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larynn | 26 | she/her |🌈 writing & poetry - pms open so say hello!

[ladylarynn]

Alleyway Affairs - Finale

Part 8 - Soaring Across the Sky and Sea

Summary: This is the eighth and final part to Alleyway Affairs.

The last you heard from Astarion, he told you to "die screaming." Months later, you find each other again. Only this time, deep in the city, in an alley under nightfall. Perhaps, he will bleed you dry. Or perhaps, he has other plans for you.

Rating: Explicit

WC for part 8 - 18k, total - 78k+

Pairing: Astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: 18+ established relationship pre breakup, post ending for BG3, explicit sex, explicit consent, angst, in love & its a disaster, additional tags posted on ao3

read on ao3

or keep reading below <3

hope it's okay I tagged you… :) @babypeapoddd, @joyful-enchantress, @expensivepussysworld, @dr-acula121

tw: graphic depictions of violence and death.

☾☼

The sullen face of the moon burrows itself into the bloated belly of clouds. The unruly rain pelts the ground, each drop plopping into puddles and soaking the earth with the fiercest of grief. Your father’s manor is the monster on the hill. It leers over the sea, its body and bulk extending over what felt like acres of land, nearly stumbling over the cliffside. Its gated arms encompass the secluded roadway. It’s knotted hands of moss and steel unfurl, allowing your carriage to have entered the roundabout. A sea of carriages are already here, with guests hoarding toward the front door. Their carriages, coach drivers, and footmen wade to the stable yard to wait out the ball.

Your stomach twists. In your peripheral, you watch as Devina fidgets with the mask on her lap, pulling at the ribbons. She should have done this sooner, so she hurries, tying the ribbons behind her hair, securing the mask snugly in place.

It is a full-face mask with cut open eyes and painted lips, with a collection of spikes spewing out from one side: all whites, greens, and creams. Its design is divided down the middle, one half adorned with pearls that match the ones pinned in her hair, the other half encrusted in emeralds. The features painted on; the smile of white rising high at her cheekbone contorting into an exaggerated frown of sage dipping down her chin.

The emerald reminds you of the ring you brought to Drake.

You glance away from her, gaze settling on Astarion instead.

His gloved hands are curled over his thighs.

The disguise he wears is one he deeply despises. It hadn’t been the one you’d initially picked.

Drake had sent both of your outfits a few days prior, much to your vexation. Upon his handwritten note, Drake’s words were dipped in the black ink of his intent, written with fluid flicks and precise elegance.

For the masquerade, little dove. If you wish to infiltrate the ball without issue, you must wear it.

You had trailed your fingers along the many pale feathers bursting out from either side of the corset’s shoulders and spine. Your mask was made up of two parts. It had cut out eyes that flourished outward in feathers, the golden nose short like a beak, yet beneath it was fully white, with a molded-out nose and soft, expressionless lips.

It was as though you were wearing two faces.

One of a marble statue, and then one of a dove.

Your dress was of the same color scheme, the boning of your corset pearlescent with trim lace and gold embroidery that streamed into sashaying slips of cream.

After you had gone through the pieces of your costume, you found another note with another set of clothes.

And for your lover, whose authentic self should be reflected in his attire.

D.

At first, you hadn’t known Drake’s meaning. Astarion’s outfit consists of the finest materials, from the pure gold chains that dripped from the ruby of his rose broach to the gilded embellishments of his waistcoat. Beneath it, he wore a billowy blouse, the ruffles running high up his neck, all lace trimmed. His pants were of the same marrow white as his blouse, coordinating with the withered white of his long cape. The cape drenched his body from shoulder to ankle; however, you felt sick at the sight of the red dipped hem. It was purposefully made to look bloodied and torn.

When you helped him dress, he had been dead silent. What he was feeling you already knew, without needing to ask. It crept in you just as the way his eyes followed your hands making reluctant progress of his buttons and cufflinks.

You knew he couldn’t see himself reflected in the mirror, and for once, you had felt relieved by it. Not that he wasn’t beautiful, that much was evidently true. No.

It was that when he’d finally put on the mask, he transformed into something you did not want him to see.

It was formed from bone-white ceramic, and it consumed the whole of his face. It stretched from its perked ears to the peak of its snout, the nose tipped black. Bold strokes of scarlet and gold bordering the cut-out eyes, forming them into a sneer, painted up to the middle of the ears. The upper lip pulled back over long, jagged canines; its teeth beset in a perpetual snarl.

The mask was that of a wolflike creature, keen on pursuing prey.

Your stomach had dropped; your gaze turned aside as plumes of anger engulfed your heart.

Drake wanted me to see him like this.

And only this.

A hand touches yours.

You flinch out of your thoughts, as Astarion gestures to the carriage door. The footman is already aiding Devina down the steps. You are to go next.

You pause, gesturing to Astarion’s waistcoat with a furrowed brow. He knows what you’re asking, as he pats over the inner pocket.

You had given him your sending stone as an extra precaution. You aren’t sure if Drake would ever heed your call in this situation… let alone if it came from Astarion’s voice. But for some reason, you felt better if Astarion was the one to keep hold of it.

You turn to leave the carriage, and yet, you feel Astarion’s fingers squeeze once over your palm. You look at him, but his mask can only display one emotion. Wrath. Nonetheless, you squeeze his hand back in response, a wordless reassurance for whatever is to come.

☾☼

Whispered words ensure your entry regardless of your concealed identities, and Devina beckons you through the manor’s colossal doors.

Once inside, you lose your breath.

It is a cataclysm of magnificence and madness. The high ceiling was a flood that flowed far and wide, meticulously decorated with winged divinities fluttering amongst an endless heaven of pinks, yellows, and cerulean. The designs merge into the twin winding staircases opposite one another, a purple runner pouring into the ballroom. Heavy chandeliers are twinkling from the ceiling, their droplets made of crystal, glass, and enchanting shine. It is nearly blinding.

As you make your way into the main ballroom, Astarion’s hand finds yours. You look at him, and he tilts his head.

You suppress a quivering inhale as your fingers lace together.

Even the gods would never enter here.

The room is not a room. It is more like a dream.

From the domed ceiling hang draped curtains that touch the floor, made of lavender silk organza. Lit candelabra cast mysterious figures onto the faces of masked revelers. Ornate furnishings and people saturate the room in vivid hues. Tapestries fall at either side of the windows, their folds like molted layers of a snake’s skin peeling into the wooden floor. Windows made of tinted glass are pulled taut and tall over the walls. They deluge the room in technicolor every time lightning strikes the earth.

An orchestra’s music bleeds into the ears of every guest, its array of sound as loud as the colors threaded into the fabric of the room. It is a collimation of percussion, strings, woodwind, and brass. The rumble, the droning melody, the harmonization of shrill notes and low soothing strums make your head swim in symphonies of dizziness and sway.

Astarion holds your hand tighter, as you make your way to the center of the room, yet the nausea doesn’t dissipate. The people dressed in gaudy and grotesque costumes, their masks made to provoke mouth ajar awe or a wide-eyed fright.

Each mask was of a delirious design, whether it be their downturned noses that obscured the whole of their countenance, or their elongated smiles, forlorn frowns, jubilant jeers, or their sharp chins, their beaks, snouts, scaled skin or tufts of fur. They wore overgrown roots, spikes, feathers, or decayed bouquets for head pieces.

Some wore masks that merged two to three faces into one in a gruesome tug of wrenching features. Others wore masks with horns that curled up and over their head and around their painted lips. Some wore masks that resemble jesters, relishing in their malice and mischief with three-pointed jingling hats and permanent grins.

Their masks were made of porcelain, some pig or sheep leather, some ceramic or paper mâché.

All of them not a definitive animal, yet all of them distinctly… inhuman.

For those not dancing, they sit at round tables with flutes of bubbling champagne or glasses of wine. At the center of each table is a grandiose centerpiece of bronze leaf foliage surrounded by vast varieties of cheeses, berries, and the peeled apart and nibbled skins of cooked animals. The guests not sitting choose to flock from one table to the next like squabbling seagulls, the slick of pork juice glistening around their lips and on their greedy fingertips, the seeds and stain of blackberries purpling their once pearly white teeth.

Others dance to and fro around the room in supreme giddiness, in bizarre twirls of tinsel and terrible laughter, their hyena like howls of hilarity piercing and relentless.

Devina’s fingers find your wrist. She leans into your ear.

“There are other rooms down the corridor, if you don’t find who you’re looking for here,” she leans back, then pats your hand not entangled with Astarion’s.

“We will reconvene at the end of the night. Enjoy the festivities.”

With that, she turns away, weaving between bodies and sound.

Astarion leans into you as well, his voice an octave louder than normal to combat the swells of music.

“What should we do, darling?”

You looked at him, and although the whole of his face is obscured by his mask, when you’re this close to him, you could make out the red of his irises.

You open your mouth to respond, but you are cut off by a voice. Its deep drawl is like playing an organ. Deep. Resounding. It judders the bones.

“Starting with a dance always fills me with exhilaration.”

You turn, and before you stood the body of a massive vulture.

His mask, different from all the rest, is a skull. Cleaned, yet unpainted, unadorned. It was bone. Its beak extended out, far down the cut of his chin, obscuring his mouth. His eyes followed you from behind the ebbing of bone. His cape protruded out in profound blacks, tawny browns, and sand-colored feathers. They stuck up around his neck like a high collar, and when he touched your hand, you noticed his jewelry. On the last joint of every finger, he wore talons that extended out over his fingertips in a slight curve. Not crafted from diamond or gold, no, they looked to be… carved out from bone.

He stood a head taller than most, having to peer down his beak if only to meet your gaze. He cocked his head at you, mutely mocking your silence.

You hesitate, and he chuckles behind the mask, his feathers shaking and his eyes glinting.

“No need to be coy, Lady Brentwood,” he said, his timbre dipping down with his bow.

How did he—

“And you are?” Astarion intervenes, plucking away the stranger’s hand from yours, his tone short and clipped. The stranger rises from his bow, and though you can’t see his smile, you hear it in his voice.

“My apologies, I forget myself,” he says whilst raising his chin, “I knew what you’d come as, but of course you weren’t privy to the knowledge of my attire.”

He tapped at his beak, and for some reason, you felt as though his eyes never left you, even when addressing Astarion.

“I should be more conscientious of first impressions. I’ve been told I’m either downright dreadful at them, or diabolically delightful,” he remarked, then reached for your hand once more, “I am Renald Lockwell, the host of this grand event, and the one whom invited you both.”

The garish golds of the room take hold of you in its fist. You feel it clench and twist over your ribs.

No.

“Ah!” Astarion intercedes, untwining your hands and reaching out to shake Renald’s. Renald accepts the gesture with grace. “I apologize for my prior tone. It is a pleasure to meet you. Your home is quite astounding in its extravagance.”

Renald’s eyes land on Astarion, and for that brief moment you can breathe.

Act natural.

But that second of reprieve ends all too sudden, as Renald’s gaze fixes on you once more.

You hold up your hand to shake his own. You suppress a cringe.

He waves off Astarion’s apology, “No matter. I am pleased you made it safely overseas and look forward to our meeting in the East Wing later.”

You nod, smiling tightly, then reply, “As do we.”

You pull back your hand, and Renald’s eyes sparkle with something you can’t decipher.

“Yes…” he trails off while looking at you, then glances back at Astarion, “…well. I hope you enjoy a drink and a dance in the meantime. Please feel free to mingle to your heart’s content,” he pauses, then turns his attention back to you, “I hope you’ll also take part in a dance with me sometime this evening, as well, Lady Brentwood. That is, if it is of no consequence to Lord Brentwood.”

“Of course,” you say, struggling to mollify yourself, “I’ll find you later on.”

“Lovely,” Renald replied, “I do look forward to it.”

Your eyes follow him through the crowd as he leaves. You don’t realize Astarion is speaking to you until you feel him take your chin in his hand and guide your eyes back to him.

“Are you alright?” He says, and his eyes are clouded with concern.

You don’t respond.

You can’t.

You just… met your father for the first time, and though you could only make out his eyes, he looked the same as you had always imagined.

A vulture encircling my life.

Astarion bows his head, the snout of his mask grazing your feathered hair piece.

“Love.” His fingers lace in yours. “You’re okay. I’m here. Talk to me.”

You had been looking right through him. It takes a moment for your gaze to settle, for your pulse to be soothed by his thumb rubbing circles over the silk of your gloved knuckles.

“We need to pick them off, one by one,” you say for only him to hear, finding your composure, “or else we need to go with our other plan, and well… it would be best we avoid that.”

He offers you a nod.

“We can explore the rooms together, since they currently aren’t here,” he suggests, yet you bite your lip behind your mask. If you wish to get this done before Renald comes lurking, you need to hasten the process.

“We should separate. We will save time---” you say, and his rebuttal is right on the tip of his tongue, but you don’t allow him to cut you off. “We will reconvene here in an hour,” you assure him, yet from his eyes he doesn’t look to be anywhere near warming up to your proposal, “If all else fails…” You take a breath, “…we proceed with our second plan.”

A long pause.

“Fine,” Astarion resigns, a frown found so plainly in his voice, “I don’t like it, but fine. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

A ghost of a smile perks your lips.

“You act as though you’re worried about me,” you tease, trying to make light of the situation, and yet your heart seizes when you feel him embrace you, his chin resting atop your head, his arms wrapping around your waist, below your wings.

He whispers into your hair, and it sounds both quietly anxious and… afraid.

“I love you.”

Just as he says it, he’s pulling away, his arms falling to his sides.

You mean to say it back, but someone taps your shoulder, and you spin around, eyes landing on a stranger with the mask of a serpent.

A mark.

Lord Levi Avington.

“Could I have this dance with you, my lady?” Lord Avington politely inquires whilst extending his hand out to you. You waver, then glimpse back to where Astarion was standing.

He’s gone.

Your heart drops.

From behind you Lord Avington gently yanks at your hand, and you twirl into his arms. His eyes are black, like night skies without any stars. His mask is made completely of bronze, the designed body of a serpent slithering around the cut open mouth, up the cheekbone and hissing out from between his brows. Despite the snake’s fangs and red bejeweled eyes, you find the mask to fill you with a sense of pity, as though the man beneath it was being constricted against his will.

He looked to be harmless, yet the ooze of his smile said otherwise.

“You look ravishing,” Lord Avington announces with such intolerable charm, and it wards off any mercy you may have had, “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of you since I saw you across the room…”

You peel his hands away as graciously as you can muster.

“It’s a shame the music is so loud,” you reckon, “should we find a better place to get to know one another?”

He beams.

“Why of course, my lady,” he bows, then looks up to you through the bronze of his mask, “I know every room. I could give you a tour.”

☾

To say he isn’t pleased would be an understatement.

From the instant he felt nimble fingers curl around the bend of his arm, wrenching him away from her, he was incensed. He’d only gone along with it as when he’d turned around to see the face of the culprit, he found the face of a rabbit instead.

It was unmistakable.

The long white ears. The pink tipped nose. The mask was shaped with a bubbled upper lip, with long white whiskers, and cut open eyes. The red ringlets of the woman’s hair brought out the red of her lips, and the azure of her mischievous gaze.

Lady Ruth Reed.

He’d let himself be drawn from the ballroom floor, shown through the corridor, all the while the woman giggled back at him, her voice slippery and smooth. One of her hands skimmed over the winding wall, trailing over the drip of oil paintings, tracing the passing faces of lineages and stormy seascapes. They were headed down the West Wing.

“I’m surprised you didn’t resist,” her fingers slide over Astarion’s wrist, “you even left your date behind.”

“She’s my wife,” Astarion declares, about to yank away his arm, yet he catches himself, shaking his head and training his tone into something sultry and sly, “…regardless. Where are you taking me?”

She clicks her tongue, “I knew that already, Nicholas, and honestly, it depends on how big of an appetite you have,” she flirts.

He’d been warned their marks would be given descriptions of their costumes as well, but her overall familiarity with him was unnerving. Astarion chooses not to respond, instead becoming preoccupied memorizing the layout of the winding hallways, intent on finding a place to kill this woman in private.

However, everywhere his eyes landed, people prowled. The rooms with open doors were swamped with gossiping guests inside, whilst doors left closed were guarded by a pair of servants with masks of their own.

Hells.

This isn’t going to go as straightforward as we’d hoped.

Ruth’s hands curled into the front of Astarion’s waistcoat, tugging him to a guarded door. He tore her hands from his clothes without thought, and yet she only laughed in reply.

“I love when my men play hard to get,” she says, and proceeds to lean into him with heavy lidded eyes, and batting lashes, the scheming of her lips all too smug. She turned her attention to the door, and then her ditzy behavior transforms to stern nastiness with the snap of her fingers at the guards. “Hurry up and open the door. We don’t have all day.”

The guards, recognizing her and his description from their employer, willingly oblige. Instantaneously, Astarion is hit by a gust of pungent aromas, the smoky scent of roasted pig flesh, the rich savory depths of sauteed vegetables, the buttered breads, the spices of nutmeg and pumpkin in golden brown pies, the sweet vanillas of other baked deserts.

The wall’s white crown moldings are a stark contrast against their mustard yellow paint, culminating up and over the ceiling, a chandelier swaying over the dinner table. A blanket of food is laid out atop an elongated table, sprawling from one end of the room to the other. People are sitting all around the table, all wearing masks that allow easy access to the meal, despite one.

The man at the head of the table with a turkey leg dripping its grease down his one hand and a piece of triple layer chocolate cake in the other, has his mask pushed up over his head. It is made from burgundy-brown leather, with a wrinkled snout and protruding teeth, the head of a boar created to be as lifelike as possible.

It was as despicable of a sight as the corpulent man engorging himself on his feast.

However, the mask belonged to a mark.

Lord Bartholomew.

Lady Reed laces her arm around Astarion’s, snatching him to her side.

“Curse the gods, we have the wrong room,” she spits out.

“I didn’t think this was what you had in mind,” Astarion remarks sarcastically.

“It wasn’t,” she deadpans, yet before she can turn, Lord Batholomew catches her in his line of sight. He beckons her over with a wave of his hand, whilst taking another mouthful of meat.

Lady Reed rolls her eyes, shoulders deflating as she submits to his wordless demand.

“This will only be a moment,” she promises, and Astarion frowns, following the drag of her hold to the head of the table, standing beside the boar.

“Good to see you, Ruth,” Lord Batholomew states boisterously, pieces of meat stuck between his teeth.

“Wish I could say the same,” Lady Reed retorts whilst crossing her arms over her chest. “What did you want---”

“Oh! And this must be Nicholas, a pleasure to finally meet you my friend,” Lord Bartholomew interjects, dropping the turkey leg to his plate and sticking his hand out for a handshake. Astarion glances at the man’s greasy fingers with unveiled disgust, then quirks a brow.

“The pleasures mine,” Astarion impassively replies, not moving to shake the man’s hand.

“My apologies,” Lord Bartholomew begrudgingly says, whilst wiping his hand over the tucked napkin draped over his chest.

“Dennison,” Lady Reed hisses under her breath to the man, “What. Did you. Want?”

“Is it true you brought the new girl?” Lord Bartholomew heaves Lady Reed over by her arm, and answers into the shell of her ear, his jovial expression cast from his countenance, each word marinated in agitation. “I told you she wasn’t for sale.”

Lady Reed shakes him off, stepping back, clearly disheveled despite trying to appear otherwise. She smooths her hands over her curls, only for them to spring back into place.

“Don’t get sentimental, you know she will catch us a high price tonight,” Lady Reed argues, voice tightly quiet, glancing away, “I’ll find you another toy to play with soon enough, so don’t pester me.”

They’re… selling girls?

Here ? In what room?

Gods above. I’m going to be ill.

Lord Bartholomew doesn’t respond, choosing instead to glower at Lady Reed and take another chomp of his decimated turkey leg.

Lady Reed perks up at this, finding his silence evidence that she’d won. She smiles like champagne bubbles, winking at Lord Bartholomew before proceeding to drag Astarion away from the table, and out of the room.

“Now, now, we’ll go to where the actual buffet is,” she promises, and Astarion’s stomach drops, any scrap of appetite gone from him in an instant.

☼

Wherever Astarion has gone off to, you hope he is having more luck than you are.

The only place that could possibly have any privacy was surely the East Wing, as the double doors connected to it were heavily guarded by a line of masked servants. That only left you the West Wing, which was wide open and profuse with people, the party herding in and out of the hallway to the connected ballroom, and vice versa. There were no places to take out Lord Avington, as eyes seemed to follow you everywhere you turned. Their lurid costumes and constant blathering fusing with the loudly ornamented walls and diminishing sound of the orchestra.

Lord Avington gives you the grand tour, his dazzling white grins enchanting the women and men that pass by. Each open room he gives an arm swept flourish and the people a deliberate review, the matters of scandals a travesty against own heart. However, as he describes each person with the utmost sympathy, you find the manner he does so to be rife with condescension, as he weaves stories of people’s lives and shortcomings like it were comically tragic. Those same people would then flash him oblivious smiles, ignorant of his knack for learning and extorting secrets.

“You don’t have the reputation of a gossip, but that’s all you’ve done,” you quip, and Lord Avington gives you a sheepish grin.

“Don’t misunderstand me, I beg of you,” he relents, then swipes over his suit, “I’m not interested in gossip. I’m interested in people,” the corner of his lips quirk up, as he adds on, “I’ve been interested in you for some time, Lady Brentwood.”

How could I misunderstand how conniving you truly are?

Just how are you so blatantly praised in the public domain?

You’re nothing but a fraud.

You bite your tongue.

You don’t know the intricacies of the relationship Lady Brentwood kept with this man, nor do you want to know.

Time is ticking down, and you haven’t even found one other mark, let alone an apt place to take out this one.

If Astarion and I can’t do this, we will have no choice but to proceed with the meeting, and that only makes things escalate to a degree I’m not confident we can get out of.

Your lack of response must get under his skin, for he turns to boasting in order to sway you, his tongue riddled with numerous accomplishments he made in manners of business and influence in Baldur’s gate.

When you do enter another room, of course you aren’t alone.

There’s a flock of ladies perched on each leather sofa, facing opposite of each other, fanning their faces, and exchanging hearsay with exaggerated tones. Their painted nails and painted faces, molded masks of pouts and mouths all adorned in pale tones, like that of blushing porcelain dolls. The walls are slathered in a parakeet green. It is frankly a repulsive sight to be seen.

“Did you hear about Lady Quin? She’s expecting again,” a blonde woman asks behind her palm.

“Didn’t her last pregnancy almost kill her?” a red-lipped woman giggles in reply.

“It is a shame it did not,” another woman cooly remarks, sat squarely in the middle of the couch.

She differs from the rest, her mask formed into the face of a peacock, its azure feathers spouting from the yellow tipped beak and erupting past the crown of her head. They flutter in fern greens, violets, and indigos, dozens and dozens of feathers reaching high and wide. Her dress is as theatrical as her mask, with its train of feathers flowing to the paneled floor. Her fingers, neck, and ears are decorated in dangling drips of diamonds and sapphire.

“You are so terribly cruel, Lady Forrest,” a woman with beaded bands coursing up both her arms interjects, gasping in mock horror, then insisting with peak melodrama in her intonation, “say you don’t mean it.”

“But dear, how could I not mean it? It would be crueler for the woman to live through another child, especially when she tends to a toddler of a husband, on a mountain of debt,” Lady Forrest replies with a stoic expression, however, her lips betray the ghost of a smile.

The blond woman hides her laugher behind her cupped hands, her brows in her bangs, blurting out, “Lady Forrest! You scoundrel!”

Whilst the red-lipped woman cackles, “Not all of us can be as well off as you, Aramita.”  

The woman with beaded bands sinks into the cushion with the back of her palm cast over her temple as she sighs, “Do never change, Aramita. I relish your fiendish flare.”  

Their laughter soon dies on their lips, as you and Lord Avington’s presence takes root.

Lady Forrest keeps to herself in a blasé lounge while the rest of the women sit up proper, smoothing out their dresses and hair.

“Come to ruin our fun, Lord Avington?” Lady Forrest questions aloof, yet her brows minutely rise when her gaze shifts to you. “Oh. Lady Brentwood, I presume?”

You nod, and watch as she repositions herself in her seat, but doesn’t get up. She outstretches her hand to you.

“Do come and meet me,” she beckons you forward like a dog, and though you feel your fingers itching to curl into a fist, you suppress the urge.

You come to her, and she takes your hand in yours for a brief moment, a smile finding its way on her face. Her features are sharpened to cut, her mask concealing her high cheekbones, yet revealing her straight nose and thinly lined lips.

“Dears, this is my splendid acquaintance, Blaire. She’s the one transporting my product across the seas.”  

It’s as though she’s presenting you like a prize, and the other women gobble you up, smothering you in flattery.

“Oh, I just love your costume!” the blonde exclaims.

“I love it too, where did you have it made?” the red-lipped woman inquires.

“It’s a shame your mask covers so much of your face, I’m sure you’re quite pretty under there,” the blonde woman interrupts.

“I can’t believe your family line dared to leave the Upper City for overseas. How does it compare to here?” the woman with beaded bands queries.

“Aramita. Let the woman breathe, will you?” Lord Avington demands, stepping in to pull you out from the gaggle of fawning ladies.

Lady Forrest rolls her eyes.

“Oh? So now we are on a first name basis, Lord Avington?” She challenges, an edge to her tone, and Lord Avington flares his nostrils, already on his way out the door. You let him lead you, knowing you must return to the ballroom soon anyways.

When you enter the hallway once more, Lord Avington is steaming, his grip on your wrist becoming too tight, while he mutters under his breath to you.

“You’re doing all the work with smuggling her shit and yet she has the gal to act all self-righteous. I don’t care what “rank” she is in. She’s the vainest woman I’ve ever had the indecency of meeting.”

You half-listen to him, gaze filtering through the throngs of guests and settling on two figures at the far end of the corridor.

Astarion.

Your heart leaps inside your chest. You yank away from Lord Avington, and when he glimpses at you in surprise, you offer a small apology.

“I’m sorry. But excuse me for a moment,” you say, leaving Lord Avington bewildered as you wade through the crowded hall alone.

Your thoughts are pelting you like that of the rain tap, tap, tapping the windows.

Is this what life would have been like raised by my father?

Elaborate balls and costumes?

Shameless debauchery held behind closed doors?

Would I have been one of them?

But what makes you any better? Haven’t you done worse than these people?

You’ve killed. You’ve done it with your own two hands.

How many of these people can say the same?

☾

He knows what is inside before the guards even open the door. He can hear it seeping through the walls, and whatever he may have come to expect dies inside him. His stomach lurches. Bile is frothing up his throat.

Lady Reed pushes past the guard to help creak open the door, and there, through the sliver of the doorway, Astarion sees.

The room is red. Vibrant, violent, red. If there are windows, they are blocked by the velvet folds of black curtains. There are beds. Several scattered across the room. There are locked doors, which lead to gods know where. There are lit candelabra illuminating bodies. Harsh incense, with its resinous scent, can hardly dilute the thick smell of sex.

A mass of naked forms, all knotted together, from the couches to the beds, to the floor, everywhere.

But what’s worse.

Despite the moaning and groaning, the obscene slap of skin and the potent rank of sweat.

Is he can tell who is enjoying themselves, and who is undoubtedly, not.

He can tell by their dead eyes. The way they lay there, devoid of expression, as if their minds have left their bodies and all they can do to survive is… endure.

He’s going to be fucking sick.

Astarion pivots on his heel, side-stepping Lady Reed. He hears her yell after him, but he ignores her. If he turns back now, he’ll murder every last one of those bastards in that room.

His mind is encased in a daze. All the extravagance of the manor. All the intricate outfits and décor, all the luxuries, all the bountiful feasts, all the indulgences of power.

If I ascended… then perhaps this is what would have come of me.

With a manor or a castle such as this. Laughing in the face of suffering. Taking part in the condemnation of the weak…

His arm shoots out as he uses the wall for leverage, his body sagging against the wall, his head hung low.

I would have lost myself to power.

Suddenly, a presence before him startles him out of his misery.

“What happened?” She whispers, her concern dousing her every word, and she’s touching the fingers of his hand, huddling close to block out the noise of others strolling by.

Astarion’s gaze meets the eyes of his love. It is as though everything else… disassembles and flutters away. He takes her hand in his, and though he knows she may scold him, he raises his mask if only to leave a lingering kiss over her gloved knuckles.

“I saw something I didn’t want to see,” he admits, and then fixes his mask back over his face. “But I’m better now that you are here, my darling.”

Astarion keeps her hand in his, and they both make their way back to the ballroom, exchanging conversation in undertones.

“Unfortunately, our original plan isn’t going to work,” Astarion murmurs to her, “too many monitoring eyes.”  

“I know,” she whispers back in a sigh, “I ran into the same problem as well.”

“Then we’ll have to attend the meeting,” Astarion acknowledges, and notes how her head bows with a pang in his heart. This isn’t what she wanted.

“Do you think he recognizes you?” Astarion asks, and she shrugs.

“How could he? We’ve never met,” she responds, and then laces their fingers together, “however… I can’t shake this feeling of apprehension.”

Astarion frowns behind his mask, knowing very well what she means, yet not wanting to voice it in case it heightens her anxieties. Instead, he leads her to the ballroom.

☾☼

Another song has begun, this one more mellow and slow, like wine down one’s throat.

One of your hands is in his, the other on his shoulder. You dance together, for what may be the last time.

“I’m scared,” you confess, so quiet you wonder if you have admitted it at all, but then you feel his hand clench over your side. You inhale, and whisper, “I’m scared of being here. I’m scared of my father,” you pause, wetting your lips beneath the mask, “…and I… really don’t want to fail you. I can’t.”

Astarion stiffens. His eyes meet yours. His tone is firm.

“Knowing what it may cost you, and yet you’re more concerned with me,” he lightly scolds, then adds on, his voice lowering, “You won’t fail me. You have never failed me.”

You falter, the topic of his ascension teetering from your tongue, it being thorns around your heart. He must know what you mean to say.

Astarion gestures to the room about you.

“This could have been me. I could have had all of this.” Your eyes flicker away, a twinge of pain in your chest, but he continues, his tone sincere, “but you stopped me. You saved me from what I could have become,” he pulls you closer, “I don’t need that scroll,” he looks deeply in your eyes, and you feel you can see all of him, despite the mask, “All I need is you.”

You shake your head, denying, “I didn’t save you—"

“You did. I understand now just how much. I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything before,” he insists.

“You don’t have to apologize to me anymore. I love you,” you say quietly.

“I know you do. I know it like I’ve never known anything,” he answers, and then his voice lowers, “I hope you know… how much I love you, too.”

“I do,” you reply, and your eyes sparkle, “you’ve been telling me every day.”

He scoffs in an affectionate jest, “Darling, I promised you I would.”

“Oh, so that was a promise?” You tease, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“More so a vow,” he states, and it’s like the words are made of sunlight, honeyed with adoration.

You laugh softly, your face and heart becoming warm.

“A vow,” you echo, and everything else falls away, the slush of colors and the slur of countenances, and all there is, is you and him.

He leads, the sequence of steps coming like second nature, and you huff a laugh at it, feeling the humor radiating off him in waves. Your bodies harmonize, as the music sweeps and swells, and his gaze never leaves yours.

Even if I die tonight.

Even if the hells take my soul.

It could not take my love for you.

It lives within me.

Forevermore.

As the thoughts enter your mind, they are torn away by a figure looming behind Astarion.

Our time is up.

“May I step in?” Your father intercedes, side-stepping Astarion. You glance at Astarion and give him a nod.

Without a word, Astarion releases you, though his fingers linger on your hand for a touch longer than necessary.

The song changes with the change of hands.

“I’ll be waiting,” Astarion assures you under his breath, then walks away.

“I appreciate the gesture,” Renald comments, taking position, his hand clasping yours, his other resting below your wings, “A dance is a good way to determine how well we will work together in the future.”

Is it so you will know if I can always obediently follow your lead?

If I will ever misstep?

“I agree,” you comply, and then follow his steps, his movements precise and practiced. It is far more refined than Astarion’s.

You waltz in silence, your gaze averted to any place but meeting his, his own transfixed upon you.

“I thought you were an angel when you first came through the entrance,” he states, timbre steeped in charm, and your heart shrivels inside your chest, “but instead, you’re a dove.”

You sway, following his every step, you survey the room, adamant on concentrating on Astarion. You find him leaned against a table, flocked by women and men alike, yet his attention never diverts from you.

“You worried about your husband?” Renald asks.

“No, he can handle himself,” you remark lightly, and Renald tilts his head.

A beat.

“Why a dove?” He inquires, and you stall in your movements. The toe of his shoe nudges yours, correcting your stance, and you start back again in your dancing.

“No reason,” you respond, and though you say it, a part of you ponders why Drake chose this costume for you. If it was meant to insult you or… something else.

“Why a vulture?” you ask, and you feel the pound of the music inside your skull, feel it thumping in your blood.

Renald hmms, as you both wade in and out of couples, the slur of distorted faces makes you ill.

“Vultures are commonly misunderstood…” he suddenly explains, and then he’s looking down at you as you angle your head up to meet his gaze through the masks, “they are patient, adaptable, and… despite their diet of the dead, they are not as cruel as one may think.”

Your heart is in your throat.

Was he vying for sympathy?

“You can relate?” You calmly query, the ache of angling your neck up to look at him a nuisance. You feel his fingers clench over your side, the talons a slight dig into the boning of your corset.

“Yes.”

“How so?” You gauge, observing just how severe his eyes are, like they could strangle you in vines, like they could sever your head from your spine.

“Though the people of this city lionize me, it’s inauthentic,” he remarks caviler, and then he bows his head so that his words worm their way into your ear, “they fear what they don’t understand,” he exhales through his nose, and then his tone takes on a touch of resentment, of regret, “the only person I thought could understand me… failed in that regard as well.”

You stiffen.

He pulls back, ever so slight, his shoulders lax, his head slanted as he speaks, “I hope that you can come to understand me, Lady Brentwood.”

You force yourself to keep up your pace, yet your steps are unsteady. You swallow, and say sly, “As I hope you never fail me, Lord Lockwell.”

He gives a haughty laugh and does so with his whole body, his head lulled back, his shoulders shaking, and the sound rumbles through you like an earthquake splits open the ground.

It's fortunate that your mask hides the fact that you can’t even crack a smile.

As his laughter dies down, he lulls his head to the other side, gazing at you over the blade of his beak.

“If it is not too imprudent to ask,” he murmurs, at first playful, yet then his inflection becomes stern, “if this is our first time meeting, why is it that I feel I have seen you before?”

Your blood runs cold.

You cannot comprehend what expression he must be wearing behind his mask. You can only wager it from his words.

“How could you know if you’ve seen me if I’m wearing this?” You reply simply.

Your hands have begun to sweat.

You pray your thanks to the gods that you wore gloves.

Renald doesn’t reply. He leans in too close. You stop your dance. He doesn’t drop your hand, nor does he remove his other hand at your ribs. You remain in your stance as if set in a trance. He brazenly stares at you without disgrace.

You feel as though he is watching over a carcass being picked apart, contemplating when he will swoop in to feast upon the scraps.

You swallow, glancing in the direction of Astarion again. You find he is approaching, and your heart clenches in your chest.

You look back at Renald.

The music crescendos.

Out the windows, lightning strikes the earth, and your father’s gaze glints under the streams of vibrant shades.

“It’s your eyes,” Renald declares, never looking away, “I’ve seen them somewhere before.”

A boom of thunder ricochets off the walls, and the sounds of the orchestra wail and whine, then drag, like that of nails engraving red trails in skin.

You don’t deny.

“Shall we convene for our meeting now?” Astarion announces upon his arrival to you both, and despite his mask never changing, it seems more malevolent than before.

You pull away from your father’s grasp.

Renald politely steps back, and yet, his eyes don’t leave you for what feels like an eternity.

“Yes,” he remarks, then turns to Astarion, “You both will follow me to the East Wing. The rest of our group have already been escorted there.”

You give a shallow nod, and Renald turns his back on you, making his way down the corridor, and you trail behind him. Astarion takes your hand in his, but you have lost the ability to speak. You can feel his stare on you, silently probing you for answers you cannot yet give.

At a set of double doors, masked butlers bow. Their flattened mouths and placid faces, devoid of color and expression. They were like the phantoms that crept through the manners’ walls.

The East Wing starved for light. Only a select few candelabra are lit, dripping wax onto the plum carpet, casting all of your elongated shadows along the sallow walls, and it is as if you are watching animals roam the halls.

The vulture.

The dove.

The wolf.

Your shadows slip over one another as you meander farther and farther, the ending seemingly never coming into sight. The sound of the ball fades into the background, the musing of guests becoming the whisperings of the dark.

When you come upon the room, two more butlers guard the entrance. They open the doors upon Renald’s approach, and inside you find a dining room. Thick velvet drapes adorn the lone window behind the head of the table. You can see the profound black of night lit up in far off ignites of enraged lightning strikes. The grumble of thunder quivers your bones. The room is lit by various candelabras, the smell of musky amber melting into the aroma of perfumed guests.

At the long, burnt mahogany table sat four others. Two of which you’d seen prior, the other two you had not.

Lord Bartholomew’s boar mask is pulled up over the bulb of his nose so that he may suck pork juice from his thumb, the remnants of a meal glistening upon his mouth.

Lady Reed, well suited with her rabbit ears, is using the pad of her finger to rub over her teeth, wiping clean any red lipstick that may stain her smile. She scrunches her nose beneath her mask in a show of disgust at your arrival. You don’t know why.

Lady Forrest is too preoccupied inspecting her many rings to notice, twirling, and adjusting them so that they may glitter more brightly under the flickers of candlelight.

Lord Avington grins oh so polite at you, yet it is tinged grim when he catches sight of Astarion holding your hand.

As Renald enters, his presence rattles the other members into subdued states, with their hands in their laps and eyes laid upon him. He walks to the head of the table, and gestures to you and Astarion to have a seat. Astarion settles down next to Lord Bartholomew, and as you go to take the seat across from him, Renald clears his throat.

You freeze, and he signals to the seat directly across from him, at the other end. You bow your head, abiding by sitting at the end. You peek at Astarion, a ripple of unease in your gaze, and his hand finds your knee under the table.

After you have sat, Renald nods, visibly pleased.

“Thank you all for attending tonight,” he warmly begins, signaling with his raised chin to his servants. You flinch when the doors to the room slam closed. A moment passes of complete silence, and then Renald starts up again, his voice laced in vitriol, “As you may already know, things have been contentious as of late in Baldur’s Gate. Our way of life is being threatened, and undermined. I have gathered you all here as part of our agreement to discuss proceedings on eliminating, as well as infiltrating, the Council of Four.”

The Council of Four?

No… he means to take power of Baldur’s Gate by killing off the four Dukes.

That includes Wyll’s father.

You feel Astarion’s hand squeeze over your knee. You look down at your empty plate, and inhale shakily as the other members break out into ramblings of their current discontent and overall emphatic agreement.

When you glance back up, you find your father’s gaze is on you.

I need to persuade him to leave this room with me. It’s the only way to ensure the execution of the marks will go as planned.

Your father speaks as if you are the only one in the room.

“Lady Brentwood, you’ve been fundamental in the orchestration of this plan. I think all of us can agree that after I’ve taken on a role in the Council of Four, you too shall follow.”

The other members’ heads turn to you. Though some seem disgruntled at the notion, none voice their disapproval. Instead, they nod and quietly acquiesce to it.

“Yes,” you respond, straightening your back, “I find that would be most reasonable.”

“Should we go into the logistics?” Renald asks, unsettlingly calm, staring straight at you.

“Should we not have a toast to commemorate our union, Lord Lockwell?” Astarion intervenes, raising his empty glass, surveying the room, then locking eyes with Renald, “After all, I’ve heard you’re something of a connoisseur yourself.”

“A drink would pair well with our discussion,” Lord Bartholomew loudly approves, and with his approval come the rest of the group’s.

“I could go for a glass,” Lady Reed announces.

“Well… I am rather parched,” Lady Forrest tacks on.

“… perhaps it would,” Lord Avington reluctantly agrees.

Renald is quiet if not for the impatient tap, tap, tap of his taloned finger on the table. After a moment, he nods.

“Of course,” he concedes, and then rises from the table. He calls out the request for his servants.

After several minutes of prolonged silence, the doors reopen. The same two servants enter with bottles uncorked. The pair present Lord and Lady Brentwood’s brand of wine to the guests. They fill each and every glass simultaneously, as the Lords and Ladies begin their nonsensical chatter.

Your father’s gaze continues to be fixated on you. After the servants leave, Renald begins to raise his glass, his taloned hand at the underside of his beaked mask, you take your chance.

“I was going to wait until after we had our drinks, but it is too urgent of a matter, Lord Lockwell,” you lie straight through your teeth, and the masked faces all swivel to you. “I need to speak with you,” you insist, pushing out your chair and standing tall. You try to suppress the quickening of your pulse, or the pins and needles of your nerves. “In private. Right now.”

A moment of tense silence ensues. No one moves.

Then, Renald readjusts his mask and sets his glass down. The wine swishes, nearly spilling onto the table.

Everyone startles at the action and follows suit, setting their glasses down accordingly.

 “Lady Brentwood,” he states coolly, with a tilt of his head, “If it was that urgent of a manner, why not tell me earlier?”

You don’t hesitate.

“You would have wanted me to tell you surrounded by hordes of guests? I scarcely found the location appropriate,” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest and raising your chin.

Renald’s eyes narrow at you, and then he laughs, “Ah, then I presume you’re completely right,” he decides, and then gestures toward the door. “Let us not waste a second longer.”

He gets up from his chair, and before he goes to open the door, he squints back at the group. His whole demeanor seems to have shifted, as when he speaks, it is pointed, it is minacious.

“Remain here,” he declares, “You are not to leave this room for any reason,” and then he is knocking once on the door. It opens, a servant bowing as Renald stalks by. He doesn’t turn to see that you will follow. He knows you will.

You take a glimpse at Astarion before you leave. His eyes are wide.

This is what you planned for.

Yet something is brewing inside your gut, looming over your head.

You can’t go back now.

You follow your father out the door.

☼

You’re shuddering.

A thousand thoughts clustering inside your mind.

A singular feeling saturates them all.

Dread.

You don’t know where he is leading you to. You don’t know how Astarion will fare alone.

You know he can handle himself.

That isn’t the issue.

Your father has not muttered a word. He leads you down a labyrinth of hallways, then up a fleet of winding stairs, nevertheless, it is as if you are traversing into an abyss. The rich colors of the West Wing cannot reach here. The servants surely not allowed entry. The walls are drab, with peeling wallpaper and the dank musk of rot. The carpet is frayed. There are no vivacious ceiling paintings, no ornate chandeliers, or gilded ornaments. This place has all the symptoms of neglect.

There is hardly even any source of light.

For the first time since arriving, you wonder how he can live with all this empty space. The empty rooms. The empty hallways.

The hung portraits of past family members, the only source of companionship.

To think you share a bit of their blood too.

For not the first time in your life, you wonder if you have siblings. You don’t know. In the public sphere, Lord Lockwell was a widower. He never had children.

Yet if I am alive, were there more like me? Brothers and sisters left deserted.

Mothers killed off as though they were nothing?

Renald stops before double doors. He plucks a key from his pocket, then turns the lock. With a click, and a creeaaak, the room behind the door is revealed.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until he looks at you again.

I have to keep him preoccupied for as long as possible.

Renald gestures for you to enter, and you bow your head, slowly making your way into the room. It is enormous. A mahogany bed frame with golden claw feet. A tremendous armoire. A colossal fireplace with a jaw full of flames. Double doors that lead to a large balcony overlooking the sea.

Curtains pulled back so not to cover the magnificent long faces of windows. The night sky is alive with streaks of rain, with strands of light.

You create as much distance as you can between you both, crossing the room to stand beside the fire. The heat of its embrace is not enough to warm the chill running down your spine. Renald’s mask is cast in lacerations of shadow, in bends of cruel yellow.

He… or it… is horrifying.

Your eyes follow his arm to his hand at the door handle.

He turns the lock with a click. His same hand takes hold of his beak, his other hand unlacing and discarding his cloak to the side. He pulls the mask over and off his face, discarding it to the floor.

Your chest rises and falls.

And though his eyes were not like yours, though the creases of his forehead or the thick of his brows were not like yours, though the hook of his nose or the cut of his jaw were not like yours.

His mouth.

It was unfamiliar in its stretch of teeth, and—

“Lady Brentwood, there’s no need for masks here.”

It was unfamiliar in how it curled over words with a depraved sort of excitement, and yet—

Your fingers feel over the molded lips of your mask. You feel yourself begin to sink.

Yet the shape of his lips.

The way he smiled.

“Why are you hesitating?” Renald mocks, crossing his arms and leaning back against the door, and then he is leveling you with a glare.

It resembles my own.

“Unless you have something to hide.”

Do my eyes look like my mother’s?

“I don’t think it’s necessary,” you contend.

It can’t be that.

It can’t be—

“Then indulge me.”

Your hand quivers as you begin to unlace the knotted ribbons at the back of your head. Your hand covers the whole of the mask.

Then you let it fall to the floor.

“Step into the light,” he commands. For whatever reason. You do as you are told.

Maybe it’s because when he speaks, all anyone can do is obey.

Maybe it’s because you’ve been conditioned to listen your entire life.

Maybe it’s because you want him to know the face of who will take everything from him.

As he took everything from me.

You know he knows when his sneer drops. When his lips part. When his brows rise. When his nostrils flare.

“It can’t be,” he mutters in disbelief, the shadow of the fire flooding in the depths below his eyes, the golden hues sputtering and sprawling below his chin, “I knew I’ve seen those eyes before.”

He comes forward to you. This is wrong. You’ve made a dire mistake. But you can’t move. Shackled to the floor. You don’t know why you swallow down the scream rising in your throat.

You don’t know why you can’t run.

His arm outstretched, his taloned fingers skim over the corner of your eye. You flinch. It doesn’t cut. But it could.

“You look just like her,” he breathes, and then his taloned fingers are grazing down to the shape of your mouth.

“Except for this,” he murmurs, and you can see the tears building in his eyes. They glint against the light. His gaze meets yours. His hand falls from your face.

“How can you be alive?” He asks, hand sliding over his face, his features all wound tight, as strained as his voice, “I had a deal.”

Your chest constricts.

You can’t speak. His hand descends to his side. All that has haunted him has subsided. Only fury remains.

“What do you want?” He demands, standing straight, his towering figure looming over you, “Why have you come?”

You backpedal. The fire is burning up your spine. When you don’t immediately reply, his forbearance snaps.

“Did you hope I’d have a change of heart?” he snarls, “Did you hope I’d come to regret what I did?”

He moves forward, and you backpedal to the side of the fireplace, into the lulling dark. The light expands over his face, engulfing his features in scorched gold.

“Was it not enough you both have haunted me everywhere I go? Throughout my many days and my many nights? Standing in the tenebrous corners of the corridors? Or hovering at the ceiling of my room? Is it not enough I hear your laments every time the sea crashes against the rocks?” He fumed, inching closer to you, and your wings flatten against the wall. The feathers dig into your shoulder blades.

“Did you come to take your share of my empire?” He asks with utter disdain, and before you can blink, his large hand is at your throat, your head banging into the wall as he hoists you up by your neck, “Or did you come to kill me as some silly act of revenge?”

Your feet lose contact with the ground, your legs dangling. Your vision ebbs in and out. You try to pry at his fingers, the talons nipping through the lace at your neck.

“Or maybe…” he ponders, his head lulling to the side, tensing his grip, the air a hiss through your clenched teeth. You desperately strain to reach for the blade strapped to your thigh, underneath your dress.

He grounds out each word, “…that bastard Drake sent you here.”

Your eyes widen.

You forget you need to breathe.

His grip loosens. You plummet to the floor with a thud as you scramble for breath, wheezing as he paces and yanks at his hair.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He demands, moving back and forth across the room as he scowls at you, “He never fulfilled his side of the deal. He’s always wanted what I had. He sent you here to make a mockery of me,” and then he pauses, his hands dropping to his sides,“….But what I don’t understand…” he curls his taloned fingers into fists, the bone piercing his skin, as he directs his attention to you, “…is why you’d work for the man that had your mother killed.”

Something inside you cradles itself and dies. 

No.

Drake couldn’t have been responsible. It was always someone nameless. Someone indistinct. Easy to pick off after the deed was done. No loose ends. Certainty none of Drake’s men.

Drake sympathized with you.

Think of the people he kept in his ranks.

Would they bat an eye at murdering a mother and child?

You told him your story, and he listened as if he understood, as if he knew.

But why would he keep me alive?

But it’s simple, isn’t it? He used you. He kept you alive to use you. That’s all there is to it. A pawn in his long game. It didn’t matter that he made himself out to be the only one there for you all those years. He who sheltered you. He who gave you everything you never had. It was all his way to own you. To keep you like a pet. 

And now I’m here doing his bidding. 

Renald must see it written all over your face. He halts. His face broadens absurdly into a splendidly sinister smile, “Oh. Of course you did not know. How cruel. He really is a sick bastard, isn’t he?” He nudges your foot with his toe. You curl further into yourself, lost in a daze.

“And to groom you into working for him? That’s fucking diabolical,” he huffs out a laugh, it’s anything but humorous, “My own flesh and blood coming to kill me? This must be a ploy or my karma coming back to bite me,” he taunts, syllables a slur of sadistic intent, consonants coarse enough to cut. 

“If you’re really my daughter, you’d be smart enough to know not to make a deal with the devil, so it’s not too late to change your mind,” He crouches down in front of you. You watch him over your knees. “We could work together. You’ll have your place in the council of four alongside me. Father and daughter, as it should be… for really, what other choice do you have? You don’t really think I’ll let you leave here alive otherwise, now do you?”

Your eyes narrow. You use the wall as leverage, slowly rising. He mirrors your movement. You feel the red ring of his fingers once wrapped around your throat, throb. You blow a few stray strands of your hair from your eyelashes, pulling off your long-sleeved gloves. Your guild ring on one hand, a fake wedding ring on another. You raise the hem of your dress, unsheathing the knife at your thigh, and shakily holding it out in front of you.

He smiles, ominously amused.

He steps back; hands held in the air.

“You don’t want to fight me,” he mutters under his breath, “We could come to an agreement.”

“Stop fucking talking,” you state, standing straight, your grip tightening, your body becoming still, “Or else I’ll cut out your tongue along with your heart.”

He eases back; persistent in keeping his hands raised in mock surrender. The flames lick over his face one more, but there is no light behind those eyes.

His mouth contorts, like it’s holding a gargle of spit. He watches all the phases of your features pass like withering seasons. His hands drop to his sides. He shrugs, then smiles something vile. A shutter passes through you. 

“Oh, you precious thing. I’d love to see you try.”

You hear the thump of your heart in your ears, feel the weight of your dress and the strain in your shoulders from your sewn in wings, the boning of your corset forcing you to take shallow breaths.

It doesn’t matter.

You slide your back across the wall, knife outstretched as you grip the handle of your blade tighter, memorizing the places on him you want to bury its body into and tear through like parchment.

Pure, unadulterated rage sears up your body like the devastation of a city on fire. Thoughts and reason become ash.

You push off the wall, surging toward him at a full sprint.

You’re naturally fast, moving to slash the blade across his chest, but where you are quick and calculated, he is strong, unrelenting, moving like a bear on its hind legs.

He steps back for every slash of your knife, dodging each blow. It infuriates you. You fake a pass at his waist, and as he motions to grab your wrist you delve the blade into his pectoral muscle, just missing his heart.

It doesn’t get very deep, for then he cracks his foot into your stomach, and you fling back onto the floor with a groan, the knife spewing blood from his wound as you fall. He grimaces and then raises his foot to slam it down on your chest. You roll out of the way in the nick of time, rising into a crouch, your blade in hand.

A breath, and now he’s the one rushing forward, his left jab colliding with your right arm as you block. He swings again, this time to the right, and you dip low and slash at his stomach in a sweeping motion with your knife, tearing through the fabric of his waistcoat and slicing over his abdomen. He staggers back into the armoire, and as you go in for another strike, this time surely to pierce his heart, he knocks the knife out of your hand with the back of his wrist and goes to claw you across the face with his taloned hand.

You deflect his blow with your arm, and you recoil, taking the brunt of his boned claws as they shred through skin. Your heart seizes in your chest as the blade slides across the floor. Your brief distraction costs you dearly, however, as he lands a kick to your ribs, the explosion of pain mind numbing. You teeter back, and he reins in, sweeping your legs out from underneath you. You narrowly avoid knocking your head on the floor when you tangle your legs with his, causing him to lose his balance and fall backward.

You scramble toward the glint of the knife, but then he’s on his knees fisting the hem of your dress, dragging you to him.

“Your mother always had some fight in her,” Renald taunts, his fierce grip tearing off strips of your dress as you resist his pull, “but she never knew when to quit.”

Your stomach lurches, and you flip to your back, kicking him square in the face, the crack of his nose is sickeningly satisfying to your ears. You then crawl back on your hands toward the knife near the edge of the bed frame.

He wipes at his face, the blood surging from his nose, over his lips. It gets in his teeth as he speaks.

“You never know when to quit,” he darkly declares, then lunges after you, grappling with the knife now gripped in your fist. You wheeze through your teeth, thrashing your legs up to kick him in his side, but he doesn’t relent, taking every blow to his injured abdomen with a wince. You both squabble over the knife, and you scream in frustration as he begins to peel away your fingers.

“AGHH!”

You go for a blow below the belt with your heeled boot, but he twists his body out of the way, and the both of your bodies roll across the floor, with you landing on top, sitting right over his open wound. He howls in agony, and you straddle him, then use the whole of your weight to try and drive the knife into his eye, his hands over yours straining to push you back.

The gold of the flame gleams off the bloody blade, the blood dripping over Renald’s eyelid as he flinches. You don’t hesitate. You watch as his pupil dilates as you surge the blade through his cornea.

He lets out a blood curdling scream, hands unraveling from your grip over the blade to the wing sewn into your corset’s spine, yanking you off him with enough brute force to snap the wing clean off, and fling you over to the fireplace.

You collapse next to the burning blaze as he gathers himself, removing the blade from his eye with a howl. Lightening ignites the room in a flash of white, and then he’s on you again, the knife slashing over your shoulder, cutting deep past skin and sinew, and you shriek, your body thrumming with adrenaline, exhaustion, and white-hot pain. He collects your hands in one of his over your head, pinning them so that you can feel the lick of the fire just out of reach.

He wrenches the blade out of your shoulder, and holds it to your throat, his face a bloodied collage of indigo and purple, his ruined eye leaking blood down the cut of his jaw. The white of his other eye fractured in blood vessels, and when he opens his mouth again to speak, it’s as though he had been feasting on the insides of pomegranates, his smile stained red and stretched wide.

“I asked for her death to be quick,” Renald spits out, “I’ll be sure to make yours last.”

 ☾

To maintain a performance like this was excruciating. To soak words in honey and let them drip from his tongue felt like arsenic burning at the back of his throat.

She knows how to handle herself. I don’t need to worry…

But I can’t help it.

The people sitting around him bicker on and on. Discontent over the favor Renald holds for Lady Brentwood. Irritation at the lack of propriety, at the inconvenience of the two leaving so abrupt. They all pivot to him.

“How does it feel to know your wife is shacking it up with another man, Nicholas?” Lady Reed inquires with a pout, leaning across the table, her cleavage on full display, “Must be hard on you, huh?”

“Have a bit of decorum, dear,” Lady Forrest retaliates whilst inspecting her nails, “It is unbecoming.”

“Oh, and you’re the poster child of decorum, Aramita,” Lady Reed counters, emphasizing each vowel of the other woman’s name, “How’s sleazing around with the Flaming Fist? They still giving you a cut of the proceeds?”

Lady Forrest raises a brow.

“That is mere business, dear. Not everyone here needs to sleep their way to the top.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lord Bartholomew interjects, then gives a big bellied laugh, whilst jabbing Astarion with his elbow, “It’s always fun dabbling in the merchandise, if you know what I mean.”

Astarion’s jaw clenches.

Damned fool.

“Those poor women probably suffocate beneath you,” Lord Avington jokes, then swats the air with his hand, “plus. Everyone knows you’d catch a better price if you didn’t depreciate the value first.”

“Don’t you agree, Nicholas?” Lord Avington tacks on, smirking in Astarion’s direction, plainly trying to make Astarion squirm, for whatever reason.

This insufferable imbecile.

I’ll take pleasure in watching you die.

Astarion swallows down the bile bubbling up his throat. If this is his chance to convince these scoundrels to die, then he will take it.

And if they don’t drink, he’ll just have to tear them apart instead.

“Of course, of course,” Astarion nods, his tone trained into that of sardonic indifference, “But honestly, why should we waste our time squabbling over such trivial matters? We should have our toast, with or without or missing guests.”

Astarion watches as Lord Avington deflates. The other two women seem less than agreeable, shrinking in their seats.

“I agree,” Lord Bartholomew announces with another haughty laugh, “I’m not the kind of man who waits on others,” he picks up his drink, his mask still pushed back over his head, and swirls the red liquid around and around, “Don’t be so coy, Ruth. It doesn’t suit you. And Aramita, didn’t you say you were parched?”

The women perk up at this. Lady Reed sticks out her tongue in childish rebuke, then picks up her glass. Lady Forrest rolls her eyes yet also reaches for her glass.

Lord Avington, the godsdamn coward, hesitates.

“He’ll be displeased,” he argues, yet evidently his opinion holds no sway over the other’s sense of pride.

Astarion opens his mouth to urge him on, yet Lord Bartholomew intercedes.

“He can pour us another glass,” he quips, and then he’s placing his glass to his lips, and draining it down in gulps.

The women, not wanting to seem spineless, follow suit. Lady Reed seems to want to compete with Lord Bartholomew, the wine dribbling down her chin as she chugs, whilst Lady Forrest, prioritizing her modesty, sips.

It isn’t long before the poison takes effect.

Lord Bartholomew, with his revolting air of proud rebellion, and his wide mouth smile is about to spout an insult to Lord Avington but finds the words won’t reach his tongue. He tries again, yet chokes on air, futilely gasping and gasping and gasping —- his grubby fingers clawing over the thick of his throat, and then his eyes are rolling to the back of his skull. He seizes, once, twice, then over and over, the power of each convulsion is enough to cause the chair to collapse with him in it backward onto the floor. His body lurches with each contortion, his mouth spewing with foam and bile.

Lady Reed blanches, then opens her mouth to scream, but nothing but a strangled wheeze leaves her lips. The poison boiling in her blood making her body twist like a corkscrew, her head slamming onto the table with a BANG smashing the ceramic plate beneath her face. Glasses topple over on the table and onto the floor at the force of it, Renald’s lone glass once full now spilt across the table, the liquid pooling around her Lady Reed’s head and dripping onto the floor.

Lady Forrest’s shriek crackles through her like the lightning strikes outside, submerging the room in brief engulfs of white. She flings herself out from her chair in supreme horror, stumbling over her two feet in a desperate attempt to flee the scene before her. Her heeled boot catches on the corner of the table, her ankle bent out of shape as she plummets face first onto the floor with a THUD. She tries to rise from the carpet, one hand fisted on the floor, the other wrapped around her throat as she gulps down lungfuls of air in vain.

Amid the chaos, Lord Avington scrambles from his seat, his own holler consumed by a howl of cantankerous thunder. Astarion rapidly rises, his chair knocked over behind him. His irises are churning molten red, his instincts keen as he pulls off the wolf mask over his head and bares the blade of his fangs.

The gods forsaken snake think he can flee, slithering around the table, giving Astarion a chase, yet it abruptly ends when Lord Avington trips over Lady Forrest’s convulsing form.

He lands with a THUMP, and he crawls on his hands and knees like a toddler toward the door. Astarion stalks over and grabs him by his ankle, nearly snapping the bone under the force of his grip. Astarion drags the man to him despite Lord Avington’s attempt to claw himself away.

Astarion tangles his hand into the man’s hair, white knuckle fisting it, forcing the man to a kneel, as Lord Avington writhes, screaming in agony at the snapping of his strands, hands grappling with Astarion’s grasp.

Astarion jerks the man’s neck to the side, exposing the flesh of his throat, the rampant pump of his pulse, and without thought, Astarion’s fangs delve into the man’s veins. Astarion clamps down so viciously he feels he could reach the marrow, and yet he drinks in the man’s screams and the thick tar of his blood.

The taste is akin to the rats he used to feed upon.

The man judders and then jolts, his cries waning into feeble, broken pleas. Astarion drinks until the man no longer has a voice to scream, until he is devoid of color. He unceremoniously drops the man to the floor, and he lands sideways over Lady Avington with a plop.

The room becomes eerily silent once more. It is truly a brutal and gory sight, yet---

It’s over.

The blood oath is complete.

She will live.

Astarion crumbles back against the table. It takes a moment to compose himself, his body thrumming with the vigor of a feed, his mind and heart reeling with hazy relief.

Astarion takes a white linen napkin and wipes his mouth and chin, then discards it.

He steps back. Surveys the room for his mask and plucks it from the floor. He goes to the double doors.

When he opens them, there are no servants waiting to attack. Perhaps they’d been summoned elsewhere. Perhaps they thought this was according to their master’s demands and didn’t want to intervene.

Perhaps they were cravens and ran off when they heard the screams.

Regardless.

Where is she?

He fixes the mask back over his face, ready to start in the direction down the hall, yet suddenly, as if it were the whisperings of the dark, he hears it.

His mouth goes dry.

Sweat builds at his neck.

His dead heart plummets in his chest.

He’s running before he even knows why.

It’s faint.

Barely discernible.

But it’s there—

Despite the muted musings of the party in the opposite direction.

He can hear her screams.

☾☼

Maybe this is how you deserved to die.

With your own blade pried out of your hands.

With your back against the floor.

Your body broken by blood, sweat, and tears.

The tip of the knife is penetrating the boning of your corset and sinking past the skin of your stomach.

You’d managed to free your wrists from his hold, but still you are caught.

Another screech squirms out past your clenched teeth, as you thrash your feet. Renald is straddling your waist, surging the blade deeper despite your vying strength to keep the knife away. Every nerve ending is shrieking, blood pumping loudly in your veins, your hands squeezing over his, trying to resist. There are tears descending your cheeks, your jaw clicking, your nails breaking the skin of his hands, your shoulder sweltering with pain.

A bead of his sweat lands on your temple.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t have stayed away,” he seethes, “Then you wouldn’t have to die like this. I really don’t like getting my hands dirty. It’s much easier having others do the work for you, you know? In that way, I admit, Drake and I are alike.”

“You’re not a father. You’re a beast,” you hiss, livid, yet so very tired, “You deserve far worse than death.”

You strain again to remove his grip, and yet it’s useless.

He won’t budge.

Your bones are aching. You’re stuck in this perpetual, godforsaken hell…

If I die, it will all be for nothing— 

The knife wedges itself further into you, and you choke out another scream, the ignite of agony coursing through you, head to toe.

Astarion—

I have to live—

Just as the thought enters your mind, there’s a jiggle at the door handle. Someone is trying to lock-pick their way inside. The sound alarms Renald, and in that split second you use his loosened grasp to your advantage, letting go of his hold on the knife with one of your hands to dig your nails into his damaged eye.

Renald roars in pain, his hands falling from the knife to grab at your wrist. You tear the knife from your stomach then plunge it into his clavicle or anywhere else you can manage, over and over, as if maddened with rage, your shoulder sprouting its sizzling pain down your vertebrae. His blood is spurting down your wrist, revealing the ring of your blood oath. All of the blood oath’s tallied initials no longer glow, besides Drake’s initials at the center.

Astarion did it.

Renald catches your wrist, taking sight of the yellow bloom, but as he does, the door swings open, and though you can’t see Astarion enter, you know it’s him.

Astarion does not waste time, pouncing onto Renald’s back, his wolf mask shoved up over his white curls, his fangs barred as he sinks his teeth into Renald’s throat. His eyes are the hells unbound, and he goes into a frenzy, not merely drinking, no, he is latched onto Renald’s neck with such visceral viscous force that he’s tearing the flesh like slabs of meat, blood splurging from Renald’s throat before going in for more.

Renald grapples at Astarion, yanking him by the back of his cloak and hurling him across the room. 

Astarion’s body hits the floor with a thud. Yet he leverages himself up again into a fighting stance, your father’s blood pouring from his mouth and jaw. He spits out a piece of the man’s flesh, then yields his dagger, glancing at you.

An infinite range of emotions are conveyed in that look.

Ire, panic, worry, resolve.

“Playing with parasites,” Renald reprimands while stumbling into a stand that resembles a drunken stupor, your knife stuck in his shoulder, the flesh of one side of his neck gone. He swivels his attention from Astarion, and then to you, “you are such a disappointment.”

You feel the wrath rippling through you, crackling up your shoulders into your fists. You try to rise, but crumble back onto the floor with a wince.

Everything fucking hurts.

In an out— you see visions of the past, the present.

The collision of Renald’s taloned fist into Astarion’s side. The slash of Astarion’s blade into Renald’s arm. Their all-out brawl is ferocious as they clash. You focus on crawling back toward the wall, leveraging yourself into a hunched over stand. Your vision is spinning.

You watch in terror as Renald throws Astarion across the room, Astarion crashing into the mahogany armoire, causing it to topple over. He rolls off the top of it to the floor, then gets back up, the blood at his temple streaming down his cheek.

Astarion’s gaze meets yours from across the room, his eyes flickering to the steel fire poker hanging on its hook next to the fireplace. You slide back against the wall, then unhook it from its place and wield it in your palm.

“Let’s spill some blood,” he remarks with a sardonic smile, and with it Renald is charging at him, his back completely exposed to you.

Red static sizzles up your spine, casts its sheen over your eyes. Rage engulfs your body. You dash forward at the same time, using all that is left inside you to jam the fire poker through Renald’s back and out through his chest, impaling him straight through the heart.

Renald wails, buckling to his knees. Astarion has side-stepped him, and for good measure, delves his own blade into the unmarred side of Renald’s throat, and then the man is falling onto his back on the ground with a THUD.

Your father gurgles on his blood, the fabric of his torn clothes devoured in a flood of red, blood hemorrhaging through his fingers as they grip at the twisted tip of steel protruding from his heart. You watch, as for whoever comes to find his body should know the truth about him.

His heart was nothing but a beating piece of gore. 

But then, the animalistic adrenaline and the rampant rage keeping you upright leaves you, and you teeter, your legs giving out as you crumble against the end of the bed frame, head lulling to the side.

And you are… tired.

You are so tired.

Shivering.

Everywhere.

Underneath your skin.

Behind the whites of your eyes.

You are weaving in and out, slurring into the scenery of the room.

You see your father’s limp form. He, once a vulture, once a gruesome beast now…  just a quiet, mouth agape, corpse. 

You see Astarion, how he is splattered and drenched in so, so much blood….

“Please,” you hear him plead, the hushes and muses of consciousness making it hard to discern, “Please. Darling, —up, we need— leave.”

You feel as though you are floating to the ceiling, looking down at yourself, watching in vague anticipation. Astarion is frantically attempting to tear scraps of fabric from your dress to wrap around your wounds to stop the bleeding. He knots them in place.

“Come— to me, please., I’m going to— out of here.”

You register his tone, his inflection, the twitching of his lips. The wilting of his words. Desperate. But you are too far away— unfamiliar.

It’s happening. 

Scarlet wet fingers caress the apples of your cheeks, and he tries to steady your line of sight, but you are looking right through him. His voice is sewn with feverish tremors. His brows furrowed, his lashes stuck together in clumps of unshed tears.

“—Can’t lose you. — won’t lose you. I need you. Please, —darling. My everything. You — to focus on me. Return to me.”

It’s over.

The corpse of your will— now decaying in the corner. You should be relieved, should snap out of it, but your throat swells from where hands clamped it shut, your body blistering blue in all the places cut into and broken. Your mind lingers in the places of memory not meant to be dredged up. 

You must have said those words aloud, because Astarion is answering back, as stubborn as can be, and oh, how you love him…

“It is NOT over, you hear me?!”

You let him hoist you up, wondering numbly when the rain had stopped.

“We need to escape from the balcony, then get to the street,” Astarion reasons, and though it sounds simple, you know it won’t be. He takes your hand, careful of the makeshift bandage wrapped around it, and crosses the room, stepping over Renald’s body and unlocking and opening the balcony doors.

The sky is infinite. There are so many stars.

The brightest one beckons you to him, as he surveys how you’ll work your way to the ground below. Despite the height, Astarion swallows down any residual fear. He won’t let you fall. He won’t let you die.

It’s slippery. It’s dark. But he will find a way.

“I need to know you can do this,” he begs, his body quivering, his voice breaking, “tell me right now. Can you do this?”

Though you are in a haze, and everything in your body is throbbing, you nod.

He nods back at you, and you can see the tears in his eyes from the moonlight illuminating his face.

You both silently begin to scale the wall. It is an arduous process, each slip of your foot and strain of your shoulder grueling. But you force yourself through it, your muscle memory of ebbing brick and finding paths taking over. Astarion won’t stop looking back your way, paranoid.

When you reach the bottom and need to traverse around the west end of the manor to the stable yard, your pace becomes slower, and slower, like that of a crawl. You don’t recall when Astarion had picked you up in his arms. When he carried you to the carriage.

You don’t recall the threat of a coachman being eaten alive if he didn’t take both of you out of there right fucking now.

You don’t recall the broken wheel, or Astarion’s wrath, or the dead man left with his horses in the outskirts of the Upper City streets.

You don’t recall most of anything. All you know is the pavement beneath you, that you’re propped up against a wall in an alleyway. Astarion’s panting heavy as he cannot carry you any further, and there is nowhere left to go, as the morning is coming all too soon.

“Astarion, use it,” you say, and your voice wobbles with the effort it takes to speak, and you’ve broken out into a fever, “use the sending stone.”

You don’t have to ask twice, as then he is rifling through the inner pocket of his waistcoat, gripping the sending stone in his fist, and sending his internal plea.

The sun is rising.

He has to leave or else he will die.

“Astarion,” you murmur, fingers clamped down on your wound at your stomach. It is oozing through the bandages. “You need to go.”

“I can’t leave you,” he replies, erratic, hysterical, not even registering these were some of the first words you’ve said to him since you were in Renald’s room, “I can’t leave you here to die.”

“If you don’t go now, you could die,” you argue, and he shakes his head, refusing, and you hear the despair and torment wringing out from his voice.

“No! I… I won’t leave you… I can’t leave you.”

“Astarion,” you plead, “please do this for me. It’ll be alright.”

And then he is sobbing, falling apart, hands sliding over his face.

“What if he doesn’t send anyone?”

“He will,” though you aren’t entirely sure, and it hurts to lie to him, you must, “he always does.”

“I…”

The sun is slowly making its way over the horizon.

“Astarion, please listen to me,” you implore, “please go. It’ll be okay.”

You’ve never seen him so miserable. It devastates you.

“I… I love you,” he says, hesitating still, yet you insist.

“I love you. More than anything, everything. Now go.”

And then Astarion turns and runs, and you settle into the dawn, mind set adrift, accepting this will be the end.

☼

You wake up in an unfamiliar room, on an unfamiliar bed.

Your head feels like shifting sand. Your bones are heavy and your limbs stiff.

You are slow to rise into a sitting position, expecting your shoulder and stomach to ripple to life with agony, yet no pain comes. You glance down and find the stab wound in your stomach has gone, and that you are dressed in a different set of clothes.

You feel over your shoulder. Where there once was tattered flesh is stitched closed, now miraculously healed.

Regardless, the phantom ache of its memory persists.

The recollections follow. The ball. The fight. Being cut into. Astarion. The carriage—

Astarion.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your heartbeat picking up its pace, its uptick beats like that of his name, pounding repeatedly.

Astarion.

Astarion.

You asked him to leave you. Had he managed to find shelter from the sun?

He had to.

You move toward the black door, and when you open it, there is someone standing right outside.

A doorman you know all too well.

“Ms. Dove,” Ambrose remarks, clearly startled, yet then composes himself, “I’m relieved to see you’re awake.” 

Relief floods your body… that and... unease.

Drake had sent someone to save you, and though you’d completed your blood oath, you’d butchered what Drake wanted as well.

“Yes… for how long was I out?” you murmur in reply.

Ambrose’s voice drops to a whisper, “A few days. Your injuries were quite dire, Ms. Dove.”

A few days?!

Panic must show on your face, as Ambrose’s expression softens into one of sympathy, yet the way he speaks remains so matter-of-factly, “Things are precarious, Ms. Dove. The murder of Lord Lockwell has caused quite a storm. Not to mention the other four…”

You give a timorous inhale. You know the kind of trouble you are in.

“I see…”

“Ahem,” Ambrose clears his throat, and then straightens, “nevertheless, you should see master Kane. He’s in his study.”

You give a curt nod.

Prolonging the inevitable would be pointless.

“Alright,” you acquiesce, and then traverse the spiral of stairs.

When you finally make it to Drake’s study, it takes a moment before you enter the room. It isn’t fear, or revulsion.

It’s everything else in between.

This man. Who came into your life with the promise of saving you from your circumstances. Who you’ve known for over a decade. Who you’ve committed countless atrocities with. Who has always been there, a voice of ridicule, a voice of reason, a voice of comfort. Who gave you a new life. Who saved you from bleeding out even if it came of no benefit to him.

Who praised you. Who made you feel seen. Who made you feel powerful. Who taught you how to fight. How to kill.

Who’d taken your mother from you. Who’d ultimately used you. Who predetermined your path as if you lacked freewill.

Who played God.

Behind the door, his voice carries.

Always smooth like whiskey. Always calm. Always like that of a lulling fire in a frigid home.

“Come inside, Dove.”

When you open the door, you find him where he usually stands. Before the fire. Back facing you. Sipping from his glass.

“You’re awake,” he says, not turning back to you.

You don’t rush in. You don’t go for blood. You are cautious. Slow. You don’t know how to act.

“You… came to my aid,” you query, uncertainty laden in your voice.

“Yes…” he answers, and it’s in the way he says it… as though he doesn’t understand it himself.

Drake sets the glass down on his desk. Your eyes follow the movement and then you spot a scroll. It isn’t like anything you’ve ever seen before.

Your heart is in your throat.

He sighs. Clasps his hands behind his back.

“You succeeded,” he remarks.

“To an extent…” you respond.

Though you could reach out and grab the scroll, you don’t. You are anchored to the ground. 

“I knew the risk I took having you enter his manor,” Drake starts, staring straight into the licks of flame, “I confess I felt the deepest of satisfactions at the description of how he was found, considering…” He trails off, then half turns to you, his intonation murky, and somber, “…the harm that befell you.”

“Why did you save me?” you implore, “you could have left me to die. Kept the scroll. All your problems gone.”

“You’re not a problem,” he snaps at you, and you flinch back, stunned. It must disconcert him as well, because then he’s dragging a hand over his beard. You note how it looked unkept, not meticulously trimmed. You note the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hair stood in places where it would typically be slicked back.

He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.

Your eyes widen, taking it all in. You’d never seen him like this before. Never.

“It would have been easier… yes,” he trails on, his gray eyes overcast skies, “but then I’d lose you.”

You falter. You don’t want to misconstrue what he says, this man made from riddles and deceit. Yet every word carries the lilt of sincerity, the pang of truth.

He looks down at his drink, his head slightly bowed, as he mutters, “Though I have a feeling that by the end of this conversation, I’ll be losing you regardless.”

When you respond, it is so quiet it is drowned out by the crackle of firewood.

“You say that like you care for me.”

He smiles that half smile that doesn’t fit his face. It’s broken.

“Yes.”

You flinch.

Your eyes prickle with tears.

“He told me you had my mother killed,” you utter, as your fingers curl into fists, your nails creating crescent moons in your palm. “That you were… supposed to kill me.”

He glances down.

His smile slowly fades.

“Yes.”

You swallow. You didn’t think he’d admit to it so… simply. Your heart is crumpling in your chest.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I may be a bastard,” he answers, “but I’m not someone who murders children.”

You scoff. Shake your head. You don’t accept this as his answer. Won’t.

“You used me,” you retort, “That is why you insisted upon keeping me alive. Why I’m here. Even now.”

He doesn’t immediately respond, instead, picking up his glass and taking a long drink. You watch, all pent up with emotion you can’t quite elucidate.

“It started off that way, yes,” he admits, and you bite your lip to keep from crying. He glances in your direction, then away. “But I… have grown fond of you. I’m not sure when, not sure how. But plans changed. You were no longer a pawn… you were like a….”

“Pet?” You interject, and he shakes his head.

“A daughter,” he corrects.

The word sickens you. You want to sink into the floor. You want to turn and run.

“Trust me, the notion confounded me as well… disturbed me even,” he clarifies, “But then I grew to like the idea. Having someone to leave everything to when I die. To continue my legacy. To create her own.”

“They’ll be looking for me,” you say, “I can’t stay in the city.”

“Many people wanted him dead, you know,” he reasons, “you won’t be the only suspect.” 

“Will they look into you?” you inquire.

“My associations with Renald are nonexistent in the social realm. No one knows of it. To anyone else, we have no affiliation,” he replies.

“What of Lady Cordelian? How can you be so sure she won’t say anything?” you ask, and he smiles again. It doesn’t reach his eyes. It never does.

“I have my means of keeping her quiet.”

You exhale, briefly letting your eyes fall closed.

“You can’t be suggesting I stay here,” you say.

“No. I’m certain you’d never agree to it, even if I did suggest it. You have a vampire to return to…” He answers, conflicted, resting his hand on the desk, “…he sounded so… remarkably distraught when he sent me that message…”

“Does this mean…” you bite your cheek. “You’ll let me go?”

Drake doesn’t say anything. He takes the glass and sips from it again until it’s gone. A lull of silence passes before he mutters.

“Is it my blessing that you want?”

You glance down. There on your finger you still have it on. Your guild ring.

You slip it off. You place it atop the desk he leans against, then step back.

“I don’t need your blessing,” you murmur.

He’s quiet once more. He picks up the ring. Mulls over it. His hand drags over his beard.

He looks at you, then moves so that he stands before you. He reaches out and takes your hand, peeling open your fingers. He places the ring onto your palm.

“You stay here, and you can have everything,” Drake begins, “The money, the control, the power. If things keep going according to plan, one day you too can rule the Upper City. You can be so much more than what you were. It’s what you’ve worked hard for. What you’ve endeavored to obtain. You can be everything I always envisioned you to be.”

You don’t respond.

Pondering this.

He places his hand over yours, closing your fingers over the ring.

“Without you, we never would have come this far. The city knows our domain. Our greatest hindrance is dead. All you need to do is accept your place in this.”

You bite your cheek. You can’t succumb to his will anymore. You don’t have to. You have a choice.

“I can’t. I won’t anymore,” you reply.

His hand tightens over yours.

“Listen to me,” he orders, and then says your real name, and you meet his stare. 

Drake’s baritone trembles you to the bone, how it felt as though he swam in the dark of your wounds, “You choose him, and he will leave you. He can live for eternities, little dove. He will get over the novelty of you. Don’t you see why he was desperate? It’s not because he loves you, it’s because of this,” He reaches back for the scroll on his desk, holds it up in a fist, “after you give him what he wants, he won’t stay. You know this.”

He takes a long inhale.

“This,” he gestures to the room, “This is what remains. I will be here, always, and this. What we have built. This will be here, waiting for your return.”

You tear your hand away, the ring still in your grasp.

“Drake,” you say, before taking a breath, forcing yourself to keep holding back your tears, “I thought you saved me. I thought you’d given me freedom.”

You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it in yours. You place the ring in his grasp, then curl his fingers over the ring.

“If you ever cared for me,” you susurrate, then let your hand fall away from his, “like you claim to, you’d… you’d let me go…”

It hangs in the air, like phantom shadows that listen, that pass by overhead, taking refuge beneath his eyes, bawled in his fists.

But you refuse to inherit his sins.

He exhales. He puts the ring in his pocket, then places the scroll in your hand. You take it from him with a quivering touch.

He turns from you. Walks to stand in front of the fire again.

You stay there. Not moving. Not knowing how to.

“Leave,” Drake says, quiet. “…before I change my mind.”

You nod, a lone tear dripping down your cheek. You wipe it away with the back of your knuckles. You go to the door, and before you are about to close it behind you, you pause. 

“…Goodbye Drake.”

When the door is shut, and you have gone, you can’t hear him reply.

“Until we meet again, little dove…”

☾☼

You run home.

Inside of you there are fields of lush green. The swashes of sashaying sage splaying itself over hillsides. The lilies with their yellow sequin buds and white pedal trim. You inhale the fragrance of sweet solace.

Then wipe at your whimpering face with weary palms.

You’re leaping from one building to the next, the crisp night air alive in your lungs. You run faster, jump farther than you ever have in your whole life. You are chasing the merciful moon’s gaze, so heavy and full, through the mist. The scroll tied to your waist. The cold nipping at your heels.

His name is on your tongue. It’s sung in every beat of your heart. Like the mourning doves you’d spent your mornings listening to. A reminder of a new day. A new dawn.

You run until it hurts. Until you come across the only place you can imagine him waiting at. The dilapidated state of the entrance and the dark of the night, doing nothing to dissuade you from climbing up the side of the building, hand over foot.

When you enter through the second-floor window, you sprint up the stairs, your pulse so loud you can hardly make out any other sound. You scour the rooms but find nothing. No one.

Beads of sweat are forming at your brow, doubt obscuring reason, but then you turn, and there. The hatch leading to the rooftop is left open.

You bolt up the stairs.

There he is. Sat on the floor, head in his hands, too consumed with emotion to even notice you.

My love.

My orchid.

My everything.

“Astarion?” You breathe, and as soon as his name leaves your lips, he’s dropping his hands and meeting your gaze with a broken inhale.

A light breeze carries the scent of the sea, and Astarion says your name with wide eyes. It’s heavy, like it takes all his strength to say it.

He’s rising to his feet. You slowly approach each other, as if encased in a dream.

When his hands find your face, he breathes, and then his arms are encompassing you, holding you as though you are the most cherished thing that exists, and for him, it’s true.

“Oh gods,” he says, and there are tears in his voice, and he’s trembling all over, but so are you, “I went back, and you weren’t there— I had to hope they’d saved you—” he holds you tighter, fighting back tears but they descend his cheeks. You feel the tears hit the top of your head. The relief that is overflowing him is pouring into you, “—but then the days passed and I— I didn’t know if you’d—”

“It’s okay,” you say quietly, your arms wrapped around him too as you squeeze him back in reassurance, “I’m okay. I’m here now.”

You hold each other for what feels like forever. You never want it to end. You never want to know a life without him embracing you, pressing his lips to the top of your head, murmuring nonsensical ramblings of elation into your hair.

When Astarion does pull back from you, he asks, “What happened? Did Drake do anything to you?”

“No. Actually he…” you bite your lip and unravel yourself from Astarion, “…he let me leave.”

Astarion’s bites the inside of his cheek.

You untie the scroll from the loop at your waist. You hold out the scroll for Astarion to take.

“And he gave me this.”

Astarion’s eyes broaden, his brows rising into his white curls. “Is it…”

Seeing as he won’t take it from you, you put it in his hands. His fingers curl over it.

“Yes. The blood oath is complete,” you say, then a ghost of a smile lingers on your lips, “you can make your wish.”

As you say it, you can’t help but be a touch anxious about what that wish could be. He hadn’t told you outright. Even though you’d had the idea of him being able to walk beneath the sun, that didn’t mean he shared the same desire.

Nevertheless. Whatever he chose. It was his choice, and his alone.

“Astarion I…” you begin, and his gaze follows as you glance away, toward the horizon, then down at the ground. “I will have to leave the city,” you say, “because of what occurred with my father… and without the protection of Drake, it’s not safe for me to remain here anymore.”

“Alright,” he replies, taking your hand in one of his, “then where will we go?”

We.

“You don’t…” you falter and fidget, but force yourself to say it, “You don’t have to leave with me. You can do anything, and go anywhere, you choose.”

You feel the weight of his stare. He sets aside the scroll on the floor, then caresses both your cheeks in his palms, angling your head up to look at him.

“Is it so hard for you to understand that I choose you? Wherever, or whenever, or for whatever reason,” he soothes, and you let out a little sigh. A tear escapes your eye. His thumb chases it away.

“Aren’t you going to make your wish?” You question, and his brows furrow as he frowns. “Are you ready?”

 “Yes,” he affirms, then reluctantly lets his hands fall from your face. He leans down and takes the scroll in his hand. He undoes the knot, then unravels it.

Its words are written in a cipher; however, the letters unscramble upon the page for any eyes that set upon it, allowing Astarion to read it out loud.

As he reads, the words disassemble from the page, and he internally makes his wish.

You watch as the scroll evaporates into golden ribbons and streams of mist. Its envelopes Astarion, blooming though his body, his skin radiant like shards of diamonds reflecting every star woven into the fabric of night.

When his feet touch the ground, his hand is cast over his chest. His eyes are closed.

“What…” you remark, breathless, reaching out to touch him. Your fingers enclose over his wrist, and there, you feel the faintest… pulse.

“Astarion,” you say awash with astonishment, and when your gaze falls upon his face, your breath catches in your lungs.

His skin is flush, the roses of his eyes now blooming in the apples of his cheeks.

His chest rises and falls.

“What did you wish for?” You ask with a shaky voice, as your hand reaches out to enclose his cheek.

It’s warm.

“To be cured,” he utters, and you jerk your hand away. Your mouth agape.

Astarion smiles weakly, hand going over his chest, as he breathes in deep.

“I can feel it beating…” he utters in twinkles of disbelief, and he can’t stop gazing at you, “I can see myself reflected in your eyes…”

Fresh tears spring to his eyes, and he swipes them away, laughing quietly.

Your hand settles over the place of his heart. You can feel it thumping under your hand.

“It worked…” you trail off, and then his hand is enclosing yours, keeping it to his chest.

The sun is rising.

But he doesn’t need to cower, nor does he need to hide.

He doesn’t need to fear.

He doesn’t need to be a slave to his thirst.

The pink rim of the sun is nestling into your skin, tangerine warmth coating your tongues. The flavor of it is intoxicating, vivid, and alive. The orange light is burning bright in your lungs, like a star rising inside you.

“I’m free,” he remarks, and the tears stream down his cheeks, and when he swoops you in his arms, twirling you around, you feel his joy like you have known his pain.

You don’t know if you’ve ever felt like this. If you’ll ever feel like this again. You think you will. You have hope you will, as with him here, every day is like soaring across the sky and sea.

“Yes,” you reply, kissing his cheek, as the honeyed sun reveals more of her sweet face, and illuminates your bodies in a peachy, yellow glow.

“We are.”

A/N: I want to thank you for reading this story. I know this is just… fanfiction. But I poured my heart and soul into this. I wanted to cover themes of choice, forgiveness, freedom, etc. I tried to even be symbolic with names, animals, colors, etc., But regardless. I hope you enjoyed following me on this journey. I’ve always wanted to write novels, and this is the closest I’ve come. Maybe one day :). It would mean a lot to me if you left a comment to tell me your thoughts, or a heart, but if not, I appreciate you regardless. Thank you. Until next time.

[descendinight]

Haloth’s Lair（Mérilimbén）

[mickyswildlifeexploring]

Flying against the storm

[twilight-sanctuary]

[nixscriptum]

[shisasan]

Yes. I hear. Your silence is loud. 

September 6th, 1967 Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters First published: 1977

[alder-and-cedarwood]

C// Instagram // Redbubble- Prints // DM - for commission on GIFS

[nnobodysdaughter]

[inkpressedpetals]

[zuubaida]

[literaryvein]

L. V., excerpts from the epilogue

[twilight-sanctuary]

[bg3astariononlydeok]

[descendinight]

“Look up！” 素描本

[nixscriptum]

[flowersforagrave]

[descendinight]

🥄a silent night at Thýlf Thalas