Summary: When Astarion called Silaestra a "kindred spirit", the first time they met, he could never have known how right he ended up being.
She woke with her head resting on his shoulder. Her skin felt too hot, burning, feverish almost; but his touch was a relief. Like a cool breeze on a sweltering summers day; no … like a rainshower, dousing her as she burned alive.
“Good morning, my love”, he said.
Astarion was beautiful even with the inprint of a pillow on his cheek and unruly, untamed curls falling into his eye.
“It’s a good morning now”, she replied, unable not to smile. “Did you have a good rest?”
He opened his mouth to answer.
She turned around, swift as a snake, and lunged at him. He thrashed under her, desperate, frantic, but she’d already whispered the spell, had already pulled the dagger from underneath the pillows. The look of shock in his face was thrilling , and she grinned at him wildly as she thrust the blade into his throat, thunder rippling along his pale flesh as the spell ripped him apart …
It hadn’t happened that way.
She remembered what had happened that morning, and it hadn’t been this.
He’d answered. She hadn’t attacked him.
It had been a good morning, nothing like this.
She had straddled him, but to kiss him, and perhaps they would’ve done more than that. But Karlach had interrupted.
“Nothing to complain about”, Astarion replied. She was resting her head on his shoulder again. He sounded almost surprised when he said that, and his tone was warm with affection.
The memory changed.
