You hardly feel the prick of the needle.
Your skin has been hardened and morphed into something you don't recognize. You once had scars on your calves, and gashes on your arms from various entanglements over the years. Rogues with sharp knives, fighters with unforgiving greatswords. Your magic has its limit, and you would get unlucky at times. But nothing ever came too close to killing you.
Until now, you suppose. If a beating heart signifies life, you are, by definition, dead. And each piece of history on your skin is wiped away by the bite that changed you.
At times, you feel like a statue, now that you are solidified, and your body is silent of all the life that it used to breathe. The blood in your body is stagnant, but you can still bleed. Though the blood isn't yours any longer.
You stand on the dressing podium in your chambers as the seamstress spreads a green sheet of velvet over your torso, pinning the fabric here and there, and grabbing measurements. She's a polite little elf, working diligently and quietly to get you the new attire Astarion wants. You're to attend an event with him soon; some posh, politics-driven party he can't stop talking about.
There he sits, at the desk by the windows. The curtains are open, and his back is towards the sunshine that streams through.
You remember the mindfulness that used to overtake him in the daylight. Being denied it for so long, it was almost a religious process for him to step out into the sun. There was always a moment of relief whenever he leapt out of the shadows, and found that the sun didn't indeed burn him to ashes.
All that time ago.
The seamstress reaches into the chest that was brought up with her. Pulling out a rich blue hue of the same velvet, she holds it up for you to see. "Which color would you prefer?"
Green is your favorite, as it always has been. You gesture to the fabric that she already pinned up, draped over a canopy. "That one."
The seamstress bows her head. "Yes, Lady Ancunin."
Ancunin. It certainly isn't your name, or your surname.
"No," you tell her, "you may just call me—"
"Nonsense, darling," Astarion interrupts, his eyes on the piece of paper he's scrawling on. Your spine immediately straightens at his voice. "She will address you properly."
Properly? "But—"
"Lady Ancunin would actually prefer the blue fabric." He glances up, his eyes meeting the seamstress. "See that it's done."
"Yes, my lord."
And after a moment, he asks, "And do you have anything in satin? Similar color."
"Yes, my lord. Would you like to see a sample?"
Astarion nods at her, and watches briefly as she searches the chest.
You try to protest, "The green, Astarion—"
"Blue is your color, my sweet."
No, it isn't. Your mouth opens, but you see the look that flashes on his face. One that instills in you a feeling of caution.
But his voice is calm as he explains, "Your eyes are a gorgeous blood red. Green simply doesn't suit you." Anymore, he should tack on, but doesn't. There is a reason there are drapings over each mirror in the presence of an outsider.
The seamstress seems to find what she's looking for—a small square of satin fabric. Midnight blue.
"If I may," she says, approaching Astarion.
He grabs onto the square, his fingers contemplative on the fabric. "We will commision the gown in blue velvet."
You don't agree, or disagree, because it seems that your opinion will not be taken under consideration.
The seamstress asks, "And how would you like the satin crafted, my lord?"
Astarion returns the fabric to her. "Nightwear, my love?"
None of your nightwear survives his hands. There is no point to it, besides being a complete waste of gold.
Astarion doesn't wait for your reply. He gestures to the seamstress. "Something short, frilly. Tight. You know how it is."
"Yes, my lord."
Your face burns through the last bit of measurements. The seamstress vacates the chambers, and two servants come forward to carry out her chest.
"Ancunin?" You ask, still standing on the dressing podium.
He grins. "A strong surname, is it not?"
"Yes, but not mine."
"Ah, but you carry it beautifully."
His attention is elsewhere, and the discussion is over. Vaguely, you feel your palm heating with a bolt of your anger. What would he do, you wonder, if you just burned his desk down?
You step down from the podium, and your palm cools. Your attention is also elsewhere, because the clouds outside are moving, and the strength of the rays dance with it. The afternoon sun is gorgeous as it scatters over his desk.
You note how the sunlight shines through his hair and covers his hands as they move across paperwork. He would be so warm to touch, and you find yourself starved of it. You long to feel the heat on your skin. You haven't been outside, beneath the great blue sky, in over a month.
Gods, has it been a month? A month of this cold, dead creature you've become?
Your feet move you, and you obey. Because you just want a little taste of something that might cleanse you of the darkness. Step after step, you approach the desk, and the golden light. Something like awe is on your face as you step out of the shadows, and—
You don't feel anything. You expect warmth, or perhaps even pain, as the sun rightfully rejects a creature of the night. Instead, you're pushed against something—a dresser, you realize, across the room. Astarion presses you into it, his red eyes wild, and you're sure you see fear in them. An emotion you haven't seen from him in a while.
"What are you doing?" he demands, a hand clasped tightly on your upper arm. And then, he yells out, "Close the curtains!"
The same two servants from before rush in, and draw the curtains. The room darkens, and you mourn silently for the banishment of all that is good.
"What are you doing?" he demands again, his grip shaking you. "The sun will kill you."
"I just—"
"You just what, Lillith?"
Lillith. There are tears in your eyes, because part of you is sure that he had forgotten your name.
He's seething, and the anger that pulses from him is palpable.
At the servants, he barks, "I want someone at every window of this gods damned building. Do you understand?"
His gaze falls on his hand on you, and he releases you immediately. The ache in your arm is a sign of his strength, and perhaps his fear. You excuse it away, because he was afraid for you. For your wellbeing.
Your back is still against the dresser as Astarion stalks away.
You call out after him with a small apology, because what else can you say?
He pauses at the closed curtains, and his hands are pulling at the cloth to tighten their hold.
"Never again, Lillith." His face turns to you, grave. "Never again."
A/N: Admittedly, I'm not a huge fan of the name Tav.