Cicatrice – Chapter 6

Deiseal and Widdershins

(So, turns out I had a bolt of inspiration combined with some uninterrupted writing time. Therefore, enjoy this new chapter update a little earlier than planned. As always, I enjoy the reviews and comments! Thank you! - Nas)

Astarion was a complete mess. Each gentle lick and quiet suck was driving him further into a delirious frenzy. Only her hand pressed down into his abdomen anchored him to the present moment in any meaningful way. He was also cognizant of the subtle explorations she made by sliding her palm over his side, up across his chest, and down to his hip as she continued to work him higher; her touch tentative, as if only now just learning the planes of his body. She also seemed to take particular interest in running the tips of her fingers along the inside of his thigh as she pleasured him which, if it hadn't still been mostly clothed, was something that Astarion had no doubt would make him moan. Unwilling to make such a sound though, he grit his teeth and slowly exhaled. How was it that this one woman could quicken him so effectively with just a touch? It all felt unfairly sweet and tender, given the fact that her tongue was currently behaving as anything but. Though in chastising her about it, he would only reveal himself. If he opened his mouth now, he knew he would have no control over the voice that came out of it.

Nor could he actually remember the last time anyone had done this for him. Since turning, he hadn't bothered to ask for it. Blood had become his sole comfort and satisfaction in the years following his murder and, though he was often instructed to feed for the sake of amusement, Cazador had taken little interest in allowing him to enjoy even those fleeting moments of contentment. Now, settled back in a mound of lumpy pillows in a ghastly tavern surrounded by casual acquaintances, he descended into bliss. She took him into her mouth with relish and Astarion marveled at the sensual desire that rose intensely throughout his body as she did. In all this time, he found that he hadn't just missed the feelings of excitement and passion that having a proper lover entailed, he'd also desperately missed the experience of knowing another and being known in return. And this obstinate, determined, tenacious elf-maiden was definitely figuring him out.

As the rest of their assembled coterie slept on, Lyric took great delight in performing this act for the man beneath her. He was, as anticipated, deeply aroused and responsive; tense and wanting as any other she'd known before him. In truth, he just felt so handsomely alive under her ministrations that she was tempted to imagine that he wasn't really a vampire at all. Folly of course, seeing as he had just taken blood from her minutes ago. But given his explanations from earlier, Lyric now understood why Astarion found all of this so surprising. If feeding had been his only form of physical release for the past two centuries, was it any wonder that their initial tryst had rattled and confused him. Though, whether or not this would become a pattern for him remained to be seen.

With a contented sigh, she varied her stroke and continued to suckle her lover in the way that seemed to provoke the most immediate reaction; his hips tightening reflexively as he tried not to openly thrust into her mouth. She took note that he was also holding his breath; likely under the fear that too loud a gasp or too trembling an exhale would alert someone to their salacious activities. He was close though and when he suddenly bucked beneath her, grabbing onto her shoulder for support, she knew it was over. He was too excited from their play and it all came crumbling down in seconds.

The first wave of orgasm hit him so hard that Astarion was forced to bite down into his own tongue to keep from shouting; his body helplessly rolling into the mouth that held steady around him. He managed a single, stuttering, breath before it was abruptly cut off. The second wave was equally intense, and for a moment, he lost all sense of time and place. All he knew was the feeling of drifting beyond himself as the ecstasy of completion twisted his body and mind around themselves and into knots, leaving him wrung him out and panting. He'd truly forgotten what this was supposed to feel like. He'd forgotten what living climax was in a time before blood, and rats, and Cazador had wiped out the person he used to be. And then he'd been inside her that first time, breaking apart as his body violently remembered the all-consuming rapture and offered up his essence in a way he never thought would be possible again. Yet now, here he was, doing it all over again for the third time.

By the last and lighter crest, Astarion slowly became aware of the young elven ranger in his arms affectionately caressing him through the end of his release and mouthing at the thin trickle of blood making its way down his chin from where he had accidentally nicked his lip in an effort to quell the noise. She was so patient with him, letting him come back to himself in his own time, that he wondered if it was merely the natural instincts of an elven female with her chosen mate or if she just enjoyed watching him struggle through the sensations. Knowing Lyric, it might have been both…or worse, neither.

After several moments, he finally allowed himself the privilege of breathing again; agonizing and uneven as it was. With a sly smile, Lyric took the opportunity to nuzzle against his neck and pretend at biting him. He shuddered.

"That looked like it went well. But I take it to mean you still aren't used to that happening?"

"No." Was the muted response.

"I guess these tadpoles are wreaking all kinds of havoc with our systems. But you have to admit, it's not a bad perk for the time being."

Astarion chuckled, benignly adjusting his clothing back to some sort of order before pulling her closer. "Not horrible, I'll admit." He rested his chin on the top of her head as she curled into his chest. "But it does make one question as to why."

"What do you mean why?"

"Walking in the daylight I can understand." He replied. "Entering households uninvited, and that. All things that might better predispose me to becoming a real fiend; a floating, grey, predator ready to drink minds. But enlivening an otherwise undead form? Seems counter-productive."

Lyric couldn't help but laugh a little. Only Astarion could ever refer to something as unbelievable as reinvigoration like it was a passing inconvenience that he was now forced to endure for the sake of some future psychic transformation. And an especially bold perspective, she thought, for a man who had just come.

"Well, I like it."

"Do you now."

"Strangely, yes." She offered, feeling slightly piqued at the flatness of his mood. "You weren't wrong about me before, you know. I tend to avoid men. Have for years. Especially elven men. After Olivet, I never thought I would take another lover. At least not…well…you know."

His breathing was slow and rhythmic now, his body far calmer and much more relaxed. He continued to hold her close, allowing every nip, kiss, or touch she wanted to give him. But Astarion was still distant.

"So why did you?" He finally asked.

The direct question was inevitable and it was one that Lyric had thought about but never really come to a useful conclusion. Looking back on her life, her relationships had all, one by one, fallen to treachery or betrayal. Her parents, her friends and associates, and finally, the worst of them all; the man she had been betrothed to in an act of familial loyalty. A dangerous, vicious, man who deftly hid the depths of his depravity behind an elegant and graceful exterior. A man whom everyone she knew had described as a peer of the highest character; stately, dapper, and virile. When she had met him at last, Olivet Ingen Ailil was truly beautiful to behold, with fair skin, black hair, and sea-blue eyes, and appeared to be every distinguished quality that so many people believed elves embodied. He was well-read, well-spoken, and perfectly mannerly and genial to those around him. Too late had she learned that these were merely his weapons of choice. The Scion of House Argentaamn was nothing short of a monster and she swore she would never be taken by another.

She looked now to the man she was nestled against. He had some of the same qualities she recognized in Olivet; aristocratic, attractive, intelligent, and refined. But that was where their similarities diverged. The darkness that Olivet Ailil had harbored in his soul, Astarion wore outwardly like a coat of arms. Where Olivet had put forth an image of purity and nobility to hide the perversion that corrupted him, Astarion cloaked himself in the mire so that light could never shine through. The more dickish parts of his personality however, she figured he had started off with. They suited him. Truly, there was a kindred dichotomy here then that she had yet failed to come to terms with: having escaped a beast who believed himself to be a man and into the arms of a man who believed himself to be a beast.

"You're not a monster, Astarion." She said. "I don't know who told you that you were, but someone did. They were wrong."

He tensed. "Were they?"

He sounded so vulnerable then, so unguarded. She feared where they might be treading but it also felt like a necessary path.

"Yes." She replied. "I've seen monsters. Real monsters. I could describe to you how I know them, of course, but it's really not important. You've seen them too. And, the thing is, none of them ever call themselves monsters, do they? They don't ever worry about what they will become because they already are what they might be. They don't fear it. But when you are told by someone else that you're a monster, and you believe that to be true, you show everyone around you the monster they expect. That's the give-away. The monsters you expect are no monsters at all."

He turned his head to look down at her where she snuggled into his chest, idly wrapping her fingers in and around the loose shirt-ties over his collarbone.

"Rather philosophical of you."

She turned her face to look up at him. "I'm saying that I think the real reason I wanted you, wanted to be with you, is because I see you in a way you don't see yourself. The same how you see me in a way I don't see myself. It was you, after all, who called me Lyric. You changed my name, changed who I was, the moment you met me and all because of a brief connection of bad memories through a couple of accursed worms. I didn't even have to tell you about Témalíre and the stupid chaos she lives in. You saw it. And you saw me."

He narrowed his eyes slightly as an arrogant shadow seemed to overtake his demeanor. "And given these betrayals you don't speak of." He surreptitiously brushed his hand down the area with the large scar that completely replaced her left breast. "You've traveled with me, fought alongside me, and lay with me, and yet somehow don't believe that I am capable of selling you out to save my own skin? Feels like I have adequately demonstrated that I will."

For the first time that night, Lyric candidly smiled at him; barely able to suppress the mirth that bubbled up from deep beneath her damaged psyche. "Astarion? If that were true? You already would have."

She watched as his expression softened and his posture lost some of its defensiveness. "Have you ever thought that maybe I'm just waiting for a better opportunity?"

Lyric poked him playfully, earning a small startle from her lover. "Well, you let me know when they come along, these better opportunities, so I can kill them too. In the meantime, I'm afraid you're stuck here in the Village of the Damned with the rest of us."

"Apt." He answered with a bit of humor, leaning back into the board with one arm thrown behind his head. "Deranged villagers, mysterious circumstances, some probable cultists or demonic possessions. I suppose all we're missing now is a good Hellmouth."

Lyric's entire world suddenly ground to a halt. One could have heard a pin drop.

She sat bolt upright as her jaw dropped and rounded on Astarion, who remained perfectly placid and composed, reclining in bed. "What did you say?"

"A Hellmouth." He restated, waving his free hand blandly in the air. "You know, the gaping maw of some horrifying mythical creature that usually stands in for the gates to the Abyss? The symbolic descent into carnage and destruction? Honestly, don't you know anything about art? This place is called The Hecatomb, after all."

A thousand thoughts flit across her face in an instant; memories of days long past spent at the hearths of grandmothers and at the feet of grandfathers where she had learned the stories and lore of her people. Connections and clues began to coalesce in her mind so quickly she briefly thought the tadpole was helping her to make them. Even so, a picture began to form and the more pieces that fit into it the more Lyric began to understand that they were all in terrible…. terrible…danger.

"WAKE UP!"

The room exploded. Lae'zel was on her feet in an instant, blade drawn and at the ready. Shadowheart, unfortunately, ended up with the blanket tossed over her head as the Githyanki had leapt up and it took several moments for her to pull it off and get her bearings before she could adequately respond. Gale also shot up from his chair, wide-eyed and looking about while Wyll snuffled from his woolen pile on the floor.

"What is it!?" Lae'zel hissed. "What have you seen? Are we under attack?"

Gale readied his first defensive spell. "Where are they?"

Astarion, rather characteristically, had not moved in the slightest. Instead, he sat exactly where Lyric had left him in the center of the bed, his hair still somewhat disheveled and his shirt awry, but looking in all other respects to be mildly amused. The irony of having spent the majority of his evening desperate to keep silent only to have Lyric shriek everyone awake at the last moment was not lost on him. He didn't presume she'd appreciate him laughing about it though.

"We have to go back downstairs." Lyric continued, her fingers frantically fidgeting and drumming at the air as she looked around the floor for her gear.

Shadowheart squinted and groaned. "What? Why?"

"RIGHT NOW!"

The assembled company stared in shock as the elven ranger donned her clothing, armor, and weapons at break-neck speed despite the fact that they saw nothing out of the ordinary anywhere near her or them. The window where Gale's chair sat was still unnaturally dark, the tavern was completely silent save for a few windy wooden creaks here and there, and the room was otherwise warm and hushed.

"Get everything and get downstairs!" She repeated, throwing her scabbard strap clear over her head all the while hastily tying her long hair back up into a mess of braids and curls. "And for gods' sakes, wake up Wyll!"

With that, Lyric threw open the door and bounded down the stairs to the lower level. Vanishing into the gloom with a flurry of clattering and nonsensical yells.

Shadowheart heaved a deep, irritable, breath and dropped her shoulders as she turned to look at Astarion with an undisguised glare. "What did you do?"

"Me?" He splayed his hands innocently in front of himself. "What makes you think this has anything to do with me?"

"Ugh." She rolled her eyes and grabbed for her staff. "When does it not have to do with you."

Lae'zel simply growled, hooked her pack up with the back end of her sword, and kicked Wyll on the way out.

Several minutes and a fair amount of cursing later, the company of erstwhile heroes made their way down to the tavern dining hall. It was, at this time of night, completely empty. The massive hearth had burned low in the waning hours and everything had a strangely oppressive ambiance of dancing shades and conversational ghosts. It even appeared that a thick layer of dust had already settled on every surface; as if the large communal room had gone unused for many years and had not just been filled with all manner of people only hours before. Time, as many of them had guessed earlier, passed differently in the Lamb's Head. Unfortunately, it had the effect of making their present surroundings even more like that of a tomb. The place felt dead and not only in the sense that there was no current merriment being made.

As Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Gale, and Wyll each filed into the lower level, they watched as Lyric ran from one tacked-up page of ornate triangles on the wall to the next. Studying each of them closely for a few moments, she would then race over to the next one in line, managing to circumambulate the entire downstairs floor twice before coming to stop. She then did it a third time as she tore down and stacked up all of the pages into her hand. It wasn't until Astarion finally followed the troupe, sauntering into the room after having taken the time to fully dress and right himself, that Lyric called them over to a table.

"Lyric, what's going on? What's with all the fuss?" Gale spoke up, still attempting to unkink his neck from too many hours asleep in a wooden chair.

"It makes perfect sense." She stated, her tone bordering on the quite mad. "The triangles, the darkness, the jumbled sense of time and place, the weird townsfolk, it all adds up!"

Wyll, rubbing sleep from his eyes, yawned dramatically. "Lyric, none of this adds up. We spent all evening down here wracking our brains just to realize that none of this adds up. Don't tell me that something came to you in a dream or nothing like that."

"No, no dream. Here, look at this. The pages with the triangles on them have what looks like these brown splotches in the center. At first, I just thought they were some kind of staining, from age maybe. Now, I can't believe I didn't recognize it!"

"Uh." Gale cocked his head and rifled through the drawings as she laid them out across the table. "I still don't quite see it. They really do look just like stains."

"Yes!" Lyric agreed, probably a little too loudly. "But look closer. All the stains are exactly the same on every page. The same shapes, the same outlines, the same arrangement, all within the same inked triangles. I know this image! I've seen it a hundred times from the sailing charts from when I was…. I mean…back when…nevermind dammit, it's a map of the Moonshae Isles!"

Astarion gingerly plucked a page from the table to examine the brown coloration Lyric was describing. "Hmm, so it is. In fact, I would say that these maps have all been torn out of old cartographer's books and then someone has drawn triangles all over them. But what would the point of that be?"

"Fey-Alamtine." Lyric said. "Astarion, it's Fey-Alamtine."

Shadowheart shot a concerned look first to Astarion and then to Lae'zel. "I don't know what that word means but it sounds familiar. I seem to remember something about it having to do with planar travel or maybe Old Llewyrr Gods. Lyric, what are you on about?"

"Everyone." She breathed. "I know why there are no elves here."