “Whistle,” you command Astarion.

“Whistle? Why?”

You scoff, “Just do it, will you? Gods. You are insufferable with all your questions.”

“Watch yourself, Alita,” he smirks.

“Watch yourself, Alita,” you mock him, rolling your eyes so hard it makes you dizzy, and you groan, rubbing your head.

“You are a very annoying drunk,” he snickers and whistles.

It takes a moment, but the beating of hoofs resounds, and Hethtalos comes galloping with his tail held high. The stallion takes cautious steps toward you, eyeing Astarion warily.

“Easy, Hethtalos,” you purr, taking the reins and rubbing his face reassuringly.

“Hethtalos? That’s Elven. Is it not? It means Big Storm, yes?”

“Very insightful, Astarion.” You purse your lips at him, “You know it’s Elven, but thank you for the lesson in our language.”

“Cheeky,” Astarion frowns at you, “I will let it slide this time. Good Gods. It’s only been 5 minutes, and I am already regretting allowing you to stay. Is it going to be like this the entire time?”

“What do you think?” You snicker, but a small part of you is worried that if you push him too far, he might rescind his offer, “I am not one of your pets, and I will not be muzzled.”

“I could muzzle you,” he growls.

“Try it, Ascendant,” you growl back, eyes aglow with the Weave.

This is going to go swimmingly. We are already fighting.

Astarion looks at the ground and grins, “I do rather like your smart mouth. I think I can find other ways to shut you up.”

“Not even that will shut me up,” you giggle, trying to get yourself in the saddle and failing miserably.

“You really won’t leave the beast behind?” Astarion huffs, exasperated.

“No, I really won’t.” You tsk.

“Fine!” Astarion’s wings curl inward and recede, spine rearranging. You can hear the popping, snapping and cracking of bones. You watch as intently as your double vision will allow.

Astarion grabs you by the waist, tossing you in the saddle, and then mounts behind you as close as he can, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you from faceplanting into the dirt.

He grabs the reins from you, “You will surely ride us right off a cliff. Let’s go home, Alita.”

Chapter 6: Velvet Chains

Chapter Text

Well, that did not go as he had planned. He was going to punish her and make her atone for her infringement, but instead, he brought her home with him. He scoffs at himself. What in the Hells is he thinking? He does not tolerate disorder, but he’s invited chaos wrapped up in the visage of a sorceress, and it strolls through his halls with long, soft waves of navy hair that cascade like a midnight waterfall and piercing emerald green and sunshine eyes.

Why had he done it? What changed his mind? He had been banqueting on his morbid contemplations of how he was going to chasten that broken, foolish woman while the fingers of the wind swept through his hair and the sun wet the chromatic silver adamantine scales of his wings.

He meant to break her down slowly, deliberately and deliciously with thousands of tiny lacerations to mark her pretty dove-grey skin, delicate and speckled like a robin’s egg. His blade, a brush made of steel to paint her with beautiful crimson sin. Her demise on his fingertips fed something in him… something he could not translate into words. He planned on making her beg for him to spare her, and he would give her hope.

Oh-yes. He would give her hope in the form of his co*ck filling her, claiming her, making her belong to him as she always should have, and then when she was mewling his name, whimpering praises - he would stop her pretty, little heart as he should have so long ago.

And then, he had hovered for but a moment, his wings glazed by clouds, and watched her choreographed art as she twirled between glinting weapons with her exhilarated laughter, a poem upon the air. A scene he has seen so many times before, so familiar, so oddly comforting, parting the umbrage of his soul like a solitary star in the darkest regions of space, burning bright and defying the darkness.

“Master?” The spawn drops to the floor, crawling to his feet and kissing his shoes.

He doesn’t even dignify them with a glance, “What is it?”

“Your guest would like to enter your study.”

She does not wait for his approval and breezes through the door in her tight taupe dress that flows around her knees. She wears a circlet of golden polished chains with a ruby that hangs just above her eyes, lined in the black and silver from his memories. Those eyes shine as her fingers parade over the books lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves. She is a masterpiece made from stardust and darkness.

He will make her his. He will make her beg to be his. He will make her fall in love with him, and when she pleads to spend eternity at his side, his dark consort, his mad love, he will send her away because that’s what she gets for abandoning him.

Until then, she could be of use to him.

The spawn almost grabs her arm. No one is supposed to enter his study without his invitation, but he’s quick to connect to and halt them. Will they never learn?

“She is not to be touched.” He hisses and continues jotting down notes and selections in an elegant hand. “She may roam where she pleases. Leave us.”

Even if he did try to limit her movement within the Crimson Palace, she could not be deterred. It will be better if he allows her freedom to move about; otherwise, she is likely to cause him more headaches.

She snickers at the spawn shamelessly and continues plucking books from the shelf, gandering at them and returning them. He watches her and growls. She is putting them back in the wrong order, causing more untidiness. She hears the growl resonating low in his throat. Her eyes flash to him, glimmering like gems cut with scorn and a spirited grin. She godsdamned knows what she is doing, and she’s doing it on purpose.

He returns his eyes to the parchment before him. He cannot help the annoyance bubbling in his veins, but that is precisely what she is trying to do.

He tries to command repose of himself and states emotionless, “If you continue doing that, I will be forced to punish you.”

“Doing what?” She smirks as she slips yet another book out of place and beams a smile so radiantly righteous it does not look suitable on her face. She slinks down the room, stares at him and shoves the book into an entirely unacceptable area and shelf with a shrug, “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The quill snaps in his fingers as his irritation starts to get the better of him, and he leans forward and points at her, “You know exactly what I’m speaking of. You’re being very naughty, and bad girls get disciplined until they learn proper respect for the rules.”

“I live by no one’s rules but my own,” she quips, biting her lower lip in the way she knows drives him wild. Oh, she wants to be punished, doesn’t she? She is all but asking for it. “I especially do not live by yours.”

“You are in my home!” He shouts with an inflection so rough it sounds like gravel is lodged in his esophagus, standing and slamming his fists down with a loud thunk on his desk. The polished and lacquered wood, cracks and buckles, caving in and sending ink and papers flying. “Do it again, Alita, and I will not hesitate to chastise you.”

Inkblots accumulate on the parchment and plans, making them useless heaps of trash, and have spattered all over his regal clothing and rug. It soaks into the plush fibres in raven blotches. More things she has ruined. She smirks, her finger coming to her lip as if she is considering his words.

With a tigerish sneer, she removes another book and shoves it where it does not belong. Before she can blink, he grabs her, forcing an arm behind her back and thrusts her into the wall with a roar. He slaps the cheek of her ass, rubbing the reddening flesh, “I warned you,” he growls low near her ear, letting his breath whisper over the shell of it. “What a very naughty girl you’ve been.”

She giggles, the fingers of her splayed hand on the wall twitch, and all of the books in one bookcase fly off the shelves and scatter all over the floor, “I’ve been very bad, indeed. Harder, Astarion. A babe could spank me with more vigour. Are you a babe? Do you need coddling?"

He remembers the priest at the goblin encampment. She had taken that beating like a very good girl, and she liked it. He could see it on her face. He can provide such thrills, though he does mean to waste her precious blood like that heathen had. He smacks her with a little more force.

She shudders with arousal and a breathy whimper, twitches her fingers, and another shelf of books litters the floor of his study, “You can do better than that,” she goads him with a smug smile.

“Don’t tempt me,” he breathes a shaky breath as his arousal stiffens in his trousers, bulging the fabric and making his co*ck feel caged too tightly. His fingers continue to knead where he’s hit her.

More books fly across the room, thudding into the walls and floor, “Don’t tempt me to make more of a mess because I am more than happy to continue doing so.”

Another twitch of her fingers empties another shelf. He smacks her ass cheek again, hard enough to make his palm sting sweetly, and she giggles with a small moan. Giggles?! This woman is sick, twisted and entirely mad.

She is godsdamned perfect.

His co*ck is twitching in his breeches, begging to be sheathed in her, and he groans as he pushes it against her. He can feel the pearls of precum dribbling from his swollen head. She is the only one able to do this to him, make him drip with desire without even touching him.

Astarion hikes up her dress and runs his fingers over her underwear, the silk of her arousal dampening the fabric. He should not be indulging her like this. No. He should be dragging her to the dungeons, caging her like the forsaken animal she is, but his foot moves without his permission, pushing hers across the floor, parting her legs further apart.

“You’re wet,” he croons in a hot-honeyed baritone as he kisses her neck softly, the pulsing of her vein against his lips.

“And you’re stating the obvious,” she tuts, clicking her tongue, imitating him. He smirks against her neck. Always so sassy this one, always so much spark, “Tell me, Astarion. Are you dripping for me as I am for you?”

Gods. Yes, he is. He is so f*cking hard that it’s nigh-on painful. His co*ck could not possibly get any further swollen, and yet, it does with every pulsing throb. His breeches might split at the seams if he strains against them any further.

“No,” he purrs, pushing her underwear out of the way and gliding his fingers through her slick slit.

His voice is too strained, and she catches onto it immediately. She trembles as his fingers circle her swollen pearl. “You were never good at lying to me,” she scolds, twitching her fingers again, another empty shelf gaping at him.

“You like it when I lie to you,” he grunts, using his body to push her further flush against the wall, and he teases her entrance. “Is this what you came in here for? You want me to take you, make you mine, in our home? You hardly needed to make a mess of my study, my mad love. A request would have sufficed.”

“That would have been much less fun,” she whines as his fingers prod her. Her hips jerk in consent.

He spins her around. He wants to taste her sighs, feel her lips on his, see her eyes ablaze with yearning for him. His fingers sink into her soaked c*nt, and his thumb sweeps across her cl*t. She clenches, and his co*ck twitches enviously.

His lips mould to hers to apprehend the needy, shaky breaths arising from her throat. Her fingers find the ties of his trousers and undo them hastily, tugging them down around his hips. As soon as she caresses his erection, he twitches and pulses against her skilled fingers as they grip his shaft, and he moans loud and uncontained. How does she so easily make him lose all his stolidity?

While he’s lost in the sensation, she uses Gust of Wind to push herself away from the wall and tackles him to the book-littered floor with a wily grin. His back thuds on the ground, and she drops onto him, straddling him. He wants to be angry with her. Gods. He should be angry with her. No one pushes him around like this. He simply should not allow it. Her eyes shimmer, and he’s captivated and lost in them.

Her thighs grip his waist. She rips open his tunic without a care for the expensive fabric, sending buttons and claps tumbling through the air and splays a hand on his chest, leaning her weight down on him. She kisses his chest when he does not try to rise and purrs, “Do you want me, Astarion?”

Her other hand is already wrapped around his girth, pumping it languidly, making his hips buck in a plea for relief. He could not lie to her if he tried right now. His hunger for her is evident in the ache of his engorged co*ck, veins bulging and precum seeping from his tip, “Yes,” he rasps, smoky and hot. His thumb parts her folds and circles the border of the swell, “Hells below. Yes.”

She teases his head, sinking him into her just enough to feel the ridges of his head swaddled by her walls over and over and over until his fingers are wracking through his hair, tousling those silver curls into an untidy mess, “f*ck,” he growls, frustrated, “Good Gods, Alita. f*ck me.”

She giggles, delighted at his lack of control, and leans back, finally burying his hard length into her slowly. He can feel himself stretching her, forcing her walls to part for him inch by inch, and he hisses out a shaky breath. His eyes roll hard as her walls flutter around him, and she bucks her hips and sinks him deeper and deeper slowly.

She undulates her hips, rolling his co*ck inside her, and he can’t take it anymore. He grasps her, forcing her forward and slamming into her with a rich, dark groan that vibrates his chest. She cries out, sonorous and ethereal, and her eyes shine like the heavens with the darkness of the Hells.

He pulls her forward, pumping into her again, grinding his hips if only to try and sink himself deeper. She spasms and trembles, her fingernails digging into the sculpted muscles of his chest and dragging down it, marking his creamy skin with blazing red trails of fire. He used to loathe being marked in such a way. If any of his pets left such declarations on him, they did not survive the trespass, but Gods. Good f*cking Gods, the bite of her nails leaving crimson wakes is as sweet as a blooming rose.

She needs no more urging, and she thrusts his co*ck into her, the lewd smacking sounds of her flesh slapping his fill his ears as he sweeps his thumb over her cl*t in time to match the frantic pace.

His chest heaves, breath hitching in his throat as he feels his release start building, tension taut in his muscles. His fingers dig into the soft skin of her thighs. Hells. He’s going to come undone before she does at this rate.

Her fingers caress his cheek, her mouth parted in bliss, and she purrs, “You’re going to come with me, Astarion. I want you to spill yourself into me.”

“I’m close.” It’s almost a panting warning. If she wants to continue, she must slow down because she’s making him fracture. He’s not used to feeling so… out of control of himself.

“Scream for me, Ascendant,” she growls, curling her fingers into his hair with words as dark as oblivion, “I want everyone in these halls to know who is making you come.”

“F-f*ck, Alita!” He howls. He will say or do anything she asks right now. Only she f*cks him like this, makes him drown in his pleasure so entirely that he’s rampant and feral in his need.

“Louder,” she commands. She slows her tempo, skillfully keeping precariously trembling on the edge of his climax.

With a growl, he booms, “Good Gods. ALITA!” The floor shakes, and the large windows of his study rupture, sending shards of glass scattering.

“Yes!” She pants, arching her back and throws her head back in a moan made of silky depravity.

He feels the contractions of her release begin, massaging him, begging him to flood her, and he can’t stop himself. The tension in his muscles snaps, his body quakes, and he sings her name as his eyes squeeze shut with the intensity of his release. His co*ck pulses again and again and again. Her walls milk him for every last bit of his essence as he spills himself inside her.

She folds forward onto him and faints her lips over his. His hand comes to the back of her head, fingers curling into her hair, and he holds her firmly in place while he kisses her tenderly before he even realizes what in the Hells he’s doing. He does not kiss after sex. He does not cuddle. There is no tenderness. He does not get caught up in feelings. Once he’s finished, he takes his leave.

Unless it’s her on his lips and in his arms.

He wraps his arms around her and holds her close, but she only allows it for a moment before she rises, combs her fingers through her hair to neaten the unruly waves, and walks toward the door.

“Where the f*ck do you think you’re going?” He huffs, arching a brow at her, still shaky with the intensity of his org*sm. He tries not to let her see how badly he wants her to stay in his arms, if only for a while longer.

She shrugs, “Out.”

She wrenches the study door open and twitches her fingers, sending every remaining book on the shelves into the air, dropping all around and atop him like insects that died in midair. She does not even look at him as she strides out.

He should be mad. He should be f*cking furious. He should be making her godsdamned repent for this.

He should not be sitting on the ground, half-naked with the lustre of their combined ecstasy still glistening on the ivory skin of his co*ck, smirking and chuckling like a fool.

And yet, he is.

Your eyes are heavy, and you long for your trance, but rest is not for you. Your eyes do not recognize that repellant troll, Sceleritas Fel, but that scratchy voice is familiar. You hear it in your dreams as you glide through fields of gore or submerge yourself into shimmering vermillion cisterns. It laughs at you, with you and sputters its gruesome little praises and gratitude. You should have bitten off one of those clawed, bony fingers when he refused to tell you who in the f*ck you are.

You glide through the forest bordering the camp to try walking off this insomnia. Your stomach reels and pitches in your abdomen, threatening to spill its contents. Food never seems to sit well with you, or perhaps that’s the wizards cooking. A thin veil of sweat mists your body, and all your nerves are vacillating under your skin, buzzing with the tantalizing memories of that poor, mutilated bard.

All that glorious blood! All those ropy intestines! All that raw, odiously sweet meat. The voice in your head titters and trills. Your mouth salivates, and your stomach growls, hungry despite its unsettled state.

Bitter business, indeed.

Perception strikes and your skin crawls over your skeleton, prickling at the sensation of eyes on you. You’re being followed. An animal? Goblin? Gnoll? No, there are no sounds of rustling underbrush or footfalls stirring dead, dry leaves on the ground. You skirt around the thick trunk of a tree with quick, adept steps, unsheathing the dagger hidden in your boot and wait.

Without sound, it’s hard to judge what or who is hunting you in your proximity, but your body and brain are well-versed in this, it seems. Instinctively, you pop out behind your would-be assailant and bring the dagger to a pale neck. His skin is pristine except for the scars his former master left, and you find yourself overwhelmingly tempted to lick that lovely, pearlescent flesh, to taste the salt of it on your tongue, or perhaps you want to sink your teeth into him. Better yet, all the above.

“I thought you said no more late-night surprises, Astarion,” you quip. The hand holding the dagger to his neck shakes as you try to ignore the urge to slice his pretty throat.

Astarion pivots nimbly, grabbing your wrist and twisting until he’s behind you, and your own damn blade is pressed up against your neck with your hand still on the hilt, held steadfast by his. You’re confused when that temptation to slit the throat pressed upon the edge of that sharp blade still makes the muscles in your arm twitch. The throat pressed against the dagger is yours now, after all, but you’re tempted.

“Darling,” he purrs near your ear. “You’re scaring away all my potential meals. What are you doing out here? If you’re turning, I will unfortunately have to stop that beautiful beating of your heart.”

“Apologies,” you mock his intonation on the day you met him. “I’m not turning. I couldn’t trance. Now, would you mind letting me go?”

“Ah,” he releases you, “Yes, of course. You do not trance nearly enough. I know we need only half of what the humans do, but you hardly get an hour in here and there. It makes you sloppy in battle, sorceress. I am always having to save you.”

“I got the dagger to your neck, didn’t I?” You retort with a sniff. “I’m capable of protecting myself. I don’t require a silver knight to protect me.”

“Perhaps you don’t. Yet, protect you, I will. Always,” he smirks, crossing his arm and jutting his hip defiantly.

It doesn’t matter how proficient you are or how brutally you kill. He sees you as something he needs to protect, which confuses you. He has been remarkably detached, aloof and cold, except when he needs something from you. Maybe it’s just because you let him bite you, and he’s hoping you’ll be his meal ticket.

Yes, that must be it.

“Getting attached, Astarion?” You taunt, sheathing your dagger so the muscles in your arm stop quivering with the urge to plunge it into him. “I did not think you, of all people, would be prone to such a compromising emotion.”

“I still have use for you,” he scoffs indignantly. “What in the Hells does that mean? Me, of all people? You think me incapable of feelings?”

“No,” you swallow a thick paste of guilt. “That is not what I meant. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” he smirks. “I did not think you, of all people, would be so easily provoked into guilt.”

Your eyes bounce to the ground, blank, lost and confused, “Neither did I.”

“Alita-“

You trample over him, “Think nothing of it, Astarion. I will return to camp so you can continue looking for your supper.”

“I think I found it,” he cants a brow, co*cking his head handsomely.

“Me?” You scoff, crossing your arms, digging your nails into your flesh to suppress the urge to draw your dagger. Do you feel the need to protect yourself? No. That’s not it. Astarion won’t kill you. You just really want to stab something. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m feeling very… stabby tonight.”

“I do like it when my food has a little kick,” he giggles. “You need rest, sorceress. You’re starting to look more dead than I.”

“You want to render me unconscious?” You rasp, eyes round in shock. You really could use the rest. “I don’t know…”

“I have had this condition for centuries. I am very good at controlling myself. Perhaps, with the exception of the first time. I will take just enough to put you to sleep,” he sways with that suede baritone that makes you melt. “I can help you if you will allow me. You can trust me.”

“As I lose consciousness, will you lie to me?”

Gods, you sound pathetic, don’t you? But you’re feeling so damn weak, so f*cking alone, and so broken. You will hold onto anything that sets you free, even a lie.

Astarion’s brows pinch, “What lie would you like to hear?”

“Tell me…” you trail off and swallow the bile that rises at the disgust you feel for yourself. “Tell me we are friends. Tell me you care about me.”

“Hmm,” he takes a confident step toward you, anchoring his commanding vermillion eyes on yours, “And what makes you think this would be nothing but a pretty lie?”

“I am many things, but naive is not one of them,” you murmur, transfixed by him. Even though your memories are a mosaic of glittering ruins, you’re sure he is the most beautiful soul you’ve ever seen. It’s not his physical beauty you see gleaming in the moonlight. “I know that we are only bound by the rather unusual predicament we find ourselves in.”

“As you wish. I will lie to you as you slip peacefully away,” he nods curtly, reaching for your hand. “First, give me that dagger, my stabby, bloodthirsty friend.”

The city is different than you remember, even before it was a pile of rubble after the attack of the Netherbrain. The houses, shops and taverns are built with finer materials and embellished with swanky metalworks, arches and buttresses. The streets are freshly and smoothly paved with tall, elaborately curled wrought iron oil lamps at precise increments down the main thoroughfare.

The breeze coming off the River Chionthar makes your dress flap around your knees as you make your way toward the seamstress to procure the remainder of your order. Baldurians scurry in the streets like the vile pests you recall from your messy memories, entirely absorbed in themselves, and they bump into you constantly. It irks you and makes the voices in your head chatter annoyingly.

It may have been prudent to request Astarion compel your magic silent, but that had been the last thing on your mind as you forced yourself to stroll away from him as nonchalantly as you could. With the pristine snowy skin of his chest against your arms, that enveloping smell of rosemary and brandy, it had felt far too loving being wrapped in his arms. It had taken considerable effort not to bolt out of that room like you were a scared, wild animal fleeing from a predator.

You should not have let Astarion bring you back to the Crimson Palace. You should have kept fleeing from him and the lie you so fervently want to allow yourself to sink into. Something inside of you is damaged, not only your feeble brain matter. You’re like the painted wall from the inn you accidentally burned to the ground - chipped, dull and peeling away. Freedom has been nothing but a hollow locker of shattered hopes and dreams.

Flaming Fists strut in their shiny, metal armour that clinks together as they parade through the streets. It sounds like the ticking countdown of a clock.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Your urge bristles at the maddening sound, roaring in your ears. A city of bones and meat. All for you! All of you! String them up by their intestines to decorate these pretty streets!

You grimace at the rush of endorphins you get from the vague images that flash through your mind of swaying corpses in trees, from roofs, poles, and lights. You can almost smell the coppery tang in the air. It titillates you, sending a pleasurable shiver down your spine.

Still in control. Just...

You swallow hard as if you could ingest the morbid ruminations, and you look for anything that might serve as a distraction. You take notice of the insignia painted on their shields and embroidered into their tunics. You sift through your memories and try to form a picture of it from a decade ago in your mind. Yes. It’s certainly different. It’s not just your imagination or ruined mind playing more tricks on you.

The fire behind the fist is now in the shape of a white bat with flames rising from extended wings, but that’s not the only odd thing. The bat has eyes of vivid green and yellow - your eyes. You tilt your head at the bizarre likeness. Surely, it must simply be a coincidence, right?

… right?

You don’t comprehend what you’re doing as your feet slap the stone street toward the Flaming Fist. You wrench the shield out of the woman’s clutch to get a better look at the Coat of Arms. The trill of blades being drawn twitches your ears and makes the edges of your vision agitate in pulses, but you’re far too engrossed in peering at the crest.

You’re an idiot. Assaulting Flaming Fists in the middle of the busy street? What in the nine Hells are you thinking?

That’s the problem. Isn’t it? You simply weren’t thinking because this is what Astarion does to you. He takes every scrap of common sense, logic, and rationality and propels it into the cosmos, filling your head full of stars, and that’s exactly what you see when you’re hurled into the ground by gauntleted hands.

Despite the grandeur of the city buildings, the prison is as drab as you remember it. The dimly illuminated hall flickers just outside the rusted iron bars of your locked cell. The heavy-footed pacing of the guard's echos off the dingy stones with more clacking that makes you want to scream. The air is musty with the smell of mould, piss, excrement and sour body odour. The stones are as damp as the disgusting hay-stuffed mattress you’re sitting on at the rear of your cell in the darkness, with the back of your head resting on the stone wall.

Twirling a piece of straw-like hay between your fingers, the guards come to your cell and make lewd, suggestive comments, laughing or rapping on the bars with the hilts of your weapons, making a thunderous clattering that makes you bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood. Your dress is wicking the moisture out of the mattress, and the clammy air is chilled, making you shiver so harshly that your teeth crack together.

“Look at the prize we caught today, gents,” the old man that arrested you with tawny, stringy hair and a large scar splitting his cheek snickers at you with a coiling, serpentine grin. He shakes the bars of your cell. “A beautiful award for a job well done, aren’t you? Smile pretty and open those eyes for us, sweetheart.” When you don’t abide by the command, he rattles a flagon across the bars several times and hisses, “Look at me!”

You don’t need the urge tittering in your head to want to strike this wretch down where he stands. You would be more than happy to, “Come in here and make me,” you retort calmly without opening your eyes. You will not give them the satisfaction of commanding you around.

“Don’t worry,” he snarls and winks, “Me and the boys will visit you tonight. It gets mighty cold here in the wee hours. We wouldn’t want you to catch a chill, would we? We will think of ways to keep you warm; I promise.”

Yes, of course, they would threaten you with sex. You were made to be beautiful, weren't you? Because beauty is enthralling, easing and entirely deceiving.

“I’ll see you tonight then,” you snort and giggle. So predictable. So deliciously stupid. So entirely human. Truly a misfortune for them to have caught the likes of you. “I can’t wait to pry your foul, ogling eyes out of your skull and tear your tongue out unless you would like to consummate this little party now. I can hear your co*ck in your trousers, Fist. It’s as impotent as your threats."

“What did you say to me? I will make you regret the day you were born.” A little late for that, you think. You hear the key rattling around the lock, giving away the man’s ire. You smile widely.

Yes. Yes. Yes! Come in here and allow me to teach you a lesson.

But the whine of the iron hinges doesn’t ring in your ears. Instead, you hear vague hollering, but the words are indistinct, and their boots scuff away with the haste of alarm. You groan and rub your temples. You were really looking forward to gutting that pig before all his gents and then gutting them, too, simply for being associated with such a vile brute. Oh well, you are nothing if not a patient hunter.

A cacophony of reverent voices fountains platitudes, praises, and admirations. That’s how your subordinates used to greet you when you graced them with your unholy presence. Raining respect and reverence on you, candied, like the drizzle of a noontime storm.

“Ah, Alita,” his dark and luxurious voice purrs, velvety smooth and warm. “There you are, my dear. I see you’ve gotten yourself into a spot of trouble.”

You smile and open your eyes, “Astarion,” you coo with a shrug. “Funny seeing you here of all places, love. Are you here to join the party? I have been promised a good time later.”

“Is that so?” He sounds gruff, outraged even. It makes you smirk. “Open the cell,” he commands with an assertive, stormy infection. “She is free to go.”

“Lord Ancunin,” the man mutters, disbelief in his voice, “She assaulted a Flaming Fist in the street.”

“Did she?” He tries to hide his smirk behind a cleverly placed hand. “Did she kill anyone?”

“No, my lord.” The man stutters, “But…”

Astarion stampedes over the man, “Maim? Disembowel? Behead? Flay? Mutilate? Amputate a limb? Explode in a glorious shower of gore?”

“Uh, no…”

“Darling, I don’t think there are enough words to sufficiently elaborate my disappointment,” Astarion tuts, grabbing the cell door. With a yank, he pulls the entire door from the stone and discards it. He uses the Flaming Fist’s red tunic to wipe away the grime, enters the cell and offers you a hand, “Come.”

Slipping your hand into his, he eases you to your feet and kisses your hand. Astarion offers you his arm, and you slip into it as he escorts you from the cell while the Flaming Fists stand with round eyes.

“Who were the Flaming Fists that imprisoned her?” He asks casually with his kind, liar's smile. You frown at him, co*cking your head.

“Fist Visha and Fist Rowen, my lord.” The man gestures to the scarred older man standing with his head sagging behind.

“Have them visit me at the Crimson Palace for supper tomorrow evening,” Astarion drawls apathetically, standing with an iron countenance that would intimidate a pack of Gnolls, “I would like to reward them for their loyal effort in protecting our great city.”

Fist Rowen. You are mine. A villainous grin splits across your face.

Chapter 7: Banquet

Chapter Text

Your pale lavender dress swishes around your ankles as Claire chauffeurs you to the awaiting banquet through the labyrinthine halls of the Crimson Palace. Your hair cascades in soft waves down your back and sways tranquilly like flower petals on an undisturbed pond. The spawn have been instructed to stay in their quarters on the lower floors during the feast with the Fists.

Claire is rushing through the halls with a most inelegant gait. It makes you cringe. “You are late, mistress! The Lord will not be pleased with tardiness. He is not a patient man. He does not wait. Not on anyone! I would not like to see you punished.”

Oh, my. This sounds like a very pleasing way to upset the lord. Doesn’t it? Simple yet succulently effective. You scoff, rolling your eyes and slow your pace to a languid dawdle. “Well, in that case, I’m more than happy to educate him in the art of patience.”

Claire’s eyes widen, the corners of her mouth downturned, and her hands raise but inexplicably stop dead before she can touch you as if running into an invisible wall. Blood drains from her face as the look of fear contorts her youthful features. You think she might break out in tears. If she does, you’re worried you might give her a real reason to cry.

You arch a brow at her, “Has he compelled you not to touch me?”

“Yes,” she nods, swallowing hard. “He’s compelled all the servants not to touch you. We cannot touch you without your expressed permission.”

“I see,” you attempt to sound disinterested, but you cannot help that malevolent smirk that snakes across your lip.

So many doughy guts for vivisecting. Soft, spongy bodies to slice into and watch them tick until they tick no more, and Astarion has made them all as powerless as dollies stuffed with meat you can mince between your teeth. Would he be angry, do you think?

You grimace at your appalling thoughts and the way they make your fingers twitch, longing for the smooth metal and sharp edge of a scalpel with which you make grisly, living sculptures.

“Lead on, Claire,” you usher the girl along before your mind delves further into your dark inclinations.

Claire enters before you, dropping to her knees and announcing your presence. You suppress the urge to give her a punt as you walk past. Thankfully, you’re distracted as soon as your eyes fall on him, sitting at the head of the table with an easy, relaxed posture. He’s sipping wine and laughing with the Fists, but you can see the malevolent gleam in his crimson eyes. His lips are brushed with the liar’s smile that betokens danger.

Astarion is dressed in a perfectly cut, regal navy-blue ensemble, high-necked and lined with raven black silk. Shiny silver clasps run up the breast, and you idly wonder how quickly you could undo them. Would you even bother undoing them? Or would you simply cut that opulent fabric wrapping from the divinity it conceals? Would you ride him right here while the Fists watched? Probably. You have very little shame to speak of, but what you lack in shame, you more than make up for in depravity. Even now, at the mere thought of it, heat blooms in your groin and desire slicks your thighs.

“Ah, there you are, darling,” Astarion’s eyes devour you, slinking up and down your body, taking every inch of you in with crimson carnality as you glide across the dining hall with a swanlike grace. He pats a chair next to him, “Come. Join us in celebration of these very fine officers protecting our city against foes most horrifying.”

“Oh, yes. Horrifying indeed,” you scoff, taking your seat with a roll of your eyes. “Whatever would we do without their valiant efforts?”

Your eyes fall upon Fist Rowen, and your urge starts tittering in your head, itching inside your bones, scouring against your skin and using a shillelagh on whatever is left of your brain matter. You wonder, what would the old Fist taste like? Something gamey and unpleasant, you imagine.

“You’re late,” Astarion grumbles while he places a mock kiss on your cheek. Gods, he smells good. He smells of brandy, salt and dusk. You clench your jaw to stop yourself from licking his neck.

“Wow,” you round your eyes at him in feigned shock and bring your lips close to his ear, letting your breath feather the tapered point. He inhales a sharp breath, and you’re elated you still have this effect on him. “Is this another of your miraculous Ascendant powers? Did Mephistopheles bestow upon you the treasured boon of stating the obvious? You are truly a wonder to behold.”

“By the Gods. You cheeky pup,” he hisses, words dripping with venom more potent than any mythical sea serpent. “Mark my words; I will tend to your punishment once our guests have departed, you bad girl.”

Astarion relaxes back into his seat, and you glower at him haughtily. His threats do not frighten you. You’ve been trained through pain and torture. Whatever horror he may inflict, your father has surely inflicted worse, even if you can’t remember it. Yet, when he glances back, there’s amusem*nt prancing in his eyes, and although he’s obviously trying to hide it, you can see the twitch at the corners of his mouth that indicates he’s smothering a smirk, trying to hide it behind a sip of wine.

Astarion holds an easy conversation with the two Fists, talking about the city and rebuilding efforts, joking about the latest noble to embarrass themselves at one party or another. They speak of Astarion’s upcoming gala and sing his praises with platitudes and admiration, which he soaks up but feigns being the humble hero.

The Fist’s eyes coast over you, lingering around your breasts as the servants pour you more wine. Astarion watches with hawkish scrutiny. It would be barely perceptible, but he bristles as the Fist’s leer turns vivacious with every glass of spirits. You snicker into your cup as you throw wine back unceremoniously.

Astarion frowns at the Fist, who is ogling you shamelessly. It’s a wonder the man’s tongue hasn’t lolled out of his mouth as he pants like a dog. You can’t say you mind much when it’s getting a rise out of Astarion.

“Fist Rowen,” Astarion drawls too cordially. There’s an icy fury in his voice that is well hidden under the false hospitality, “I seem to remember mention of a party. I, too, love a good party.”

“I beg your forgiveness, my lord. I spoke out of turn. If I had known-” the man sputters, choking on his food.

“Shut up.” Astarion’s crimson eyes glow, and black tendrils writhe like squid under his irises as he twirls wine in his cup. Both Fists stiffen immediately as the whisps of compulsion snake through the air into their minds and muscles. “Do not try to peddle your lies to me, Fist. I have been lying since before you were a vile cell infecting your father’s befouled scrotum.”

The Fist’s eyes shift in their sockets. It’s the only thing Astarion has allowed them the agency to move, and they look to you for help. Their eyes are glossed with tears they are unable to shed, and they grovel with pleas that cannot be voiced. These worms think you will step, don’t they? They think you will save them from the savagery Astarion is about to inflict upon them for their trespass.

Fools. Stupid, stupid fools. You could almost pity them… almost.

“Go ahead, love.” Astarion purrs, taking a bite of the venison on his plate and gesturing toward the statuesque forms trapped in the vines of his compulsion, “Have your fun.”

Flies trapped in the spider’s web! A present just for you! Your urge titters happily.

You slink around the table, slow and daunting. You move with the easy grace of an eagle in flight and as soundless as a panther. All those years of torturous training under your father that you cannot fully recall are memorialized and recollected by your body intrinsically. You walk behind Astarion and unsheathe his dagger from his hip. You can see the beads of sweat rolling down the Fist’s forehead. His stringy hair is now just a damp mop, wilted and flattened on his scalp. Grabbing the Fist’s opulent chair, the legs squeal across the floor as you drag him away from the table.

You seat yourself in Fist Rowen’s lap with a giggle, “You promised to keep me warm,” you coo in an ethereal whispering voice, soft like a breeze streaming through trees, “and I promised you I would pry your eyes out of your skull. Did you know, Fist Rowen, that if you are adroit enough, you can pop an eye out of its socket while preserving vision? Not many are capable of such a feat. Eyes are obnoxiously fragile balls of jelly, but lucky for you, I’ve had a lot of practice. I think first I will evacuate your eyes from your skull and let you watch while I rid you of the impotent appendage you call a co*ck.”

You look back at Astarion. He sits with a wicked smirk, curving his lips and sipping his wine placidly. He lifts the chalice, signifying his approval of your retribution. His blessing is unneeded, of course. But it brings you joy to be seen and have your ghastly predilections supported without a hint of repulsion or fear etched on his features.

Bringing the tapered tip of the dagger under the Fist’s eye, you push it into the socket, perforating the delicate flesh with a squelch that makes your stomach grumble. The man does not scream, though, and this is not acceptable. No. This will not do at all. You want to be lulled by the strident harmonies of pain scratching that itch in your bones and applying a balm to the throbbing inside your skull.

“Let him scream,” you hiss at Astarion with a disgruntled frown as if he’s purposefully stolen the enchanting melody from you.

“My sweet, you are utterly deranged. Aren’t you?” Astarion narrows his eyes at the spur in your intonation, but he laughs lightheartedly, and a boyish smile sweeps across his face as the mask of the “Vampire Ascendant” drops. You can see the man you fell in love with beaming back at you, “I love it.”

The crimson glow of Astarion’s eyes pulses as he changes the directive of his compulsion. Hells below. He looks positively demonic. Maybe it’s your hellish upbringing, but where most see a beast, you see only bewitching majesty. For a moment, you lose yourself in his godless, ethereal beauty.

You think, maybe, it would not be so bad to be his consort. Perhaps he would treat you with respect and kindness. Maybe even love. A twisted love, surely, but love nonetheless, and twisted love is better than a lifetime being unloved. You could certainly feast your eyes upon him for an eternity and never tire of the dark fairytale that is Astarion.

A shrill scream blares out of the throat before you as the invisible sutures keeping the man’s lips shut are cut. It jolts you out of your reverie. The dagger in your hand slips, lacerating a deep gash from the bottom of the Fist’s eye across his face to his ear. Blood surges from the hideous laceration, and you grapple with the urge to coat your lips in it.

You reposition the dagger, but your hand trembles unsteadily. It makes you frown. You have done this countless times, and you never shake. A strong odour of ammonia hits your nostrils as a warm, dark patch blooms across the man’s crotch.

You jump off his lap, horrified at yourself, and grab your head as the intensity of its throbbing redoubles its efforts to persuade you. What are you doing? This is not who you are. You are not sick like this. Not any longer. Right?!

Good Gods. Who or whatare you? You overcame this repulsive component of yourself. Didn’t you?

You urge squawks, a clamouring, head-splitting roar, making your vision agitate. Kill, kill, kill again! Bodies for the harvest! They await your expert hand. Kill them! Free their skeletons from their fleshy prison!

“What the f*ck are you doing!?” Astarion bellows, only adding to the cacophony and splitting your skull apart. He commands, “Kill them, Alita! You know you want to. Kill them. Now!”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

You shake your head, step toward the Fist, who is still howling, and feel that familiar profane expression adorn your face. You step backward, forward, and side to side as your mind drags you in conflicting directions.

You will kill them.

No. You will not.

Yes. Yes. You want to.

“No,” you finally growl as you whirl and put the dagger on the table. “No, this isn’t who I am. I do not deliberately kill innocents because it amuses me anymore. Let them go, Astarion. The woman did nothing wrong, and the man’s threats were as impotent as he is.”

“You are pathetic,” Astarion snarls, fangs bared. Disgust and disappointment are interwoven on the strong angles of his face. “A grand disappointment, indeed. To your father. To me. You held so much promise of greatness. You and I would have been magnificent together. But instead, you have chosen to wallow in this pitiful, snivelling, weak state. If you would just embrace your nature, can you imagine the power you could wield, the power we could wield? The realm itself would tremble before us.”

“And you’re a disappointment to me and yourself, Ascendant.” You hiss back, trying not to show the pain as the sheer intensity of his hateful glower shatters your spirit. “The price of your greed has robbed you of everything you were, everything that made you great, everything that made you Astarion. You are nothing but another cruel, power-hungry beast. You are everything you hated, and you know it. Don’t you?” You narrow your eyes and take bullish steps toward him. You shove your face nose-to-nose with his sneer and tunnel into his vermillion, ominously glowing eyes, “Yes. Somewhere inside of that overconfident, swellheaded shell, a brittle, scared soul lingers who is still godsdamned terrified of losing this farce of control you cling to so tightly.”

Astarion’s laughter is devoid of humour, a hollow echo that sends shivers running down your spine, “You are a spiteful little c*nt, aren’t you? We can agree on one thing, at least. The Astarion you knew no longer exists. The man you fell in love with, that you’re still so pathetically in love with, that you came back here looking for, perished, and it was you who led him straight to his death.”

You swallow the tears pressed against the back of your eyes. You know he’s right. It was you who helped him Ascend despite the objections of your friends. You knew it would change him – this diabolical infernal ritual. How could it not?

Yet, you wanted this for him. You wanted him safe. You wanted him happy. You wanted him to have the sun.

And you would do it all again, infinitely, as long as he is happy. Seven-thousand souls, fifty-thousand souls, one hundred thousand souls. No price is too steep, even if that means you lose him time and time again, in every timeline, in every life.

“Are you happy?” you croak with a constricted throat.

“What?” Astarion seems taken aback by the question. He looks uncertain for a moment before he rolls his shoulders back and straightens, “But of course. I accomplished the hopeless dream of my kind. I am powerful, influential, and wealthy. I have everything I ever wanted.”

You remember the way he whispered in your ear that he missed you. It sounded so sincere as if he was sharing a deep, dark secret.

A lie, you remind yourself, nothing but the lie I asked of him.

You turn away from him, desperate to retreat from this facsimile of Astarion that mocks you with its familiar, beautiful face, velvety voice and pretty lies that you long to gorge yourself on.

He will not let you escape. Astarion is already before you, grabbing your chin roughly, eyes aglow.

“Oh, no. You’re not going anywhere,” he cackles with a devilishsmirk that makes him look severe, almost ugly - if that’s even possible. “The festivities are not over. I will show you how it is done, broken daughter of Bhaal.”

Chapter 8: Kneel

Chapter Text

“Astario-“

“Silence,” he commands cooly as a glacier's icy grip. “You will not cast, and you will watch. Maybe you will learn something, you unholy murderspawn.”

Your mouth snaps shut as the compulsion absorbs your control like a dry sponge to water. Your muscles, magic and voice are rendered mute.

Astarion wraps an arm around your waist, picks you up, and places you back down before the Fist trapped in his web of oppression. You are incapable of moving, just a stiff figurine for him to position as he sees fit. You wonder if this is how he prefers you, an inanimate pawn that he can move around the proverbial lanceboard.

Once he has you settled, he sweeps his hands down your waist and over your hips to smooth out any crinkles in the fabric of your dress to make sure it’s pristine. Despite your budding anger, your body is a traitor and responds to his touch the same way it always does. Your nerves bud and proffer, laying themselves bare and begging for his expert touch, and you flush with the anticipatory heat arising between your thighs, which are already starting to gloss with yearning.

“Always so eager for me.” Astarion purrs with a rich, dark chuckle, kissing your shoulder, up your neck, and running his tongue up to the tapered tip of your ear. “We could give our guests a show.” Astarion grinds his hips, and the bulge of his desire up against your back, and the compulsion relents slightly. “What do you think?”

If he had not taken your autonomy, your answer would have been a resounding yes, but as it stands, you growl with a voice dripping spite, “Don’t f*cking touch me.”

Astarion’s hands immediately rescind all contact with your body, “You’re boring,” he pouts tartly, “You should be thanking me for so benevolently bestowing this gift of revenge upon you.” There’s a numb, sharp edge of cruelty etched into his expression that you’re sure you could cut yourself on. “Truly, your ungratefulness astonishes me, my dear. You should be kneeling at my feet in gratitude. Hmm, actually,” he co*cks his head, and he sneers. “Kneel.”

You feel your body heed the command, and your knees buckle, immediately folding in on themselves and thudding to the ground before him. There’s a grand firework of euphoria that zealously runs through your veins like molten desire. You’re thankful he’s commanded you to stay silent because you almost surely would have moaned.

It feels transcendent to serve, to comply, to assent to the Ascendant.

Hot tears sting behind your eyes, and you railroad them down back into the pitiful cavity they came from. You do not cry; you get even, and you cling to that with enthusiastic vigour as this unbearably beautiful visage of the man you love grins at you wickedly.

“Hmm,” Astarion takes your chin in his hands. He runs the silky pad of his thumb along your bottom lip. You longto taste him, but you’re not sure if you want to suck or bite. “I quite like you like this. It feels right, no? Perhaps I should have a collar fashioned for you as well.”

He is severely mistaken if he thinks you will allow him to collar you, but the taunt sounds insincere to your practiced ears. It seems Astarion enjoys getting under your skin as much as you enjoy getting under his. Astarion cackles darkly as he walks to the long table with heaping platters of half-eaten, cold meals. His fingers crawl over it before landing on his weapon of choice - a silver butter knife.

He strolls to the Fist with one arm behind his back. He holds himself with a steel repose, emanating confidence and detachment, as he places the knife in the Fist’s hand, curling his fingers around it.

“Fist Rowen,” Astarion drawls, unwavering with a voice smooth as velvet but containing a deadly undertone. “My friend may have shown you mercy, but mercy is a concept unknown to me. Your tongue dared utter vile threats. Cut it off.”

Fist Rowen’s face turns ashen as his hand trembles, moving without his consent toward his mouth. You can do nothing but watch in abject horror as the Fist places the edge of the butter knife on his tongue and saws at the meaty appendage. The blade is slow to cut, just extending the torture as its blunt edge rips and tears through the flesh. Guttural screams echo through the hall as blood starts to squirt from the severed vessels, painting the floor and you in crimson red.

“What?” Astarion stands with his arms crossed behind his back, watching with a cold severity that makes you shiver. There is nothing but a blankness on his face. There is no joy or satisfaction, “Not enjoying the party anymore, are you? A shame, truly.”

The minutes feel as though they turn into hours, days, and years as you watch this agonizing display, unable to pry your eyes away. It’s better to allow your mind to slip back into thethroes of that tittering urge. At least then, you might find some merriment, but even that’s hard to come by as your eyes focus on the Fist’s use of the blade. It is so disturbingly clumsy that it makes you feel… Perturbed? Repulsion? Infuriation? A mixture of all three? I was never good with feelings, you ponder. You could have sawn through your tongue with the same blade thrice over by now, even with that mockery of a weapon.

Astarion huffs, rolling his eyes with a palpable annoyance, “Good Gods, man. As much as I would love to watch this little demonstration of atrocious ineptitude continue, I am a busy man.” He splays a hand on his chest, “Allow me.”

Astarion reaches, takes the tongue in his fingers and effortlessly tears it out with a sickeningly wet rip. He considers the flapping meat pinched between his fingers and discards it, casually throwing it over his shoulder.

Blood overflows, spilling out of the man’s mouth between gargling, sloshing squalls. The muscles in your face are unyielding and inflexible and strain against the compulsion. You want to smile, laugh and frolic in the sanguineous spring amalgamating around your knees.

And all you can think is it’s a fine night for murder.

Astarion stands with his arms crossed, considering the man before him. You’ve seen the look on his face before. Hells, you’ve had that look on your face before. He’s trying to decide if he feels enough retribution has been paid. He looks at you, and a fierce scowl replaces his torpor mask made of stone.

“These grubby, unworthy digits touched what belongs to me, and I do not like it when other kids play with my toys. I do not share.” Astarion pouts sarcastically, “Cut them off too. All of them. Each one is a testament to your folly. When you cannot hold the knife, use your teeth.”

Astarion laughs inhumanely while the Fist does as instructed, and one by one, Fist Rowen chops and slices at his fingers. You scold yourself for asking Astarion to allow the man to scream. The blaring, haunting melody is sweet, a beautifully sepulchral sonnet that echoes through the empty corridors of your psyche, a salve to your wounded soul.

The Crimson Palace has never felt more like home. You’re not entirely sure if that’s a good thing.

When he cannot hold the knife anymore, Fist Rowen does as bidden and uses his teeth with sickening crunches of bone. Astarion runs the back of his hand down your cheek and arm. His fingers skim, caress and even massage. These are not the touches of a man trying to punish you.He crouches and gazes into your eyes with an inquiring glimmer. He’s looking for something, but you’re not sure what.

Despite your best efforts to push your dark inclinations down, you still find yourself revelling in the man’s pain. It excites you, sending shivers of pleasure up and down your spine every time you hear the splat of another finger. To your unease, you find yourself agitated, fighting the binds of compulsion, not because you wish to stop Astarion and save the man from further pain… No. That would be what a normal person would want but you’re not normal. You’re not even sure you’re a person.

You fight the chains because you’re jealous you’re not dolling this barbaric punishment out. You were born broken.

As the last finger finally drops, Astarion claps slow and thunderous. “Bravo! I would request an encore, but alas, all good things must come to an end.” Astarion leans over the broken, mutilated man, “You will never again speak to or touch my most precious treasure.”

Your eyes would snap to him if they weren’t rooted in place. His absence of glee suddenly makes perfect sense. This was for you. This evening, the revenge, Hells, even the slow torture was all a twisted declaration of… well, perhaps not love, but a convoluted caring. It shouldn’t, but the realization is like a gentle rain quelling the raging fire of your anger. You have never known love, or at least, you can’t remember. All you know about love is from a few silly books. You’ve never been a woman who craved gentle, sweet love like that.

You want someone to love you recklessly with hopeless defiance and unapologetic, savage passion and intensity. You want a love that will sit with you on the edge of chaos and calm, between hell and heaven, where you can dance with each other’s demons and chase storms.

You are a twisted fantasy, and he is your dark fairytale.

The compulsion on the Fist snaps, and he crumples from his chair to the floor in a heap. The black tendrils in Astarion’s eyes flail and thrash across his sclera, running through every capillary. In only moments, spawn enter, crawling to Astarion’s feet on their hands and knees.

“It seems our dear friend Fist Rowen has had a most unfortunate accident. Clumsy man that he is,” Astarion chuckles. “Take him back to the barracks.”

Astarion walks over to the woman whose eyes are wide and wild. Sweat sheens her skin. He leans down, bracing his hands on the arms of her chair and levelling his face close to hers, veiled in apathy. Astarion looks at you, “You said this one did not threaten or touch you?”

You feel the compulsion relent enough for your head to move and tongue to form words, “No. She did not have any part in it. She only did her job.”

“You are free to go Fist Visha,” he waves her off dismissively. “Let tonight be a lesson. Do not cross me or those I care about. I am watching, Fist. I am always watching.”

The woman still bows before Astarion as she rises from her chair, but he once again waves her away, and she sprints. You find yourself half-tempted to chase her. Not to hurt her, simply because it’s fun. You have always loved a good chase.

Astarion sits in his chair, staring at you with a contemplative glare. There’s a weariness in his baritone that gives you pause. “If I let you go, do you plan on attacking me?”

“I might,” you snarl. “You’re a monster.”

But really, he’s no more of a monster than you are. You have granted far worse punishments than this. Few you remember with any degree of clarity, but your sins tend to arise in your trance, and you always dream in red.

“I’m a monster? Now, now. Let's not go throwing stones, glass houses and all. Your hands are bloodier than mine, you heathen.” Astarion shakes his head with an expression you can only describe as mournful as the intensity of the compulsion is once again increased, “I do not like doing this to you. I do not know why you keep forcing my hand. Tell me the truth, Alita.”

Honesty is drawn from your throat like a knife from a sheath, piercing through your defiance, “No. I will not attack you.”

The reward comes in another bright flash of blinding pleasure that makes you pull in a sharp inhalation, your skin prickles, and the threads of compulsion unstring themselves from your muscles and mind. Your body is your own again, and you’re on your feet in a flash.

“What the f*ck, Astarion! If you don’t like doing it, then don’t f*cking do it!” You chastise him. Truthfully, it’s not the torment he forced you to watch. It’s the kneeling that is vexing you, causing your blood to broil in your veins.

You storm up and slap him. His head barely turns to the side. You hit him as hard as you could, but red does not even blossom over the lily-white skin of his cheek. He scowls at you, brows pulled down low, casting shadows fraught with danger about the angular planes of his face. You wait for the inevitable strike, stab of a blade or compulsion to dominate you once more, but you do not retreat because you never back down.

“What upset you this time, my dear?” Astarion sighs, leaning back in his high-backed chair, rubbing his temples with a groan. Deep crimson peers at you through narrowed eyes and thick lashes, “The compulsion? The torture? The revenge? Or perhaps the food and wine were not up to your godly standards? Shall I fire or kill the kitchen staff? What can I do to make you happy? Ask me anything, and it will be yours.”

“Anything?” You hiss, fury bursting forth and reddening your face like an angry sky. “Then I have quite the list of demands. The servants, I want the collar with the inscription gone. You will never force me to kneel again. I kneel for no man or God. In fact, it would please me greatly if you kneel for me!”

There’s something off about Astarion’s demeanour. His shoulders are slumped, his fingers streaking through his hair as if to hold his head up, and he glares at you with the same softness in his eyes he had when he told you he missed you. But that was all a lie. It must be a trick, a manipulation, another lie, but you’re tempted to swallow it as his eyes swallow you.

“Leave us,” he snaps to awaiting thralls lined up the walls, and they scatter like co*ckroaches until the room contains only you and Astarion.

He flicks his wrist, and the large doors slam shut with a radiating barrier of red energy. You frown. It looks like a corrupted form of Arcane Lock, but it holds none of the Weave. You hover your hand over the magic, trying to sense it, but whatever it is, you cannot manipulate it. You tug on the doors to try and open them, but they do not budge. He’s locked you in with him, and now there’s nowhere to run. Not that you would run anyway, you suppose. If death is to come, you will heed its call head-on with eyes wide open.

You swallow, turn and face death.

“The Vampire Ascendant kneels for no one.”

Chapter 9: Fear

Chapter Text

Astarion watches her as she flits around camp like a firefly. She blinks in and out of tents as she makes her rounds for the evening, dipping into Shadowheart’s tent, Gale’s, Wyll’s, Lae’zel’s, and Karlach’s, and he cannot keep his eyes off her as she traipses around nonchalantly.

He finds her noncommittal attitude aggravating as she laughs at Gale’s dunce-like joke about the Weave, telling her she reminds him of his cat…. His cat? Does the wizard truly believe he can win her affection by comparing her to his pet?

Imbecile.

Wyll regales her with tales of daring do, and she gasps and nods with an exophthalmic fixation, hanging onto his every word like a cat with its claws in bark, scampering up a tree. It takes him considerable effort not to scoff aloud as his ears twitch with every deific, astonished giggle.

She used to visit him first, but after their tryst - she visits him last or not at all. It’s positively infuriating. Did their night together mean nothing to her? He took her virginity, her purity and yet she shows naught an inclination of attachment. This is not what he expected. Astarion thought she would cling to him like an irksome pathogen, but instead, she distances herself from him.

He cannot help but feel a tad offended. Had he not performed his role well?

He wants her saccharine cries on his lips, her warmth on his skin and the sweetness of her lifeblood in his veins. He does not want anyone to touch her unless that somebody is him.

Once again, she shuns him and strolls past his tent. She does not even bother to look in his general direction as she ducks into her tent at the far side of camp, outlying apart from the rest by a noticeable margin. He objected to her being isolated from the rest, but she scoffed at him and told him to mind his business.

He rolls his eyes, lying on the furs in his tent, trying to continue reading his book, but all these words make no sense while his mind is otherwise occupied. He cannot fathom why she is ignoring him. She’s even left him at camp a handful of times, clicking her tongue at him when he made a fuss over the dismissal. What had he done? Had he said something to upset her? His sharp tongue does get him into trouble now and again.

He cannot handle another night of silence, and once everyone is fast asleep, he storms over to her tent and stoops inside without an invitation. She is awake and glaring at him with those two-toned eyes he cannot stop being enraptured in as soon as they steal the breath he has not required for centuries. It still somehow feels like suffocating.

“Vampire,” she chirps happily. “Are you hungry?”

“What?” He scoffs, face twisting in a scowl. Does she think he sees her only as his meal ticket? “Gods. No. You are ignoring me. Why?”

“I’m not ignoring you. Do you have something you wish to speak to me about? Is there a problem I can help you fix? Would you like to impress me with your tales? Perhaps you would like to teach me how to manipulate the Weave?”

“No,” he stammers. Why does he want to talk to her so badly?

“Then what do you want?”

“Did our night together mean nothing to you?” He snaps back more briskly than he meant to.

“You didn’t even want to be there.” She retorts in the same brisk intonation with a shrug. “I had to request you stop or stay in the moment. Whatever you’re up to,” she quirks a brow at him, “you do not need to exploit my affections. I will give my assistance to whatever you need freely. There’s no need for this blatant deceit.”

Are his intentions truly prostrated and recognized that easily? No one else has been able to see through his mask for… gods, at least a century since his skills were honed to a sharp edge.

“I am positive I do not know what you’re talking about,” he snorts, jutting his chin into the air in an act of boldness he hopes will circumvent his clearly ill-advised, discernible plan.

“Keep lying if you must, Astarion,” she concludes with no noticeable anger, betrayal or upset in her sugared intonation. Her eyes fall back to the book in her lap, “You’re trying to play me for a fool, but believe me when I say that I’m impervious, foolproof. You may be able to dupe the others, but I will not be so easily played.”

“Foolproof, you are decidedly not,” he casts his eyes away from hers, preparing himself to be blatantly honest for the first time since he met her. He reaches for her hand, but she pulls away, “I may have held back a little, but I did want to be there, be with you. It was not all a lie.”

“If that’s supposed to be comforting,” she snickers, “you are out of practice.” She glares at his wide-eyed astonishment, “Or perhaps you never had practice in the first place. Well, not to worry, I do not need your placations. If you plan to use me, so be it. Everyone else is anyway, so why not you as well?”

“Use you? I-“

“Mhm,” she tramples over his discord. “Do you want to read with me tonight? I find myself restless. We could sit together unless you wish to continue this charade?”

Maybe he should stop the dishonesty and start confessing, but all he says is, “I think I would like that.”

“Good,” she pats her bedroll but does not look at him. “I would like it too.”

He slips from her tent, a dead man walking.

She’s beaten him at his own damn game.

It's thrilling and equally f*cking terrifying.

She stares at him without fear, and he does not know if he should be impressed or discouraged. She has always been the embodiment of divine chaos, lightning and thunder, love and rage, paradoxes and contradictions. He’s never seen darkness and light clash so beautifully.

But Astarion has come to crave the treacly iced scent of fear. A decade of tyranny has left him addicted. His servants practically function as silver platters, heaping with it as it oozes from their pores - nectar that satiates a part of him that still calls darkness home and flees from the light where the echoes of 7000 souls carom in the frigid waste of his soul.

She is the only one who does not give him the dread he so candidly covets.

So, he will f*cking take it.

For how resplendent would it be to be feared by fear itself?

He stands in a blink, grasps the dagger at his side, and streaks through the room toward her. She pirouettes around him, and her brows pull down as she scrutinizes him. Astarion flashes, a quick pivot with practiced steps, and rushes her again. This time, she does not bother moving. She casts, quickly pulling the dagger from the table into her hand and parrying his slashing attack.

“Astarion,” she growls, slamming her palm into his wrist to deflect his lunge. “Cut it out.”

He attacks, and she parries, but she never moves to strike back, even when he manages to wound her, a graze to her arm, a nick on her cheek, and a gash across her stomach. The sepulchral fragrance of her blood spices the air, driving his aggression.

Astarion has waited patiently for this macabre sway of heartbreak, hatred and hurt for a decade, and his patience has worn out.

He increases the ferocity of his swipes and jabs. She moves like twisted poetry in motion along with him across the room. Her body flicks and bobs around like the flame of a candle in a cross breeze. She does not wince, show pain, and, to his great disappointment, still there is no indication of fear.

“Astarion! What are you doing? Stop this!”

“Godsdamnit!” He bellows at her, exasperation pulling his lips into a snarl. His chest heaving with heavy breaths, “What are you doing?! Defend yourself!”

“No,” she replies in the same winded pant. She wipes her face with her forearm, smearing blood across it like a rosy blush to her already flushed cheeks.

“Why?” He shouts, gnashing his teeth together. “Shall I make you kneel for me again, bhaalspawn? Have I not degraded you enough?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You must learn respect. Reverence even,” he purrs with a broad smile. “You must learn to fear, and I am an excellent educator.”

“Fear…” she taps her lips with the dagger’s tip, casting her eyes up. “You know that’s one thing you and I never had in common. Where Cazador struck terror into you and made you afraid of everything and everyone. My father ventured to wrest it from me, making me afraid of nothing .”

“Then you’re either bloody stupid or foolishly ignorant,” his lips curl into a cruel smile. “I will endeavour to reteach that infirm brain of yours what real fear is. I will teach you true suffering.”

“Come off your high horse, Astarion. You are not the only one who was tormented at the hands of a cruel creator,” she slinks around the room, always moving, always watching, both eyes bleeding into him. They seem to sink into his chest and carve it out so her words echo in the chamber, “ The only time I can remember being truly afraid, fear so strong it was nigh on paralyzing, was when Cazador had you strung up in that ritual chamber, and I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to reach you in time. The only thing I have ever feared is losing you, and I have already lost you. I have nothing left to fear.”

“Lost me?” His heart staggers in his chest, wailing objection that he dares not allow bubble up to the surface. He keeps his expression scornful, layering his voice in a gravelly timbre tainted with mockery, “You never had me, darling. Not really.”

“I know. You made that clear long ago,” she smiles, and he wants to wipe that caustic sneer from her lips. “I see you, Astarion.”

I see you too.

She glides in a circle around him, an assassin with the grace of a languid woodland stream, but he’s focused on the dagger she flourishes in her hand. She twists it, letting the hilt revolve around her hand only to snap her wrist when it returns to her palm, sending it pinwheeling in the other direction, and the blade glints in the tawny light of the scones in a mesmerizing procession.

“Do you now?” He barely registers he’s speaking, hypnotized by her slow, measured steps, soundless as a drifting cloud, and the hypnotic flashes of the glaring steel as it arcs and spools. “What is it you think you see?”

“An empty man who seeks to castigate the world that broke him,” she states in an ethereal whispering cadence, soft and warm like wool. “You loathe yourself because even with the power of 7000 souls, with your political power, wealth, and the admiration of an entire city, you still have not been able to unshackle yourself from the one affliction that keeps you bound. Fear. You crave fear like a drug because you are still afraid.”

She hurls the dagger, whizzing it past his head so close he can feel the whir of the blade wafting the air against his ear, distracting him for but a moment. But that’s all she needs. She elbows him hard in the ribs, doubling him over, and sweeps his feet out from under him, toppling him to the ground. She falls with him, landing atop him and grabs his wrist, burning it with a fiery blast from her palm. He hisses a sharp breath as she snatches the dagger from his loosed grip, sliding it across the floor with a clattering racket.

Before he can retaliate, her lips crash into his with a bruising force, sliding her tongue into his mouth. He groans at the taste of her as their tongues dance, and he relishes her smoothness. He feels it, the electricity between them, the inexplicable pull of it, drawing them together like they were always meant to be. His hands roam up her curves, and he luxuriates at the way every part of her fits perfectly in his palms as if she was carved for him and only him.

She stares defiantly at all the walls he’s erected around that pathetic soul that still lingers somewhere in the bedrock of his essence, wailing its shattered tune of fantasies still smouldering in the dying light of his darkness. Where no one else can pierce those defences, she merely has to sigh to stoke the coals to spark his spirit back to life.

She makes him weak. He must make her his. For if he can hold his weakness in the palm of his hand, as he holds her in his arms now, he can crush it, crush her, and crush that pathetic boy who still rues against his fate.

Only when Astarion has expunged himself of that dreadful love will he be truly great, unstoppable, and safe.

She breaks the kiss, throws her head back and giggles, breaking him from his considerations. Her eyes arrest him as they read the emotions written on his face like words on parchment.

“You diabolical little vixen,” he chuckles as he reins in his poise. Her face is serene, untroubled, and unafraid. It is irritatingly lovely. “I see you retained some of my teachings. Although, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about you using them against me.”

“Well, you were just telling me how good of an educator you are,” she smirks. His fingers kiss the smooth edges of the wounds along her arms. “Those are going to scar.” She snorts, sticking her nose in the air, “Bastard.”

Astarion sinks his fangs into his wrist. Blood spurts out of the wounds, and he coats his palm and spreads it down her arms like sanguine lotion. Her mouth quirks up at the sight, and she bites her lower lip. Her wounds start knitting together like the reverse bloom of a flower, leaving nothing but perfectly buttery dove-grey skin beneath the crimson veil.

“Shall I kiss it better?” He traces her delicate, feminine jaw with his fingers.

She holds her arm out, narrowing her eyes, “You f*cking better.”

He grins and places slow, soft kisses up her arm, sitting upright as he progresses. Her skin rises in goosebumps under his lips, and she sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath. She presses her breasts into his chest as his lips whisper up the column of her neck.

She groans as she leans into him, tangling her fingers into his hair, “I should be mad at you.”

“Then,” he murmurs against her cheek, “Why aren’t you?”

Her mouth quirks up as he kisses the corner of it, “What’s a little attempted murder between friends?”

“Friends, are we?” His hand pushes into the curve of her lower back, forcing her to arch against him, “That’s rather presumptuous. Don’t you think? If we aren’t f*cking, we are fighting.”

“We have always been a mess, you and I. Haven’t we? A tragedy that has yet to be painted with brushstrokes of woe in the bitter colours of regrets not yet realized. You want to teach me fear, and I want to teach you love.” Her hand presses into his chest, coaxing him to lay back, but he will not give her an inch. No. He must not move and give her ground. But she knew he wouldn’t, didn’t she? She smiles and leans into him, ghosting her lips over his, so close yet far. He leans forward, trying to close the gap. Just one more kiss. It’s all he needs, but just as he will not give her ground, she will not concede any to him, and she turns her head away before their lips can meet. Her thick lashes flutter against his cheek like the wings of butterflies pattering his skin. “My heart is a battleground. I was created for war; be it love or chaos. Whatever I do, I do it to the death, and I am not dead quite yet.”

Gods above. She makes him want to kneel, worshipping at the feet of her godless shrine and repent his sins. All Astarion’s life, he’s been told he is nothing, but she admires him like he is everything, with fire and determination in her eyes.

Too bad he will have to snuff that blazing spirit out if he means to subdue her - an acceptable loss, but a loss, nonetheless.

Even the blank infinity of the musty room is somehow blurred beneath the grog of the Mermaid Whiskey, Chultan Fireswill and other spirits you heedlessly gorged on. The alcoholic medley fizzes and bubbles in your stomach, swishing around restlessly with every movement. How many nights have you been here asphyxiating yourself in the bilge of drink, washing down your sorrows until it would be a stretch to call you coherent? Too many, you’re sure, but it’s the only thing that seems to help give you a reprieve from the hell of shattered hopes and dreams you’ve been living in, and you will desperately cling to anything that sets you free.

From your damaged, hole-riddled brain to all the glittering shards of your mincemeat heart, you’re broken beyond repair.

A heavy hand pets your hair and skims up your bare back. The pressure is too light, and instead of feeling like a caress, it feels like an insect moseying across your skin. You squeeze your eyes closed and focus on sinking into the pleasant spinning of your head and not the physical sensation of the greedy fingers that are arrhythmically floundering against your cl*t with a pressure that makes you wince and grate your teeth.

Your hand fumbles around the floor until it finds the smooth neck of the bottle at your bedside, and you gulp it down begrudgingly, adding fresh poison to your stomach. If you can get drunk enough, you might be able to get through this comical performance.

Lips crash into yours, slobbery and wet, and you knock them away with a hard shove, “I said no kissing.”

“Sorry,” a slurred voice starts cracking the fantasy you’re trying to settle into.

“Don’t talk,” you growl, grabbing a fistful of hair and aggressively pushing the mouth between your thighs to make sure it’s too busy to speak.

A low groan emits in a shaky exhale as a tongue parts your folds, delving into your entrance and tasting you.

If you keep your eyes jammed shut, if you focus just right, you might be able to crumble into the shameful fantasy you’re so miserably chasing. As long as you don’t stop to take into consideration how this tongue and these lips don’t stroke or evoke toe-curling pleasure. No. This mouth feels more like a bumbling fool as it laps at your c*nt like a panting dog.

It’s all just so terribly hopeless and wrong. Your eyes snap open, and you drown in the fuzzy, revolving darkness.

You silently scream in your head, and your hand darts out, grasping an arm and heaving the travesty away. “Just f*ck me,” you blurt out, hard and cold, not even trying to conceal the seething venom in your intonation.

Surely, no one can get this part wrong. Right?

His breaths are rapid and scraggy with excitement, and you drain the rest of the bottle while he fumbles with himself. Fingers poke and prod you as if trying to read a map in the dark while he attempts to figure out where to place himself. Finally, the blunt, swollen head of his erection bumps up against you and pushes. You roll your eyes as this catastrophe basically tries to f*ck your cl*t. Quirking your hips, you adjust and are immediately skewered. It does not feel pleasant like your memories. It does not make you see carnal, white-hot harmonies of pleasure, and it does not make your body tremble with euphoria.

The pace is staggering, shaky and irregular, and your body hasn’t adjusted before he’s snapping his hips like a jerky hinge that needs oiling. You close your eyes and try to drift into an almost trance-like state, recalling old memories you wish you could return to and die in.

“f*ck,” the hissing breathy whimper makes your stomach churn and breaks your concentration.

There is no pretending this is the man you love. His co*ck doesn’t fit you perfectly, his fingers don’t execute or settle in the rhythm that makes your heart start and stop, and his body is not the taut, defined muscles that must have been carved by the very Gods themselves to be so perfect, but perhaps worst of all, he does not smell like home.

Will it ever feel good again, you wonder, to be touched, caressed, f*cked? Will anything or anyone ever feel right?

You already know the answer.

“Stop,” you push the shoulders, caging you to the bed.

“I’m almost there,” he pants, tepid breath smelling of sour spirits unfurling across your cheeks.

“I said stop,” you demand, holding your breath.

“Shut up!” A hand covers your mouth as the man’s pace becomes relentless as he chases his release, “I said I’m close!”

Your hands ball into fists, fingernails splitting your palms. Your urge chatters in your head, but you don’t need it. Your anger is already detonating like a bomb inside your chest. Before your mind can catch up with your body, you’ve cast Telekinesis, pulling a dagger across the room into your hand.

With a flick of your wrist, the hilt is in your palm. You grip the man’s hair, wrench his neck to the side, and the blade is swallowed in the supple flesh to the hilt before even a cry can escape. You feel the blood splash across your face and chest as the wet gurgles of fatality burble in your ears. You’ve always found the sounds of impending death to be soothing, a tonic for your derailed psyche, and tonight is no different.

Blood follows me everywhere.

The man collapses as life forfeits his body, and he’s nothing but a deadweight corpse blanketing you in mere moments. You lay there for a while in the downy ink of the beautiful dark, unblinking and unmoving, with a heinous smile.

Eventually, you roll the carcass to the side. With a flick of your wrist, you light the only candle in this tiny box that only a cowtown this size would call a room. You stare at the man. You thought this one might be close enough to Astarion, but alas, he, too, is only another disappointment. Your atrocity stares at you through dead, listless eyes, and you almost huff in exasperation at its judgements. You should leave, but instead, you use your hand to snuff out the flame, plunging you back into obscurity, curl up beside the body, with your head on its unmoving chest and pretend, if only for tonight, that it’s Astarion who you are cuddled up next to.

Tears start to slip from your eyes, and you whimper all the questions you never dared to ask him before you slipped away and left love behind forever.

You wake with a start, flinging yourself upright and peering around your room in the Crimson Palace. The incense still burns with the aroma of honeycomb and rose, and the soft light of the hot coals in the fireplace perforates the otherwise tenebrous atmosphere. With a sigh, you rise from your bed, amble to the mirror atop your dresser and peer at yourself with contempt. You’re a wretched, broken thing, aren’t you? How many died at your hand because they weren’t him? How many did you kill in drunken hazes, fits of all-consuming, mind-numbing rage or when your magic retaliated and decided that it would take revenge for your riven heart into its hands if you would not do it of your own accord?

Astarion means to ruin you. He means to take everything you are and lay waste to your already wasted soul. He’s scared of you now. You saw it on the portrait of emotions flickering across his roguishly handsome face, each brushstroke a feeling, each hue a story, every crease and line blending joy with sadness, anger with love and fear with peace.

Has he already not turned you into a pitiful, irreparable thing that only finds solace when you’re sipping lies and gorging yourself on fantasies? Where do you go from here? Do you leave and return to your sorry life of fruitless roaming, lost and adrift on the open sea of Faerûn?

He is a storm, a cyclone of immorality, warped and twisted sentiments and sensibilities, but you never did flee from storms - you chased them like other kids chase butterflies and rainbows.

And you always did love to chase the unobtainable.

You sneak out of your room to avoid waking Claire, who now sleeps on the floor in the hall, just outside your door. No amount of arguing or commanding her to return to the servant’s quarters to sleep would deter her from her lord’s orders. She is to be at your beck and call at all hours. You must remember to request, nay, tell, Astarion to instruct the girl to sleep in a damn bed.

Vile sheep, insects and lap dogs - all of them.

Walking through the estate grounds, you listen to the warbling lullabies of the nocturnal insects serenading the silver moon andowls hoo. The stars shine bright against the velvety black of the sky, their light dancing in unending, infinite patterns.

You close your eyes and let the serene stillness blanket you as your feet pad silent as a thief across the paved grounds. You are home in the cocooning blackness of midnight roads and monochrome beauty where you can be alive and exist as only yourself.

Rounding a corner, you see a phantom in the distance, pale as ivory and smooth as silk in the spectral glow of the moonlight. Astarion stands, staring at the sky with a seraphic expression, as if he, too, feels he can exist as himself and not the cold, bloodthirsty Vampire Ascendant in the cashmere embrace of the night.

Astarion is shirtless, with cotton pants that hang loose around his hips. The light highlights every perfect curve and indentation of his sculpted body, making him appear almost statuesque. The wispy waves of his hair are wrapped in an otherworldly radiance. There’s a brutality to his beauty, like a diamond forged from the heat of the Hells.

“Can’t rest?” He purrs without looking at you. “Or have you come to try to kill me again? Shall I fetch the ropes?”

“Tonight is an "I will wed you with a delicate veil of blood blooming over your white curls" kind of night,” you giggle as you come up beside him and cast your eyes heavenward. "I never rest well."

"We're hardly dressed for a wedding, sweetheart. Or perhaps we're too dressed. Hm. Depends on the wedding, I suppose," he laughs with a smirk. When his crimson eyes catch yours, your heart seizes in your chest, and he apprehends the breath from your lungs. Those eyes are the only colour in the black wings wrapping the world in twilight. “I thought your nightmares would have abated after you cast off the chains of your father.”

“It got worse,” you retort with a wrathful inflection. The nightmares will never wane. There is still so much of your life you don’t remember, and memories tend to unravel in your trance. “If the other night is any indication, your night terrors have yet to pall.”

“Some suffering is unforgettable,” he sighs, running his hand over his face.

“Sometimes my dreams bleed into reality,” you suddenly admit, warning him. “I’ve killed and destroyed in my sleep.”

“Oh, my precious Bhaal babe,” he chuckles. “You always did. Not to worry. If you accidentally destroy one room, there are a hundred more awaiting your magical Armageddon. Same with servants. If you kill the girl, I will simply appoint or hire another. If that’s what’s keeping you up, you needn't concern yourself with it.”

“What if I decide to vivisect the girl?” You smirk, that horrifying smile contorting your face before you have time to stop it.

“Then do invite me to the show,” Astarion laughs mirthfully. “If you think I did not know who or what I was inviting into my home, you’ll find yourself mistaken. I am well aware of your… Shall we call them tendencies?”

“Tendencies. That’s a generous way of putting it, I suppose.” You stifle the urge to wrap yourself around the person who has accepted you for the deviant you are.

“Come,” Astarion offers you a hand. You hear the bones in his spine and back cracking and sliding, his skeleton rearranging as wings expand. “Let us kiss the heavens and war with the stars, yes?”

You slip your hand into his. He tugs you close and wraps his arms around you, “Hold onto me, love.”

He looks like a fallen angel with eyes that exude blood in the ethereal shrine of the moon. Folding your arms around his neck, his wings beat against the air, and you’re launched, a shooting star that ascends into the sky and deifies its fate.

Your hair whirls in the wind of his speed as he consumes the air around him with every powerful downstroke of his colossal, silver-scaled wingspan. Baldur's Gate disappears beneath your feet as he conquers the wind currents. You can’t keep your eyes off him. He smiles tenderly at you as he hurls both of you into the sky with reckless abandon.Astarion careens you through misty clouds and back down before coming to an abrupt halt and hovering.

“You are not afraid,” he states with a puzzled expression that pinches his brows.

“Should I be?” You scoff at him. Does he truly believe you, the omen of fear itself, would be dominated by something so simple?

“Well,” Astarion grins sad*stically, cruel and cold, “I did say I would punish you for being late, and you did make a terrible mess of my study. You’ve been nothing but trouble since you arrived. It might be prudent of me to drop you here and now.”

His hold on you lessens, and you slip down his body at the sudden withdrawal of security. Yet, your heart does not stir in your chest. You’ve never been daunted by the prospect of your demise. Your father was many things, but averse to losing you was not one of them.

When you peer into Astarion’s eyes, they are like a cosmic ticking clock counting down the seconds until he tears you apart. Yet, there is no intent in the brief moment before he casts his icy, admiring gaze away.

You have a very bad, nigh-on terrible yet thrilling idea. If Astarion wants to play this game, he will be positively aghast when he learns you can play it better. If you don’t play, you can never win, after all. For the last decade, he’s tortured you in your waking hours and sleep. It’s your turn to torture him.

“You wish to play games with me, vampire?” You coo with a deviant grin, “Let us play,”

Before he has time to react, you veer your feet to his stomach and launch yourself out of his arms with every ounce of power your body retains.

You backflip in midair and start your plunge toward the earth that greedily awaits to soak up your noxious spirit. Will he let you die, you wonder idly. It does not matter much to you either way, for if you die, you will finally be free of all that ails you.

When you hit the ground, will you feel anything before your body is vaporized into a beautiful ichor mist? You vaguely remember pushing the living from heights. They would splat on the ground like rotten melons, showering the terrain in beatific spindrifts of gore, guts and claret.

But you never would have been able to drop someone from such a height, no matter your mastery and perversion. You simply lacked the tools for such experiments.

A titillating inquiry - too bad you will not be able to recognize the answer if your suspicions are incorrect.

How long have I been dropping? How close am I to the ground?

This feels almost like flying. You feel weightless and free of your troubles as the rules of the realm drag you inconclusively back to your origins, and the air feels you’re unimportant enough to halt.

Will you meet the solid, rigid earth and slosh against the stones any minute now? It would not be too bad to leave this world that has stolen all your dreams. If you survive, you will snatch them back.

Herculean arms encompass your waist, and your headlong fall is halted instantaneously. The breath is depressed from your lungs, and your body lurches upwards, causing your stomach to tingle with the sudden change in the force surpassing your organs.

Astarion lands with the grace of a cat and shakes you hard, an earthquake through your body that makes your teeth collide and clack in an opera together.

“Are you positively f*cking demented? What in the f*ck were you thinking?” He spits with vitriol dripping from his baritone and bared fangs that glint alluringly in the waxen light, “What if I had not been fast enough to catch you?”

A sick part of you still wishes he had not been quick enough, but you tamper it, “Then I would be dead,” you state unemotionally.

“Don’t you ever do something so objectively stupid again!” He chastises you sourly, crushing you to him. His cheek nuzzles yours, and you know that despite his desire to sever himself from the love he still retains for you, no matter how deformed and insignificant, he’s not been able to. “Do not make me lose you for a fourth time. Hells below. I could not bear it, Alita. Not again. Please. Never again.”

Your mouth parts to make a clever retort your brain has not quite conjured up yet, but Astarion dips his chin and moulds his lips to yours. A sigh sneaks out of your throat, betraying you, and his tongue instantly meets yours with a hoarse, throaty groan. You cannot stop your answering moan as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck and hold him steadfast to you.

His fingers twist into your nightwear and tug you hard against him. He moves with the agility of air itself, and before you know it, you’re being pinned against one of the stone barriers surrounding the grounds of his palace. A comforting ocean of darkness envelopes you, and it takes a moment to realize Astarion has curled his wings around you in a shield of safety.

The aching current throbbing in your core is pulling you down, and it’s getting hard to breathe as Astarion’s intoxicating taste of damnationsnares your senses and depletes you of any and all rationality.

“You desire me, yes?” Astarion grumbles against your lips, but his perfected kiss never ceases to send you spiralling out of your damn mind.

“Gods.” You mumble against him as he steals your breath, “Yes.”

“I thought so,” he chuckles, breaking the kiss and staring at you through candied scarlet eyes glossed with want. “I want to taste your longing. May I?”

Passion ignites in a molten inferno in your belly. “Yes,” you affirm with a breathless gasp.

Astarion rucks up your nightdress and kneels, wrapping your thighs around his shoulders, keeping your back pressed against his wings that are grating against the rough stone of the wall. His fingers slink to your breast, and he rolls your already stiff nipple between his thumb and index finger as he presses chaste kisses against your inner thigh until his breath is hot against the swollen flesh of your sex.

He kisses the aching swell at the apex of your thighs before parting you with a long, broad stroke with the flat of his tongue. He glides it up your seam, dipping it into your entrance and moaning at the taste of your slick arousal.

His fingers press firmly into the skin of your thighs, and he circles and teases your cl*t, watching the passion sparking in your eyes through thick lashes, ruby red irises gleaming.

Your fingers twist into his satiny, lustrous curls as he buries his fingers into you, crooking the pads up so they hit that spot inside you that brings pleasure so pure it might be as close to heaven as you’ll ever get. His execution is flawless as his tongue swirls around the throbbing border, making your hips jerk and undulate against his eagerness.

“A-- Astarion,” you whimper, breath hitching in your throat. “Good Gods. Yes.”

“Yes, love – cry my name, sing me your prayers. You belong to me.” He commands, running his fangs down the inside of your thigh. “Say it.”

“I-” Gods, you’re a f*cking mess in his hands, consumed in mind-melting pleasure. You can hardly get your tongue to form fluent words. “Belong... f*ck! I belong to you.”

“That’s right. You are mine. ” He growls, holding you firmly, possessively, reverently, as his tongue ghosts rapidly and light against that sensitive, swollen pearl and his fingers pump, writing poems inside you with an easy, relaxed pace that makes you sputter and writhe, completely astray in sensation alone.

“Come for my mouth, Alita,” he rumbles with a taunt against your center of pleasure, urging you closer to unravelling with the trace and flutter of his pointed tongue. “I want to taste the sweetness of your bliss.”

Heat spreads under your skin like an igneous pool of magma, prickling and setting your nerves searing in red-hot delight.

Your muscles tense, thighs caging him between them as the inferno coalesces, “Astarion— Good Gods. Astarion. f*ck. I’m—“ you whine as you gallop toward your release.

You cry out as his lips wrap around your cl*t, and his tongue flicks and skims against you in an idyllic rhythm that sends you soaring into utopia. Strangled noises stutter from your throat as he slings you into the overwhelming intensity of your climax.

This, you think, is as close to nirvana as your wretched soul will ever be allowed to touch, and you will give it up for nothing and no one. You will make him yours. He fell in love with you once, right? You can do it again. You were born for this, and you will be the name upon his lips for the rest of eternity - whatever it takes.

Astarion does not relent until you’re overstimulated with ragged breaths and the fluttering and clutching of your walls slowly ebbing. You push him away, murmuring pleas for amnesty from his unrelenting tongue.

He chuckles seductive and sinful, f*cking you with his tongue and lapping up your wetness greedily before slamming you to the carpet of lush grass on the ground. He hooks your knee with his arm, spreads you wide for him and bucks his hips into your swollen sex. At the friction of his erection against your raw core, he lets out a shaky breath and frees his co*ck from the cage of his pants that are damp with his desire.

“Look into my eyes,” he coos as he rocks his hips, painting his co*ck in the sheen of your passion and positioning the swollen, blunt head at your entrance. “You’re breaking me down, Alita. You’re killing me,” he pants with hooded eyes, polished and glazed with harsh longing. “Are you happy now?”

“I don’t want to break you,” your hand cradles his cheek with a shiver that runs down your spine. He’s been broken enough. Your only wish is to hold his broken pieces like he’s the holy grail, and you alone might be the song that draws them back together.

“What if I want to be broken?” He mewls, sinking into you with that hint of pleasurable pain that never fails to extract the air from you. Astarion watches his co*ck disappear into your body, inch by exquisite inch, spreading you open. He rasps, eyes closed, and jaw slacked in his rapture, “I am used to everyone doing exactly what I say when I say it. It’s old. Boring. There’s something about you, Alita. You call to me on a deep level I still do not understand.” He pleads, “You’re a siren song I do not yet know how to sing. I can’t resist you. Love me when it’s hard, have faith in me and a little patience. You might be the only one in the entire cosmos capable of such a feat. I need you. Please.”

He looks so vulnerable that it’s almost disturbing and a stark contrast to the man who was swinging and slashing at you earlier. Your core clenches around him at the reverence in his heated, longing gaze as he buries himself into you again and again and again at a sensual pace, and he hisses out sharp breaths as you tighten around him with each psyche-shattering pulse.

“I’m a lost cause,” you whimper. You cannot look away from those sanguine eyes that are bleeding into you, pushing you away yet simultaneously begging you to stay.

“We’ll find a way to be together,” Astarion snakes his arm around your back, forcing you to arch against him. “Just don’t let go.”

“Never,” your arms wrap around his neck. Gods above. Every lie gives you butterflies. He fights dirty. His words are so odiously sweet, but his heart has fangs sharper than the ones in his mouth.

You will never make it out of this love alive.

Your hips snap to meet his thrusts as he plays with your cl*t. He bears down on you with the glimmer of hope flaming in his eyes and a yearning and ravenous appetite that looks so deep it could never be sated.

“How many must I make you forget,” Astarion growls, increasing the pace, hips striking your thighs and filling your ears with lewdly wet sounds until your c*nt drips around his shaft like warm honey. “I will make love to youuntil I am the only one you remember for centuries.”

And there, in the moonlight, you see Astarion’s eyes glow nearly as emerald green as yours as jealously floods him, and he catches your crying lips in his. There is something so unbridled and unadulterated about how he kisses you as he thrusts into you deep, hungry and dangerous.

You lack the mental capacity to answer as the stimulation of his plunging co*ck and sweeping thumb burn you to your very core, building your pleasure in a lustre of white-hot ecstasy that splits through you and makes you unable to count the stars exploding and dying behind your eyelids.

Hells below. You are drowning and flying at the same time. Your eyes shut against the onslaught of pure, intoxicating devotion you’re worshipping him with. Your muscles coil tight. Your legs tremble as they wrap around him, and you kiss him with a fervour that could incinerate entire forests in seconds.

You find his fang with your tongue and drag it hard across the razor-sharp tip, spilling blood into both your mouths. Astarion moans thunderously, his fingers twisting into your hair to hold you steady and savour you. It’s enough to propel you over the edge.

You cry out, clutching and spasming upon his thickness, urging him to his peak. “sh*t,” his hips stutter, forehead falling to your shoulder with the ragged, heavy and hitching breaths that foretell his org*sm, “f*ck, Alita. I’m going to— Hells. You’re godsdamned milking me, love. I’m going to—“

He moans as the tension in his muscles snaps with enough force to snap stars in two, and his eyes glaze over in his spiral of euphoria. His co*ck pulses as he floods you with his spend, and you take it, all of his hot seed, just as you’ve been longing to do for a decade.

Astarion’s skin is veiled in sweat as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck. You recognize the shift in his muscles, but before you can comprehend what he’s doing, he rolls, enshrouding you in his membranous wings like a devilish shelter from the world that’s scorned your existence. Once he has you positioned atop his heaving chest, they unfurl and lay limp against the earth.

Even with the heat of his body under yours, the night’s cold breath on your sweat-sheened skin makes you shiver. One of his wings arcs around you, and gently blankets you, protecting you from the chill.

Once your spirit finds its foothold in your corporeal form, you sigh into his neck, breathing in the scent of his sweat. He smells like sex, blood and death - your favourite fragrances all wrapped into one angelic essence.

Astarion kisses your forehead, burying his nose in your hair and inhales a contented sigh. He walks your gaze to him, and his thumb sweeps across the corner of your mouth and comes away crimson, which he promptly sucks off his finger with a wily grin.

“Open your mouth, little love,” he instructs with an intoxicatingly hot infection that makes you melt. You glower at him but do as instructed.

“Good girl,” he purrs and analyzes the wound on your tongue with devout attention. “You cut yourself too deeply, silly thing.”

You snort your disapproval. He shakes his head and chuckles, biting into his wrist again and holding the dripping nectar near your lips. You don’t hesitate to run your tongue over the tearing wounds. His blood is unnaturally torrid and spiced with the promise of your devastation and damnation - a flavour that could choke you and breathe air into your suffocating lungs concurrently.

You feel the membrane braiding itself back together as Astarion seizes your lips in his, darting his tongue into your mouth, growling at the zest of you and him mixed.

Astarion and you lie under the stars for what could be seconds, minutes or eternities. Whole worlds and empires could have burst to life and been winked out in the period before he guides your arms around his neck, wraps an arm under your knees and stands. You hear the telltale popping and cracking of his bones and cartilage as his wings are dispelled.

“Where are you taking me?” You mutter, exhausted and unwilling to pry your heavy eyes open.

“Bed, darling,” he rests his cheek against your forehead.

“Your bed or mine?”

“Mine,” he purrs. You can hear the wicked, promising smirk in his voice, and your heart immediately leaps back to life in your chest. “If you think I am done with you, think again, my sweet. You will feel my hands, tongue and co*ck claiming you all night. I will taste you, touch you, spread you, and take you again and again until there is no you, no me - only us.”

Us - I do like the sound of that.

Chapter 10: Once Upon A Family

Chapter Text

Dust motes sparkle in stray beams of sunlight streaming in an open window. The curtains flutter in the breeze that teems with the sweet smell of freshly cut grass. You are chasing a boy with dark hair and light grey eyes. He giggles blithely with a smile sweet as a fairy. A homely woman laughs from a worn sofa. A girl with curly, deep chestnut hair sits on her lap, clapping as she observes the fun.

A game of tag is such an innocent pastime for most children, but you’re not an ordinary child. You’re not just pursuing. You’re hunting, eager with an impulsive zest for your prey. Where typical children are ungainly and inelegant in their coordination, your movement is swanlike and inventive. You’re tactical in your stalking, always two or three steps ahead, estimating the trajectory of his path and adjusting on the fly with the ease of an expert strategist. You corral him into a corner, blocking all hope of escape.

“You’re it!” You laugh as you tag him with a gentle tap, whirl and run with a feline-like grace.

“It’s time to wash up and get ready for bed, kids,” the woman chimes, tickling the girl in her lap, who lets out a loud, shrieking giggle.

No.

You don’t want to go to bed because that means you will dream of him. The ghoulish humanoid with pallor white as any corpse and skin that is gashed and mutilated with black, melanoid ichor that appears to wriggle in the crevices. He infects your mind with morbid sentiments, showing you haunting images and depictions that flash in your mind’s eye. He laughs when it frightens you and scolds you for being so f*cking soft. He promises you will not be spineless for long. He will harden you, condition you, and you will be so exquisite that you need not fear anything ever again.

He says you will be beautiful beyond words, a perfect artwork of grandeur and irresistibility. You’re unique, a pureblood, he croons, running a bony, clawed finger down your cheek as you recoil. He growls in your tapered ear that you’re lucky to be blessed with such a birthright - his chosen, and there is no escaping your destiny.

You do not want to see him, hear his grating voice, or feel his horrifying presence, so you run and hide under your bed with a quivering bottom lip and tears spilling out of your eyes.

“Alita,” a man with a deep voice that is stern but soft, teeming with affection coos. He kneels and peeks under the bed. He smiles fondly, “Listen to your mother and wash up for bed, little one.”

Everything quivers and shifts, and you’re sitting on your bed in a long nightgown embroidered with rainbows, clouds and sheep. Your foster mother hums a comforting tune as she gently combs your long hair, still wet from the bath.

“Time for bed,” she lulls, patting your arm. She smiles as you slip under the covers, tucks you in and kisses your cheek, “Sweet dreams.”

But your dreams are never sweet anymore. They are nightmares, terrors that you can’t wake from no matter how hard you pinch, scratch or bite yourself. Your trance is not a safe space, and you avoid it despite your mother and father’s assurances that your nightmares can’t hurt you. They say it’s normal to have nightmares and that it will pass.

You just have to be brave.

Your brother and sister sleep serenely in the beds with sighing mutters. They don’t seem to have nightmares like you do. They never wake up thrashing or screaming with scratches and bite marks marring their skin. They sleep so peacefully, and you wonder why you’ve been condemned. Who are you? You only know you are an orphan, a lost girl with almond doe-eyes of yellow stars and new springtime buds.

Clinging to the stuffed bear in your arms, you try to stave off your trance. The clock ticks, the crickets chirp, and frogs croak - the cradle song of nightfall. Your eyes feel burdened and weighted as you strain against the onset of rest. Every time you feel yourself drifting, you wrench your eyes back open, but they are fluttering shut quicker and easier with each concurrent jolt of wakefulness. If you can make it until dawn, the sun will surely be your salvation. It’s always easier to stay awake when things are bright, and the world is colourful.

Perhaps it will be different tonight, and you will have the sugar-coated dreams of a child filled with unicorns, puppies and kittens.

Maybe it will be okay.

Maybe… maybe…

It is no different. It is worse. It is horrid. It is unyielding. Your name is repeated in his voice. Your skin is scratched, and you are bruised by his cadaverous fingers, gripping your arms, pulling at your body and hair. Screams hurt your head. You are filled with hate, rage and cruelty. A knife appears in your hand. You roll it on your palm to test the weight and balance as the shiny steel sings a symphony to your eyes. Mother says you’re not allowed to play with the kitchen knives, but it feels like a friend.

It feels good. It feels powerful. It feels right.

You hunt through messy, ominously still halls and cobwebbed, barren rooms until you find him standing before a throne made of bones and dried blood strung together with intestines and tendons. He sneers at you with enmity through narrow eyes.

“Welcome home, deplorable daughter of mine.”

You attack the dream figure with a howl. You chase him, a warped game of tag. You hack, slash and stab until your arm is numb, but he never stops laughing with a twisted, simpering grin that reveals his sharply pointed teeth. You sink the knife into his eye socket, wrenching it free and sinking it in again and again and again until he is still in your arms with a gurgling cackle that could freeze even the deepest reaches of the ocean as solid as stone.

When you catch your breath, when you are sure he’s finally dead, you thrust his disfigured and broken body away with a soul-rending screech.

Your eyes flutter open, and you are no longer in that echoing sanctum of madness. Your fingers are still wrapped around the knife’s handle, squeezing it with all your might. Your nightgown is stained and splattered with dark, sticky garnet.

Your mother will surely be angry.

You see him in the slick spill, sloshing around your toes. His rough laugh roars, ripping your brain matter, making you wince and grasp your head in your hands with a shriek.

“Very good,” the nightmare purrs. “It’s time to come home, child.”

You look up.

You scream.

You thrash, letting out a snarling bellow as you’re flung out of your trance. You want to kill something, someone, anyone to numb this pain infecting your every sinew. How many families did you kill? How many mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters did you have before your father brought you home so he could continue your “training," as he called it.

To make you strong, he said, to make you hard, cold, unstoppable, insane - perfect.

And how perfect you were.

You had been the poison apple of his eye, his pureblood progeny, his Chosen. You took life with no more thought than a spider wraps up and consumes a fly or a snake swallows a mouse whole.

But it never mattered how perfect you were or how efficiently you killed. Your torment never stopped.

And it still hasn’t - it seems.

Solid arms warp around you, caging your flailing body against a muscular chest, “It’s okay,” your capture soothes in a voice thick like caramel and warm like midsummer. “It was just a dream. You’re alright.”

That’s what your father said. Wasn’t it? That it was all just a dream and it couldn’t hurt you? But it did hurt you. It hurt you, and it killed them. It killed them all.

You killed them all.

Magic rises in an impulsive swell, frothing over and crashing upon the shore of reality, and your fear is washed away and replaced with utter and total confusion. Who are you? Where are you? Why are you here? What is happening? None of what you’re seeing or feeling makes any sense. Your limbs do not feel like they belong to you. They feel like they have been stitched onto your body in a patchwork mess, and you gawk at them bug-eyed and slack-jawed. Your eyes blink rapidly. Did they always do that? Your fingers twitch and dance in rhythms that feel familiar to your muscles, but you cannot fathom the colours bursting in a fascinating kaleidoscope.

“Well, we are still alive. That’s a good sign,” a voice chuckles from behind you. “What did you do this time?”

Between your brain getting sidetracked by a pretty trinket in the room or your limbs deciding they would rather not function today, it takes you a painfully long time to turn around. Warm, soft hands at your waist support and contribute to keeping you on task with gentle pressure.

When you finally look at the being harbouring that velvety voice, you’re awe-struck by the beauty of the man with impossibly smooth skin and sculpted muscles. His eyes are so intensely red as they scrutinize you. You’re not entirely sure why, but you want to pluck them out of his handsome face. He looks unreal like he has escaped the pages of one fairytale or another, and you question if your mind is playing tricks on you. Yet, something about him sparks recognition.

His thumb brushes across your cheek, swiping away wet tears that must have been leaking from your eyes, but you can’t remember when or why that was happening. Do eyes usually leak?

“Alita?”

He must see the perplexity furrowing your brow because he shakes his head. “Darling,” he chuckles. Such a pretty sound, you think. A voice in your head urges you to tear his throat out and play with his vocal cords. “You’ve confused yourself again, haven’t you?”

“I think so,” you mutter, rubbing your temples trying to get that stupid voice to stop telling you what a pretty corpse he would make.

You feel the need to keep him safe, which means being away from you, so you try to rise from the bed, though you’re not quite sure where you mean to go.

“Ah-ah. No.” the pale elf with hypnotic eyes snatches you just as you try to slip off the edge of the bed, and the sheet falls away. You’re naked. Should you be embarrassed? Something tells you that you don’t much care. “How about we stay in bed, yes? The last time you wandered around after confusing yourself, you climbed down a well and strolled straight into a nest of phase spiders.”

“But I want to make you a pretty corpse!” You blurt out, stumbling over your words in haste to warn him.

His head falls back, and he laughs loudly, wildly, and hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. You cannot help but giggle along with him.

“I have not laughed like that in some time. You’re cute. I’m afraid you’re a little late for that,” he easily pulls you across the silk sheets to his side and pats his chest. “Come. Lay with me. I will keep you and everyone else safe while this spell wanes.”

He combs his fingers through your hair while you listen to his heartbeat. It provokes contradictory feelings within you. On the one hand, you’re fond of this sound. On the other, you want to curl your fingers into his chest cavity and feel it beat in your palm. Your fingers flex and curl against the muscles over his heart as you wrestle with the voices chatting away in your head.

“How long?” You croak, squeezing your eyes closed at another particularly reprehensible thought. “How long until this wears off?”

“Who knows with you, honestly.” he snickers, hooking your chin and tilting your eyes to his. “You’re home. You’re safe. You’re with me - Astarion.”

“Astarion,” you repeat. Yes. This name feels known to your tongue.

The pale elf continues talking until your answers become more coherent, and you stop answering with statements that sound more like questions. The thick haze clouding your brain dissipates slowly like the sun of Astarion’s voice burning off the fog.

But as your befuddled state dwindles, you remember the dream. Astarion notices your eyes glass over the conversation starts to sound a million miles away.

“Love,” Astarion squeezes your shoulder to bring you back into the present. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I had a family,” you say hollowly. “Before I became my father’s weapon. I had a family. Maybe several, but I only remember the one. I killed them all in my sleep. I slaughtered them.”

Tears start to creep out of your eyes, drops shining in the sunlight like liquid gold coasting down your cheeks. From what you can remember, they loved and treated you like their own. The man gave you warm bear hugs, and the woman kissed your cuts and scrapes. You can still hear the screams, feel your toes being warmed by their blood, and the exquisite ache in your arm. It makes you cringe and swallow the vitriol that rises in your throat.

You expect Astarion to make a sarcastic quip or click his tongue at you and call you a pathetic, weak, repellant murderspawn. You await the tongue-lashing he’s sure to give you. Astarion leans forward, slipping his fingers into your hair and peppers your cheeks with tender kisses. He pulls you up against him, his hand on the back of your head, and you bury your face in the curve of his neck.

“Cazador,” he swallows thickly. His voice trembles, low, husky and cracks as he continues. “When I dug myself out of my grave, he was waiting. The first thing you wake to as a spawn is blinding, all-consuming hunger. He thought that was a spectacular time to visit my parents…” He hugs you tighter as you sob louder - for him, for you, for all the injustices. “I don’t remember their faces, but I do remember their screams.”

“Gods above,” you wrap your arms around his neck, and he buries his nose in your hair. There is no good response to something like that, you realize. No amount of “I’m sorry” or “there are no words” matters. You know, because it never helped you. Thankfully, Astarion and you have always understood this. Being there for each other has always been all the comfort you need. “I wish I could kill Cazador again.”

“You and me both,” Astarion chuckles, wiping away your tears. “But I am alive, with all the power and glory he coveted, and with any luck, he’s burning in the Hells, being tortured for eternity.”

“I hope he’s screaming.”

Astarion grins, “I have a business event I must attend tonight. Accompany me, will you? It is sure to be a bore without you.”

“I don’t know, Astarion,” you shake your head, letting your chin drop, eyes falling away from his expectant gaze. “I don’t exactly do well in large groups. I’m unpredictable. You know this well enough.”

“Your unpredictability is one of the things I love about you,” Astarion tuts with a playful smirk. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you. We can make a date of it.”

“A date?” You giggle, trying to suppress the wide smile that is trying to break across your face. “If you’re asking me on a date, surely you can do better than that, vampire.”

“Hells below. You are insufferable as ever,” Astarion huffs, eyes rolling to the ceiling. He chuckles, kissing your forehead. “Alita, my treasure, would you please do me the great honour of allowing me to take you on a date?”

“Astarion, my star, I would love nothing more.”

Chapter 11: Date

Chapter Text

Claire’s fingers comb through your hair gently, twisting and spooling it around and pinning it in intricate twists. You’ve given the girl permission to touch you, but her fingers on your scalp make your skin want to tear away from your frame and scramble like a pesky feline sprayed with water. It’s a mercy when she announces she’s finished. Astarion sent one of his spawn to present you with a gift earlier in the evening. The two boxes remain unopened on your bed. One is a beautifully stained small, wooden chest with elaborate carving work and the Jeweller’s Guild symbol stamped on the shiny surface. The other is a more basic, plain box, which you imagine houses the clothing he expects you to wear tonight.

Far be it for Astarion to trust that you can dress yourself. The man will leave nothing up to chance.

You sigh and contemplate wearing something absolutely atrocious just to see if you can get a rise out of the Elf. You half-heartedly open the box, expecting to be met with some scant negligée that he expects you to pass off as a dress, but you gasp at the striking garment before you.

Claire has to help you into the complex ensemble, and you gawk at yourself. Whoever made this work of art adorning your body is nothing short of a master, and it’s quite clear that it would have cost an obscene amount of coin. The black corseted top cinches your waist and falls into a full skirt of creamy lace and jade-green tulle that dusts the floor. Black sleeves of sheer, cascading fabric hover about your upper arms, leaving your shoulders bare, and all along the bodice and down the skirts are black opals, sparkling with green and blue flakes in an intricate pattern that resembles the grace of a waterfall.

The other box contains a dainty choker with silver chains and opals to match your dress. As well as earrings and rings that glitter with various jewels - all perfectly complimenting the ballgown. Once the chockers clasp is secured around your neck, your fingers dawdle over it. Your mind drifts, and you remember your knees hitting the floor, a twisted grin darkening Astarion’s face as he revelled in the cruelness he was subjecting upon you, forcing your submission because you would not give it willingly otherwise.

"I should have a collar fashioned for you as well.”

Is this your collar? His words hover in your mind’s eye as he kisses your tears away and holds you so sweetly, so tenderly against him as if trying to protect you from the harsh truths of the fiend you are.

“You’re home. You’re safe. You’re with me - Astarion.”

You stare at yourself in the mirror, brows furrowing, and your reflection laughs. It points at you, all wrapped up in what he wants you to wear, taunts you, saying, Stupid girl. What are you doing allowing him to dress you like a manikin? Why are you still chasing this fantasy when you know he does not love you? He sees you as nothing more than a challenge to be conquered. Why cling to his lies if you cannot have his heart?

But I can, you almost retort aloud, and you cringe at yourself for being so utterly daft. You have never been soft-hearted, never believed the lies of promised happy endings. How much longer will you allow yourself to be strung along by your sad, lingering hopes that maybe even in all his darkness, there might still be enough light left in him to love you?

He had been so gentle with you this morning, protecting you in your midst of confusion, laughing at you when you admitted your sickening urges, and sharing his pain if only to ease yours. Cazador was a subject he deemed untouchable, but he would touch that wound for you.

A decade of loneliness searching Faerûn for a facsimile of the connection you share with him, and it’s within your grasp now, even if it does keep slipping from your fingers like wet soap. You never did know when to let go of the thorny stem of a rose even when it was hurting you.

“Mistress?” You blink, snapping your eyes to Claire, who will still not meet your gaze. “Would you like anything amended?”

“No,” you glance back at the mirror. You’re a radiant visage of false hopes, beginnings and ends, life and death, all elegantly trussed in the skin of lies. “Thank you, Claire. You did wonderful.”

“Of course, Mistress!” She beams, her voice raised, as she gets high on your praise. She curtsies repeatedly, “It is my pleasure. I live to serve you. I like to serve you! If it pleases you, I will show you to the entrance hall.”

Gods above. You wish she would stop being so enthusiastic about her slavery. Claire seems truly happy, excited even, with this servitude, and you cannot fathom it. Does Astarion compel them to be delighted with their vassalage? You tell yourself he must because the alternative notion is vastly more disturbing.

The entrance hall is empty when you arrive, save for Ellis, who stands guard at the door. The spawn drops to his knees as you glide over and stare at the portrait of Astarion on the wall.

“Get off your knees, Ellis.” You mutter without glancing at the man. You haven’t communicated much with Astarion’s other spawn, but Ellis and you have exchanged pleasantries here and there.

“Of course, my lady,” he bows and stands with you, following your gaze to the painting.

“Who were you?” Your question cuts the silence like a knife, “Before you were Astarion’s spawn.”

“Just another man,” he quirks a brow at you. “A very sick man on death’s door with nothing left for me but suffering.”

His answer surprises you, and you cannot hide your shock, “Did Astarion put you on death’s door?”

“What?” The man chuckles, “No. I was dying and too poor to afford the treatments necessary for a cure. Master made me an offer, and I accepted.”

“Are you telling me he did not turn you against your will?”

“Mistress,” the man’s eyes widen as if you’ve just committed a great sin, accusing Astarion of such an offence. “The lord saved my life with undeath. I am indebted to him. I can watch my kids grow up, even if it is from afar.”

You clench your jaw and neglect to point out that he will also watch them grow old and die, along with all his other kin.

“I see,” you’re not sure how you imagined Astarion was acquiring spawn, but saving men from their deathbeds was not one of them. You cannot decide if it’s better or worse. Did he save Ellis or capitalize on a dire situation as Cazador did to him? “Does he treat you well?”

“Mostly. We do not want for anything, and the master keeps us fed.” Ellis smiles, and it looks like genuine gratitude. Astarion’s compulsion always rewards you for being a good girl. Perhaps the spawn experience something similar, a poisoned loyalty. “That is not to say he does not lose his temper from time to time, but he’s been much better since you arrived.”

“Better?” You quirk a brow at him. You imagine he’s been better because you’re taking the brunt of his aggressive tendencies.

“Yes,” Ellis nods. “He seems happier, less troubled. I would not go as far as to say he has softened,” Ellis stops, glowing eyes cast to the ceiling and thinks of the best word, “He is more lenient. Yes. I believe that’s most accurate.”

“Lenient, am I?” Astarion’s growl takes you both by surprise. Ellis squeaks apologies and drops to the floor, crawling to Astarion’s feet, begging forgiveness, “Well, I can’t have my underlings thinking such a thing. Perhaps I should make an example of you, my child.”

“You’re late.” You taunt with a robust voice to bring Astarion’s attention back to you, “I’ve been waiting.”

Astarion’s eyes bounce over you, and the foul scowl he wears disintegrates, softens and transforms into awe. His eyes flicker with an almost imperceptible glow, making you tense as you prepare to lose control of your faculties. Instead, Ellis heeds Astarion’s silent command, slithers away and returns to his post, guarding the door.

“You look…” Astarion swallows. “Breathtaking.”

You’re equally spellbound by Astarion in his perfectly tailored deep jade vestments, embellished and embroidered in golds and creams. Perhaps you should not be so enthralled. The man could stick paper bags to himself and still somehow come out looking like a God.

“You don’t look terrible yourself,” you squeak out, too breathy for what you’re trying to pull off.

“I have a reflection now, you know. I am well aware I look positively marvellous,” he smirks arrogantly, kissing your hand and offering his arm which you take happily. “Come. Our subjects await the arrival of their sovereigns.”

The newly rebuilt High Hall banquet room is astoundingly massive. High ceilings with tall stone columns dwarf you with their grandeur. The sounds of softly playing lutes and violins set the ambiance.

The crowd immediately swallows you whole, seemingly flocking to Astarion as soon as you enter. You hold fast to Astarion’s arm. Time seems to accelerate around you with every acknowledging nod, every formality, and every firm handshake. Patriars seemingly line up to get even a moment of his time. Astarion holds out a hand, stopping their approach and whispers to you with every new face before he grants them even a sliver of his attention which they lap us like thirsty, drooling mutts.

“Lord Wyllyck Caldwell and Lady Abelea Caldwell - One of the city’s oldest and richest families.”

“Lady Jannath - you remember her and her artist. Don’t you, darling?”

“Duke Rol Dodratsk - steer clear of him. I do not appreciate the way he is looking at you. He is lucky I don’t drain him here and now.”

The faces of aristocracy, patriar families, wealthy merchants, the Parliament of Peers and Council of Four hurtle by you in a dizzying stretch of pompously upturned noses, inauthentic welcomes and egotism that you could cut through with a knife. Most of them don’t recognize you after a decade of looking at portraits where your likeness was clearly not a requisite. There are some that eye you suspiciously. Others fawn over you, kissing your hand before you can snatch it away and asking about your marital status, which earns a threatening growl from Astarion and he chases them off.

Presumptuous pricks.

For every hand or pair of lips that touches you and makes your skin itch, Astarion is always there with his touch to make you forget all about the others. You do your best to keep up. A decade of isolation has left your social erudition, which you did not possess much of to begin with, rather shrivelled. It’s not long before you would prefer to pull your own teeth out than suffer through more boring small talk.

Astarion excuses you both, whisking you away into the less crowded entrance hall, and tucks you safely into a far corner with your back pressed against the wall. He hovers over you like a shield, allowing you to catch your breath and calm the voice waging war with your self-restraint. There are so many bodies all encompassed in one place. Decimating the lot of them would be as easy as waves whisking grains of sand away from the shore.

You long for carnage.

“Does the blood of the wealthy taste better?” You ask absently and nearly recoil. You had not meant to voice your disgusting thoughts.

Astarion giggles, staring at them like a predator, completely unruffled, “Sometimes, but it’s largely dependent on the person. I will say that it’s more… fatty compared to that of the lower class.”

“I don’t know how you’re managing to put up with all this arrogant meat,” you grumble.

“Contempt,” he shrugs. “I loathe them all, but they are the keys to the castle. I can play nice when it suits me. How do you think I worked my way into the Council of Four?”

“You’re on the council?”

“Of course, my dear.” He purrs, pushing a strand of hair out of your eyes and placing a kiss on your cheek, “How else would I control the Flaming Fists? I have my hand in every orifice this city will present me, and this city is more of a whor* than those employed at Sharess'Caress. Who knew being a hero could open so many doors and pockets.”

“And legs,” you hiss, bristling, suddenly very aware of the sheer amount of beautiful people around.

“I suppose,” Astarion chuckles, shaking his head, perfectly coiffured silver curls swaying. You want to tangle your fingers in them, causing them to spill haphazardly in a handsomely tousled mess of your making. “Though I do not mix business and pleasure. I have no need to use such degrading methods any longer.”

“Good,” you relax, breathing a sigh of relief. You’re unsure if you could ignore the chattering in your head reminding you of how pretty intestines look, wrapped like a cerise ribbon around a blade. You are not stupid enough to believe he has been celibate for a decade, but if you had to come face to face with skin that has been graced by his, you would surely score it from the skeleton it harbours.

“I do not much like the thought of anyone but me touching you either, my treasure,” he seems to read your mind like your eyes have their own vocabulary written upon them in a language only he can interpret. “And no one will ever again if I have anything to say about it, and I assure you, I have a lot to say on the matter. But these conversations can wait. This is a date, and I cannot have my beloved bored. What would you like to do? Dance? Drink? Murder? I am positive I can lure that vile Duke away somewhere private, and we can teach him some proper manners.”

By the Gods. He knows you. He accepts you. He encourages your deplorable little urges. You mould your lips to his. He tastes like all your dark, forbidden desires laced with all the shades of evening. Astarion pushes himself flush against you, a hand wrapped around your neck, dominating you. His tongue tantalizes yours, imbibing your essence with a husky groan. Your heart rate elevates, veins abuzz, carrying liquid flames. It pools in your core that aches and clenches, demanding and needy.

Astarion grinds his hardening girth into you, breaking the kiss with a prideful grin. “Naughty girl,” he purrs, sounding drunk on you. “Getting me all worked up in plain sight. How positively scandalous. Can you imagine the headlines they will write about us?”

“Definitely something like “Has the earth-shatteringly handsome bachelor Lord Ancunin finally been taken?” You giggle, rolling your eyes.

“Well and truly taken,” he coos, kissing the back of your hand, scarlet eyes gleaming in a sensual blend of a soft heart and burning desire.

You need to get out from under this conversation because it feels too f*cking good, and you’re liable to make a rash decision, “How long has it been since you picked a pocket or several?”

“Hmm,” Astarion smiles mischievously. “I must admit. It’s been some time. Why?”

“How about we enter into a little competition?” You snicker, biting your lip, heart pounding with the excitement. “We each pick five marks and pilfer their pockets. If you get caught, you lose. Whoever steals more without getting caught wins.”

“Hardly a competition,” he stretches his arms, interlocking his fingers, making a show of it, and you giggle at his theatrics. “You know my dexterity and skills are unmatched. If you think the last decade has dulled me, you best rethink this little wager.”

“You can’t use your fancy Ascendant parlour tricks, Astarion.” You tut, clicking your tongue and jutting a hip out. “It has to be done the old-fashioned way.”

“No? You’re no fun anymore. Very well.” He pouts, but his lips twitch in a rueful grin. Astarion laces his arm through yours, “This is going to be fun!”

Chapter 12: Game

Chapter Text

You’ve always loved to play games with your prey, a favourite pastime when your father left you idle and bored for too long. You would go into the city and take the first unlucky, innocent soul you found, bringing them back to the temple to perform your horrendous experiments.

How many shallow cuts does it take before the body succumbs to blood loss? Thousands. Fun, but time-consuming and inefficient.

How long can you keep this one screaming perpetually before their throat is swollen shut? Depends on the person and how shrill the shrieks are: Hours to days. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get even one bird to sing for a week, and you thoroughly tried.

Do guts still function on the outside of the body? Absolutely. It turns out bodies are quite resilient... until rot starts to set in.

Yes, you had many games to play to keep yourself entertained, but none were nearly as thrilling as watching the Vampire Ascendant prowl through the crowds of mutton, a silver wolf stalking fat lambs.

Where Astarion is stealthy, you rely on clever ruses, very much “a look at what I am doing here and miss what I am doing there” tactic. It turns out it’s very effective against these fools. You wield your beauty like a weapon, ensnaring your victims in a web of false flirtations and amour. You laugh at their stupid jokes, placing your hand in just the right places to titillate and spark desire while your other roams pockets.

Your sweet, euphonious laughter rings out at their unbearably stupid jokes while you tell them how funny they are. Idiots. You turn heads as you glide through the crowd to the dance floor. The dance of death is not the only thing you know, and your body sways provocatively to the music. Unsurprisingly, everyone wants to dance with you. It only makes their pockets easier to pick as you grind up against them in a way that is exceptionally unbecoming of a lady.

These bags of useless flesh are like moths to a flame as they swarm around you. You catch glimpses of Astarion, glaring at you all but green with envy as you swing from partner to partner. The amount of wine sloshing around in your stomach makes the physical contact palatable, though barely.

Your current partner’s lips pucker and descend toward yours, and you resist the urge to rip them off his face with your teeth. With an easy twist, you whirl away elegantly, playing it off as part of the dance. You spin straight into Astarion, who easily wraps his arms around your waist and continues leading you through the steps.

“You naughty little enchantress,” he scolds, lifting his arm and forcing you into a spin. “Playing with all these poor fool’s hearts like toys."

“Toys are fun to play with,” you scoff, grinning wickedly as you catch the disheartened expressions as Astarion pulls you close, making it obvious to everyone who you belong to. “This is more akin to scraping sh*t off your shoes. Necessary, but largely unpleasant."

“I’d toss the shoes, darling."

“You?” You gasp, bringing your hand to your mouth in a masquerade of shock, “Tossing your clothing?! Who are you, and what have you done with Astarion, shape-shifter?”

“I’m pleased I still retain the power to surprise you along with all my other unfathomable talents,” Astarion smirks, a crooked grin. “This could have been your life, too. Can you imagine it? Our days spent governing the city as we see fit, our evenings at one lavish soirée or another, and our nights spent losing ourselves in each other? It still could be. You would want for nothing, Alita. We would rule side by side, my love, like we were always meant to.”

Astarion’s hand slips to the small of your back, and he dips you low, strong and confident. Suddenly, Astarion goes stiff. He brings you upright, and his eyes are intensely aglow, black tendrils squirming through his sclera until they are almost entirely back.

Before someone else can notice, you kiss him hard and cup his face in your hands to block any prying eyes. Do they know he’s a vampire? You think at least the Fists know, but do all these people truly understand the company they keep? You find it unlikely.

When he breaks the kiss, he nods his thanks curtly, “Something is amiss at the palace. I must go. Now. I’m sorry."

Astarion does not wait for your answer, and he’s gone before you can register his movements.

Your bare feet slap the pavement, having discarded your heels sometime ago in favour of speed and agility. You can already hear the singing, no, you scold yourself, screaming, upon approaching Crimson Palace. It sounds like an elegy to death, and you cannot help but languish in that music of murder, liquid adrenaline being injected straight into your bloodstream, and your body reacts to the notes. All your senses heighten, all your nerves buzz, your muscles tremble, your skin prickles.

Your hands hold your skirts up as you bound toward the entrance gardens of the estate. The Weave is already a rosy inferno blazing in your eyes as the attackers come into view, grappling with Astarion’s spawn. Bodies of servants are mutilated, strewn and litter the ground. You see Ellis, outnumbered and wounded, and your fingers float through the air, and you speak incantations reflexively.

Lightening strikes once, twice, three times, and the attackers are stunned or hunks of crisp. You pivot, grab Ellis’s short sword that he’s barely holding aloft, and death comes on the swift metallic wings of your blade. It’s only after you’ve finished you realize the attackers are vampire spawn.

“These aren’t Astarion’s, right?” You turn to the man.

“No, mistress.”

Ellis does not offer to give you an explanation of why other vampire spawn are attacking.

“Help me out of my dress, Ellis,” you command. Turning, you give him access to the ties of the corseted bodice. You cannot move in this dress well, but mostly, you think it’s just too beautiful to mar with the blood of the weak. “Hurry. I need to find Astarion. He went ahead of me. Have you seen him?”

“My lady,” Ellis’s voice trembles. “We are not to touch you. Master would be furious.”

“Do it. I will deal with your Master,” you instruct, a little harsher this time. This is no time to be arguing with the help.

“Master is in the courtyard at the back of the estate,” Ellis undoes the ties. “I will escort you."

You slip out of the dress, leaving you in your black silk slip. You hand him back his short sword. He will need it more than you do. You cast Mage Armour.

“You’re wounded, Ellis.” You bark out. You’re a tad offended that he thinks you can’t care for yourself. “I will be fine. Believe me. I know the rhythms of this dance well.”

You’ve all but overdosed on the Weave, and it shimmers in the air around you like a blooming dawn as you rush into the Crimson Palace because it will be shorted to go through than around.

The inside is chaos, with spawn contending with other spawn, but at the very least, Astarion’s spawn all appear healthy, while these attackers appear emaciated and malnourished.

It’s obvious that to whoever their Master is, these are just expendable fodder.

You dart around, letting the beast inside out to play, and play you do. Spells leap from your fingers - Magic Missile, Lightning Bolt, Shatter, Fireball. You hardly notice when fangs sink into your shoulder, arms, thighs, or calves. Your haunting laughter could open the gates of the Hells themselves.

Your feet make the blood-soaked carpets squelch under your toes as you pivot between attacks, releasing fire and lightning in your wake.

“Mistress!” You barely hear Claire in your state of manic euphoria.

So much blood, so much killing, so much lovely death.

It takes you a moment to bring your ability to think of nothing but the need to kill back, but spawn are already advancing on the girl. You’re rather surprised she hasn’t been killed yet. It appears most of the servants did not fare so well if the amount of bodies you’ve been stepping over or in is any indication.

An icy wrath fills you, and you sprint toward them, screaming and laughing at the top of your lungs. You Misty Step. Instead of crashing into Claire, the spawn submerges you. They bite and claw deep lacerations into your skin, their fangs hitting bone, and you’re still laughing like a lunatic.

“Run, Claire!” You command, between wheezes and gasps at the pain. “Hide! It’s a command!”

The girl hesitates, frozen in place by fear. You cast Telekinesis and toss her as gently as you can. You can feel your magical surge start, and you can only hope this one will be deadly and not end up confusing or intoxicating you, though that is never completely off the table.

You can feel your body starting to cool, your heartbeat starting to skip beats, and your muscles weaken under the pinning force of the spawn.

But magic is woven into your soul, and it’s not so easily snuffed out. It detonates, and Sunbeam explodes from your body in radiant, yellow-white incandescence, and all is ash and meat.

You’re on your feet again in an instant. Father did not raise a weakling. Even bloodless and wounded, you fight to the f*cking death.

When you let yourself into the courtyard, the sheer number of spawn makes you gasp. Astarion is surrounded, and they crawl over each other to get to him, a writhing ashen mountain with crimson tips.

Werewolves bellow and snarl, pounce and shred with their huge razor-sharp claws and tear throats with their snouts dripping blood. Hundreds of bats screech, descend and tear at eyes, lips, and any soft tissue.

Astarion cackles, wings battering the churning tide of pale bodies with heavy downstrokes. Astarion’s daggers are splitting through the spawn that reaches him, blades lacerating throats, gutting others like fish and through eye sockets, ears, skulls, and mouths.

This might be the first time you’ve been in awe of something that wasn’t the gory battle before you. Astarion moves so quickly he’s hard to track, nearly imperceptible sometimes. It strikes you just how much he’s held back when he fought with you. It makes it apparent that he had no intentions of killing you because he could have with the ease of squashing an annoying nit.

Fangs sink into the back of your shoulder, making you cry out through gritted teeth and breaking you from your musings. You’re about to attack when you hear the trill of a blade, and it lodges itself straight through the spawns temple. Grabbing the hilt, you yank it out and pivot to your left to avoid another attack. The spawn have noticed you and broken into a group that barrels toward you.

You look at Astarion, but without his second dagger, he has less means of defending himself against the horde around him.

“I was wondering when you would get here, my bloodthirsty love,” Astarion yells over the discordance of death.

You cast Thunderwave to send the barreling pack of feral spawn flying back and immediately dive into the fray. Spawn hiss, amassing on you quickly as your blood sends them into a frenzy. Lips aflutter with incantations, spells explode from your hands - Fireball to your right. Chain Lightening and Wall of Fire for crowd control. Scorching Rays to the chest and head of a spawn on your right. Burning Hands on a spawn that buries its fangs into your arm. Lightning Bolt to a spawn in your path.

Your heart is stammering in your chest, blood singing as it drips down your arms, legs, chest and back. Every muscle, tendon and ligament is alert and humming under your skin. Your mind is quiet as your urge relishes in this ballet of bloodshed.

How long has it been since you felt so godsdamned exhilarated? How long has it been since you’ve felt so you? How long has it been since you were this alive?

Even if you were drowning in an ocean of liquor, you would never get this intoxicated. Your head falls back, and you laugh, a sinful sonnet of every evil thought you’ve ever had. Claws shred from your shoulder down your back, and you suck in a sharp, hissing breath. In a second, the spawn is in Astarion’s grasp, and he flings it high into the sky. You cast Scorching Rays, buffeting it midair. Its body plummets as nothing more than a charred piece of coal.

“Who do they belong to, Astarion?”

“A Vampire, I presume,” he smirks as you hand him back his dagger.

“A vampire?!” You scoff. “You don’t say! I would never have guessed that.”

“This isn’t the time for your smart mouth, Alita."

You cast Shatter to repel the attackers back and Fireball as quickly as possible. Taking these worms out one by one is fun but largely a time-killer. You have a much better idea. “How high can you throw me?”

“What?” His brows furrow as he thrusts his blade into the chin of one spawn, using the other to spill their innards. “Pretty f*cking high. Why?”

“I think it’s rather dark,” you grin. “We could really use some Daylight, don’t you think?”

You know he’s caught on immediately with the wicked expression, “Yes. They are all rather pale. Tell me when you’re ready.”

You drag on the Weave, preparing to put a great deal of your remaining resources available into it. As the light begins glowing on your fingertips, you yell, “Now!”

Astarion’s movements are too quick to detect, and you’re in the air, high above the courtyard, before you know it. You cast Daylight, placing the sphere of pure sunlight directly above the courtyard. The results are instant. Any spawn that were already weakened burn away in shrieking puffs of smoke. Any spawn that still retained some strength are weakened enough that they are easy prey between the wolves and bats that still linger.

Astarion catches you without any strain as if he were catching a flower petal. He scans your body, lingering over the bites and the deep gashes from claws, “You’re wounded. I have Potions of Healing upstairs."

His eyes pulsate red briefly, and whatever spawn he has remaining spill into the courtyard on their hands and knees.

“Clean this up,” he instructs, “Burn the bodies, dead servants and spawn included.”

Astarion carries you to his room, places you onto the bed, and gets a Potion of Healing out of a locked cabinet. He uncorks it and brings the lip of the bottle to your mouth. Tilting your head back, you let him pour the sweetened elixir and drink it until he discards the bottle.

“Are you hurt?” You ask, slipping off the bed and running your hands down his arms.

“Me?” He scoffs as if your question is stupid, and maybe it is. “Hardly.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on here?”

“No,” he shakes his head, rubbing his face, pacing. He’s agitated. “It’s not your problem.”

“Didn’t you just say this could be my life too, or was that another pretty lie to manipulate me?”

Astarion stops abruptly, his mouth agape, his eyes jerking from side to side, “You would consider it? Consider being with me - being us?”

“Is that what you want, Astarion? I thought you hated me.”

Astarion’s crimson eyes brim with sorrow. “I never hated you, Alita. I was hurt, so I made both of our lives hell. I was still always there for you. Wasn't I?"

“Are you still the Astarion I knew, or is he dead?”

“He is… waking up. You heard Ellis. As much as I am loathe to admit it, he’s not wrong. I have not been myself since you arrived, or perhaps I have been more myself." Astarion sighs, "I don’t know anymore.”

“I want to see all the things you hide behind the facade of the Vampire Ascendant,” You assert, but keep your intonation soft, warm and gentle. “You can be whatever you need to be with your business partners, spawn and servants, and I will always support you, but with me, I want the real you, whoever that may be now. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Astarion’s charade of confidence falters, and his arms hang loosely at his sides. “I understand, but you might not like what you see.”

“Show me your soul. Show me your suffering. Show me your demons. Show me the real you. I am not afraid of the dark. You can start by telling me what the f*ck is going on here.”

“Several Vampire Lords have come to an accord to work together to end the reign of the Vampire Ascendant.”

Chapter 13: Aftermath

Chapter Text

You groan when you feel the dip in the mattress recede. It’s barely first light out as your eyes crack open and watch Astarion dress in a red and silver high-necked coat with grey leather trousers. He fiddles with the cuffs around his wrists until they are perfectly folded and uncreased, tugging at the hem of the jacket to smooth the fabric and playing with the collar to get it just so. To a stranger, this would look like a man who’s strict and punctilious about appearance, and that’s partly true, but you can see the fidgeting betrays his unease and irritation.

He had not tranced peacefully, twitching and thrashing between nightmares while trying to remain consistently on alert with his forces diminished. The spawn guards you observed now make perfect sense. How long has this been going on?

Astarion’s eyes bounce around sporadically as he puts his hands on his desk and leans on it, letting his head fall, muttering to himself with a low growl here and there. You yawn and push yourself up. Every muscle in your body is stiff and gripes with you over the lack of rest.

His eyes spring upward, “I did not mean to wake you. Rest, my dear. It’s hardly sunup.”

“I’m fine,” you stifle the urge to yawn again. Your father used to keep you awake for days until you were hallucinating from sleep deprivation, and then he would force you into arduous battles. This level of exhaustion is so minuscule there is unlikely to be a measurement small enough to quantify how little it will hinder you. “Sleep deprivation was a common training practice where I am from.”

“I hate the idea of you suffering so,” he growls, his face contorting in a disgruntled frown. Astarion produces a key from his pocket, unlocks a drawer in his desk, and places a folder on it. “This is everything I know about the Vampires and their foolish little alliance. Feel free to read through it. Perhaps you will see something I missed. I must take my leave and assess what damage has been done to my forces and property.”

“Vampires don’t usually work together.”

“No,” he shakes his head. His eyes are a burning galaxy of hatred and irritation, but somehow, he looks at you softly. “The beasts are power-hungry and territorial to a fault. I would be surprised, but after our little adventure, not much surprises me any longer. I am a threat to them, and they could never hope to conquer me alone.”

“They have no hope of vanquishing us, Astarion.”

“Us,” he smirks and stands tall with a hand on his hip. Astarion’s iron confidence returned to him. “I do like the sound of that. We are rather formidable together. I almost pity the idiots who stand in our way. We can further this discussion upon my return.”

Astarion strides to the bed and leans over you, hooking your chin with his finger, forcing your eyes to him, “I really did miss you - you know. It wasn’t a lie.” He catches your lips in his. It’s a lingering kiss, but not one of seduction or lust. You imagine this is what kissing a loving husband goodbye for the day must feel like. You revel in it and simultaneously hate that you like it so much. “Get some rest if you can.”

Astarion kisses your forehead and is out the door before you have a chance to ask any of the countless questions lashing around your head like branches caught in a typhoon. It wasn’t all a lie? Hope flourishes inside you, sprouting like new spring blossoms, opening their bright petals to welcome back the sun.

But hope is a dangerous, fickle thing.

Moving to Astarion’s side of the bed, you bury yourself in the sheets that smell of him, home and the promise of love. You try to slip into your trance, but your stomach is unsettled and turbulent, the acid sitting in it rough, choppy and propelling waves of unexpected discomfort, unable to digest the prospect of light at the end of the dark tunnel you’ve been the last decade in.

Throwing on one of Astarion’s shirts, you flick your wrist to set the fireplace alight and nestle in a cushiony daybed by the bay window. His room is situated at the highest point in the tower. It almost feels like you’re hovering in the cerulean field of blue sky. The city appears small, like looking at a portrait of one from a bird’s eye. From this height, you could squash the buildings between your fingers as if they were bugs.

Yes. You could definitely get used to this - ruling the city from your looming tower of bones, mortared with ash and stuffed meat. This is how it was always meant to be. Isn’t it?

You grumble to yourself for letting your thoughts run away, straying back into your madness, as you open the folder and start rifling through the papers. The information he’s managed to amass is astounding but also foreboding. Astarion would not put this much effort in if he did not believe this to be a legitimate threat.

You recognize some of the names here, although you’re not entirely sure where this familiarity comes from.

• Name: Tessith - Last Name Unknown
• Race: Dragonborn
• Age: 930 since undeath.
• Class: Archmage
• Alliances: Oracle of the Black Thorn.
• Number of spawn: Unknown; estimated 2-3
• Current location: Unknown
• Enjoys playing cat-and-mouse games.
• Uses fire spells of her creation that give off dark flames.

• Name: DragemyrArtenon
• Race: Half-Elf
• Age: 58 since undeath.
• Class: Unknown
• Alliances: Unknown
• Number of spawn: Estimated to be 150 and rising
• Current Location: Neverwinter
• Courageous to his detriment
• Cannot control the bloodlust
• Unstable behaviour, quick mood swings
• Impulsive

• Name: Artor Morlin
• Race: Human
• Age: 1405
• Class: Fighter
• Alliances: Masked Lord of Waterdeep
• Number of spawn: 9
• Current location: Waterdeep
• Prefers to kill allies instead of keeping them around.
• Closely connected to Gost family in Waterdeep.
• Pragmatic and tactile. Relies on strategy. Will not enter into fights unless victory is assured.
• Many aliases.

The fourth member is currently unknown.

Rereading through each dossier several times and getting lost in your contemplations, you barely notice as the sun starts to sink. Artor Morlin, you know this name. It feels so familiar that you can almost see the man in your head, but you cannot link it to any memories. Your sister likely severed whatever knowledge you had of him while making soup of your brain matter.

The Black Thorn, however, you’re familiar with this highly secret society, primarily made up of hags, liches and powerful undead spellcasters. Your father had books on their rise and fall, and you’re your father would have had agents operating with them at some point or another. From what you can recall, the order fell into disarray not too long ago after fighting broke out between its ruling members, which they called Oracles.

Maybe it’s time to pay a little visit to home to see if I can’t dig up the texts on them.

If they have resurfaced, you hope they’re not part of this alliance, but they always did covet power, and Astarion is the most powerful being roaming Faerûn.

“Mistress?” Claire’s voice is barely a sigh through the heavy door.

“Come in, Claire.”

Claire opens the door but stares at you from the doorway, “We are not allowed in here, Mistress, not without the Lord present.”

You would roll your eyes, but you’re too focused on Claire’s attire. She no longer wears a replica of your robe but a plain grey garb with a white smock.

“The Lord said you might be hungry. The evening meal will be served shortly. He sends his invitation to join him if it pleases you.”

Sends an invitation? Not an order? Interesting. Even Claire looks confused as the words leave her mouth. When you stand to follow the girl, you remember your state of undress. Claire blushes so red it’s comical, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Would you mind fetching me some clothes from my room, Claire? I think I may be a little underdressed for dinner.”

“No need,” You hear Astarion’s voice before he enters the room. Claire drops to her knees, forehead on the floor as he enters, followed by a train of servants carrying all sorts of platters and a table to set them upon. “Let’s dine here tonight, shall we?”

You watch the servants in their grey livery curiously as they scurry like scared rodents and place everything in a grand display of every meat, bread, cheese, vegetable and fruit you could think of. Astarion stands with arms wrapped behind his back and a stature that exudes intimidation. Just as quick as they arrived, they shuffle out with Claire bidding you goodnight.

As soon as the door is closed and locked, Astarion deflates, looking wearier than you’ve ever seen him look as he changes.

“You look good in my shirt.” He chuckles with a sigh as he sits in the chair opposite you. He rubs his eyes, taking a goblet from the table and sipping it. “I didn’t know what you eat these days, so I had the kitchen make a bit of everything.”

“A bit?” You stare wide-eyed at the spread. The aroma of freshly baked bread, chicken and pork wafts in the air. “Astarion, I haven’t seen this much food in one place in a decade.”

He arches a brow at you, co*cking his head and then shaking it sullenly, “You were never good at taking care of yourself. You are even thinner than when we were living off scraps we could find.”

“What’s in the glass? Blood or wine?”

Astarion smirks and holds it to you, “Why don’t you tell me?”

You already know before you take a large gulp. The coppery perfume is well known to you.

“Blood,” you pout at him, handing it back while licking your lips. “I thought I was your leaking blood bag. I’m not sure how I feel about this infidelity.”

“You know, if you want to be my meal, you have but to ask,” Astarion laughs, eyes crinkling at the sides.

“You never ate at camp,” you murmur, staring at the food, trying to ascertain which nourishment you will attempt tonight. You’ve gotten better over the years. Food no longer makes you throw up, but it has never sat as good as…. You cut the thought off with a shiver. Gods. I am a f*cking monster. You continue, “Even after you Ascended. You never ate any food. I thought maybe that particular appetite of man was not bestowed upon you.”

“I can still smell the wizards cooking,” Astarion’s nose crinkles, lips downturned in disgust. “How many nights did I sit up with you while you were sick for hours?”

“Good call,” you retort with a giggle.

Astarion had stayed up with you, rubbing your back, holding your hair, while you retched and dry heaved until your stomach was empty of even acid. He assumed it was the wizard’s or warlock’s cooking based on the unpleasant smell. You thought so, too, until you learned the truth about who you are, and Sceleritas all but said it outright.

“I’m surprised you notice,” Astarion’s brows pinch, creasing his forehead. His voice is low and gruff, his lips pressed in a thin line. “You ignored and avoided me after I completed the Rite. The only time you ever gave me any thought was when I instigated an argument.”

“It was hard to be around you, Astarion,” you sigh, examining a piece of chicken and popping it in your mouth hesitatingly. It’s delicious. Astarion’s kitchen staff must be talented, but you still need to sip wine to force it down your esophagus, “Not because you were a power-happy asshole that wanted to dominate the world and blot out the sun for your children, but because you were not my power-hungry asshole anymore.”

“I could have been,” he snarls, leaning forward threateningly with bared teeth. “It was you who did not want to be mine .”

You sigh, “I did not want to be your spawn slave. I had already gotten away from one master. I was not about to trade my father for another master who would keep me subjugated. Surely, you, of all people, can understand that?”

“And where did freedom get you?” He hisses disdainful and patronizing. Astarion’s red eyes, deeper than any rose, bore into you with unfettered beauty. His eyes hold flecks of cruelty, grains of hatred, afloat in an ocean of hurt. “Lonely? Half-starved? Miserable? I would have taken care of you.”

“But I was free to choose to be lonely, starved and miserable.” You lean forward, almost nose-to-nose with him. There was a time when you wanted to scream at him, hurt him like he hurt you, but time has watered down your spite. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Astarion.”

Astarion’s eye round, and he scoffs, leaning back in his chair, peering at you through narrow eyes. He sneers, “It’s your loss.”

“Okay, Ascendant,” you shrug, unperturbed by his sudden shift. “The servants wear different attire, and their collars are plain leather. Why? Laundry day?”

“You don’t miss anything, do you?” Astarion’s groan rumbles low in his chest, and he shrugs, “It was on your list. Are you happy now, or do you have something against the shade of grey I picked?”

“Well, now that you mention it, surely it could have been darker,” you jest with a playful laugh.

“Hells below, Alita,” he grins, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you for changing it,” you whisper into your goblet of wine.

“You’re welcome, darling. Ask me anything, and it will be yours.” Astarion purrs. He stares at you with a steeliness that could make you forget how to breathe were it not instinctive. “I am safe with you. Aren’t I?”

“No one is safe with me, Astarion. My magic—"

He shakes a hand at you, “No. You misunderstand. Your magical temper tantrums and darling little urges chatting away in your head are par for the course. Your darkness has never and will never frighten me. Physically, I am as close to indestructible as one can get. I can take whatever you might throw my way.”

“I’m not sure I follow…” Astarion splays his hand over his heart, and compression strikes like lightning, illuminating his meaning and obscuring your confusion. “Gods, Astarion. Yes. Always.”

Astarion nods and places his goblet down, tapping it furiously with his index finger. He takes a deep breath, and his eyes snap to yours with a nebulous gaze that makes you inhale sharply.

“The Vampire Ascendant kneels for no one,” with a deep breath, Astarion slides off his chair, descending to his knees, placing a hand on each of your thighs. “No one but you, my love.”

Your hand sweeps across his cheek, cupping it, and he nuzzles your palm. “How lucky for the Ascendant that I prefer my men only worship me in the bedroom.”

“Well, you have me on my knees,” Astarion smiles sly and wicked, fingers kneading into the skin of your thighs, pressing them apart gently, and placing kisses up the delicate skin. “How would you like to be worshipped, hm?”

The rush of desire is instantaneous, as it always is with him. His lips skim up your thighs, and with every kiss, your flesh swells, aches and clenches.

Astarion’s eyelashes flutter against your skin as he rests his head in your lap, “Well? What will it be, my dear? I await my instructions with bated breath.”

“Kiss me.”

Astarion takes your lips in his, greedy and reverent. You nip his lower lip, forcing him to part his mouth for you, and you sigh when your tongue meets the smoothness of his. His radiates down your spine, stealing your breath and filling your lungs with himself, and Good Gods, you would asphyxiate on him happily.

His fingers deftly undo the buttons of the shirt you borrowed, and he pushes it over your shoulders before doing the same with his own. Your fingers twist into his hair and trace the contoured muscles of his chest. Astarion runs his fingernails over the delicate skin of your inner thighs until they reach the apex. Your hips buck as his fingers glide through your seam, parting your lips.

“Did anybody else ever make you this wet, Alita?” He growls as the pad of his thumb circles your cl*t with a pressure that makes your vision blur. “Answer me.”

“N—no,” you can barely get the words out.

“I thought not,” he purrs, peppering kisses between your breasts. His tongue teases the sensitive peaks of your nipples, and you have to squeeze your eyes closed against the building tension in your stomach.

Astarion smirks with a feral intensity in his eyes as he eases two fingers into you, twitching them upward to work their devilry against the sensitive spot that produces pleasure so pure you’re rendered all but senseless. He drags his fangs down your inner thigh, and that mixture of painful delight makes you moan.

“Bite me, Astarion.”

He chuckles, placing a featherlight kiss on your thigh. The pressure of Astarion’s thumb circling your cl*t increases slightly as his fangs sink into your flesh. Those fingers twist and thrust, sweeping over that perfect spot and all your ridges in a rhythmic rhapsody as he draws your essence in small, savouring sips.

You can feel yourself in him, your blood mixing with his, your souls meeting in the middle, welcoming each other home. It’s so comfortable, so known, and so intense that you almost can’t tell where you end and he begins. Astarion’s loud moans rumble against your thigh.

Astarion’s fangs leave your thigh, his tongue lapping up any of the residual bleeding, and he gazes up at you through thick lashes as his tongue slips into your folds with a long, broad stroke. Your walls flutter and grasp his fingers when his tongue laps at your tender bud. You can’t help the way you writhe against his mouth, begging for more pressure, but he withholds it and keeps your hips steady with his free hand.

You’re panting, gasping for the air your lungs can’t seem to hold onto between your cries of bliss. Astarion continues his teasing ministrations until he feels your back arch, muscles tense as your release starts building torturously slowly, like climbing a steep mountain one tiny step at a time.

“Astarion,” you beg, because good Gods, you cannot take it anymore. Your skin is sheened in sweat, all your muscles taut and trembling, fingers buried and clutching his hair. “Hells. Please.”

You can feel the smug smirk twitch his lips up as he wraps them around your cl*t, and his tongue moves in swirls and flutters, hungry to taste your rapture. You shudder, gripping him with your thighs, as your climax tears through you with the intensity of thousands of suns bursting, ripping the cosmos apart.

“You are divine,” Astarion purrs as he slips you from the chair before your vision or rationality can return to you. He wraps a hand around your throat, pressing your back against his chest, making you arch. He slides his co*ck through your folds until it lustres with your slick yearning. His breath rattles near your ear, “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you,” you sputter.

Astarion rears back and plunges into you with one quick thrust that makes you both cry out together. He sets a pace that is hungry, intense, and merciless. You ride the ridges of his co*ck into ecstasy. Astarion’s fingers skate down your stomach and nestle back between your lips, finding your aching cl*t and circling it in rhythm with his thrusting.

At this moment, mind-numbing euphoria is all you know, and it feels like it’s all you will ever know again, floating and falling as Astarion ravishes you. Astarion moans near your ear, cursing under his breath with rasping, hot, uneven pants. His muscles tighten, the hand wrapped around your neck increases in pressure, but never enough to harm you in any way, and he moans your name repeatedly like a sinful mantra.

With one final thrust and a loud, boisterous grunt, he empties himself into you. You can feel his co*ck twitching and pulsing, filling you with his spend, making the mix of you and him drip down your thighs.

Astarion shifts, stretching out his legs and pulling you between them to his chest while you both catch your breath. He sighs a contented breath and rests his chin on the top of your head, and you sit in a peaceful silence, watching the fire slowly die down to burning embers.

“Lie to me,” you whisper into the dying light.

“I love you,” he purrs.

Chapter 14: Unbound

Chapter Text

Out of all the lies Astarion feeds you, this must be your favourite, slathered and dripping with candied honey. You blanket yourself in the warm velour of his baritone and fall into the bed of the flower-wreathed falsehoods he fabricates just for you. How starved you must have been for those words all your life if you’re willing to bask in the magnificent delusion of it all.

But sometimes, you need to hear lies to start seeing truths.

“Mistress. We are not to go into the Lord’s study when he is not present.”

“No,” you correct the girl. “You cannot go into the Lord’s study, but I do not take orders from the Lord.” You jiggle the handle and find the door locked. You cast Knock, and it clicks and opens immediately. “You can be off for the day, Claire. Go outside. Go to the park. Go, drink, eat, or have fun. I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

“Oh! No, Mistress,” she squeaks, looking around to see if Astarion might pop out of some shadow and strike her down because you even dared suggest such a heinous crime. “We are not to leave the grounds.”

“Okay…” You cast your eyes heavenward as if you might be able to summon the resolve necessary not to kill these mice from the skies. “Go sit outside and read a book or something.” You wave the girl away, “I would like to be alone.”

“Alone?” Claire swallows hard and chews on her fingernails, “I really don’t think the Lord will be happy to find you in here alone, Mistress. He can get quite—“

“Claire,” you interject with a tension in your voice you cannot hide. Your determination is like a thread under pressure, and it’s fraying. “I’ve known Astarion for longer than you’ve been in his service. I know how he can get. I appreciate your concern but leave me. Now.”

Claire gawks at you wide-eyed. You don’t usually take such a brusque tone with her. She licks her lips nervously, and you pray that another word doesn’t slip out of her mouth lest you opt to rip out the fleshy tube of her esophagus. You cannot help but ponder the logistics.

It would take merely a moment. I don’t even need to fetch a knife for such a task. Necks are so woefully, wonderfully vulnerable.

Your fingers start their fretful twitching, and the muscles in your body ache, begging with every beat of your black heart to be exercised.

Claire surrenders, bows and shuts the door. You immediately take several deep breaths and shake your quivering arms furiously. Why will these inclinations not relent? Sometimes, while you trance, you attempt to relive that blissful solace of pure, peaceful nothingness when your father was finished bleeding you like a stuck pig until that fleshless prick stepped in and ruined a perfectly good thing with his theatrics.

Why didn’t this voice in your head die with you that day? You imagine it’s much like a scar on your psyche. Father’s teachings left many scars on your body that remain. It seems Bhaal left his marks in more than just your flesh.

You scoff and groan, shaking your head and rubbing your temples as another mind-splitting headache butchers your brain with a blunted battle axe. You pursue through the books, all perfectly organized and placed with a giggle. How long did it take some poor servant to put all of these books away in proper order? The mental imagery of Astarion standing behind them, watching every placement with a hawk-eyed intensity, only makes you snicker more.

You grab one without giving it much thought. You must get your mind off of the chatter before you do something you’re going to regret. Well, regret is a strong word. But you might feel a little badly about dispatching more of Astarion’s servants.

Who would tend to his needs, kiss his shoes, make his meals, and ask how high when he tells them to jump?

You laugh at the silly notions as you descend into the plush chair at the desk. The open folders catch your eye, and you cannot help but peek at their contents. You expect to see something nefarious, but to your disappointment, it’s all rather ordinary, comprised of menu and decor choices for Astarion’s upcoming Gala, budgets far beyond any figure you’ve ever seen and outlines of the night’s timeline and events.

You flick through the pages idly. Picking up the quill, your eyes dart through the selections and tick off your choices. It takes you hours to sort through everything. You’re still jotting down notes and orders as Astarion walks in. He looks exhausted, undoing the first several buttons of his high-necked attire with a drained sigh, loosening the collar like it’s suffocating him.

“Darling,” Astarion scrutinizes his books, clearly trying to figure out if you’ve yet again made a terrible mess of his orderly collection. “What are you doing in here?”

“Are you going to punish me for it?” You grin, putting your feet up on his desk and leaning back relaxed, making a show of it. “Claire was ever so worried that you might lose your temper.”

“Was she now?” He chuckles and shrugs, “At least I still strike terror into my remaining subjects.”

“Were the losses bad?”

“Huh?” Astarion looks at you with round eyes, almost shocked that you care to ask. “Uh, yes. I would not go as far as to say devastating, but close. Many spawn were killed, and many more servants. It will take me 10-day or two to replace the servants, much longer for the spawn.”

“Why so much longer for the spawn?” You arch a brow at him, “Can’t you just grab people off the streets and turn them?”

“Of course, I can. I am the Vampire Ascendant.” He smirks, slipping out of his coat and tossing it over the settee, “But alas, no. I do not just go around turning people all willy-nilly. It would cause too many questions, and I would have to field all the missing people reports.”

“That’s more foresight than I would have ever given you credit for having,” you quip.

Astarion walks over, pulls you out of the chair, situates you on his lap, and kisses your hand, “You wound me, my treasure. While I admit I am not a details person. I am far from stupid.”

He sighs while staring at the folders for his Gala preparation, and his brows furrow as he flips through the pages. You wait patiently for him to figure out that you’ve already finished this task. Although, you are sure that he will go through them and make sure he approves.

“You cancelled the bear,” he states with a chuckle, leaning back.

“You’re godsdamned right I did!” You scoff, crossing your arms, “Please tell me that you haven’t had the carcass of a bear as a centrepiece for this little get-together of yours. You know Halsin—“

“Halsin is precisely the reason for the dead bear,” Astarion grins roguishly. “The oaf dared to touch what was mine .”

“So you’ve been displaying a dead bear in front of him for ten years?”

“Yes,” Astarion crosses his arms, giggling boyishly with an impish grin that shows his fangs. “I had hoped he would stop attending after the first year or two, but that bloody idiot can’t take a hint.”

“Oh, Astarion.” You giggle, running your hand over your face in exacerbation, “I am positive he got the f*cking hint, but he probably can’t understand why you’re being so godsdamned spiteful.”

You quickly descend into raving laughter until your cheeks are sore, tears welling in your eyes. Astarion staring at you with confusion and a highly arched brow as if he’s wondering if you’ve been cursed doesn’t help extinguish your amusem*nt.

“Tell me, lover,” you purr, kissing up the column of his neck and nibbling his ear. Astarion’s breath shudders, hissing out in something between a whine and a moan. “Have you been doing this because you think Halsin and I had sex?”

“I know you did,” Astarion grunts, frowning as if remembering a nightmare with a clenched jaw. “You and I discussed his little proposal soon after we reached the city. Honestly, darling, I know your brain is like a sieve, but surely you remember f*cking a godsdamned bear.”

“I told Halsin thanks, but no thanks,” you try and stifle your giggling because Astarion clearly does not find this nearly as amusing as you do. “Halsin and I never had sex, Astarion. I told him I wasn’t interested, that my heart and body belonged to you. You’ve been parading dead bears in his face for no reason, you fool.”

“Really? I was sure… Well,” Astarion’s laughing now. “That certainly does shed some light on his utter bafflement year after year.”

“Cancel the bear, Astarion,” you snicker, rolling your eyes. “At least leave that.”

“Oh, love. I intend to leave all your choices as is,” he smirks smugly, closing the folder and pushing it away without bothering to analyze your work. “But if people complain, I will not hesitate to blame the lady of the house for her terrible party planning.”

“Blame me all you like,” you giggle. “I don’t care what the cattle think of me or my gala planning skills.”

“That’s my girl,” Astarion purrs, wrapping his arms around you. “Why is your lady’s maid in my garden reading? She is supposed to be tending to you.”

“I sent her away,” your amusem*nt wanes, and you cast your eyes away from him, navy strands of hair falling into your face like a veil to hide the ugliness of your mind that surely shines behind your eyes.

“Don’t do that,” he urges, guiding your eyes back to his. Astarion sweeps your hair back, fingers slipping into it with his thumb sweeping your cheek just under your eye. “You don’t have to hide from me, little love. Why did you send the girl away? Your urges again?”

“Yes,”you sigh. “It’s loud today. I couldn’t stop thinking she might look better inside out.”

“HA! Oh my. You are deliciously wicked,” he chuckles, kissing your cheek with an adorably lopsided grin. “Well, as much as I would love to see how you turn someone inside out, it sounds rather messy. Blood stains are notoriously troublesome. Shall we go spar?”

“Spar?” You cant a brow at him and co*ck your head, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. If I lose control…”

“If you lose control and manage to gravely wound me, then I have gotten sloppy and have it coming,” he muses while tapping your nose gently. “Come now. You and I both know you cannot harm me. We used to spar regularly when I was a spawn, and you might actually have been able to kill me then. I do not know if it will quiet those dear voices in your head, but it’s worth a try, no? I’d offer to compel them away, but…“

You go rigid in this lap as the ominous glow in his eyes spreads outwards from his pupils, leaping and writhing into his irises like hellfire. The Weave spills into you with the same ferocity a volcano expels molten rock into the sky, and every incantation is abuzz on your tongue simultaneously. Astarion laughs at you, shaking his head with a bemused grin as the study door creaks open.

“You hailed, Master?” Ellis drones from his hands and knees at the entrance.

“On your feet, child,” Astarion drawls nonchalantly. He leans forward, plucks the folder off the desk and hands it to Ellis without ever taking those wickedly gleaming eyes off of yours, “Make sure the selections for the Gala are sent out immediately.”

“Yes, Master.” Ellis bows low, “Right away.”

Ellis reaches the door, and Astarion calls out. “Oh, and Ellis, be a good boy and tell your brother and sister that a bear will not be necessary for this year’s celebration.”

You cannot help but notice the relieved exhale of the spawn, and Astarion is clearly trying to stifle his chuckling and remain stoic and cold, but as soon as Ellis closes the door, the fire twisting in his eyes dissipates, and Astarion bursts out laughing.

“Idiots,” he chimes sourly. “I used to hunt bears alone when I was a spawn. It takes three or more of them to take one down. Can you imagine? The spawn of the Vampire Ascendant, and they are no better than sheep with pointy teeth. Useless. Well, now that I can see you’re all primed and ready to strike me, shall we go?”

“I thought you were going to compel me,” you sneer at him, jumping off his lap.

“Yes. I can see that,” Astarion nods, tickled by how bristly your demeanour is. “I told you I do not enjoy doing that to you, Alita.”

“And yet you continue to do it,” you snort.

“Yes.” It’s all Astarion says before striding out the door, expecting you to follow, and you groan when you relent and do so.

The damn Elf can be so f*cking impossible, and yet, you gravitate to him like he’s a magnet, effortlessly drawn in and helpless to divert your course.

Walking through the halls is more of a challenge than you suspected, even though they are staggeringly barren compared to before the attack. You flex and ball up your hands repeatedly as they shake with the need to wrap around the necks of the servants flopping to their knees before you. Pathetic displays of weakness have always had this effect on you. Perhaps it’s because your own displays of weakness were punished severely and swiftly.

Astarion slows, dropping beside you, and gently takes your hand in his. He squeezes it hard enough to be blessedly painful, giving your mind something else to focus on. He leads you through the estate grounds, which expand further than you realized, and drops your hand when he’s surmised you're far enough away not to cause any chaos if you lose control.

“Alright,” he chimes happily, “I’ll allow you to set the pace, yes?”

“No,” you snarl, the Weave blushing and coruscating in the air like a halo. “Show me your power, Astarion. Push me hard .”

You are all but salivating, your appetite for violence ungovernable.

“I could kill you easily, you know,” Astarion drawls, inspecting his nails while taunting you. “But of course. If you wish to be pushed to your breaking point, I can certainly break you, my dear.”

Astarion is behind you before your eyes can catch up with his movement. The only indication you receive that he moved is the whoosh of air that cools your heated, sweaty skin. You grin crazed as your muscles activate instinctually, and you lunge to the side to avoid his blow, tucking and rolling back up to your feet.

You laugh as incantations vault off your tongue, fingers dancing with as much finesse as Astarion wields daggers. Lightning strikes, but Astarion is faster than the bolts that crackle the air, and he deftly pivots, dodging your attacks. He springs toward you too fast for you to dodge, and the steel of his blade kisses your throat.

Your body’s reflexes to being nearly subdued are intrinsic. Where most panic, you are as placid as a calm pond. Grabbing Astarion’s wrist before he can finish his grapple, you use Shocking Grasp, rendering him stunned, albeit barely, Gust of Wind pushes him off-kilter, and Thunderwave nearly knocks him off his feet, but he recovers too quickly, absorbing even your most potent spells with ease.

He phases into mist to avoid your Fireball, but you calculate his movement. When he reappears, you’re already prepared and throw him to the side with Telekinesis.

“Good girl!” he booms with howling laughter.

Good Gods. He is beautiful while you dance around each other, skipping and fluttering in steps that almost appear synchronized, a mesmerizing waltz ofbrutality.

The sky is cast like a canvas with the bold red and orange hues of fire as the sun sinks below the horizon, and the blue of day is doused to reveal pale stars. At some point, you and Astarion stopped sparring and instead started reciting battle maneuvers composed and honed during your shared plight.

You giggle as he vaults you into the air without a hint of strain as if you were nothing but a downy feather upon a soft summer breeze. For a moment, you ponder if you might break your legs when you land, even if you tuck and roll with the momentum… No, you think, this will definitely break my legs.

Astarion catches you. “Apologies,” he pants, the sweat-drenched silver curls of his hair messy and unkempt in a way only he could make look alluring. “I forget my strength sometimes.”

“You caught me?” you fight for enough breath to speak between your lumbering gulps of air. Your clothing is sodden, tacky and stuck to your body uncomfortably.

“I will always catch you.”

Astarion sets you back on your feet but keeps an arm around your waist when you wobble on unsteady legs. Every sinew and muscle in your body vacillates under your skin from the exertion.

It feels sublime.

“By the Gods. You are quite the little spitfire. Aren’t you?” Astarion grins, wiping the sweat dripping from his temples. “We’ve been at this for hours. Why, you could almost hope to keep up with me. I’m rather impressed.”

You plunk down in the tall grass, lay flat on your back and watch the ever-darkening sky. Astarion’s face comes into view as he looms over you. His lips are twisted in displeasure, “I am not lying on the godsdamned ground.”

“Oh,” you smirk, tugging on his pants. “It’s a little novel. Isn’t it? Stop being a prude, vampire.”

“A prude?” Astarion combs his fingers through his hair and regards you, obviously aghast at your taunt, “I have been called many things in my very, long lifetime, but a prude?” He scoffs, crossing his arms. “That was decidedly never one of them.”

You tug on his pant leg again, “Come on. Get down here.”

“I think not.”

You roll your eyes, “We f*cked in the dirt often, if I recall. You did not have a problem with it then. You’ve become a dreadful snob.”

“A snob?! Gods below,” he moans, pinching the bridge of his nose. Astarion looks perplexed as he descends and lies beside you as if he’s not entirely sure why his body is moving. “I have not laid in the dirt for a decade. Are you pleased with yourself?”

“Very,” you snicker.

“Good.”

“We used to do this a lot,” you whisper, fingers curling into the roots of the grass as you feel the rush of tears well into your eyes at the memories of cuddling with Astarion as he pointed out constellations, telling you the names of them since you couldn’t remember. You miss that version of him. The version that loved you. You cannot help the shake in your voice, “Do you remember?”

Astarion snakes his arm under your shoulders, tugging you to his side with your head cradled in the perfect curve of his shoulder as if it were carved for you.

“One day, centuries from now, when I’ve all but forgotten everything else, and the constellations I taught you have fallen, unbound by time, I will still remember every moment spent with you.”

Chapter 15: Homecoming

Chapter Text

The dull echo of your hesitant footsteps rings out into the bleak atmosphere like a forgotten cry in a hollow tree along the passageway. You fling Firebolt into the braziers, proceeding to the overbearing doors to illuminate the otherwise piceous darkness. Standing before the impending, stone-carved doors of the Temple of Bhaal, home of horrors, your beginning and end, you cannot help but shake like a water-soaked Worg pup in the barren, ice-bound Hells of Cania. Never in a million years did you think anything or anyone could persuade you to return.

If you step into your father’s domain, he will reclaim his flawed, defiant daughter?

You cast Mage Armour, straighten your robe, retie your boots, adjust your circlet, play with the rings, and wrap your hand around the black opal necklace Astarion had gifted you soon after you arrived at Baldur's Gate before his Ascension. It was the first time he said, “Oloth elgg ssussun, Ilyrana. Darkness slays light, Opal of Rare Beauty."

The necklace holds no magical enchantment. You just wanted a piece of him with you in case you didn’t make it out. You have no idea what awaits you in there, and the fidgeting with your attire and quarterstaff is forestalling the inevitable.

Pushing on the immense, heavy doors, dust falls, and the muscles in your arms strain as they creak open no more than a crack before refusing to budge an iota further. You might be able to squish your body through it, but you take a few apprehensive steps back and regard the opening with a furrowed brow. Will you be stuck as your father’s chew toy for eternity? Will he be able to claim you, or would Jergal step his bony foot in and save you once again?

But perhaps it’s what you deserve.

As you force your reluctant body to move forward, you whisper under your breath, “Aeterna Amantes. Ai armiel telere maenen hir, Astarion.”

“Darling?” Astarion’s voice halts your advance, and you turn around slowly as the tears streak down your cheeks. “Why are you here? Homesick?”

“No. This was never my home. It was my hell,” you croak, shaking your head and praying he didn’t hear what you said. You already know he did. “But my father had books that could help you. I came to see if they’re still here.”

Astarion’s demeanour switches when he sees the terror making your hands tremble, gripping your quarterstaff so tightly your knuckles are white.

“Love,” You’re in his arms before another teardrop can fall from your eyes, and he’s hugging you close. “Gods. You’re trembling all over. Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to come here? I would have come with you. You are not alone anymore.”

“You’re busy.” You grab fistfuls of his coat, inhaling his scent deeply to rid yourself of the putrid ichor aroma of your father, “With the attacks and the Gala. I didn’t want to bother you further. I can do this on my own.”

“I am never too busy for you. To the Hells with everything else,” he retorts, rubbing your back. “I won’t let him take you back, Alita. If your father awaits you in there, he will have to go through me, and I am exceptionally hard to kill these days.”

Astarion’s eyes glow, and tall werewolves appear behind him out of dripping, crimson puddles that coil on the ground. Astarion unlatches you from him and pushes the doors wide open with a grunt. Red energy contorts around him like the Weave would if you held enough of it. You wonder if he can use some version of spells with it, and you try to feel it again, but the Weave itself shies away from the infernal mana.

“Search the temple,” he commands. “Report back to me if you find anything living or otherwise.”

“Your nocturnal hoards are no match against my father,” you whisperer.

Astarion laughs, waving his hand dismissively, “No, I imagine not, but if they don’t come back, we know there’s something down there. I will feel if any of them are destroyed. They are but mere fodder.”

The werewolves disappear. Their claws clack against the stone, slowly fading out. You stand behind Astarion and peek into the sanctum like a frightened child hiding behind a trusted protector. You can veritably hear your father’s bitter cajole.

“You are such a disappointment, my child, and you will be nothing but a disappointment to him as well. You thirst for his lies like a lost traveller chases the mirage of water in the desert. To him, you are a prize to be won, a challenge to be conquered. You are nothing. NOTHING! You pathetic, weak little flea.”

“Whatever you’re hearing, Alita,” Astarion’s red eyes gleam in the murk, lighting your way back to him, back to sanity and safety, “It is not true. Do not listen.”

“It is true,” you sigh. The painful truth is he ruined you long ago, and you love him despite it with ascale not even the stars can comprehend. You are pathetic and weak – for him. “It’s just a truth I wish not to face.”

“What?”

You plaster your face with a smile, “It’s nothing.”

Taking tentative steps in, you wince at the memories of all the tortures you were subjected to in the name of making you a killer, the idyllic daughter of murder, an exquisitely lethal monster.

Drowning you in pools of blood until your lungs were forced to suck the viscid liquid into them. How it burned like Hellfire in your chest as it felt like your lungs were tearing their stitches and rupturing.

Being tied to the Dias and lashed until your body went into shock and you couldn’t feel pain any longer. Oh, how your butler laughed, clapping gleefully when you finally snapped, broke your bonds and tore the jugular of your tormentor out with your teeth.

Being locked away in a small stone room for days with no food or water while your butler was tasked with keeping you awake at all costs. No matter how many times you killed him, he always regenerated. Once Bhaal deemed you weak and tired enough, you were brought to the stage and subjected to waves of Bhaalist cultists looking to become Unholy Assassins while your father watched through dead, bleeding eyes.

How many times were you beaten to within an inch of your life? How much of your blood has soaked that stone? An intense shudder runs down your spine, raising all the hairs on your arms. Your hands find Astarion’s waist and grip him tightly.

“You don’t have to get these texts.” Astarion cradles your cheek, guiding your frightened eyes to his. “If you know where they are located, tell me. I will get them, or we will make do without them. You do not have to do this.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur, taking deep, shaky breaths. “I can’t run from it forever.”

“I understand,” Astarion nods and smiles warmly, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. I’ll protect you. No matter what, I’ve got you.”

“Thank you.”

He nods, “While we await my mutts, you clearly read the reports. I’m curious. What did you make of them?”

“I recognize Artor Morlin’s name. I know him. I’m sure of it, but I don’t know how I know that or why. That information has been lost to me, but I know he’s not to be trifled with Astarion. He is ancient and powerful.”

“I’m well aware of who he is,” Astarion sneers, clenching his jaw. It’s obvious he’s had an altercation with the man already at some point.

You nod, “There’s one thing that bothered me about it.”

“What’s that, love?” Astarion grins, “What’s going on in that murderous mind?”

“How many spawn did you have before the attack?”

Astarion quirks a brow at you, “Nine. Only three remain between the ones I destroyed for touching you and those killed in the attack.”

“Pardon my ignorance of your vampiric ways, but how many spawn is normal for Vampire Lords?” You tap your lips with your fingers, trying to recall all the information you read.

“I… don’t know exactly.” Astarion admits with a shrug, “I was a spawn for centuries, but even Cazador never had more than eight at one time, not including the poor souls he kept in the dungeon, of course. Too many become too hard to control, much less keep fed. Why?”

“There’s a young Vampire Lord in the report with a spawn count of 150 and rising. Why is he amassing an army of spawn?” You cross your arms, frowning. “It seems odd to me that two vampires of significant age would enter an accord with one who is so young and reckless. He’s practically still a suckling babe.”

Astarion frowns, hands on his chin, eyes fixed on the ground, “Hells. I didn’t even give it any thought. I assumed he was simply an idiot.”

“They are using him, Astarion,” you warn. “For what, I cannot yet say, but something is off.”

“I’ll have my people focus on him and try to ascertain the unknown member,” Astarion nods and smiles at you fondly. “You always were better with details than I.”

The werewolves appear in the doorway and stare at Astarion with devout eyes like a puppy idolizes its master. Astarion’s eyes glow, the whites of his eyes pulsating between pitch-black and white during some seemingly wordless conversation.

“They did not find anything,” Astarion assures. He holds out his hand like he used to do before the Rite when he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be separated, and you take it. He interlocks your fingers, “I’m not going anywhere. Keep hold of me, yes? Lead on, little love. I’ll follow wherever you go.”

The temple is silent and bereft of life except for the clicking of the werewolves’ claws grating against the stone that still follows. Cobwebs spread across the crumbling ceiling like a fragile tapestry woven by the hands of time, leaving a delicate pattern of lifeless threads.

You guide Astarion through hallways, having to climb over collapsed pillars and skirt around sunken walls, buckling under the pressure of the deterioration. Now and then, you come across a fallen pillar you can’t climb over, and Astarion shifts it enough to allow you to progress deeper into the depths of the old sanctum. The werewolves had to stay back as the corridors became too narrow to follow.

But no matter what, Astarion does not let your hand leave his.

“We never came this way,” Astarion muses, looking at the old paintings on the wall. They are paintings of you as a child, usually amid a “training” session. You cringe and hope that the ink has long faded to a point where it is not obvious it is you.

“No,” you sigh. “I did not take you into the inner sanctum. There was no need.”

“These paintings,” he stops in front of one, halting you when you reach the end of his arm's length. You cringe and cannot bring yourself to look at it. “This isn’t you? Right?”

You sigh, keeping your eyes on the floor. You already know the artwork he is looking at. You had gone against your orders to kill an acolyte, a young woman whom you had befriended and become close to. Father said you’d become too attached. Attachments and feelings made you weak and vulnerable. To prove his point, he told you to kill the woman and make it slow, but instead, you killed her as quickly and painlessly as you could.

For you knew if you left her alive or tried to find a way for her to escape, her fate would have been far, far worse. Death was a mercy, and you provided death as swift as a hawk kills its unsuspecting prey. She had not even seen it coming. For your disobedience, you got to enjoy the slow death your father had meant for her. He ordered your flesh pierced with hooks, hung you above the altar, and allowed every acolyte and Bhaalist in the sanctum to cut you deeply once per day until you eventually bled out.

It took many, many days.

“Right?” Astarion prompts, giving your arm a jiggle to get your attention. “Surely. This isn’t…” When you look up, your eyes finally flick to the painting and stare at it bleakly before looking back at his wide-eyed stare. Astarion already knows the answer. It’s written in the lines of your face. “f*ck. I’m sorry. I had no idea it was… I had no idea.”

“I disobeyed,” you mutter, unsure if you want to tell him. Astarion wraps you in his arms, tight and protective. He trembles against you. Out of anger? Sadness? Who knows. Your voice shakes as if you’re sobbing, but you cannot even shed a tear for that poor girl because she eventually became the villain.

“All the paintings….” His timbre is warm and gentle, like a spring evening. You want to curl up and bask in it. “All of them?”

“Yes,” you nod, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his neck. Astarion holds you probably as tight as he can without breaking any of your bones. “All of them.”

“Good Gods, Alita…”

“Don’t pity me, Astarion,” you whisper. “Anything but pity. I became a monster.”

“No,” Astarion is stern when he corrects you. “You were made, moulded and forced into being a monster, just as I was. We are survivors."

I am still a monster.

The red radiating aura around Astarion intensifies, wisps of bright scarlet spiral in the air around him, and his eyes flare, illuminating the darkness. Every painting simultaneously collapses in on itself, leaving nothing but a speck in the air. A puff of red smoke and they are all gone as if they never existed in the first place.

Astarion nods at your appreciative smile, and you continue your foray into the innermost portion of the temple, coming to the closed door of the library. Astarion’s hand reaches to push on the door, and you grab his wrist, halting him with a shake of your head. You take your quarterstaff and run the handle down the door. Barbed spikes meant to skewer unsuspecting hands thrust out of the stone suddenly and recede slowly.

“Well,” Astarion drawls. “Thank you. That looks like it would have been painful.”

“Excruciating would be more accurate. The barbs contain a lethal poison. I’m not entirely sure if it would kill you, but it would definitely not be pleasant.”

“Well, well, well. Bhaal certainly has an odd sense of humour, doesn’t he?” Astarion quips, jutting his hip out, surveying the area, “Are there many of these around?”

“Yes. They are everywhere down here,” you shrug. “You mentioned Cazador enjoyed illusionary walls. My father found entertainment in deadly doors.”

You unsheathe your dagger, cutting your palm, smearing it in crimson bliss and reach, but Astarion stops you with wide eyes, “What the Hells do you think you’re doing? Did you not just demonstrate that we do not touch the bloody door?”

“Trust me,” you implore. The concern flowering in his eyes is rampant as they glare into yours. It reminds you of a time long gone, and your heart gallops around your chest, trying to outrun the misery that will follow. Misery will do you no good down here. You can wallow in it later, "I know what I’m doing.”

Astarion’s grip on your wrist tightens, wavers, and finally releases. You smear your blood across the grainy block. It bubbles, boils and absorbs into the monolithic slate. A swirling, inky gateway of reds and blacks melding together rifts the stone, and you chuckle when you hear Astarion groan.

You hesitate to step through the portal. If your father is going to try to capture you, he will likely do it like this. Astarion will be unable to help you as space and time are curved in on themselves, and you are neither corporeal nor spirit but fragments of each.

Taking a deep breath, you step toward it, and Astarion follows you through the swirling maw. Portal travel is an odd feeling like your body is nothing but white noise and static, being dispersed to your very atoms and reconstructed anew on the other side.

When you step out, the darkness is so thick you wouldn’t even be able to see your hand in front of your face if it were not for Astarion emanating infernal magic. You snap your fingers, mutter under your breath and green, necrotic flames burst to life in the scones and candelabra. Illuminating the grand chamber in a corrosive cast.

“Homey,” Astarion jeers.

Books litter the floor, thrown from the shelves carved into the stone, buckling under the pressure of the stooping ceiling. There is a thick layer of dust brooding over the forgotten texts.

Astarion gazes around like a child in a candy shop, mouth agape, at the hoard of tomes and books. Yes, your father has amassed quite the accumulation of rare works. Astarion drags you around to shelf after shelf with admiration in his gaze. The Elf always loved to read, and you imagine there are things in here even he hasn't read.

“May I take some of these?”

You hand him your bag with a laugh, “Be my guest, but you’re carrying that back.”

“Gods. You’re lazy.” He taunts with a smirk, filling the bag. “Where are the ones you’re looking for?”

“Not in this room,” you shake your head, grabbing a candle and walking to the mosaic of a skull inlaid on the stone floor. You score your wounded hand against the rough surface, reopening the clotting wound and wiping blood across the floor as if dripping from the void sockets. The floor shifts, peeling back with the sound of stone grinding on stone, to reveal a staircase that spirals down into an impenetrable dark. “Down there. Be on your guard. I do not know what surprises my father would have left, but it will not be unguarded.”

“What is down there?” He asks, coming to your side and looking into the staircase that appears to descend into nothing.

“Answers or possibly death. One can never be sure,” you shrug, taking his hand and starting your descent.

Chapter 16: Trials

Chapter Text

The stone staircase spirals into the bowels of the unholy pantheon of Bhaal. The malefic green nimbus cast from the candle scarcely impales the cavernous blackness. The darkness writhes like a living serpent, twisting and turning through the shadows, slowly constricting you in oppressive strife.

You can vaguely make out Astarion’s incarnadine radiance leading you into the depths. The passageway is too narrow to be side by side, but he still holds your hand tightly even though it forces him to contort his body in an awkward position. Your shuddering breaths rebound off the raw stone and return as ominous, whispering hisses.

Seconds transform into minutes as you precariously step down the stone slabs. You don’t recall the shaft being this lengthy, but your memories are unreliable. When the confined avenue, at long last, gives way to the antechamber, you’re hit with the aroma of shore and must, perching sticky on your tongue. The malignant presence of your father is tangible, causing the air to feel thick like sludge, making every breath a burden to your lungs. It’s hard to ignore the sensation of drowning as you press further into the umbra.

“Bhaal awaits thee, Bhaal embraces thee, none escape Bhaal,” you murmur into the gloom.

The braziers and scones detonate and fill the chamber with the same green, acidic lambency as the library. A grinning skull carved into a menhir is situated in the middle of the circular room and stares at you with a crimson corona in its deep, lifeless sockets. Black, shiny ichor wriggles and worms like the tangled threads of lost souls, trying to crawl away from their fate around the base in a gaping trench cut into the black marble floor.

“Well,” Astarion remarks blithely, glancing at you and squeezing your hand reassuringly to remind you that he’s here. “That’s not disconcerting at all.”

The room is immense, with walls inlaid with red tiles arranged to look like a tidal wave of blood crashing upon the stone. Inside the crimson swell, coloured tiles in gruesome mosaics depicting the timeline of splendorous murders done in Bhaal’s name leading back centuries. Tattered tapestries of the avatars of Bhaal hang from the ceiling - the Slayer, the Ravager, and your least favourite of your father’s forms, Kazgaroth, with its reptilian hide and massive jaws lined with countless serrated, needlepoint teeth.

Columns line the walls with buttresses carved like skeletons, their bony fingers splayed across the ceiling, seemingly holding it aloft. Despite the lack of facial features, the skeletal figures somehow exude anguish with their jaws dropped open in silent, perpetual screams.

This room is usually pristinely kept, but the decade of neglect is evident as grainy silt grates under your boots, sprinkling from the large fissure in the ceiling. The tiles and floors are mottled with grime and the droppings and remains of rodents.

Three immense doors are recessed into the walls between the columns, each with a different symbol chiselled into them. Your fingers trace the deep valleys of the runes.

“What are these?” Astarion inspects the etchings with a furrowed brow. “More deadly doors?”

“Trials,” you murmur, frowning and trying to rouse the memories holding the meaning of the calligraphy, but without much luck. “I must pass all three to reach the deepest hold where my father kept his most prized possessions.”

“You?” Astarion quirks a brow at you, pulling you around to look at him. “If you think you’re leaving me out of the fun, guess again, pet.”

“There is no fun to be had in these, Astarion,” you growl. “Each trail is different, but what they have in common is that they use your fears, pain, and nightmares as well as your most profound desires, wishes and impulses to try and trick you. Death and unending suffering await any who fail, even for you.”

“We better not fail then, yes?” Astarion quips, crossing his arms defiantly witha bearing hewn in fortitude. “You’re not going into these alone. I forbid it.”

“Forbid it?!” You seethe, scoffing and sticking a rigid finger into his chest. “I do not remember asking your permission. I’m not one of your mice. I will not run your maze of games.”

Astarion’s eyes blaze with the heat of the Hells, and you immediately feel the crackle in the air, sparking a memory to arise unbidden. You used magic in this room once, and only once before you learned the consequences of such. It activates the guardians your father called Forgotten Sentinels. Souls siphoned from those who met their grim fates in the trials and used to power ancient constructs, corrupted and twisted by your father’s dark magic.

“I can make you walk out of here,” Astarion snarls as he bleeds you of your free will. Your muscles go rigid, and you fight against his compulsion to shake your head, to beg him to stop before he awakens the defiled sentries. “Have you learned nothing, my treasure? You are no match for me. I will do and take whatever I godsdamned please! I will command you as I see fit.”

“Astarion,” you manage to croak out through your restricting lips. Your eyes skip around the room. You’re unsure if Astarion’s compulsion will trigger the trap, but it would be prudent to assume so. “Stop.”

“No,” he laughs scathingly, with the angular planes of his face serpentine and curving into a warped sneer. He revels in the control he has over you, gorging himself on your forced deference.

You catch the quiver of the black ichor as it starts to agitate and pulsate in your peripherals. You must get Astarion to stop, but how can you when your authority over your body is robbed? The harder you war against his compulsion, the more control he funnels until you can’t even blink without his permission.

“We’re leaving.” Astarion commands, taking your hand and starting toward the staircase, “You will follow me, and you will not say a word.”

The atmosphere heats, and you know it’s too late. The black ichor shifts, bubbling and frothing as it takes shape. A slab slams down, blocking the staircase and any hope of escape. The inky, viscid liquid drips off the empty armour of the hulking structures as their metal boots clank with an eardrum-bursting boom while they clamber out of the rancid womb that birthed them.

An eerie purple light flares through the joints of the ancient plate armour. Each of the three carries a great sword, blades sheathed in flame, ice, and lightning, with heavy crossbows slung across their backs.

“sh*t,” Astarion hisses under his breath, drawing his daggers with a flourish, and your fetters of compulsion are released, snapping and receding as quickly as they entangled. “What in the Hells are these things?”

“Guardians.” You draw your quarterstaff in a flash, and the Weave vaults into you, filling every fibre of your being as you descend into a defensive stance. “I f*cking hate constructs. They don’t bleed.”

“Of course.” Astarion chuckles, shifting his body, every muscle taut and ready to leap into action. The red radiance haloing him increases in intensity as he draws on the power of 7000 souls, “Only you would be lamenting on their lack of blood at a time like this.”

You smirk, “Are you ready?”

Astarion nods with a callous grin, eyes anchored on his targets, “Let’s have some fun.”

Astarion springs forward, flashing through the room like a spectre as he phases in and out of mist to attack in close range while you cast from afar with rapid and deadly precision. One of the constructs hurls toward you, sword already whistling through the air. You block with your quarterstaff before the burning blade peels your skin from your bones. They are strong, and your arms shake with the effort. The metal of your quarterstaff heats instantly, turning red-hot and whining. It burns and blisters your palms with a sickening sizzle of your flesh.

Astarion’s shoulder slams into the enemy from the side, knocking it off balance, and you whirl, casting Cone of Cold. The frost and crystals of snow fizz and simmer, melting as soon as they encounter the heated armour. You cast Misty Step to give yourself distance, and Lightning Bolt erupts, hissing across the floor and making the construct shudder and convulse. There’s not enough time to see if you’ve defeated it before you hear Astarion’s pained grunt and turn to see an icy blade bite into his shoulder, staggering him back with a hissing breath.

“Astarion!” You yell, dashing toward him, “Legs!”

Astarion jumps backward, widening his stance, and you drop, sliding between his legs and reaching your hand up. He grasps it and heaves you upward to your feet in a split second, and you focus your energy and cast Thunderwave in a devastating ejection to propel the two mammoth constructs back and give him time to recover. A deep maroon stain blooms from his shoulder, quickly soaking his doublet, but Astarion is already on the move before you can question if he’s okay.

Gods. You cannot get over how much you loathe f*cking constructs. They make the worst enemies. No gore. No blood. No screams. No fun. Irritation at the lack of what you so desire culminates, broiling your stomach acid, causing it to surge your violent tendencies. You crouch, dodging a blade swiping over your head, and leap with a ferocious roar. Thrusting your hand between the joints of the plate armour into the hollow centre feels like dipping your hand in a glacier, but the burn does not deter you, and fire bursts from your palm, discharging from its eyes and mouth.

The construct jerks, grabbing you and hurling you across the room before dropping to its knees and dissolving into bits and pieces of slag that scatter across the floor upon its demise. Your back slams into one of the pillars with enough force to fissure the stone, razing the breath from your lungs with a hacking cough.

Astarion is there before you can blink to clear your vision, crashing into the construct about to slice you in two with a grunt. It stumbles and falls, crashing to the floor with a metallic racket, and Astarion wastes no time felling it.

Time seems to slow down around you when you hear the click of the crossbow and the whistle of a loosed arrow. You know what you’re doing is foolish as your body reflexively reacts to the threat on Astarion’s life. If your father saw this selfless self-sacrifice, he would gag at the altruism. You have been trained and honed to regard no life but your own.

“I love you, Astarion,” you purr as Astarion’s face transforms from confusion to alarm when he hears the trill of the arrow careening through the air. You grin to yourself at the mere thought of your father’s disgust as you shove Astarion through Arcane Gate, teleporting him behind the remaining construct.

The arrow pierces into your side, deflecting off your ribs and embedding itself deep between them. You lurch with the impact, side stepping, and unstable. You look down at the bolt jutting from your side and regard it thoughtfully. Lucky, you think, it didn’t deviate up and toward my heart.

“No!” Astarion bellows, parrying an attack, but he cannot keep his eyes off you.

Idiot. He’s going to get himself wounded if he doesn’t concentrate. You sink to your knees while you cast Slow, giving Astarion the advantage. Hells. All this effort and no blood to balm your wailing urges or screams to dance to. You scoff at the audacity, and blood dribbles out of your mouth and down your chin. Well… some blood.

Small victories.

The remaining construct finally drops with a thunk, shattering and showering the floor with more useless slag.

Astarion appears before you in an instant and drops to his knees. “You bloody fool!” He scolds between heaving breaths. Sweat runs down his face, mixing with blood in small blushing creeks. The salt of his sweat mixed with the tangy copper of blood is alluring. What would it taste like? Delectable, you’re sure. “What the f*ck were you thinking?”

“Thank you, Alita,” you murmur with a giggle, prying your thoughts away from licking his face like a heathen. “That was very kind.”

“Kind? No, my dear. That was idiotic!” He barks furiously. Astarion’s fingers tremble over the arrow, the fletching quivers with every laboured, jumping breath you take.

The arrow has almost certainly punctured your lung. Syrupy blood begins to slick around your knees, and your fingers wade into it rapturously. Your heart is starting to falter in your chest, beating out of rhythm and your vision pulses with every strenuous thump.

You grasp the spine and shaft of the arrow with both your hands and yank it out without even wincing. You let the arrow fall from your weakening fingers, and it clinks when its metal head meets the ground. Astarion’s hand is already on the wound, putting painfully firm pressure in an attempt to control the bleeding.

Your skin is startling to sheen with the cold sweat of shock and pale as your lungs fight for air. Dizziness overcomes you, and your bruised spine feels like wet parchment that’s been squeezed out, limp and weak. You fall back as it refuses to support the weight of your body any longer. Astarion catches you in his arms, supporting your head and flaccid limbs.

“f*ck!” Astarion looks around frantically, scarlet eyes wild with fear that looks so beautifully out of place like blooming Ruby Blushroses against the frost-bound earth of a harsh winter. “We are still trapped in here.”

“The trials must be completed,” you drone, closing your eyes, tired and lethargic. You wheeze breathily and sputter blood, “Once those are done, we will have access to the heart of the sanctum. My bag. There should be Potions of Healing in it.”

Astarion lays you down gently, removing his doublet and propping your head on it. He grabs your hand, places it against your wound, and commands, “Keep pressure on it.”

You try to scoff at him, but it comes out as more of a gasp than anything. No strength is left in your arms as your faculties are shutting down. Your fingers are twitching and jerking spasmodically while your heart palpates arrhythmically in your chest.

Astarion returns, rummaging through the bag hastily, dumping the contents on the floor. Consciousness is slipping away from you quickly, and you cough and choke on the blood puddled in your throat. Astarion rolls you onto your side, and the gooey crimson drools from your mouth. Your vision is starting to tunnel, shadows swirling around the fringes. It’s a fitting place for you to die, you suppose. You were never meant to walk out of here in the first place. Is your father watching and waiting?You hope so. He would be simply appalled that his perfect killing machine died to save a life.

You hear the cork pop from the bottle, and Astarion drags you into his arms. He pours the shimmering liquid into your mouth, but you can’t seem to swallow it, and it gurgles out, trickling from the corners of your parted lips that are starting to appear blue as your body is robbed of oxygen.

“Alita!” Astarion shakes you. He brushes your hair back and cradles your cheek in his palm, gently tapping it, “Wake up!”

“Everything is going to be okay,” you babble as the watercolours of life bleed from your vision, losing shape and beauty until you can see nothing but the pale memory of love before you.

“No, no, little love,” Astarion’s fingers caress your cold cheeks as your head lolls to the side. “Please don’t do this. Fight, godsdamnit! Fight. Stay with me.”

Your eyes drift closed, unable to hold the weight of them open, and you feel rivulets of hot teardrops falling upon your face as the angel of death himself weeps. As you slip into that serene nullity, you hear, “Ai armiel telere maenen hir, Alita.”

Chapter 17: A Lie?

Chapter Text

Astarion has so many servants who would love to share the night with him, warm his bed, and get lost in him and the ecstasy he provides. He has no reason to spend so many nights lonely.

But the truth is that even when he shares his body and his bed with some lucky person, he is still lonely.

He sits in a chair with the fire blazing before him, listening to the crackle and pop of the logs and kindling with a nearly empty bottle of Wyvern whiskey perched in his lap.

He is avoiding his trance again tonight because he keeps dreaming of her. Dreaming of how she looked under the pale moonlight while they bathed in the river and the sound of her laugh so sweet and spritely when he splashed her. The way she kissed him in the rain while lightning split the angry skies and thunder roared. The way she would lead him away from camp so they could poke fun at the others. The way she would check on him every night to see if he needed to feed, and Gods, the way she moaned when he did.

Sometimes, he will trance and force himself to fall into those memories just so he can feel her on his skin, her lips on his, and hear the way she sang his name. It has never sounded right in anyone else’s mouth, and he forced the servants to stop using it.

She should be here with him now, sharing in his success, his power, his bed, his life.

It should be their life.

None of his accomplishments, wealth or power has made him happy; just another step up a never-ending ladder. It all means so little without her to share it with.

His life feels incomplete.

And it’s all his fault. Isn’t it?

If he had just listened to her for a moment instead of pushing her into a corner, she might still be here. Truthfully, he did not believe she had it in her. He was sure she loved him more than he would ever be capable of loving her, but perhaps he was wrong.

Maybe he loves her more than she loves him, for he would have stayed a spawn had she requested it. He would have damned himself to a life of darkness and hunger with no hope of escape.

He would have paid the price of freedom - for her.

Yet, she did not request that of him. Even when all her friends were tugging on her robes, begging and pleading her not to, she stepped forward smiling.

“Is this truly what you want, Astarion?” She’d asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you shall have it, my love.”

Why had he not granted her the same choice when the time came? Why in the Hells did he try to force eternity on her by giving her an ultimatum?

All the horrible things he said to her after. He wanted her to hurt like he was hurting. He wanted to see the pain in his heart reflected in her eyes.

And he did.

She’s the first person he’s truly cared for, and he drove her away.

But perhaps worst out of all is she believed him when he said, “I never loved you, and I never could love you, broken bhaalspawn. You are nothing to me. You are replaceable, my dear, and I have an eternity to replace you.”

She was always so good at seeing through his lies, but this lie she believed?

He loves her. Even now, sitting alone and drunk after a decade, his heart still calls out to her and only her.

Astarion’s head falls into his hands, and he mutters into the safety of the darkness, “I love you, Alita. Aeterna Amantes, even if you’re not here with me.”

Astarion feels the life leaving her body as her muscles slack, and she hangs loosely in his arms, devoid of tension or energy. Her heart continues its attempt to rue death with languid faint beats. He holds her like a delicate orchid, cradling her gently as if the slightest whisper of pressure might shatter the fragile petals of survival that still cling to her.

His trousers stick to his legs, warm, sodden and sticky with her blood. His heart rate spikes as hers descends, being smothered by the numbing embrace of death. His heart sinks into his shoes, anchored and cast into the coldest reaches of his soul where he’s entombed his love for her. He cannot lose her now, after she blew back into his life like a f*cking torrent, tearing the nails from his coffin of apathy and opening his soul to the first dawn of hope he’s seen in a decade.

He carries so much anger and hatred at the world that left him to be dulled, betrayed, deceived and enslaved for centuries, and the only time he feels peace is when he’s with her. She does not shy away from his darkness. She stands in the middle of his chaos with hopeful sunshine and emerald eyes that herald acceptance and unconditional love.

He cannot lose her. He will not lose her.

Astarion gently tilts her head back, opens her mouth and drips the Potion of Healing into her mouth, letting it sidle down her throat drop by drop until the cask is emptied of the shimmering liquid. He pulls off his doublet and wraps it around her, hugging her trembling body close to his. Her breathing is only getting more shallow, and he can barely hear the faint murmur of her heart over the thudding of his echoing in his ears.

His fingers curl into the soft navy waves of her hair, and he massages her scalp comfortingly as if the physical sensation might be enough to rouse her spirit to stay attached to her body. He rests her head on his shoulder, nuzzling her with his cheek, wet from the tears falling from his eyes like raindrops from the leaves of a sorrowful heart. How long has it been since he’s cried? Decades? A century?

He cannot recall.

The hideous stone skull with the baleful crimson glow set into its sockets stares back at him. He swears its grin widens as it watches her die in his arms.

“You right, bastard.” Astarion growls low and throaty, narrowing his eyes, gripped in a sudden downpour of anger. He’s not sure if he’s talking to the effigy or himself, “This is your f*cking fault. If she dies…”

He trembles with incomprehensible rage. It boils beneath his skin, storming through his veins, heating the air around him as his infernal diabolism circumfuses around them. With a snarl, a wave of energy lashes out at the graven image, embracing and constricting around it. The crimson current slips into all the little cracks and crevices like water slithers and worms between stones. With a smirk and naught more than a thought, the skull erupts in an immensely satisfying volley of jagged chunks.

Astarion takes her limp hand in his, interlocking their fingers, begging her between choked sobs, “It wasn’t a lie, Alita. Come back to me, my love.”

Her fingers twitch.

A warmth encompasses you like you fell asleep too close to a fire. Has your father pulled your spirit into one of the nine Hells? Your eyes struggle to part as if your eyelids have been glued together. A tired groan sighs from your lips as you shift your weight.

“You drooled on me.”

When you finally pry your eyes open and blink away the shroud of death smothering your vision, your cheek rests on the sculpted muscle of Astarion’s chest, and you crane your neck to look at him. He lays flat, one arm bent with his hand under his head, and you atop him. His doublet cocoons you like a blanket - a very bloody blanket, which happens to be your favourite. He smiles tenderly at you, soft and reminiscent of how he used to.

“What?” Your voice is weak, barely a sigh.

“You drooled on me,” he repeats. “It’s not my favourite body fluid of yours, but beggars, choosers, and all that.” Astarion nudges your hair back, looping it behind your ear and out of your frowning face with a chuckle, “Welcome back. I thought I lost you there for a moment.”

You peer around, trying to find the source of the heat, “Is it me, or is it oddly warm in here?”

“Apologies,” Astarion drawls, and the temperature decreases substantially. “You were shivering.”

“You?” Your eyes round, “How?”

“I am the Vampire Ascendant, darling,” he snickers facetiously, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger. “I can burn as hot as the Hells or be as cold as the abysmal chasms of Cania at will.”

“Of course,” you scoff, rolling your eyes at his prideful grin. “How did I not realize that immediately?”

“Yes,” he purrs as he pulls you up and catches your lips in his softly and deeply intimately. “You never were the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

You snort and attempt to push yourself away from him, but his arms hold you where you are, and he looks at you repentantly, “An ill-timed jest.”

“Say you’re sorry.”

“Apologies,” Astarion drawls, propping himself up on his elbows.

“That doesn’t sound like “I’m sorry” to me,” you quip.

“Alita,” he growls the warning deeply, a rumble in his chest vibrating against your body with narrowed eyes.

“Astarion,” you growl back, trying to get your voice as low as his, mimicking the stern expression dressing his features.

“Gods. I am starting to regret saving your life,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you throw his doublet back at him and turn away before he can see the water welled in your eyes. You expect to see your father staring back at you, but instead, your eyes feast on the pulverized remains. You frown, trying to remember if it was destroyed in the fight, but it wouldn’t have been. These statues were nearly indestructible.You tried many times.

Astarion’s arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into him, purring near your ear, “You frightened me, Alita. I have not been that afraid since we were down here the last time, and I was helpless to help you.”

“Was it a lie?” The airy whisper makes your bottom lip itch as it hums from your mouth.

“Was what a lie?”

“Ai armiel telere maenen hir,” your mother tongue sounds like poetry as it unfurls from your tongue.

Astarion’s hands slide up to your shoulders, turning you to face him. His ruby-red eyes glint as if dusted with ever-changing constellations with a depth not even the vastness of the cosmos can fathom.

You want to hold them in your hand, but admittedly, they probably look better in his face than out of it. Flashes of eyeless corpses play out in your mind’s eye, bloody tears dripping down from hollow sockets. You cannot tell if they are memories or fantasies. Either way, they are equal parts satisfying and disturbing. How did you become like this? Were you made this way or driven mad?

“Did you request a lie?” Astarion leans down, breath tickling your lips, breaking you out of your sickening venerations.

“No.”

His lips meet yours. His kiss walks the fine edge between hunger and eagerness, savouring and doting in every perfect verse his lips sing against yours. It’s slow and delicate but so impassioned that every pause between each stroke of his tongue drives you a little further into madness.

Astarion breaks the kiss suddenly, pushing you back with his fingers against your lips, “I only lie to you when you ask me to.”

Putting your hand over his heart, you lean into him, feeling that beat against the pads of your fingers, the one that he was robbed of for so long. There had been a time when you would have done anything to return to the moment you helped him with the Ritual and change the course of events, wanting to persuade him to stay a spawn, selfish musings of a broken-hearted, lonely woman.

Astarion had been different after the ritual, so cold and distant. Yet, here, with his arms wrapped around you, his heart beating under your palm, and his warm body pressed into your curves, he does not seem so different after all.

“We must complete the trials,” you try to push away from him, but he holds you, unwilling to let you go.

“Yes,” he nods, “But perhaps we could stay like this just a little longer?”

Astarion’s hands go to your thighs, and he lifts you. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you let your head rest on his shoulder. His arms are wrapped around you, and his hand tangles into your hair at the nape of your neck, pressing firmly. This is not about sex, lust or desire. He’s looking for comfort, a refuge from the fear he is not accustomed to feeling.

“If you tell anyone I cried,” Astarion’s voice is rough as sandpaper, with the hint of a threat. “I’ll f*cking kill you.”

“I don’t remember you crying, Ascendant,” you wink with a sly grin.

“You’re too good to me,” Astarion chuckles.

“I know,” you quip as he reluctantly sets you back on your feet. “Did you have a temper tantrum?” you smile and point at the jagged pieces of what used to be your father's symbol.

“I didn’t like the way it was looking at you,” Astarion smirks, jutting his hip out.

You walk to each door, still trying to make sense of the symbols. You used to know them, but it appears that part of your memory has been lost.

“Astarion, I really don’t think it’s a good idea if you go in these. I do not know what will happen if two people enter at once, and it only takes 1 of us to complete all 3.”

“There’s something you’re not saying,” Astarion crosses his arms. “What is it?”

You sigh, irritated at how easily this man reads you when no one else can, “These trials will almost surely make you face your past abuses and trauma. It will feel real, as real as any other day, and if you get lost in it, you will die. I don’t know if I will be there to help you, and I don’t want you to go through that. Please wait for me to complete the trials. Trust me to do this.”

“What about your past abuses? I saw the painting on the walls, Alita… I… I did not realize you were godsdamned tortured by your father. I don’t understand why you never said anything, but that conversation can wait. The trials - you will have to face similar things, I assume?”

“Yes,” you comb your fingers through your hair, “but I have completed these trials before, even if I cannot remember it.”

“I’m going in with you, Alita,” he growls harshly. “You cannot stop me.”

Well, he’s wrong. You can stop him. Casting Hold Person or Hold Monster on him would give you enough time to get into the trial, and Astarion would not be able to reopen the door, but then you are perpetuating this toxic cycle you seem to find yourselves in.

“Fine, but you must understand that I don’t know what awaits us there. We will likely be separated. If we are not, then we will likely be tricked into opposition.”

“Well,” Astarion gestures to all the doors. “Pick one, my love. Let’s get this over with, yes?”

Chapter 18: Halls of Reflection

Chapter Text

Stepping through the portal, a swirling maw in the stone door, you’re transported into the trial. The air is freezing, like standing amid a blizzard, and you shiver. Grasping for Astarion’s hand, you realize he’s not with you. You had been holding hands when you entered the portal, but it seems your fears have been realized.

You’ve been separated.

“Astarion?” You yell, but the only answer you receive is your voice echoing back to you.

Godsdamnit.

You’re unsure if you both need to complete these to get out or if only one of you does. They were not meant for two to take at a time. Well, you might as well get this over with.

You take small steps forward and halt when a bodiless voice blares out of the dark, “State your name.”

“Alita.”

The room begins to light up with dim specks of white light that float through the air above you. You cannot see the ceiling or the sides of the room. In this light, it looks as though it could expand infinitely in all directions.

A series of mirrored corridors stands before you. The mirrors sheen and bounce the dim rays of light around, moulting the black floor in dapples, but it’s scarily enough to light the paths. You vaguely remember this trial. You must traverse the labyrinth without getting caught.

Caught in what, you’re not quite sure.

Your shaky breaths can be seen in the air, and you force your body to move forward and start down one of the passageways. You keep your eyes trained on the floor and your feet. Somehow, you know, looking into the mirrors will be your undoing.

Seeing things in your peripherals, your eyes want to jump to catch whatever is moving around you. Putting your hands out, you’ve reached a dead end and must backtrack, but when you turn around, the corridors have changed, moved soundlessly, and there’s no way to know which way you came.

Lovely. Not just deadly mirrors, deadly moving mirrors.

The little specks of lights start to go out in a rolling blackout fashion. One corridor is bathed in blackness. A different one is set alight. The pattern appears random, but you cannot watch it too closely.

Something is weeping in the darkness, but you steel yourself to it. Invisible fingers pluck and pull at your robes and hair with enough force to throw you off balance.

You hear your mother’s voice, the one you killed, asking you why you killed her, your father, your brother and baby sister. She tells you they loved you. She begs you for an answer, sobbing, and you can vaguely see the figure following you through the mirrors to your side.

“How could you do that to us, Alita?! You brutalized us. You stabbed us over and over and over while we were trying to help you. Why? Why did you kill us? Your sister was just a babe! How could you?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to,” you whimper but dare not look up. “I’m so sorry.”

You pick up your speed, jogging through the corridors until everything goes black. It is so thick you cannot even see your hand before your face, and you get on your hands and knees to feel your way around. You lightly bump into mirrors, correcting yourself and trying again.

You hear your father’s voice, and you’re thankful for the dark. At least you cannot see in the mirror… right?

Wrong.

The mirrors seem to emit their own light as you pass by, and you can see the troll-like figure of your father following you.

“LOOK AT ME!” He wails in an ear-splitting screech, “I command you to look at your father, my feeble-brained, damaged daughter.”

You're horrified to find that you want to look; something in your body wants to heed these commands, and it takes a substantial amount of effort to ignore the way your neck wishes to twist. Your father’s claws seemingly ting on the inside of the mirror, raking down it with a shrill sound that makes the back of your throat itch.

“You will never be free of me. I created you. I am in the very marrow of your bones, child. I cannot wait to reclaim you. Do you believe you have suffered under my hand? That was nothing. You will know true suffering. And then I will unleash you upon the world, feral, broken and bloodthirsty like you were always supposed to be. You will bathe Faerûn in blood until only corpses remain.”

You scream. You cannot help it, “I won’t. f*ck you!”

“Yes!” Your father mocks you with his tittering glee, “I will reclaim you in the night, child, as I have done so many times before, and you will brutalize that which you love most first.

“No!” You let out a snarling howl that reverberates off the mirrors.

The lights finally blink back on, and you sprint into the next corridor, trying to outrun your father’s scratchy, manic laughter as he follows you from mirror to mirror, dragging his grotesque claws across them. The squealing sound is enough to drive you mad as your head throbs with a headache you know well.

It’s not real, you prompt yourself. Tricks and games.

Another dead end makes you turn around to another shifted, convoluted maze of mirrored hallways. How in the Hells are you supposed to get out while the paths and alleys move on you? How in the f*ck did you do this before?

You’re worried about Astarion. If you’re seeing your victims and father, he is no doubt seeing his. You can only hope he recognizes that it’s a trick.

“Alita! Help me!”

Astarion’s voice resounds, and you cannot tell if it’s another trick or him. Your heart pounds in your chest as you try to keep your eyes on the floor, on your boots, anywhere but the mirrors because if you see him…. If you see him, you might never make it out of here.

“Astarion?” You call back out unconsciously.

“Over here!” Astarion’s voice sounds so real, so him, so here, but how could it be? “Help!”

Trying to follow the voice in this mess is impossible. Too many turns and twists end up nowhere.

“It’s okay, Alita,” He purrs, “I’m going to die here, but I need you to know I love you.”

Your head jerks up, and you cannot stop the snap of your eyes to the mirror at your side. Astarion stands in it as if standing on the other side of a window. All rationality is lost to you now. All logic has perished to panic, and you drop to the mirror with your hands on the smooth, glassy surface.

Only the mirror is not smooth and glassy. It’s sticky and gummy. Before you can recoil, you’re pulled into it like quicksand. There’s a sense of falling, but you cannot see. It’s as if you’ve been blinded. Your eyes are open but unblinking, unknowing, and your senses are scattered. There is no up or down or side to side. You could be ascending or descending or remaining still.

How long you are suspended in that vast nothingness, unable to think, feel, react or see, you don’t know, but eventually, you drop suddenly and hard. Your hands and knees land on lush, green grass. The air smells of wildflowers and hope and brandy. Birds serenade the vast blue sky, trees rustle their leaves in the wind, and there is a sense of peace, magnificent and pure.

You contemplate the grass. How lovely it feels between your fingers, each blade like a delicate thread of silk embroidery on a velvet canvas. They undulate in the breeze, whispering joy and comfort. Pain does not exist here, only tranquillity and freedom from your worries.

What came before this place you don’t remember, but you can’t find it within you to care.

“My love,” Astarion chuckles when you jump at the sound of his voice, offering you a hand. “You are not usually so clumsy or jumpy.”

He pulls you up, and you gawk at him. Astarion quirks a brow at you when you reach out and touch him repeatedly, combing your fingers through his sterling hair wrapped in soft sunlight and opening his mouth to look at his fangs.

“Are you quite done inspecting me?” He giggles, light and feathery and so wonderfully carefree. He smiles broadly, and you’re sure you’ve never seen him so happy. You would give anything to keep that light in his eyes, “Come. We must get ready for the ceremony. Why are you out here anyway?”

“I… I don’t remember how I got here,” you look around at the field you find yourself in, the bright blue sky with sailing birds and towering trees. You do not recognize this area, but that’s inconsequential. “Ceremony?"

“Are you feeling okay? Our wedding, sweetheart,” Astarion’s brows round, confusion overtaking his handsome features, and you want to cry at the loss of happiness. “Don’t tell me you forgot. All our friends are here, but if you’re not feeling well, maybe we should postpone…"

“No!” You shake your head with a giggle. “I’m fine. You know my memories can be fickle.”

“Good,” the happiness returns, and you breathe a sigh of relief, “Because, selfishly, I don’t want to wait another moment.”

And neither do you. Why would you? Why should you?

Astarion drops you off to get ready with Claire. She helps you into your immaculate white gown with sparkling diamonds sewn into the bodice. The garment is beautiful. Of that, there is no doubt, but why can’t you remember picking it? It does not seem like something you would adorn. White feels a little off on you, but you suppose tradition dictates white. Your hair is done up in some elaborate up-do, with delicate chains, pearls and diamonds braided through the twists and curls.

You do not feel disgusted as the girl touches you. Your head does not pound ferociously. Your urge does not natter and prattle its grievous desires.

Everything is perfect.

Too perfect.

It nips at your consciousness.

“Mistress?” Claire bows low, “We must get you down to the aisle. The ceremony is starting shortly. You wouldn’t want to be late to your own wedding!”

“No… No, I suppose I wouldn’t.” You smile and glance back at the image reflected in the mirror. You look… happy. Truly happy. Why wouldn’t you be? You’re about to marry the love of your life. Then why does something feel off? Butterflies. Pre-wedding jitters. Yes. That must be it. You ignore the unsettled feeling in your stomach, “Will you show me the way?”

“Of course, Mistress. Follow me if it pleases you.”

Wherever you are, it’s not the Crimson Palace. In fact, it’s not a place you recognize at all, but it’s grand and lovely with white marble tiles and high stone arches with beautifully carved columns all in a white stone that seems to be dusted with sparkling stars. Everything is pristine, perfect and stunning. It almost hurts to look at something so utterly winsome.

You hear the soft music before you even reach the doors, a sweet, harmonic melody that hugs your ears and calms your mind. Somehow, it tells you everything will be okay as long as you are here.

When the high arching double doors are opened by waiting servants, your eyes land on Astarion in his black, perfectly fitted ensemble with hints of gold and silver. He smiles at you brightly, and you cannot help the wide smile that slips across your lips. He’s perfect, as he always is, with perfectly preened curls, not a strand out of place, and his ivory skin brilliantly diffused with the satiny golden rays of the evening.

All your friends are in the pews - Shadowheart, Gale, Halsin, Wyll, Karlach, Lae’zel, Jaheria, Minsc. They all clap and smile happily as you walk down the aisle toward your husband-to-be.

Yet, something is nagging at you, pulling on the folds of your brain. You shake your head and try to ignore it as you stand opposite Astarion. You can smell his signature scent wafting from him. Somehow, it smells even better than you remember, but you cannot exactly remember smelling it before, even though you know you have.

He leans close, purring near your ear, “That dress is a piece of art. Pity I’m going to tear it from your body later.”

You giggle, and he smirks against your cheek, giving you a small kiss before taking your hands in his.

“I have waited so long to marry you, my love,” he says in a shaky voice, eyes glossy and wet. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” you breathe.

You push away the confusion rattling around in your body. Does Astarion love you? He must. What are you thinking? Of course he does. He just said it. So why does it feel so… hollow? Why does your mind warp, trying not to touch those words as if they were poison? Why is your body shaking?

When you look around at your friend’s happy, smiling faces, something in your stomach drops, and that nagging feeling can no longer be ignored. They would not be this happy - not to see you and not to see him, especially not to see you together.

They are all together too f*cking happy.

“My treasure,” Astarion brings your eyes back to him. “Is something wrong?”

You squeeze your eyes closed and think, wading through the fog in your brain. Where were you before this? How did you get here? When did Astarion propose? Why can’t you remember anything before the field?

Your eyes snap back open, looking at the picture-perfect mirage of Astarion, who is cradling your cheek, concern rampant in the core of his glimmering ruby-red eyes.

None of this is real.

This is simply a trick of the mirrors, providing you with your greatest fantasy, meant to lull you into believing that this is reality so you do not struggle against your death.

Your heart sinks.

“This isn’t real,” you murmur, swallowing the ball in your throat and dropping the bouquet in your hands.

“My love,” this illusion of Astarion checks your temperature like you’re ill. “This is real. Why would you say such a thing? Are you sure you’re feeling okay?"

You know how to get out of here, but you do not know if you have the heart to do it, “Forgive me."

“Darling? Whatever is the matter?”

With a quick movement, you grab the dagger from Astarion’s hip. Even this daydream of him keeps them on him at all times, lucky for you, or maybe it’s unlucky. This seems like a peaceful death. Another lie you can sink into and be suffocated by.

You level it at this fake Astarion, this magnificent delusion with rivulets of tears dripping down your cheeks. You’ve spent so long living in your personal hell that you wonder if staying here, staying in this illusion might be worth the cost of your life.

“What are you doing?” Astarion’s hands go up innocently. His eyes are full of surprise and hurt, making your heart clench, “I love you. Don’t do this. I don’t understand. What did I do wrong? What’s changed?”

“I’m sorry,” you weep. “I love you. I’m so sorry.”

Before your resolve weakens further, you plunge the dagger into Astarion’s heart with all your might. Blood flowers around the blade, his eyes widen, tears of betrayal seeping from his crimson eyes as they look at you with a shock that you are sure will haunt your nightmares for as long as you live.

Your friends are screaming in the background, and you’re screaming along with them as you watch him die.

Astarion shatters like glass, your friends crumble, your surroundings detonate in a glorious shower of glittering shards, and you fall again.

You’re pitched out of whatever magic you had been sucked into and thrown onto the stone floor in that freezing room.

That disembodied voice resounds again, “Pass.”

A portal swirls in front of you, and you crawl into it because you cannot stop your fretful sobbing enough to get to your feet.

You spit back out into the antechamber with the three doors and green venomous eminence with the muddy patch of your blood staining the stone floor. Making a fist, you slam your hand into the stone floor as hard as you can. Your knuckles crack and pop, skin splitting and blazing, thrilling pain shoots up your arm.

Yes. This is reality.

You yearn for Astarion, but he is nowhere to be seen. You push yourself up and wipe your blood on the stone door of the trial, but nothing happens. It will not allow you to enter. There is nothing you can do to help him.

You should never have let him accompany you.

Curling up into a ball on the stone floor, unable to do anything more, you sob.

Astarion steps out of the portal, and the swirling vortex blinks out of existence. The air is freezing, every breath feels like drawing ice into his lungs, and the Stygian black is so heavy that it feels almost like a semi-solid entity pressing in on his body. Not even his natural Darkvision can help him here.

“Alita?”

The stillness of the chamber murmurs his voice back to him.

Well, sh*t.

He takes a couple of unsure steps forward, shuffling his feet. When the formless voice calls out, he jumps, descending into a low stance, daggers drawn and ready.

“State your name.”

Why did he insist on doing these, and what is with Gods and trials? Running Shar’s gauntlet with Shadowheart had been drudgery. He cannot imagine Bhaal’s will be any different.

“Astarion."

Floating pinpricks of illumination light up, hanging in the air like dimly glowing insects. They don’t give enough light to give him his bearings, though, only enough to transfuse the halls of mirrors with an eerie pale cast and wan dappled light that bounces off the reflective surfaces.

Mirrors? Astarion didn’t know what to expect, but this was surely not it. He expected a castle of bones or a fight to the death with some unthinkable monstrosity, but rows upon rows of mirrors?

Odd.

A maze, he realizes, but the mirrors must have some significance. He could shift into a bat and fly over the maze, but the last time he used his powers, he almost lost her. He discards the idea. No magic will do him no good here.

What had she said before they entered?

“There is a reason for everything in these, even if it looks innocent. You must remember that none of what you’re seeing or hearing is real. Do not forget it. Do not let yourself be swayed by temptation or fear. Be ruthless. Be heartless. Be a murderer. Be whatever you need to be, but do not be a fool.”

Astarion picks a corridor and starts down it. These mirrors do not show his reflection, and it startles him, causing his heart to clout his ribs. Centuries without his reflection, only to get it back and have it stolen again? It’s not real, he tells himself, prying his eyes away from the empty surfaces that refuse to acknowledge his existence.

He hears Cazador’s voice and sees the spiteful grin of his tormentor in his peripherals.

“What is the first rule, my child?”

Astarion speaks, the words feel like they are pulled from his lungs, “Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.”

“And you failed because that is what you do. Isn’t it, boy? You fail because you are a weak, snivelling little wretch. What is the second rule?”

“Thou shalt obey me in all things,” he cannot stop it from leaving his lips.

“Look at me when you speak to me. Have you no respect? We are not so different, you and I? Hm? You force her to obey you, just as I had forced you. Isn’t that true? You loathed me for it, but are you not doing the same? You want to believe you’re better than me, but you are me. You are mine forever, boy.”

The sinister laughter freezes the blood in his veins, making it feel sluggish and heavy in his limbs. His eyes yearn to obey the command to look up, but he dares not. He doesn’t know if it’s because he does not want to see his master’s face after so many years or because his intuition wails that it will be his undoing.

“NO!” He snarls to the floor, lips pulled back over his fangs, “I am not you."

The laughter fades, “Lie to yourself, boy, but not to me.”

Astarion’s body shakes uncontrollably. Is it fear he feels? Adrenaline? Hatred? Rage? He cannot be sure. He jogs around a corner, his eyes cast down. Without warning, the corridor darkens, and he bumps into what he can only assume is a mirror. The surface is sticky and frigid, like sticking your hands in icy slush. He feels it pulling him inward, but he manages to tug away before he is consumed.

He can hear the puzzle of networks shifting and moving around him of their own volition. When the flickering speckles of light ignite again, he’s staring at his black frostbitten palms and fingers. The pads of his fingers sting with every twitch of his hand. It is more of an annoyance than a concern, but oddly, he does not seem to be healing as quickly as he should. Typically, his injuries fade away in seconds to minutes, depending on their severity.

Keeping his eyes down, he roams through the corridors, listening to the wailing screams of 7000 souls, feeling the heat of the Hells arising from the mirrors that seem to take on a molten appearance. All the people he condemned to achieve his power holler at him, some voices he recognizes like Sebastian’s bloodcurdling wails.

“How could you, Astarion? You doomed me to suffer and starve in those dungeons for 175 years. How could you sentence me to an eternity of torment after you promised you would be back to help? You are a liar. You lie to yourself. To us. To everyone. To her. You are a monster, Astarion Ancunin.”

“SHUT UP!” He snarls back. His eyes almost shoot upward, but he catches himself, “You were already DEAD. You were all already DEAD.”

The pained howls increase, voices screaming over others, vying to be heard until he can hear nothing but the roar of fire, smell brimstone and burning flesh, and feel the suffocating heat. He hears the shrill screams of the children most of all, and it warps his heart that beats with the power of their souls.

This isn’t real, he reminds himself, sprinting down the wing, all the mirrors radiating red like his eyes must have when under Cazador’s control.

Astarion comes to a fork in the path. Should he go straight, right or left? What in the bloody Hells is the point of this? Is there a way out, or is he stuck in this purgatory of his sins reflecting on him?

He can hardly think with the shrieks mauling his ears, and he’s not sure which way his feet carry him in his haste to get away. They fade into the background as he hurtles down whatever path he’s chosen.

The lights die out on him and halt his progress.

“Astarion! Help!”

Alita’s singsong voice, blemished with pain, beseeches him. This place would use her against him. What else did he expect? She’s his greatest weakness. He tries to keep his head down, eyes closed, as the lights return.

“Astarion! He’s going to kill me. Please, you have to do something!”

Astarion grits his teeth, balling his fists at his sides, shuddering and shaking with restraint.

It’s not her, he tells himself. It’s not real.

But Gods, it sounds real - it sounds too f*cking real.

“She’s mine now, boy,” Cazador growls.

And that is what breaks him. His head swings up, eyes darting from mirror to mirror until he sees it, and he’s helpless to stop himself as he runs into the fluid surface and sinks.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s in the Ritual chamber with Cazador knelt before him, bruised, bloodied, and beaten. Cazador’s back is raw and carved with infernal symbols to match his, but the man smiles at him like a snake.

How did he get here? Why can’t he remember anything before this? He does not even recall the fight, but surely there must have been a battle. The bodies of werewolves and bats litter the ground like leaves discarded from a tree. The smell of blood is thick and pungent in the air, driving his bloodlust.

“Astarion.”

He jumps at the sound, eyes flashing from sibling to sibling until he sees her hanging above those glowing infernal ruins suspended in the air. She smiles at him as he stumbles up to her.

No.

No.

This isn’t right. Is it?

Why can’t he remember?

Cazador chuckles, “That’s right, my child. If you wish to obtain power, you must first sacrifice her.”

“No,” his voice is weak. He tries to pull her down, but the bonds will not break. She cries, droplets dropping off her cheeks. “No. I can’t. I won’t.”

“You would be stuck an insignificant spawn?” Cazador cackles, “You would forfeit it all for a woman you are incapable of loving properly?”

“I do love her!” Astarion snarls. He combs his fingers through this hair, shuddering. “f*ck it. If I must remain a spawn, so be it.”

“Do you love her?” Cazador snickers, “Or do you view her as nothing more than a challenge you have yet to overcome? A wild beast you have yet to tame? An unruly c*nt you have yet to subjugate? You do not love her. You wish to own her, make her submit, and keep her as a pretty possession. You’re unable to feel anything deeper than that.”

Astarion roars, stalking over to Cazador and slamming him against the coffin, “Tell me how to get her down! Now!”

Cazador’s eyes shift to his quarterstaff, Woe, lying carelessly on the ground, “You must make a choice. Do you save the one you love and damn yourself, or do you save yourself and damn the one you love?”

“Astarion,” she whimpers, “please.”

Astarion picks up the staff, staring at her and back at the staff. Power or love? Damn himself or her?

“Save me, please.” She sobs, her body wracked and shuttering between whimpering breaths. “I love you.”

Something about this isn’t quite right, making his mind fraught. He shakes his head, looking around, smelling the air, trying to figure out what is troubling him.

“Don’t let me die,” Alita cries out. “I don’t want to die.”

His eyes narrow. There. That is what’s bothering him.

Alita would not beg and plead with him to spare her life, with tears streaming from her eyes and snot running from her nose. She would not shudder, wriggle and squeak like a rat caught in a trap.

Alita would not be afraid of death.

This isn’t real…

He turns away from her, trying to numb himself from the pain caused by her cries for help, the way she begs him in her perfect voice.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters as he slams the staff down and starts reciting the sacred words of the black mass.

“Look at what you’ve done to me!” She screams.

And he owes her that much, even if this isn’t real, so he turns and watches as she slowly dissolves into a mushy pile of meat. Her freckled dove-grey skin sloughing off in patches, her muscles melting, her organs splashing out onto the floor below her, and her eyes shining with betrayal never leave his until they, too, drop to the floor.

It makes him want to be sick, but he watches.

He watches her die again.

The chamber around him starts to splinter and crack, shaking the platform under him. Slabs fall from the ceiling and walls. The staircase shatters in a constellation of splintering fragments twinkling with a malevolent intensity as if the light itself has been pierced by thousands of tiny daggers.

The platform shudders and explodes, and he falls.

The awaiting abyss swallows him whole.

How long you sob curled in the fetal position, the room ceaselessly parroting your weeping, you have no idea. Time feels like it doesn’t move in this tomblike chamber. With your arms wrapped around your knees, you don’t move. Even when your eyes have long dried, unable to shed another tear from your swollen ducts, you lay still and lifeless.

The air electrifies, alerting you to developing magic, and you’re in the process of pushing yourself up when the portal appears and Astarion walks out of it with a grim expression. He stares at his palms for a moment, confusion and then relief.

He drops to one knee, arms outstretched, “Come here, love.”

You vaguely catch the black wounds receding as you lunge into his waiting embrace, fingers wrapping around the back of his neck, clutching his doublet in your fist. You inhale deeply, smelling him. He smells like sweat, blood, brandy, and well, mostly sweat and blood, but he smells like him and not like a falsehood.

Astarion stands, his hand coming to the back of your head, nose in your hair, sharply inhaling your scent. He pulls away slightly, resting his forehead on yours, with his eyes closed.

Grabbing his arm, you run your fingers over his palm. Only pristine skin remains from whatever injury he received in the trial.

“I think those rooms suppress my powers,” he murmurs, opening his eyes and catching your fingers in his hand.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh yes,” he smirks, leaning back. “I might even return when I am in need of another vacation. You know how much I enjoy admiring myself.”

But you can see through this facade, as you see through most of his charades, “I didn’t request a lie, Astarion. Tell me the truth. Are you okay?”

“That was an experience,” he sighs, deflating and rubbing his eyes. “But I’m fine. Truly.”

You glance at the door. The symbol on the door that was previously void is glowing purple, signifying it has been completed.

“Don’t follow me into the next one,” you try to be brave, but realistically you have no idea what you’re walking into. “I’ve done these before.”

“Oh, darling,” he scoffs. “The silly trials of a God could not keep me from you. Let’s continue, yes?”

“Astarion,” you beg. “Please.”

“If you won’t pick,” he looks around. “I will.”

With no other choice, you pick.

Chapter 19: Chamber of Sacrifice

Chapter Text

The burble of the rotating threshold ejects you with enough force to make you stumble. When your body ceases buzzing as you’re reborn in this new accumulation of atoms, skin, blood, and bones, you squeeze your hands, testing your control of this reincarnated frame. Astarion squeezes your hand back, and your trepidation is dispelled immediately.

He is with you. He is here. You are together.

You scrutinize your surroundings. A bizarre wind howls through sinuous, crooked trees, curving into a virgin sky retaining no stars, moon, or light like an erased chalkboard, devoid of any celestial scribbles.

A corrupted grove expands before you with grass as black as coal, brushed on a landscape of shades of grey. The wind is crafted from the death sighs of Bhaal’s countless victims - your victims. Even though you feel its fingers on your skin, it does not crawl through your hair or disturb your clothes.

“What horrors await us in this one?” Astarion asks, tugging on your arm so that he’s standing in front of you.

“I don’t remember,” you frown.

This environment does not shake free any memories or inklings. You peer around, assessing everything calculated and critical. You’re trained to survive in the most hellish of scenarios, and as much as you wish to rush through this nightmare, you know that calm and rationality are your most efficient weapons.

Your father enjoyed physical tortures, to be sure, but mental anguish? Oh, now, that is where true torment is born and thrives. Bodies heal but minds? Minds can be irreparably broken.

Like yours.

“Stay behind me,” Astarion orders.

You scoff, pushing past him and starting down the path with careful steps. The shadows seem to flail and flounder, twist and weave, roll and undulate as you proceed past archaic, crumbing crypts and impossibly large mausoleums.

“Alita,” Astarion sneers, grabbing your arm and tugging you around to look at him. “Why do you challenge me at every possible turn? Will you listen to me for once?”

“Unlikely,” you shrug, unfazed by his appeal.

“Why do you do this?” He roars, lips pulled back in a snarl.

“Because I can!” You howl back at him, “Stop ordering me around like a loyal dog. I am not one of your hellspawn mutts.”

Astarion straightens, rolling his shoulders back, and takes a deep breath, “Stay behind me, please?”

“I will stay beside you,” you assert, and move the conversation along before he can protest. “How high can you jump without your powers?”

“What?” Astarion follows your gaze to the roof of a dilapidated building. “Not that high if I must carry your dead weight.”

“Gods. What use are you, Ascendant? Did I help you obtain all this power for nothing?” You roll your eyes at him and he smirks at your jeers, “Well, I hope you can climb trees then.”

Bending at your knees, you launch, gripping a branch and pulling yourself up. You walk the sinuous limb like a tight rope until you can jump up to another fork in the branches. You are far better at this than you imagined, but you cannot remember climbing trees. Perhaps you did it in your childhood between the murder of families.

Astarion is as deft as you, easily leaping from limb to limb, grumbling under his breath when the sharp ends of branches snag his clothes. Sparkling laughter erupts from your throat. It is so him to be worried about his attire even though it’s already blood-stained and ruined beyond repair. Your foot slips off the branch, and you nearly fall, catching yourself as your feet dangle.

Astarion’s laughter echoes, mingling with the eerie wind as he giggles at your clumsiness. You cannot help but dissolve further into your bubbly fit with such intensity your arms are starting to weaken as you sway, trying to pull yourself back up.

But when have you ever been this clumsy? Your footing is nearly on par with Astarion’s. Your steps are sure and true, and you most definitely do not giggle like a child at play.

Well, unless you’re killing, but that’s beside the point.

Even Astarion cannot seem to grasp what exactly he finds so humorous about this situation. His brows furrow as he continues to be gripped by the spell of ebullient joy at watching you dangle high above the ground.

You try to think through this, but the harder you think about it, the more hilarious it becomes. Your fingers start slipping off the branch, one by one, even as you try and dig your fingernails into the obsidian bark as they pop off your fingertips with a biting sharp pain.

You are going to fall, likely to your death at this height.

Isn’t that so f*cking funny?

No…

No, it should not be funny. You should be struggling for your life. You should be swinging to a different branch below you. You should be doing anything but swaying like a pendant by one arm.

“Get out of the shadows,” you gasp between your fits of laughter that are starting to strain your cheeks and stomach.

“I’m…” Astarion dissolves, nearly falling out of the tree himself, but rights himself. “I can’t move.”

Your fingers slide off the branch, and you plummet toward the ground, banking off a bough on your way down that sends you somersaulting over yourself. You could cast Misty Step. You should… Isn’t it downright comical that you can disperse yourself into mist?

Astarion’s laughter howls as he watches you tumble, but when you catch a glimpse, his eyes are latent with panic. He knows you’re falling to your death, but he cannot bring himself to move.

If you can tuck your body and roll with the momentum, you might be able to survive if you don’t first snap your neck like a matchstick, but you do not possess the necessary coordination for such a maneuver. You should have let yourself be consumed by the damn mirrors. At least that was a nice delusion to go out on.

Your fall halts abruptly, bringing you back from your reverie about that beautiful wedding you ruined. Astarion’s grip wavers as he strains under the temptation to laugh with his jaw clenched and sweat starting to appear on his brow.

“I cannot hold you,” he stutters. “f*ck!”

Astarion phases into mist, causing you to lurch momentarily before he reappears under you and curls around you. His back impacts the ground hard enough to cause a crater and expel the air from his lungs in a wheeze. Somehow you possess enough mental acuity to keep an eye on your surroundings as you erratically laugh so hard it makes you unsteady on your feet.

You must get back into the light before you’re drained of all reason.

Astarion heaves deep, gasping breathes trying to force the air back into his lungs, but he isn’t able to between suffocating giggling. Despite the merriment in his voice, he looks unnerved and wide-eyed.

Slipping your arms under his, you pull, dragging him across the ground, stumbling when you’re knocked off your feet in another fit. “Gods,” you tut with a groan. “You are f*cking heavy!”

“I am not!” He laughs between shaky gulps of breath. “Have you seen my body? It’s incredibly attractive.”

“Too attractive, if you ask me,” you fall onto your ass, unable to contain yourself. Righting yourself again, you scold him, “Get off your lazy ass and get into the light before we both lose our godsdamned minds.”

He tries to get to his feet but flops to the ground ungainly. With one last tug of his arm, you manage to get him moving enough to amble into the light and fall as the delirium is washed away. Astarion and you both sit on the ground, staring at each other while you allow your faculties to return and catch your breath.

You stare down the unnaturally lit path that leads further into the darkness with dread. You are being herded like animals to some unknown horror lurking within the dark. It does not sit well with you that you are unable to move about freely. You cannot strategize yourself out of this one. You will simply have to allow yourself to be ushered.

“Stay out of the shadows,” Astarion drawls, getting to his feet gracefully. “Noted.”

“Are you okay?” Your eyes coast over him as you walk a circle around him, looking for any obvious injuries.

“Darling,” he smirks egotistically, bringing his hand to his chest. “It will take substantially more than a fall to kill me. You’re welcome by the way.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, staring down the path.

Astarion slips his hand into yours, “What’s troubling you?”

“We are being shepherded,” you shake your head. “I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I, but I do not believe we have much choice.”

With a sigh, you curse your father under your breath and start down the white dirt path. Your mind tells you to draw the Weave so that you’re ready to cast in a split second, but you refrain. You were lucky enough that Astarion’s power didn’t trigger any untoward consequences.

Your steps echo on the wooden planks of an arching bridge over a burbling bog that smells of rotten fish and sulphur. It stings your eyes and makes your lips curl back in disgust.

“Help!” A man cries out from around a bend that twists into the darkness. “Please! By the God! Help.”

Astarion and you both frown at the same time. You know that voice, but how in the Hells did he get here?

Astarion draws his daggers, handing one to you, and you both leap into a sprint. The shadows are thicker here, and the laughing fit comes on quicker as the wind whispers amusing sentiments into your head. A cacophony of voices all buries their hysteria into your psyche. It’s hard to focus on anything but the desperate need to giggle. It’s like laughing has become air and your body is asphyxiating without it.

It’s all you can do to keep pushing yourself forward. There’s a light in the distance, salvation from this riot of madness that is begging you to let it deplete your sanity.

When you finally burst out of the tenebrous, ink, Wyll stands with his back to a pole, hands bound behind him.

“Alita? Astarion?” Wyll stares at you slack-jawed. “Hells. I never thought I would be happy to see either of you! What is this place, where in the Hells am I and how did I get here?”

You catch something moving in the shadows in your peripheral vision, and take on a battle stance, adjusting your grip on the dagger to level out its weight in your palm. Astarion’s already noticed the same bizarre movement, and he coils like a spring ready to explode into action at the first inclination of attack.

“Is he real?” You ask, ignoring Wyll’s scoffing and assurances that he is very much living.

“He certainly smells real,” Astarion crinkled his nose, mouth twisted as if Wyll’s scent offended him. “Is it possible? Can people be transported into these?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh. Another thing you cannot answer.

“Get him untied then,” Astarion nods, narrowing his eyes as they track whatever is moving about, snapping twigs unseen.

“You untie him!” You huff. “I will watch the beast in the shadows.”

“My love,” Astarion glowers at you. “Stop being so godsdamned obstinate! It’s positively aggravating. I am faster, stronger and more adept with this,” he waves the dagger with a haughty smirk, “than you are.”

“Waving a knife at me, Astarion,” you giggle, bringing a finger to your lower lip. “Are you flirting with me? This hardly seems like the time or place, but beggars, choosers and all that.”

“Gods!” Wyll snorts. “I see you two haven’t changed an ounce. Could one of you please free me?”

Wyll has never been your favourite person. The man is a sickeningly good soul, a hero through and through, with morals that starkly contrast your lack thereof.

You roll your eyes at Astarion and stomp over to Wyll, cutting his bindings, “Don’t use magic here.”

“Where is here exactly?” Wyll asks, rubbing his wrists. “I was in the Hells with Karlach, and then I was just here.”

“My father’s trials,” you scrutinize him. “You’re weaponless. Stay behind Astarion and I—“

The shrill, braying scream of the stalking creature cuts you off. It streaks out of the cloudy murk, a desiccated undead panther with inky fur, glowing purple eyes, and abnormally large, silver claws. Patches of its skin have long rotted away, and muscles and bones stick out, and the smell… Good Gods, like putrefied, rotting meat that’s been left out to bake in the sun.

It deftly avoids Astarion’s attack, pouncing on him, and snapping its needle-like teeth within inches of Astarion’s neck. Astarion shakes under the strain to keep it away.

You’re already moving, racing over the landscape. Your urge chants lively, anticipating the bloodshed, waking your nerves and muscles with twisted promises of mutilation.

The beast dodges your attack, faints and attacks in a sudden burst of speed, but you’re not so easily tricked. Astarion is on his feet as you land one hit, blood splashing across your face, burning your skin with a sizzling pain that makes you recoil in surprise.

“The blood is caustic!” you call out in warning as you wipe your face. It doesn’t matter, it eats away at the fabric of your robe and dines on the flesh of your arms.

“Of f*cking course it is,” Astarion groans as he grapples with the creature, managing to thrust it to the side.

Before it can land for you and Astarion to descend on, it shifts shape into a gigantic bat and soars toward Wyll, trying to shred his skin with claws and teeth.

“Oh, and a shapeshifter too!” Astarion muses. “What bloody fun.”

“At least it’s not a clown, right?” You giggle as he gives you a sideways glance.

Astarion hurls his dagger, embedding it in the bat’s side. It lets out an ear-piercing screech that makes you, Wyll and Astarion drop to the ground, writhing, and covering your ears to keep your eardrums from bursting. The pain in your head is inexplicable as your brain feels like it’s melting in your skull and pouring out of your ears.

When you look at Astarion, blood is dripping out of his eyes like streaming tears. Wiping your face, your fingers come away coated in watery crimson. It does not simply feel like your brain is dissolving. It actually is.

You grit your teeth, pushing yourself. You will not go quietly to your death. Pitching yourself at the shrieking creature, you grab the hilt of Astarion’s dagger buried in its side and thrust with your own. Its blood flows down the dagger like a river, over your hand and down your arm, eating away your flesh in the process.

It lurches into the air, trying to pull you off your feet, but Wyll grabs you before it can drag you off into the darkness. Unseating the dagger from its side, you slice down its wing.

It shifts again into something that resembles a small bear. Before it can attack, you and Astarion rush it, coordinating your attacks. He faints, you counter. You rush, he blocks. It’s almost poetic how easily you and he anticipate each other’s maneuvers like you have danced with him like this for lifetimes, perhaps since the beginning of time itself.

Wyll tries to assist in any way he can, but without magic and his weapon, he’s at a disadvantage. Not that you and Astarion need help. If anything, Wyll gets in the way.

You’re laughing when the creature finally perishes and dissolves into a bubbling puddle of acid. This is not blood as you prefer it, but you will take it, you suppose. It is entirely like your father to continue to deny you.

The world starts to shake, distort and shift until you find yourself in a dungeon with Astarion and Wyll, bound, gagged and chained in a stockade. Your father materialized upon a Dias between them with a wry grin. His frame flickers, ghost-like. Whether this is another trick or simply a manifestation of him, there’s no way to know.

“Welcome home, daughter,” he sneers, claws clicking together in the way that used to drive you crazy. “I trust you remember this room well.”

You do…

And you hate that you do.

“I won’t do it,” you scream, stomping like a petulant child. “I won’t do this again!”

Your father ambles over to Astarion, running a horrid black claw down his face, opening a bleeding laceration across his cheek, “A fine corpse this one would make. Wouldn’t he?” Your father sniffs Astarion, “Wicked. Ruthless. Evil. He will kill so very many over the centuries.”

“Don’t touch him,” you bark, leaping forward, but the image of your father vanishes and reappears near Wyll.

“And this one. He is so good. So pure. So righteous. Isn’t he? He will surely save many lives.” Your father slaps Wyll hard enough to knock a tooth from his mouth, blood dripping over his lips. “Revolting.”

“Stop,” you growl. “You have no control over me anymore. You cannot make me do this!”

“But I did not make thee. Did I? Thou entered into my trials willingly, wretched rat,” Bhaal fades out, reappearing in the middle of the room. “You shall choose as thee has always done. Doth thee damn the world by letting evil roam or doth thee allow good to prevail?”

Bhaal disappears and a ceremonial axe descends from the ceiling and into your hands. The gilded hilt and weight feel too familiar in your palms. How many people did you put to death here, forever damning their souls to be bound to Bhaal?

Hundreds? Thousands?More?

Vents in the stone spurt and corrosive puddles start to pool. If you don’t make a choice quickly, the room will be flooded. You will all be eroded slowly and painfully until not even your bones or teeth remain.

A sacrifice must be made.

Evil or good? Corrupt or virtuous? Death or life?

You stare at them both, but you already know the choice you will make. It’s the only choice you can make.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, between sobs that wrack your body. “Gods. I’m so f*cking sorry.”

The soles of your boots are being eaten away as the floor becomes a lagoon. You are out of time.

You can only hope this is another trick of the trials.

You swing the axe.

“Pass.”

The portal hurls you onto the stone and you scream, outraged that you’ve once again become your father’s implement of choice. You are on your feet, punching the jagged, crumbled remains of that grinning skull. You slam your fists into the stone until your knuckles crack, the bones in your fingers snap and fragment and the skin is tattered and shredded.

Will you ever not be a f*cking tool? Are you nothing but a weapon to be wielded, a blight to unleash upon the land?

“Alita!” Astarion grunts, pulling you away as you growl, feral and wild. “Hells. Stop!”

“Let me go!” You elbow him, but he turns you and pulls you into his chest, wrapping you into a tight embrace so you cannot lash out at him.

“Shhh,” he coos. “It’s alright.”

“Alright?!” You screech. “I just beheaded Wyll!”

“Better him than me.”

You scoff, “You knew there was no hope of that. He never had a chance.”

“Oh,” Astarion smirks. “I don’t know. I’ve seen you make plenty of foolish choices. Leaving me for example.”

You sink to the floor, staring at your bloody and broken hands, spitefully. You search your feelings, only to realize that your indignation does not have anything to do with the fact that you just killed probably the most wholesomely good person you know.

Astarion rolls his eyes, “I don’t see the big deal. It was just Wyll.”

“That’s the problem, Astarion,” you look at him, defeated. “I don’t even feel bad about it.”

“Wolves do not feel bad about killing lambs, darling,” he purrs, leaning down. Astarion brings your eyes to meet his. His gaze narrows and he co*cks his head as if seeing you for the first time, “You wear wicked beautifully, my love.”

"Lie to me," you whispher so low you're not sure even he can hear it.

Astarion wraps his arms around you, pulling you close and rubbing your back, "Wyll is fine. It was nothing but a trick."

Chapter 20: The Crimson Cathedral

Chapter Text

Astarion listens to the sedate, measured thumping of her heart and soft sleeping sighs. He nearly had to compel her to rest, stubborn thing she is, but as soon as he took her in his arms, warming his body to carve away the coolness of this godsforsaken room, she’d fallen quickly into her trance.

Five minutes, she’d said. Five minutes and you wake me up. We only have one more trial to go.

That was hours ago. Astarion had nodded his understanding, placating her, but he never intended to wake her. She is hungry, wounded, and exhausted. Her hands are swollen with blue and purple bruising that extends up past her wrists. She undoubtedly broke her fingers in her fury. His blood can heal wounds of the flesh, but not broken bones. She needs magic or a Potion of Healing, and they have neither at their disposal right now.

He glances at the door of the last trial. If he can get through it, he can take her home and get her food and the healing she needs. It makes his heart buckle in his chest seeing her in such a state and being so godsdamned powerless to help. Seven thousand and seven souls have given him powers beyond the wildest imagination of a dreaming child. Yet, he’s incapable of something as simple as healing anything more than an abrasion.

It makes him feel weak again, like he was when he was a spawn, and he loathes it to the very core of his damned soul. It brings back memories of battles during their adventure where he’d lacked the ability to do anything when she got injured. Anger sweeps through him like a raging wildfire, and he hates her a little bit for exposing his deficiency as if putting it on display to mock him.

Astarion does not like to be reminded of that pathetic cur - the measly spawn, he had been. He left that dead, snivelling boy behind him when he Ascended. He vowed to erase it from his mind, and with it, all the memories of her . He locked the memories of how she used to look at him like she saw home in his eyes, of how she found comfort in the coldness of his skin night after night, of how she did not flinch when he touched her, only him.

The others never understood why he could touch her without earning a warning growl or even a verbal beating, but he understood it because she too could touch him without bringing up those feelings of disgust and loathing making his skin crawl. He understood her, and she him like their souls spoke in a long-lost language.

They had been so, disgustingly, in love. Hadn’t they? At the time, he would never have admitted it or perhaps he didn’t realize it. He’d never known love, after all.

And then everything had changed. As soon as he completed the Rite, she rejected him like their love was nothing but a chapter instead of the whole damn story. When he was finally able to abandon his facade and let his sharp edges see the light of day, when he could finally be him and not the rake, she turned away from him.

He should have made her his spawn because no one rejects the Ascendant and lives to see another day. He would have given her everything except what she wanted most. Freedom. How could he give her that? How could he simply trust that she would stay without assurances? He knows, at some point, be it months or centuries, she would have realized she was too good for him and left him alone.

But she left him alone anyway, didn’t she? Was it worth it? Was all this power worth losing her?

As fun as it is, he’s not so sure the cost was worth it. The seven thousand souls he can live with, but losing the only person who ever cared for him, who ever saw and accepted the real him? That was a high price to pay. If Astarion had known, he’s not sure he would have paid it.

He pushes those old thoughts and memories away, deciding anger and bitterness are emotions he’s much more comfortable feeling. But his anger is washed away as quickly as it reared when he focuses on the weight of her body in his arms.

Her navy hair flows over his arm like midnight waves rolling over the ocean, and the perfect bow of her lips is parted just slightly. He’s never seen chaos look quite so serene. He trails the back of his fingers over her cheek as delicately as he can, suddenly overtaken with the need to feel her skin on his and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead.

She stirs slightly, murmuring and curling further into him, bruised hand resting on his chest like she used to do all that time ago. It floods him with all the feelings he’s been expending considerable energy to circumvent and deny, even to himself.

Astarion stares at the stone door leading to the last trial, and back to her. She may be an instrument of death, but she is still mortal. She may not make it out of the next one alive, and that’s a risk he’s unwilling to take. He cannot compel her in this room, and truthfully, he knows he must refrain from doing so. The mirrors were not entirely wrong, it seems. He has been trying to tame her, subjugate her, just as Cazador did to him.

Is he just like Cazador? Worse? The thought unsettles him, and he pushes it away.

Alita will never let him enter alone, but he may be able to shift her away from him and open the trial before she can fully wake and become aware of what’s happening. He does not want to let her go or put her on that cold stone floor, but he’s used to doing things he doesn’t want to do. How many times did he lay with someone he didn’t want to?

He shakes his head to rid himself of such impractical thoughts and lifts her slowly away, easing her to the floor. She will surely notice the temperature shift. He must be quick.

As soon as Astarion has let her head down gently, he zips across the room with uncanny speed, laying a bloody palm on the stone like he’s watched her do so many times. He hears her calling his name as he’s swallowed by the portal. He whispers, “I love you,” just in case he never gets another chance. It is not loud enough for her to hear of course, and this makes him feel safe.

The air is stiflingly hot. The moment it licks his skin, sweat exudes from every pore, dropping like raindrops down his forehead and temples.His lungs feel like they are inhaling liquid fire with every breath, so he abandons breathing.

A sprawling cathedral draped in blood-red banners and illuminated by flickering torches that cast bizarre shadows across ancient stone towers in the middle of a blood-filled lake. Massive towers spiral like snakes up into the cavernous dark. There is no sky here, only jagged rocky walls and unnaturally long, sharp stalactites reaching from the cave ceiling.

The syrupy sanguine soup boils fitfully, each bubble the shape of a screaming skull perpetually reliving its death sigh upon bursting. What a waste of blood, he thinks, co*cking his head at it. He does not feel hunger like he used to, but it’s been some time since he had a meal and he’s starting to get peckish.

He slicks back his sweat-drenched hair and proceeds down the only path available. The formless voice does not make him jump this time when it calls out to him.

“State your name.”

“Astarion.”

The grand double doors of the cathedral open for him as he approaches as if pulled by ghosts. He walks through hallway after hallway in sinister silence. It is so freakishly quiet that he clears his throat to make sure he has not been rendered deaf without his knowledge. Antiquated paintings line the walls depicting morbid sights. He does not recognize them until he vaguely catches one of Sarevok standing before a towering pile of bodies with a prideful grin.

He moves down the hall examining all the art until he finds a picture of Alita. The Weave glows around her with fire in her eyes. She smiles that dastardly smile he recognizes as her mind working its dark lamentations. She’s laughing, playing in a mire of blood, with a mammoth hoard of bodies in all directions. He smiles. That’s my sweet, sweet girl, he thinks. He does hope he gets to see that smile again, hear that laugh, especially if it’s for him.

He used to make her so happy, but now she watches him warily. He deserves it, he supposes. If only he could put the Ascendant away, thrust his pride and ego aside and allow the truth to shine through, she might be his. But that would mean reconnecting with the sorry part of his soul that he’s spent a decade barricading away.

There is comfort in the numbness he’s wrapped himself in. Safety. He’s unsure if he can let that shelter from emotions go, even for her.

He finds himself in a large empty room. The doors slam closed behind him. The elaborate walls and ceiling ripple, wave and disappear. An expansive arena is laid before him, and the platform shudders and rises high into the air.

Astarion already has his daggers withdrawn, keeping a keen eye on his surroundings. He takes a couple of steps forward when nothing happens, and the air on the opposite side of the platform billows as if heated. A crack appears blazing blues and purples with an intensity that hurts his eyes. Its size slowly increases with the crackling sound of lightning that fills the air with electricity.

He’s ready to attack whatever anomaly comes out in a split second. He will not even give it the chance to...

His mouth drops open, eyes rounding, and a cold panic careens through his veins as Alita steps from the rift. Her eyes are wide with terror, shining the bright green and yellow that's haunted his dreams for a decade in the strange crimson-hued glow cast over this place. A figure stands behind her, one he cannot quite make out. It appears shapeless in the way it mingles with the heated air.

In a split second, it wraps itself around her, melding into her and she shrieks as her body spasms and convulses. It reminds him of the way his body writhed when he was turned into a vampire, sending a shiver down his spine. She falls to her knees, and he’s already rushing toward her.

“Stop!” She cries out, her body snapping to its feet in a way that looks irregular as if she’s a wooden puppet with no hint of the grace she usually possesses. “I can’t control it, Astarion! Stay away from me!”

He co*cks his head, not quite understanding what she means until he sees the Weave envelop her, and she lashes out at him with Disintegrate. She cannot control what she’s doing. Her mind is present, but her body is not hers. He leaps and rolls to avoid the attack. He hears the lightning crackle through the air before it washes over him, halting him as it courses through his muscles, and he realizes now just how much she’s held back during their little spats.

This hurts . Real, true pain as his muscles are strangled of their fluidity and lock up on him.

She’s already streaking toward him, and he does not have much time to recover or think. Is this the real Alita? Another trick? He grazes her with a dagger. The smell of her blood is certainly the same intoxicating sin, but Wyll smelled real as well. Although, he’s not entirely sure if Wyll was truly a trick or if he just watched his beloved behead the mighty The Blade of Frontiers.

He parries her attacks, dodges when he must, but never moves to strike even when she pleads with him to fight back. Gods. She is quick with her casting. She’s honed her skills further in the last decade. He recognizes the tactic being used. Keep him moving, with nary a break between barrages, to sap him of his energy.

As with most magic users, if he can keep her in close range, her repertoire is diminished, but she still manages to catch him with Burning Hands, Thunderwave to attempt to get her distance back, and using Misty Step to increase the gap.

“Alita!” he howls, rolling to dodge another Fireball. “What do we do?”

“You have to kill me." She concludes emotionlessly as she casts Ice Storm rending part of the battlefield little more than a rink. “You can use your powers, Ascendant. Do what must be done.”

“No!” he shakes his head furiously. “We will figure something else out.”

“There is nothing else.” He’s surprised to see she’s weeping.

She grimaces, trying to fight whatever has taken hold of her body with everything she has, screaming with an anguish he’s rarely heard from her. Blood starts to pour from her mouth and ears.

“Stop!” He screams. “Hells. Alita. Don’t fight it. I can take whatever you throw at me.”

“It’s to the death, Astarion.” She looks sullen as she casts Insect Plague around him.

She lunges at him, leaping pushing her feet into his chest and thrusting him off his feet. She’s on top of him, with the Weave aglow in her eyes, and spells rioting across her fingertips. She is beautifully wild, a supernova of turbulent stars and soft darkness entwined. No one should ever tame her – not even him. She was not meant to be quiet and subdued. She was meant to make the world quake.

Astarion stops fighting. It is a suitable death, he thinks. She made him and now she will undo him. Her hand reels back, mouth parting to speak an incantation, and he keeps his eyes on her because she is the last thing he wants to see.

“I love you,” she gurgles before reeling back with a yelp.

Before he understands what’s happening, she’s sprinting. His eyes follow her trajectory, and he’s on his feet chasing after her powered by terror so intense he’s not sure he’s ever felt this afraid.

She falls to her knees, body jerking and twisting nightmarishly, but she continues scrambling.

He’s so close now, if he can just grab her robe...

“No!” he yells as she rolls, throwing herself off the edge and plummets into the boiling lake.

Astarion doesn’t hesitate to jump, diving into the viscid soup. It’s as hot as Hellfire, burning on impact. Hands and fingers seem to tug him in all directions at once. He forces his eyes open even though it feels like they are simmering in his skull, but this is like swimming through oil.

There’s no way she could survive in this heat long. Her freckled skin has surely melted from her bones already, but he cannot bring himself to give up even as his own flesh is surely melting and sloughing off.

His hand bumps into something solid, and his fingers fumble after it blindly, grasping for anything tangible. It nearly slips out of his grasp, and his heart skips beats as he loses hold of whatever it is for a mere second until finding it again.

He sinks himself into the muck. He’s so deep now that he’s not sure which way is up or down, but that is a chance he will have to take as his arms wrap around something. All he can do is pray that it’s her.

He breaks the surface, hauling whatever is in his arms up, and sobs of relief stammer out of his mouth when he catches glimpses of navy hair underneath the glaze of thick crimson. Astarion pulls her as quickly as he can until his feet find purchase, and he lifts her above his head out of the broiling liquid.

He lays her down on the brimstone shore and listens for a heartbeat, but he knows as soon as the voice resounds.

“Pass.”

Astarion picks herlimp body up and walks through the portal into an entirely new room, but he takes little notice of it as he tries to get her to godsdamned breath. What does he do? Gods. What in the Hells can he do?

He can turn her...

She might hate him forever, but at least she would be alive. Well, in a manner of speaking.

He should not, but his selfishness knows no bounds, and he cannot imagine a world void of his beloved.

Death cannot have her.

She is his.

His.

Chapter 21: Fading Echoes

Chapter Text

Pain.

Pain is the first thing you feel, but a familiar pain of fangs popping through the outer layer of your epidermis, sinking into your flesh with an icy pinch that numbs and ebbs into a pleasing throb.

You’re padding the fine line between death and life, another sensation you’re well acquainted with. It is a beautiful fool’s paradise to be present in. In this purgatory, somewhere between living and dead, there is no pain, no urge, and no surges of magic, making you a ticking time bomb. It’s as peaceful as morning mist hovering above the smooth, mirror-like surface of a forest lake.

Another nip of teeth elsewhere makes you want to open your eyes, but they will not heed the commands of your dying mind; the order to open sparks across your neurons and fizzles out before it can reach the muscles.

If you are dead, the trial has been completed, and Astarion will have access to the tomes he needs, including many other trinkets that might be of use. However, even your honeycombed brain recognizes that this shouldn’t have been the last trial. Maybe it’s because you are dying and your brain is firing all sorts of erratic signals, but you know the final trial should have been a fight with an avatar of Bhaal.

That forsaken cathedral is where Bhaal pits his children against one another to cull the weak out of his ranks, and the Chosen get selected.

Once again, your father has pitted you against that which stole and gave you the strength to rise against him. If you could smirk, you would. Bhaal would never have imagined that you could fight against his possession, but you’ve been fighting in one form or another your entire life. He’s once again underestimated you. He will be utterly hysterical. You hope he stews in the sensation of you forcing your body over the edge despite his desperate attempts to claw your insides to mush.

Horrid, little bastard.

Another prick of fangs with a further burst of tingling, like pins and needles, confuses you. What in the Hells is Astarion doing to your corpse? If he’s hungry, you don’t mind him using whatever is left of you as his last meal, but good Gods, he does not need to bite you repeatedly for such an endeavour. Perhaps your blood is not pumping through your veins, and he’s just trying to get every last drop as it puddles and congeals in your vessels. He would not wish to waste your blood by leaving it in your lifeless body.

Yes. That must be it.

You’re descending into delirium at an exponential pace. Your thoughts become muddled, confused, and quick flashes of memories you don’t quite remember play in your mind's eye, but mostly, you see the scarlet eyes that keep haunting you. They are a beautiful blood-red paradise you’re more than happy to lose yourself in. You always did enjoy blood. In fact, you adored it far too much.

Which is why, when that ferrous elixir begins to flood into your mouth, you don’t fight the temptation to embrace it. It impresses your tastebuds for likely the last time, and you swallow gulps of it greedily. It's been some time since you dined on blood. This is a sick addiction you kept hidden in the dark well of your fissured soul.

You chalk up this delicious final feast to nothing more than another delusion as your brain attempts to make your death more palatable.

And palatable it is indeed.

You sink into death’s dark cloud with one final thought and regret.

I should have hugged him tighter and longer the last time we embraced.

Your eyelashes flutter, and you find yourself floating in a foreign domain. The dreamscape is empty and neutral. The ground beneath your feet is smooth and continuous, just a blank expanse of nothingness in all directions, and you glide over the boundless space with ease.

You trudge onward through the fringes of space and time with no sense of direction, but there is a purpose to your movement that you can’t put into words. There’s something here that you need to see or experience. You’re sure of it, but you must find it first.

You eventually wander into a mist of white wisps that float toward you like moths to flame. They frisk and flicker in the air, sparkling like snow in sunlight. You are lost, you think, in this virgin land of absence and eternal silence.

The pale haze fades, and shapes begin to take form. You stand motionless and observe the shapeless, colourless particles that build the backdrop of the Elfsong Tavern.

The smell of smoke and fires that still burn in the city from the Netherbrain attack is wafting through a hole in the wall. Citizens covered in soot, blood, and sweat mill around with dejected gazes. Everyone’s eyes are bloodshot and glossed.

Your friends sit at one of the tables that somehow made it through the carnage almost untouched. They are talking, making plans for their futures, laughing, and drinking whatever made it through the devastation. Astarion sits with them in quiet contemplation, fingers curled around a chalice that never touches his lips.

His head swivels around like an owl, observing his surroundings and searching for something. You frown, treading lightly through the space. You were never here. This cannot be your memory or recollection. By the time your friends gathered here, you would have already been long gone.

Their voices are a jumbled mess, and the conversation floats in and out of earshot, very much like someone who is too lost in thought to follow much. Occasionally, someone asks Astarion something, and the conversation becomes clear for a time until it again begins to sound like you’re underwater.

You walk around them, waving in their faces and trying to talk, but sound cannot escape your throat. They pay you no heed.

This is a memory you realize. But not yours. You are merely an observer in this recollection.

But how is this possible?

As the light filtering in from the crumbled wall begins to diminish, your friends happy laughter and gleeful planning for new, bright futures slowly subside until the table is full of quiet bodies with confused expressions.

One by one, they eventually give up and retire with little more than solemn goodbyes and half-hearted words of parting until only Shadowheart and Astarion remain.

Your companions stare at the bottom of their empty cups, not speaking to each other. Time speeds up around you, and the tavern starts to become crowded and then die down. For you, it feels like seconds, but it must have been over a course of hours.

Shadowheart finally touches Astarion’s arm, making him flinch at the unwanted physical contact. Shadowheart sighs. “She’s not coming, Astarion.”

His brows pinch, and he shifts his arm away from her. Astarion's eyes stay anchored on the chalice that he never even sipped from. “She will be here.”

She looks at him mournfully. “Do you want me to stay with you a while longer to wait for her?”

“No need.” Astarion waves her off dismissively. The cadence of his voice is aloof, but you can see the way he swallows hard. “Go. It’s been a long journey.”

“I will be taking my leave before the sun rises.” Shadowheart rises from her chair, picking up her mace. “This is goodbye for us.”

“Goodbye.” Astarion mutters absently.

Shadowheart takes a few steps before turning. She blurts out rather too quickly for someone with her typical steely confidence. “Perhaps you would like to go upstairs?”

His head finally snaps to her, and his eyes narrow. “Upstairs? Why?”

She smiles abashedly. “I’m sorry. That sounded more debonair in my head. Blame it on the spirits, but I did not take you for someone who needs honeyed words.”

“Oh,” Astarion’s eyes round and shift uncomfortably. “I see.”

Rage flares within you. You knew she found him quite attractive; who wouldn't? Shadowheart had a little too much wine one night during your travels and stumbled into your tent to question just how serious your relationship with him was. It irked you at the time, much to your surprise, but Astarion had made it clear that your little midnight trysts were nothing more than a way to get some relief from the madness that infected your lives.

Shadowheart asked how he was as a lover, but you declined to answer, unsure if this was a usual thing for friends to discuss. After all, you never had any friends before, not for long anyhow. You ended the discussion abruptly by telling her that if she wanted to know, she would have to find out for herself. You scampered out of your tent into the forest bordering the camp before your spasming fingers found a blade, and you could slice her into pretty Shar shaped ribbons. She was always sermonizing about her Lady of Loss, and in that moment, you would have been more than happy to send her into the dark embrace of her beloved goddess.

Jealousy was an unknown emotion to you at the time. You never cared about anything or anyone enough to evoke such a reaction, and it left you unsettled and confused.

She was not too pleased when Astarion rebuffed her advances, but her sourness over the debacle tickled you a great deal.

Astarion leans forward. “Do, pray tell, what brought this about? You have barely spoken to me since I Ascended.”

Shadowheart smirks, “I don’t want to talk, Astarion. I’m merely looking for a little short-term entertainment, a final hurrah, if you will.”

“Trying one more time to live out your vampire fantasies, darling?” Astarion purrs with that carefully crafted timbre that exudes seduction. It makes you bristle. "I’m not open for business. I’m afraid. You will have to find your jollies elsewhere.”

“Your loss.” Shadowheart shrugs.

“I assure you, the loss is yours.” Astarion leans back confidently with that smug liar's smile pulling up the corners of his lips.

Shadowheart snorts, nose stuck up in the air, and you breathe a sigh of relief. If you had to watch him disappear upstairs with her, Gods. You cannot even imagine it without your heart bouncing around in your ribcage. She takes a couple of steps before turning back with her hand on her jutted hip in her typical posture for lecturing.

“You could have had it all, Astarion.” Shadowheart snarls. “Power and love. She loved you, and I'm sure you loved her in your own, perhaps twisted, way. If you had only given her a choice, things would not have turned out so sour.”

“She made me weak.” He snarls with a menacing scowl, his lips pulled back to bear his fangs. "I’m glad she’s gone, and I pray she never returns. This city has seen enough chaos.”

“She made you strong.” Shadowheart scoffs. “And I do not mean this infernal power you now possess. If you are so glad that she’s gone, why bother waiting for her?”

“I’d rather like to tell her to go f*ck herself once more.” He drawls nonchalantly. “For old times sake.”

“Goodbye, Astarion.”

Astarion nods curtly, scowling, and watches Shadowheart until she’s out the door before he deflates like a popped balloon. His shoulders slump as he rests his forearms are on the table, and his confidence disappears. He shudders, eyes blank and glossed over, and you know that look.

The empty stare of disassociation.

Time speeds up again, hours turn into seconds, and the barkeep breaks Astarion from his detachment. “Saer. We need to close for the night.”

Astarion looks around the empty room and slides a handful of coin across to the weary-looking man. “Stay open an hour longer, and I’ll personally pay for all the repairs needed to the building.”

“An hour,” the man nods, stuffing the coin in his pockets in a hurry and leaving Astarion alone once again.

You stand beside him, reach out, and attempt to touch him, desperate to provide him comfort, but your skin registers no sensation. Tears prick your eyes. Out of all of them, you did not think he would have waited for you.

Truthfully, you didn't think any of them would care about your absence.

Astarion stares at his hands in his lap. He holds a small, indigo velvet-wrapped box, turning it over and over. You frown, crouching down to get a better look, but there are no distinguishing features to deduce what secrets might be held within.

All you know is that you never saw anything similar among his possessions before.

Astarion takes a deep, shaky breath, and a whimper escapes his lips, making your eyes shoot up to his face in surprise.

Teardrops flutter on his thick lashes; droplets land on his hands and skate down the smooth, angular planes of his face.

And this is the first time you’ve seen the Vampire Ascendant cry.

Chapter 22: Awakening

Chapter Text

You wake with a jolt strong enough to lurch your body. Your senses are frazzled and heightened far beyond anything you’ve ever experienced. Colors appear brighter and hurt your eyes, forcing you to squint as if you were trying to look directly at the sun.

The creaks and groans of the room, the skittering of the tiny claws of vermin scraping against stone, and their subsequent squeaks hurt your ears and head. You smell everything so intensely that you can taste the mildew, dust, and even the ice crystals formed in the air.

If that weren’t troublesome enough, there’s a peculiar new weight in your brain that feels much like the tadpole used to when it squirmed behind your eye. With that weight, another presence fringes the edges, skirting around like a scurrying insect.

Your chest jumps idiosyncratically. One moment you’re taking rapid, small breaths, and the next you’re not entirely sure if you’re breathing at all.

“It’s alright, my love.” Astarion coos, and your eyes snap to him, begging silently for help with whatever is happening.

The expression on his face seems misplaced. It is not the confident, cold mask of the Ascendant staring back at you through unfeeling eyes. It’s like he’s wearing a memory from a simpler time—vulnerability and shame. There is a depth to his gaze, like the veil has been lifted, and you can finally see the man you loved behind those scarlet oases.

There you go, not breathing again, as if he’s stolen the air from your lungs. You reach up and touch him, but he feels oddly warm. You’re used to Astarion being warm now, but his skin feels feverish on your fingertips.

“Something is wrong,” you croak weakly, as if this is the first time using this voice. Gods. Your voice sounds loud to your ears, and you wince. Were you yelling? You don’t think so.

You’re starting to squirm, panicked, twisting your fingers in your crunchy hair, trying to regain authority over the rebellious senses trying to overwhelm you.

“Easy,” he purrs warmly. His hold tightens, urging you to stop flailing. He sweeps your hair back, cradling your cheek and bringing your errant gaze back to the safety of his. “Everything is going to be alright. Are you in pain?”

The gentle breeze of his whispering timbre takes you by surprise.

“No.” You curl into him, squeezing your eyes closed. “There’s no pain, but there’s something in my head.”

“Ah, yes. About that…” Astarion starts, and you know that assuaging baritone.

“What did you do, Ascendant!?” You scream, jumping out of his arms and away from him, but you already know what he did as the pieces fall and snap into place, forming the picture.

Heightened sense. Not breathing. Cold skin. A craving for blood beyond anything you have ever known.

You don’t want to believe it.

You’re leaping through the room like a newly caged feral animal, bumping into tables and displays, topping statues and weapon racks that clatter so noisily you want to rip your ears off.

Your body does not feel right. Your movement is too fast and shaking like a leaf that’s been ripped from its branch and is helplessly fluttering in a whirlwind.

The scant light in this room finally glints off the reflective surface you’re looking for. When you look into the mirror, it does not acknowledge your existence.

Astarion comes up behind you, looking sheepish. “I can fix that, but it might be a shock. I would advise against it for now.”

“You turned me into your spawn,” you growl. A part of you wants to hate him for this trespass, but this was always going to be your fate. Wasn’t it? Eventually, maybe not today or tomorrow, you would have conceded life because life is meaningless without him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, casting his eyes to the floor. There are emotions in your head that you cannot fathom being yours. Mortification. Grief. Misery. Love? Affection? A need to feel him so desperately that your palms itch? Astarion's features sharpen. "I had no choice. You would not have survived."

“Do not play innocent,” you snarl, gripping the mirror so hard that the frame begins to buckle and compress. “You had a choice. You could have let me go peacefully into death. The only one who was ripped of their choice is me!”

Astarion’s chilly demeanour returns full force. He stands straight, shoulders rolled back, and chin titled up in that holier-than-thou posture he makes look so damn delicious.

“Stop snivelling,” he sneers, but there’s an unevenness in his voice that does not match his bearing. “I will not apologize for saving your life again.”

“You said you could undo this,” you gesture to the mirror. “Undo it. Show me what I look like.”

“I can. As my…” His words cut off abruptly, eyes bouncing from side to side as he considered his next words carefully. “Spawn.” He finally spits out harshly. “I can bestow upon you the gifts Ascension has given me — protection from the sun and your reflection — but I would advise you to wait for this particular gift until you’re feeling more settled.”

“No,” you retort sourly. Gods. What must you look like if he doesn’t think you should see yourself? “Show me now.”

Astarion sighs, a tiredness washing over him; he hides under agitation. "But, of course. I can deny you anything.”

When your reflection materializes, you’re less shocked than you thought you would be. Although your skin has lightened shades, it is still reminiscent of the freckled grey you had before. If anything, your freckles are now more pronounced. It looks like a negative of the night sky, in which the sky is light and your freckles are a constellation of darker stars scattered across your body.

It’s actually rather whimsical.

Your hair remains the velvet navy shade of midnight, which now severely contrasts with the increased ashen hue of your skin.

When you catch sight of your eyes, though, you inhale a sharp breath and lean in closer to the mirror. Your yellow eye remains largely unchanged, with maybe some additional crimson that seems to bleed out subtly from around your pupil, but your green eye has been overtaken by scarlet to match Astarion’s. With yellow and red eyes, you look downright sinister. You would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy how positively malevolent you look.

It suits you rather well.

Why didn’t my eyes change fully?

Your fangs are another shock to the system. They peek out from behind your lips. You’re used to seeing Astarion’s fangs, but these look strange in your mouth. Yours are smaller than his, kitten-like in comparison.

What does this mean for you? Are you forever locked into Astarion’s gravitational pull like a planet bound to its star even in death? Your freedom is surely lost. You’ve seen what he does to his spawn, how he makes me grovel on their hands and knees, kissing his shoes, and how he can destroy them with a thought.

If he thinks you will accede to him in such a way, he will rue the day he turned you. He can compel it from you, of course, and sure as the sunrises, he will, but Gods, you will never take abuse lying down like a wet rag.

You release the mirror, letting it crash to the ground, and anaesthetize yourself to the situation. You have an eternity to decide what you will do about this. Right now, you must get what you lost your life and freedom to obtain.

It’s fitting that it happened here, you think. This is where you were brought as a child and reformed into a monster. This is where your sister transformed you from that monster to a feeble sack of forgetful meat. This is where that boneyard of a God reshaped your destiny and bestowed upon you freedom from Bhaal.

And now this is where you’ve completed the circle.

Your eyes skip around the ancient heart of the temple. Only the Chosen have ever been allowed to enter, and there was little reason to do so. If you ever needed something from here, you would charge Sceleritas with retrieving it.

The skull of a dragon with emerald eyes is perched atop a pedestal in the centre of the room. Skulls and bones of various creatures, celestials, and humans alike make up the walls. The fine silken threads of cobwebs hang listlessly from various weapons slotted into racks. Enchanted jewellery sits in display cabinets with glass that’s been rendered opaque by the thick layer of dust.

Astarion does not speak but keeps a very close eye on you from a distance as you move toward a shelf that looks empty at first glance. You grasp the Weave and easily dispel the illusion, revealing the rows of old, largely forgotten texts. Parading your fingers over the dusty spines, you quickly pinpoint the three you need, but grab a fourth and hide it under the stack on the Black Thorn.

“Do you watch all your spawn with such intense interest, Master?” You spit sarcastically, accentuating the word tinged with venom.

You can hardly wrap your head around what’s transpired. You’re a vampire. You will live for an eternity with your sick urges, and now they will be compounded with bloodlust.

As if you needed further temptation to kill.

Your fingers go to your neck, and the pads run over the healing hollows where his fangs punctured your neck, forever scarring you with an imprint of his ownership.

“Alita,” Astarion whispers. He sounds unsure, and that weight in your head practically vibrates your brain with trepidation. “Can we just take a moment and talk, please?”

He accentuates it so hard that it sounds sincere — a request instead of a command.

“Talk about what?” You answer distractedly as you rifle through the sh*t in here and pick up whatever might be useful to you. You have no intention of coming back to this horrible place again.

“Don’t be stupid,” he scoffs, stomping over to you and grabbing your arm. His touch is gentle and affectionate, where you had tensed for rough and domineering. “You know what I wish to speak to you about.”

“I have nothing to say on the subject right now,” you reply, cool as winter, twisting out of his clutches to continue your scouring.

A lie. Despite your outrage, you long to feel his hands on you, blazing trails of life into your newly lifeless body. You yearn for it so fervently that your fingers tremble, bemoaning the restriction. The way his eyes track you through the room makes you wonder if he wants to destroy or devour you, and honestly, you’re fine with either.

“Nothing? I doubt that.” He seems astonished. “I suspect you have more than a few choice words for me. You usually never shut up. Fine.” Astarion sighs, surrendering. An odd sadness washes through you. You even think you hear small glimpses of what you can only assume are thoughts. Neither of which is yours. It’s unsettling. “But we must have a discussion about this at some point. Things that come instinctively to other vampires won't come to you.”

“And why is that?” You co*ck a brow at him.

Astarion regards you thoughtfully, “Because I am the Ascendant, and that’s just how it is.”

“Carry these, oh mighty master,” you seethe as the word sours your tongue even in the mocking intonation you said it.

“You do not need to call me that,” he retorts quickly. “I do not expect that of you.”

“You’re godsdamned right, you won’t!” You finally surrender to the acidic anger stinging and replacing the blood in your veins. “If you think for a godsdamned moment that you will have me crawling to your feet and kissing your shoes, you are a pea-brained fool. I will never be what you want me to be. You will have to keep me under compulsion constantly.”

“We will discuss all of this, little love, but not now and not down here.” Astarion wracks his fingers through his hair. “You’re starving. You must feed.”

How does he know you are hungry? Your stomach has been tying itself into knots, spasming, and cramping in your abdomen. It’s not an entirely unfamiliar phenomenon. Most of the time it does this with the mere thought of eating real food instead of… well, other not-so-food.

“There is nothing down here but vermin. If you try to feed me a rat, Astarion,” you hiss, narrowing your eyes, but feel guilty when he looks doleful with eyes widened with shock at your assumptions of his intention. “I will not take up your prior diet.”

“I would never.” Astarion assures a low, level, and earnest. He puts his hands up innocently and takes a cautious step toward you. “I will never hurt you or feed you vermin.”

For whatever reason, you believe him because the entity in your head spills truth through your brain like a knocked-over paint can. You cannot make heads or tails of whatever this is, though. Do all vampires feel this? Or has your mind just been broken further? Is it real or imagined?

Astarion shrugs off his doublet and undoes the buttons of the high-collared shirt he wears underneath, exposing his neck. He holds his hand to you with a genuine smile and says, “You can feed on me.”

Now, this confuses you more, and you jump backward. “I’m not hungry.”

“Do not lie to me. I know you are,” he says darkly. “You won’t need much, but it will help bring order to the heightened sensations.”

“I said no!” You snarl, “I don’t want to. You will have to compel me to do it!”

He smirks, but his hands go up. “Okay. Okay. You don’t have to, but if you change your mind, you have but to ask.”

“I’ve gathered everything I needed,” you gesture to the treasure. “Look around and take anything that seems useful or can be sold—I care not, and then I would very much like to go home.”

“Of course.” Astarion bows slightly. “Whatever my consort wishes.”

Astarion strides through the room, foraging for anything he feels might be useful. Watching him sparks the embers of your already overwhelming desire into a raging inferno that settles between your thighs. A shiver of anticipation runs up your spine, eager to feel the hunger of his kiss, his tongue leaving wet trails on your skin, and the beauty of that painful pleasure as he fills you.

Your mind wars between wanting to fight him or f*cking him senseless.

“I did not take Bhaal for being such a—“

The sound of his voice caressing your ears makes your decision easy, and he does not get to finish before your lips are crashing into his. A surprised grunt escapes his throat but concludes as a rumbling groan. Your fingers twist into his hair, holding him steadfast against your lips.

Gods. He tastes like all seven of the deadly sins, and you moan against his mouth as his lips part, and you feel the smoothness of his tongue exploring you with a voracity to match your own.

“What, pray tell, the f*ck are you doing?” Astarion asks, shuddering as you run your hands up his torso, rucking up his shirt.

You grind your hips into the bulge in his trousers with a soft sigh at the friction that sends you spiralling further out of control. “Would you like me to stop?”

He hesitates for a moment, breathing heavily. He discards his shirt in a fluid motion, grabbing your hips and rolling them against him. “Most certainly not.”

Astarion’s fingers are already deftly working the laces, clasps, and buttons of your robe. His tongue slides between your lips, finds one of your fangs, and runs over it. The hot sanguine elixir spills into your mouth, and you’ve never tasted anything so godsdamned knee-weakening.

Astarion breaks the kiss for a moment, his eyes glowing with infernal madness, and you recoil for a moment, thinking he’s about to compel you. With a flick of his wrist, the dragon skull shoots across the room, slamming into a wall and splintering into shards of bone. He lifts you off your feet with his arm that’s wrapped neatly around your waist and places you on the stone.

He backs away from you for a moment and stares at you reverently as if you were a goddess perched upon a Dias. Hells below. If he does not touch you soon, you’re going to combust.

He takes confident steps toward you, almost domineering. His eyes are so vividly crimson that you swear his irises burn and smoulder around the edges like burning parchment. Hooking his fingers in your waistband, he eases your trousers off you and drops to his knees.

He takes one of your legs, placing slow, soft kisses from your ankle all the way up to your thigh as he drapes it over his shoulder while never taking his eyes off yours. It makes your skin erupt into goosebumps. Every touch, every fan of his breath on your skin, and every gentle graze of his fangs against your flesh feels celestial with your heightened senses.

Your head falls back with a moan as Astarion runs his tongue up your thigh as if trying to map every goosebump.

“I wish to worship you, little love. I want your secrets and the sleekness of your sins.” He murmurs against your swollen flesh, the reverberation of his humming voice teasing your cl*t.

His tongue parts your folds with long, broad strokes, his nose brushes your cl*t, and he moans as he relishes the flavour of your lust. Your fingers find handholds on the edge of the stone as his mouth blankets you with warm, teasing laps.

Bucking your hips in, you grab fistfuls of his hair, stained a rusty hue, and pull, guiding him to where your cl*t is singing in aches and pulses. He obeys without complaint, his hands grasping your hips as he delves deeper and his tongue moves up to bestow attention on the sensitive flesh.

He alternates between flicks and traces around the border with pointed glides and firmer circles until he finds a rhythm that makes your breath hitch in your throat with animalistic wild cries you don’t bother trying to smother.

You hope your father hears you screaming louder, immersed in pleasure than he was ever able to make you subdued by pain.

Right when you’re chasing your climax, Astarion’s tongue ceases its ministrations teasingly, forcing you to refocus and shoot him a warning look. His eyes are half-lidded, full of want, full of need, and shining with the otherworldly infernal heat of the Hells themselves.

The feel of his panting, uneven breaths, and tongue pressed against your cl*t unmoving, makes you growl and rock your hips, trying to ride his perfect mouth. He smirks, relenting to your urging, and resumes his movements.

“Mine. You are mine,” he groans, wrapping his lips around your sensitive bud and sucking.

Your back arches off the stone as he suckles your cl*t more insistently with his fingers digging into your flesh in a possessive grip. If fingers could talk, they would whisper promises of pleasure and safety into your skin.

“Come.”

The command floats somewhere in your mind, blazing brightly behind your eyelids in Astarion’s gravely, deeply lust-laden timbre. You are far too lost in bliss for it to strike you as odd that you’re hearing him in your head as if he were speaking aloud.

He growls against you with the slightest side-to-side sway of his head. The extra sensation pitches you into the elysium of your climax with mind-numbing pleasure.

Astarion’s moans are almost as loud as your wanton screams as he buries his tongue into your entrance, desperate to feel the erratic waves of your fluttering walls. His thumb continues to sweep across your cl*t until you’re spluttering out useless pleas for reprieve.

“That’s a very good girl,” he purrs, his hot breath somehow cooling your sweat-sheathed skin. “Tell me. Who’s very good girl, are you?”

“Yours,” you answer immediately. You watch, swooning as he frees his co*ck, fisting it and stroking himself.

“Yours, what?” He taunts.

“Yours, sir,” you breathe shakily, taking in the way your arousal still glistens on his chin as he licks his lips clean of you.

Astarion hooks his harms under your knees, and he instructs smooth as warm honey and warm as fleece, “Hold on.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, and he lifts you, standing upright effortlessly. He whimpers as you untangle one arm from his neck, reach down, and grasp his co*ck. Your thumb gently glides over the obscene amount of precum drooling from his head, spreading it and positioning him at the entrance of your dripping c*nt.

He thrusts upwards, slamming his co*ck deep inside you with every pump. Astarion takes you in whatever way he wishes, and you let him set the pace. You are but a marionette in his arms as he pulls your strings and makes your bodies dance to a reckless rhythm.

It is hungry, bordering on frantic and wild, as if he’s f*cking you for the first and last time simultaneously.

With every snap of his hips, every sound of your wet skin, and his striking, you allow yourself to be consumed by him. There is something so sublime in the way he takes his pleasure from you unapologetically, but your pleasure is as important to him as his own. He follows the queues of your moans, the gasps that pant from your parted lips, and the way your fingers dig into his skin.

Astarion’s moans and whimpers murmur and vibrate deeply in his chest. He doesn’t need to be theatrical with you; he doesn’t need to think or perform. He just needs to be, and there is beauty in the way his face is twisted in pleasure with his lips parted.

He places a kiss at the base of your ear, his lips ghosting up the ridge. “Pull yourself into me, little love. This is where you belong - in my arms, pressed tightly against my skin, on my co*ck. Safe. I want you, nothing else, just you.”

You reply by carving every contour of your body into his. He is right. His arms are safe, and his touch is home. You cannot make sense of the way your souls coalesce, and you are drawn to him.

The pads of your fingers find your cl*t, as the pleasure begins to build so tightly in your abdomen that it’s almost too godsdamned much to take.

Astarion whines, catching your lips in his between ragged, heavy breaths as he chases his release. His hips stutter, pounding erratically and losing rhythm. He grinds into you as his co*ck pulses. The feel of his seed spilling into you pushes you over the brink with him, and your walls clench around his oversensitive co*ck as you peak. Stuttering breathy whimpers arise from his throat, the sensation a mix between sublime pleasure and pain.

He stumbles toward the Dias and sits with you slumped against him as you both take deep breaths, coming down from the high. Sweat runs down his temples, forehead, and chest, leaving smudged trails in the grime. It reminds you of so many times you and him rutted in the dirt after battles that left you blood-soaked and filthy.

Astarion is still catching his breath when he speaks again. “You are satisfied?”

Even in the hazy afterglow, with your bodies still joined together, the question strikes you as odd. Insecurity is weaved between the syllables as he tries to annunciate them confidently, as if the question is rhetorical. It takes you a moment to formulate a reply that isn’t a sarcastic quip.

“Thoroughly.” You confirm while trying to determine if you should ask the question that’s lodged in your throat. You frown. “When have you ever left your lovers unsatisfied?”

If he takes offence to the question, Astarion does not show it, tucking stray strands of your hair behind your ear. “Honestly? I’m not entirely sure.” He shrugs, a soft vulnerability overtaking his features that hardly ever sees the light of day. “I didn’t ask any of my conquests. I only needed to make them pliable enough to follow me blindly to their deaths. I never cared about anyone’s pleasure, not even my own, until I met you.”

“You care now, though, right?” You blurt out quickly. “About your own pleasure, I mean.”

He smirks, glancing down at the accumulation of your combined ecstasy puddling around the base of his co*ck. He kisses your forehead. “Absolutely. I care immensely about both.”

You breathe a sigh of relief and slowly climb out of his lip, instantly missing the feel of him inside you. You stare off dejectedly as reality starts to come back, crossing your arms over your nakedness.

“Do you think you will ever be able to forgive me, Alita?” His voice is projected directly into your mind, and your eyes snap away from him.

“Why are you in my head?”

Astarion’s eyes narrow, looking down at his hands on his thighs. He considers his next words carefully. “It’s a… spawn thing.”

“I don’t know.” You answer truthfully and turn away from the sadness turning the corners of his mouth down as he nods his understanding.

“I will earn your trust back in time.” He mutters resolutely.

Ignoring him, you grip the Weave, and wave your hand, dispelling another illusion to reveal various armours. Your robe is a grimy, crunchy heap of fabric. Your skin feels painfully sensitive, and the texture of the robe is now as rough and coarse as sandpaper.

An opulent ensemble you used to adorn in place of a robe sits on display. It was taken from you when you were cast out and left to rot in that pod.

The black corseted bodice and trousers are constructed of hardened leather, resistant to punctures from blades. The chest area and top are made of silver adamantine in an elaborate, interwoven coupling of twisted metal with a choker that clasps around your neck.

At mid-arm, a delicate cape extends that gives you the ability to disappear upon a successful kill. The gloves are fingerless, allowing for easy casting, but have a rough texture at the palms that grants a better grip on a dagger should you need to use one.

Channels of purple lace run up the sides of the corset, lined in silver adamantine, with delicate chains crisscrossing over the fabric. Thigh-high boots with the same purple end in more adamantine twirls that clasp around your thighs.

Astarion inspects the other armour on display as you dress. You walk up to one of the elaborate armours, eyeing it closely and deeming it close enough to his size to fit him.

“That one. It would suit your particular talents best, Rogue.”

The amour is a black and red, soft leather jerkin with raven trousers of an enchanted fabric to match, allowing for greater range of maneuverability. It features a strap across the chest that will hold throwing knives or daggers depending on his preference, as well as at each of his hips.

Other various straps of more toughened leather and clad with metal plating are placed at precise points of weakness to deflect the killing blows of blades.

“Why that one?” He queries.

“It will allow you to cast Blur as well as Invisibility should you need it, but mostly, it’s as close to your size as you’re likely to find here unless you wish to put on your soiled clothing.”

“I’m convinced.” He says airily.

Once he’s dressed, you both take a final lap around the room. He takes whatever looks useful to him, shoving the items in the pack slung across his shoulders along with the books you’ve already stowed away.

This new bloodlust is getting to you, making you rather irritated as your stomach cramps up on you. You’ve spent a lifetime with urges similar to these, but never with such intensity that even hearing his beating heart forces your sight to focus on the branching veins in his wrist or the pulsing artery in his neck.

“Come.” Astarion finally says, closing the bag and holding a hand out to you. “Let us return home.”

Home…

The home you’re going to flee the first chance you get before he can make you grovel at his feet like a dog.

“Yes.” You hide your intentions and sorrow behind your fraudulent smile. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter 23: Spawn

Chapter Text

Steam climbs into the air from the hot water of your bath. You shed the caked layers of dirt and muck accumulated on your skin like a snake sheds its skin and marvel at the rate at which your flesh is losing colour.

Lathering your hair with shampoo that smells of bergamot and lilac makes your idle mind run headfirst into thoughts of Astarion, which is decidedly not where you want them to be right now. You should be planning your escape, not daydreaming about curling up in his arms and requesting more grand lies to assuage the feelings of violation.

Astarion is unlikely to allow you to leave, as your free will now lies dead upon that stone in the heart of Bhaal’s temple. He said he could extend the boons from Mephistopheles, but that means he can also rescind them. When he finds out one of his spawn has gone errant, he will almost surely forsake or drag you back and lock you away until he can train you to be obedient. Your lips pull back in a sneer at the notion of having the wild lashed out of you.

You are sin, hellfire, and all things unholy; there is nothing in this world, not even him, that can domesticate the dark.

A knock on your bedroom door breaks you from your thoughts, and Ellis crawls in on his hands and knees, his forehead dragging across the floor. This unwelcome reminder of your future makes you want to retch. Perhaps I should send dear Ellis back to Astarion layer by layer as I peel back his membranes like an onion, you ponder. That would surely make your point clear, and he did say Ellis was one of his favourites.

“My Lady,” Ellis whispers. “The Master sent me to start your fire and extend an invitation to join him for the evening meal.”

“Get off your knees, Ellis.” You bark harshly. This show of deference simultaneously elates and sickens you. It reminds you of your new rank and the station you held before. “I am one of you now, after all. You do not need to get on your knees for me.”

Ellis stands as you command. Astarion's right. He is very obedient. Would he stand there and allow you to flay him if you instructed him to?

“One of us?” His eyes snap up at you, but there’s no surprise at your new appearance. He must have known this would always be your fate, just as you did when you turned Hethtalos towards Baldur's Gate.

You rise, stepping out of your bath. Water droplets rain down your skin, coasting over the contours of the hewn muscles of your lissom frame and puddling on the tiled floor around your feet.

You make sweeping gestures toward yourself. “A spawn,” you spit with contempt.

Ellis whirls and faces the wall, making you snicker gleefully. Shame and shyness are not exactly in your emotional repertoire. You find it comical how easily the grubby little worms of the world are flustered over something so natural. If you didn’t know better, you would think that babies are born fully clothed.

“Turn around and pass me a towel, Ellis.” You instruct. “Where is Claire?”

Am I being cruel, you wonder? Perhaps the better question is: do I actually care? You’re making Ellis uncomfortable purposefully because it amuses you. f*ck it, you think. You could use some entertainment right now, even at the expense of his unease.

Ellis murmurs, “The Master thinks it best if I see to your needs while you acclimatize.”

Of course he does, because you’re likely to eat the girl, or worse. You roll your eyes. Ellis does as ordered, grabbing a plush towel from the wardrobe and handing it to you. He keeps his eyes on his feet at all times. It irks you, only making you want to push the man harder into his discontentment.

“No,” you say, pushing the towel back into the man's hands. “Pat me dry, Ellis, and godsdamned look at me when you’re doing it!”

You're unsure why you're being so adamant. You don't enjoy being touched. This is just another way to get your mind off of what you've become and the lonely eternity that stretches out before you.

“My Lady,” Ellis’s voice shakes with a fear you can practically taste in the air that you relish, but you cannot comprehend what exactly is making the spawn so terrified. Does Ellis think you will hurt him? Is he afraid it might arouse him further? You already caught the bulge beginning to tent his thin pants. “I shouldn’t… Master—“

“Master would be very cross with you, child.” Astarion drawls from the doorway, positioning his body so no one can see in from the hall and look upon your undressed state. Ellis drops to his hands and knees again, crawling over to Astarion’s feet and kissing his shoes. Astarion gives him a pat on the head for being such a good mutt. “I do not share my toys with the unworthy. You may go, Ellis. Now.”

Ellis quickly retreats, and Astarion slams the door shut, making his irritation evident. He combs his fingers through his hair, mussing up his perfectly coiffed waves. You swoon over how handsome he is and scold yourself. Astarion runs his hand over his face, staring at you with a pointed look so sharp, you might be able to cut yourself on it.

“What games are you playing at, Alita?” Astarion hisses. “What exactly was the point of that little display?”

“I was too lazy to dry myself.” You shrug.

“Then allow me.” He bows shallowly.

Astarion grabs a fresh towel from the shelf. You cast Telekinesis, ripping it from his hands and snatching it out of the air with a hiss, baring your new fangs. Upon catching your reflection in the mirror, you realize it’s less imposing than you thought it would be, more akin to a kitten yawning than a snarling wolf, so you double down on the venom you spit. “Don’t f*cking touch me. Go play with one of your other toys.”

Astarion narrows his eyes, straightens, slips an arm behind his back, and puffs his chest out. “Fine. If that’s what you want, I’m positive one of my other pets will be elated to join me in the boudoir.”

The tittering voice of your urge detonates, spurred on by the little green monster that now goes by the name of jealousy and lurks in the chasms of your soul. It sketches vivid pictures in your mind’s eye of blood staining the floors. Ropey intestines and smooth arteries hang like garland along the walls. Squishing hearts, eyes, and all things soft under your feet and between your toes like grapes to make yourself a very fine coppery wine made entirely of those who dare to tresspass on what is yours.

If nothing else, it would brighten the oppressive ambiance that this damn palace cannot seem to free itself from.

Regardless of your true feelings, you know he’s trying to incite a reaction in you. Your edged features ease into a smooth, angelic expression, and you etch yourself in the visage of unruffled repose as you dry uncaringly. “Well? What are you still doing here, Ascendant? Go rut with one of your repulsive sheep; make them bleat for you - I care not. We both know you’ll be thinking of me while you take them, because that’s what you’ve been doing for a decade. Isn’t it?"

You know it is because that’s what you’ve been doing: trying to lose yourself in sensation and memory alike, using alcohol to stamp his face and voice over others, battling for any scrap and delusion you could.

It never worked. Even paid courtesans couldn’t touch you like he does.

Falling upon your bed, you let your thighs spread haphazardly, making it look organic and natural, but everything you do is premeditated. You can hear Astarion’s heart rate increase; the rapid thump, thump, thump in his breast is a bewitching melody to your ears, plucking the strings in your brain and making you oh so thirsty.

Astarion swallows thickly, his cardinal red eyes harbouring more heat than the sun’s surface, and he steps toward you entrancedly.

You tut him, cast Telekinesis, and shuffle him across the room as far from you as you can get until his back thuds into the wall at the opposite end of the bed chamber. Wagging a finger at him, you click your tongue mockingly, “I said don’t touch me.”

“You are my spawn,” he barks gruffly, smirking roguishly. “Your consent is not necessary.”

He disappears and reappears before you in less time than it would take his heart to beat, and he leans over you imposingly. The bed dips at your sides as Astarion walks his hands up the mattress, forcing you to lean back, but he never lets any part of him touch you.

“You would force yourself upon me?” You hiss, pursing your lips. You know he won’t. Despite his menacing posture, he is moving too carefully, too calculatedly, making sure he does not make any physical contact with your body.

If you are sure of one thing, he will not touch you without your consent.

You hope.

“I should,” he purrs in a smokey baritone that reminds you of the tingling warmth of smooth whisky sliding down your throat. You find yourself intoxicated by the sound. “I know you want me.” He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he opens them, he blinks slowly, as if just rising from a deep trance. “I can smell your desire, love. You cannot hide it from me."

You smirk and lean in close to him, forcing him to retreat to keep himself from impinging on your boundaries. The heady aroma of his lust is ripe in the air and evident in his breeches, and you can feel it, you realize, in your head through that weight in your brain. You can feel the sensation of his nerves humming, every twitch of his co*ck as the sensitive head brushes against the inside of his pants, the longing to kiss you, claim you, and make you his.

It is sensational, but also vaguely concerning. If you can feel all of this, what in the Hells can he feel? Is this normal? Did he feel Cazador in such a way? If he did, he never mentioned anything similar.

It may have been prudent to ask Ellis instead of alienating him. No, you think. It doesn't matter. You're going to leave anyway.

“No, I don’t.” You lie perceptibly. You need to test the waters, so to speak. Every time you’ve lied to Astarion before, he’s forced the truth out of you, like drawing syrup from a tree with a spigot.

“Liar,” he snarls indignantly. “Shall I force you to be a good girl and tell me the truth? Is that what you want? Are you searching for that little burst of euphoria for obeying?”

“Do it,” you snap. “I dare you.”

The ominous glow returns to Astarion’s eyes, shadows twisting out from behind his pupils like the squirming arms of a squid, but your control is not siphoned away. The air your lungs no longer require is not extracted and pulled from your throat in the form of truth, and your muscles do not tie into knots and seize. Rather, he leans away and takes a step back as the comforter on the bed folds over your naked body, and Ellis returns, worming his way across the floor.

“That’s close enough, Ellis.” Astarion says, without taking his eyes off you. “Fetch the queen consort a chalice of blood. Do make sure it’s fresh and warm.”

Ellis recites his understanding and quickly hurries away like an unsteadily crawling babe. You can’t help the way your mouth twists in distaste.

“I would have rather liked to be your first as you were mine,“ Astarion muses haughtily. “But if you would prefer to dine on someone else, so be it. I will not have you starve.”

“Do you let all your spawn suckle from the eminent Vampire Ascendant?”

“No, my dear. Never,” Astarion concludes sharply.

He doesn’t bother to elaborate, but he does not need to. If he allowed such a thing, he would be granting freedom to his flock and making them wolves instead of sheep. You’re not entirely sure how it works. Do they just need to bite him and drink his blood, or is his intent needed?

Ellis reappears quickly, and you can smell the heavy ichor perfume instantly. It makes your stomach lurch awkwardly, as if it might pop out of your throat and jump into the chalice to help itself. Astarion takes a sip, tests it, and holds it out when he’s deemed it sufficient enough.

Your palms burn to snatch it out of his hands and gulp it down greedily, but you repress the urge. You will not give him the satisfaction of witnessing you lose control like a starved, rabid animal.

You turn your head away, not trusting your voice enough to say anything. Astarion sighs and puts the chalice down. “You will have to feed at some point, you know. You won’t be able to resist it forever. If you continue this pigheaded, foolish attempt to get back at me, eventually you will be rendered all but mindless. It is not a pleasant feeling. Trust me.”

“Trust you?!” You shriek resonantly. “After you turned me into your spawn against my will? That’s f*cking rich.”

“You would have died!” Astarion howls and then sighs, shrugging. “You know what, darling? I grow tired of this interaction. Ellis! Where is the girl, the one calling herself Claire?”

“She works in the kitchens today, Master.”

“Lovely.” Astarion chimes. “Tell her to wash up and meet me in my study. I’m feeling peckish, among other things.” Astarion bows. “If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

With considerable effort, you hide your broiling rage and blow him a kiss. “Think of me, darling.”

Astarion stalks out with a growl, and Ellis follows closely behind his master’s heels like a loyal pup. You bury your face in a pillow and scream until your throat is sore and your voice is hoarse. There are too many f*cking emotions rolling around within you that you cannot place.

You’re angry, sad, frustrated, lonely, hungry, weary, and so much more all at once. It’s dizzying how quickly your feelings roll into one another, blending and merging into a godsdamned muddy mess, like an artist took every colour of paint and mixed them all together.

It’s hard to think of anything but Claire’s pudgy little paws caressing, stroking, groping what is yours. Astarion belongs to you. He is meant for you. The Gods themselves made him for you, and you never did learn how to share and play nice with the other kids.

Your urge chirps and trills so loudly that the edges of your vision blacken and undulate under the forceful onslaught.

Chew her hands off at her wrists! Slurp her stringy tendons like noodles! Crunch her bones to dust! Stain your mouth red with her blood! Make her sing her repentance!

Good Gods. You want to make her pay more than anything you’ve ever wanted — except perhaps Astarion’s love. How many of the ants have touched and held what is yours? How many of them still slink through these halls?

You will kill them all.

Stop. I must stop.

You grip your hair, pulling harshly at the roots, trying to ground yourself in something known, something familiar, something predictable —physical pain, but it’s not enough.

You need more. You need your nerves to scream in anguish before you do.

The blood in the chalice is making matters worse with its tempting, rich aroma, and you throw it across the room. It splatters, the chalice clanging across the floor, and the syrupy crimson drips down the smooth, shiny wood panelling.

Rummaging through your bag, you find the dagger you took from your father’s treasures. Unsheathing the blade, you find the sinuously curved adamantine blade sharp and shiny, and you thrust it to its elaborately decorated hilt into your shoulder without thinking.

Pain — it is an old friend.

You always had to be good with pain. You taught yourself to enjoy it. It was the only way you could survive your education and subsequent servitude.

"Weapons don’t cry, Alita," your father would say, because that’s all you were — a weapon wrapped in beautiful flesh.

Twisting the dagger just enough, you make your nerves sing, rewarding you with the wash of relief you’re so desperately chasing. But with this painful pleasure, your wild magic fizzes and froths over like a lousily poured pint of ale and erupts, sending an explosive shockwave outward in all directions.

Windows shatter, bursting from their frames. Dressers and wardrobes are rended asunder and splintered, vomiting your clothes on the floor in a shower of fragments. The lavish bed fractures and collapses in on itself as the posters rupture. The wood panels that adorn the walls buckle, and veiny cracks slither about the surface.

In the midst of all the chaos, you slip silently to the floor, now littered with fragments of jagged glass and chunks of wood.

You flick the dagger still embedded in your shoulder and contemplate how wonderfully solid the ground is.

There is comfort in knowing you can fall no further.

Chapter 24: Scorched Earth

Chapter Text

Gods.

What a mess.

And he’s only making it worse.

Astarion’s study door closes behind him, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth, able to breathe at last.

He can feel her confusion and her fear, but it is not fear of him. It is a fear of being less than she was somehow. She sees the other spawn and rebels against the fate she perceives to be her future.

He knows what she sees when she looks at him now. Just another master who wishes to use her, enslave her, and conquer her.

She could not be more wrong.

Clenching his jaw, he steps behind his desk and collapses into his chair, resting his head in his hand and closing his eyes. There are too many emotions in the bond he’s been trying to keep closed so as not to overwhelm her further, but some, much like water, slip through the cracks.

It is so Alita to punish him like this: refusing to feed, making his spawn towel her off when she knows it will enrage him, telling him to go rut with his sheep.

Perhaps he should f*ck the girl and make her bleat, as she so elegantly put it, just to irk her. He is the Ascendant; he can take whoever and whatever he likes, so why does his heart twist at the notion and his desire withdraw, curled up like a dead spider within him?

“Lord Ancunin? You summoned me?” Claire slips into the room on her hands and knees, but he does not bother to look at her.

He wanted to hurt Alita, but why? He did this to her. If he had just explained exactly what he did, perhaps her reaction would not have been so severe and cold.

Why didn’t he explain? He’s had ample opportunity. Even in Bhaal’s temple, he had purposefully chosen to use the word spawn.

“Claire, right?” Astarion doesn’t bother to mull over the fact that he used her preferred name. When he finally opens his eyes, the girl has already bared herself to him. It jolts him out of his chair, and he faces a wall. “Redress, girl. That is not what I summoned you for.”

“I would be more than happy to serve, my Lord.” She mewls.

He can smell her arousal, though he hasn’t touched her, and he bridles the urge to retch. It does not matter how much fear he instills in these imbeciles; they are more than happy to allow him to use their bodies.

All this power and wealth have not earned him the respect he thought they would. It only made him a more desirable target. He became a prize to be won and flaunted.

It had been fun at first to be admired, pursued, and wooed. And Hells below, did they ever bend over backwards for him. He had played their little games, making outrageous requests, only for them to enthusiastically agree to even the most deranged proclivities.

It was a delightful shift from the centuries he spent chasing conquests and victims, but it lost its charm quickly. He was still nothing more than a piece of flesh being fought over by a pack of starving wolves. None of them wanted or cared to get to know him.

So, he entombed all the soft parts of him that were left and laid Astarion to rest, tucked away somewhere deep inside him, concealed and protected from the world that still refused to see him as a person.

If he wanted respect and power, he would have to take it through fear, blood, or both, and he would take what the world owed him or he would sink it into darkness with him.

Thus, the fearsome, cold Ascendant was born.

“I said redress. I have no need of your,” he cringes, mouth twisting like something rancid sits on his tongue, “services.”

“Oh—I— I’m sorry, my Lord.” Her voice shakes, no doubt wondering what her punishment will be. “I must have misunderstood.”

This is what they’ve come to expect when he summons them to his study, because he only ever f*cks them here. It felt somehow too intimate in his bedroom. That was a place for solace, and there was very little solace to be found even when he was attempting to lose himself in the pleasure of warm bodies and blood to feel something other than empty.

He’s going to have to replace all his damn servants, isn’t he?

Gods-f*cking-damnit.

Yes. He will send them all away as soon as the gala is over and start anew.

How easily Alita has waltzed back into his life and set his perfect little kingdom on fire.

“Stay away from my consort for a while. Ellis will be delegating you new duties for a time.”

Claire fidgets with her hands. The smell of fear waves off her like a succulent perfume. It makes him relax. Fear means control, and Astarion languishes in it. To him, control equates to safety. Claire’s voice trembles. “Stay away from her, my Lord? Why?”

“Because I godsdamned said so!” He snarls, slamming his hands on his desk. “Wherever are your manners? Alita has been too soft on you, allowing you to ask questions. You do not question my instructions. Do I make myself clear or do you need a reminder that I own you?”

“Yes, my Lord! I beg your forgiveness. I belong to you.” She yelps, dropping to the floor.

“Good.” He grunts, sitting back in his armchair. “Now get out of my sight.”

Once the girl is gone, Astarion flicks his wrist, locks the door, and lets his head fall into his hands. Despite his ability to guard what is shared by him over their connection, Alita cannot, and he feels everything.

Her grief is horribly discreet. She does not sob or wail, but it is as persistent as the silent bleeding of an unstitched wound. Astarion’s chest tightens. He should not have insinuated that his intention was to sleep with the girl, but she had hurt him when she instructed his spawn, his lesser, to dry her, and his first instinct had been to hurt her back.

Gods. He’s such a fool.

She is ravenous, but he’s been shielding her from the pain with his mind and baring that gnawing, constant ache that feels like a beast clawing his insides to mincemeat, so it does not hurt her. He has not had to feel this for a decade, and it’s easy to forget just how taxing bloodlust can be when unappeased.

It’s taking its toll on the Ascendant.

He should tell her the truth about what he’s done, but that would mean admitting he can no longer exert his control over her. That frightens Astarion, or perhaps it threatens the Ascendant’s pitiful need for dominance and dominion.

He’s been so hollow for a decade that he forgot how confusing emotions can be. When he consigned his feelings to the grave, he never thought they would be unearthed.

He saw the way his so-called friends looked at him after he completed the Rite, like he was different somehow, a new monster for them to scorn. There was fear and judgment on all of their faces, except hers. He could live with their distaste for him, but then she abandoned him because she assumed he would turn her into a slave when his only intention was to love her, with all her magnificent darkness and demons, unconditionally for eternity.

He would never admit it to anyone. Hells, he does not like to admit it to even himself. But her rejection hurt.

It turned what should have been a happy, triumphant day into a sour, bitter thing, but the fault is not entirely Alita’s. He’s relived the memory of that conversation hundreds, nay, thousands of times in his head. He was harsh and not exactly forthcoming. He slipped back into his overly charming, manipulative role, thinking he needed it to convince her, but it had only driven her away.

By the time he realized he’d been impetuous and had worked up the courage to tell her the truth, she was gone.

Astarion sighs, getting up and inspecting himself in the mirror. The Ascendant does not stare back at him. Gone is the stolid, passionless expression he’s become accustomed to.

The face looking back at him is creased with uncertainty. Fear even. He sees the remnants of the man who, somewhere between concocting his simple plan and attempting to execute it, accidentally fell madly in love, giving his heart away entirely.

He has not seen this man with soft eyes and a warmth in his expression in some time. He places his hands on either side of the mirror, bracing himself, and leans close, examining this aspect of his former self that seems to have melted the ice mask he typically adorns.

It’s like he’s seeing himself for the first time again.

That little voice—the one he shut away a decade ago—that’s been pleading to be heard now wails as if his reflection is talking to him.

What in the Hells are you doing, idiot!? It admonishes him. She came back, and you are still getting caught up in your pride and repeating the very mistakes that pushed her away. If you cannot be vulnerable with her, then maybe you don’t deserve her.

I don’t, he thinks, but I’m godsdamned going to try!

Astarion takes a deep breath to steady his frantically beating heart. He lays the Ascendant gently away in the dark earth of his soul and lets Astarion breathe once more.

“How was he?” You murmur from the floor as soon as Claire enters your room.

She gasps, her eyes rounding at the disarray that’s befallen your room. Whether you’ve been lying here for minutes or hours is anyone’s guess. You’ve mostly been swimming around in the emotions plaguing your tattered mind. It feels like your brain has swollen, soaking up sensations and feelings like a dry sponge in water, making it too big and heavy for your skull.

“Mistress! Your shoulder!” Claire’s hand covers her mouth as she shrieks in horror. She leans down, her hand trembling over the hilt.

You reach out, grabbing the girl's collar, which she must have forgotten to remove before coming to see you. Why is she even here? Did Astarion send her back to parade his adultery in your face? Is it even infidelity? He’s not beholden to you, after all, and he’s made no promises to you either way.

It feels like betrayal nonetheless.

“I asked you a question. Answer me. How was he!?” You shout, snarling.

“Mistress, I don’t understand.” She shakes her head, trying to puzzle out the question. “How was who?”

“Your Lord.” You hiss, bitter as winter frost. “I will end you for touching what is mine!”

Flicking your body upright, you wrap your fist in Claire’s grey garb and lift her into the air. This strength is new. You ponder it for a moment before bringing your attention back to where it belongs.

Claire’s feet kick in the air uselessly, trying to find purchase as she wriggles. You slam her against the wall, knocking the breath from her lungs, rendering her unable to yowl. Your indignation is only stoked further by hearing the girl cry Astarion’s name.

You might just shave her lips off her face. You could find a cheese grater in the kitchens, surely.

That could be fun.

You stare at her revolting hands with contempt. Images of them defiling the holy grail of Astarion’s pristine alabaster skin skip around your head, taunting you.

How long would it take to gnaw through her wrists? Too long, you ascertain, too long to listen to her wailing. Screams usually serenade your urge into a peaceful slumber, but hers are making it louder, stronger, and nigh on insurmountable.

Gods. When was the last time you were this full of unfathomable loathing? When was the last time you gave into your darkness and let it run wild?

Who the f*ck are you kidding with this facade of control you’ve been playing at for a decade? You’ve gotten good at pretending—so good that the lines blur between your truth and fiction.

You’ve been wearing this mask so f*cking long that you’ve forgotten what it’s hiding.

You are a Bhaalspawn - born in blood and brutality. You are not merciful or kind. You are murder, madness, and malice.

So murder you will.

Your fangs sink into the girl, and she squeals like a dying swine. It is an odd feeling—your fangs popping through layers of skin and muscle. You have the urge to bite, to consume but don’t exactly grasp how. Luckily, this is not about satisfying your raging hunger. It’s about revenge and penance.

You bite her again and again and again. Your fangs sink into her arms, legs, and torso, puncturing through her clothes until her sickly sweet, metallic essence tints your lips red, stains your teeth, and drips down from your chin.

It feels good to be bad and, oh, so deliciously familiar.

Her squirming is starting to lessen as her heartbeat weakens, but you’re rather busy marvelling at the fact that your arm isn’t fatiguing. You could likely hold her up like this for days. How many times could you stab now before the muscles in your arm grow sore? Hundreds? Thousands?

Hm, a wonderfully macabre thought.

Your vision distorts around the circumference, billowing and ripping, with melanoid veins creeping inward. Your head throbs with a migraine you’re well acquainted with. Your urge cannot force you into blackouts any longer, but that does not mean you cannot allow yourself to slip away into the Stygian ruin that is your psyche.

And today… today, you chose darkness.

You have one last thought before you let your madness serenade you into oblivion.

Though you may have broken your father’s shackles, are you truly free?