Escapism comes to you in the form of your nightly trances, thanks to your Elven heritage. Physically, you're in your chambers, and passively, you can sense Astarion's body beside yours on your bed. But mentally, you're back on the Sword Coast.

Astarion watches you with cool contemplation. He's the only one who hasn't said a word to you all evening, and you long to push your freakish tadpole abilities into his brain to give reason to the daggers in his stare. The Tieflings have livened up your camp, but it seems that no amount of joy can bring the dead back to the living. You watch as he takes a swig of wine, and winces.

Your other companions seem to choose to ignore the brooding vampire, but you can't help but wonder if he's simply hungry. You had let him feed on you—what, twice, now? A fact that easily concludes that you're an idiot, and he's clearly taking advantage of you.

But you can't help but recall just how he had said it…

This is a gift, you know. A momentary look of uncertainty, and hesitation. Something you never see from him in your day-to-day interactions. I won't forget it.

And you hadn't forgotten it either. So now, you approach him, if for nothing else but to attempt to wipe that displeasure off of his face. And if he needed blood, you'd be happy to oblige; hangry was not a mood suitable for tonight's affair.

"If you keep looking at Lae'zel that way, I'm afraid we'll find your head on a spike come morning," you quip, coming up to him at his tent.

He scoffs at you. "What a fascinating mating ritual."

"Look alive, Astarion. We helped the Tieflings."

"I'm dead, you know. And please—don't label me as some hero."

You take the wine from him. "Does this actually help?"

"Yes," he grumbles. "Fortunately for me, vampires can enjoy sin, and nothing else."

Fascinated, you take a sip. "Alcohol isn't sin."

"All my sins have revolved around alcohol, my dear." He grabs the bottle back. "So, you've finally made your rounds to me. Gale's sparkly little trick did nothing for you?"

Watching an exceptionally talented, and well-studied mage conjure spheres of sparkles to liven up the place had certainly been endearing. "He's not quite my type."

"No? I would say a sorcerer and a wizard could make quite the magic."

You chuckle, reaching for the bottle. He hands it to you, and asks, "What is your type, then, Lilith dearest? Perhaps our gloomy Cleric on her second bottle of wine?"

You turn, trying to make out Shadowheart at her tent. It's quite a distance from Astarion's. "My type is likely more of a male figure."

"Boring."

You laugh. "I think that's my decision to make."

"Well, what will it be tonight? Gale is too sparkly for you, which, my dear, I truly respect your hesitation there. How about Wyll—our resident warlock? That eldritch blast of his is… quite the spectacle."

"Wyll is sweet, if not a little reserved."

"Sweet, eh?" He takes back the bottle and tips it back. "Don't tell me you have your eyes on Withers."

The smile on your face is painful. "Must I have someone tonight?"

"Yes," he emphasizes, as if the question is entirely absurd.

"I think that's also my decision to make."

He stares at the bottle in his hand. After a while, oddly quietly, he asks, "Why would you not decide to have a little fun?"

"Fun?"

He passes the bottle to you. "By the Hells, sex, my dear. A night of passion."

"It's not a necessity. Not tonight, or any night."

His head cocks to the side. "Are you being serious?"

You shrug, putting the bottle to your lips. "I'm having fun now. I'm warm, and my pants are still on."

"A shame, by the way."

You point the bottle towards the woods. "Do you know how cold it is out there?"

"Sweetheart, if he's doing it right, you wouldn't be cold."

You shake your head, and stick the bottle to his hands. "What do you want, Astarion? Because might I just say—you look miserable."

He doesn't respond, not for a while. But when he does, there's something off about his tone. Bitter. "What do any of us want? Pleasure." He looks at you. "Yours. Mine. Our collective ecstacy." He nods towards the trees. "Come with me, won't you?"

You hesitate, and you find that your head is a little light from the alcohol. You wonder how drunk he really is. "Are you… certain?"

He takes a step forward, and his scent fills your senses. "You're a treat, love. How could I say no?"

You wake from your trance abruptly.

Your internal clock is fairly accurate, and you could have sworn that it should be morning by now. Astarion isn't in bed with you, and the chambers are dark. Reeling momentarily by your memories, it takes you a while before you gain the courage to wrap yourself in sheets and crawl out of bed.

You're a treat, love. How could I say no?

Even now, the regret of that night haunts you. All you can picture is Astarion's far-off gaze as he has you, for the first time, against a tree in the cold, damp woods. You had smelled the wine on his breath, and you should have refused him.

But how could you have known of the demons he had been battling?

All that time ago.

You seek a candle. Your darkvision is sufficient to navigate your surroundings, but you've always felt a little comfort in light.

But as you dig around the bedside table, something gives you pause. You hear birds outside.

The four-poster bed is tucked away in its own special section in the chambers. Once you make it to the main area, your steps falter at the sight in front of you.

It is morning.

The doors to the chambers open, and you instinctively pull the covers tighter around your body.

"What is this?" You ask, upon seeing Astarion enter. You gesture at the windows you can't see anymore. "You can't board up the whole manor!"

"Of course, I can," he says calmly, his attention on you. "But I won't. Just the ones in here will suffice."

"Just the ones in here?" Suddenly, you have the chilling sense that you won't be allowed out of these chambers.

A corner of his lip rises. "Well, I can't have a servant in our private chambers at all hours of the day to guard against your recklessness, my dear." With a tug, he pulls on the covers around you, and you scramble to hold them up. "Not when you're so indecent most of the time."

Quickly, your eyes dart to the shredded nightwear from the evening before, lying limply on the floor. "It isn't my fault that you seem to have a personal vendetta against my clothing."

He pulls you to him. Gods, his strength is unavoidable. "It's called passion, sweetheart. Good morning, by the way." Slowly, as if unwrapping a present, he takes your hands, forcing you to let go of the covers that are barely doing their job in the first place. He watches as they pool by your feet. "What a treat."

You flinch, but it's barely noticeable.

He pulls you to the slab of wood that now covers the windows. Admiringly, he runs a hand over it. "It was short notice, but it will do, won't it?"

You have no words. You don't even have the chance to react properly before your back is against the slab, and Astarion's hands wander to your hips.

"Shall we test it out, love?"

Yes. No. It doesn't matter, because he merely hoists you by your thighs, and presses you further into the dark wood.

"Astarion—" You start, but the words don't come to you. You are so delectably warm, and you can't quite fathom where it's coming from. Pressed against you, he makes quick work of his pants, but you feel his fingers on you first.

He lets out a satisfied groan. "Oh, you love this, don't you?"

You don't quite know what this is that he's alluding to, but you find that the mechanics of your body simply obey. A part of you must want him this way whenever he does.

You're filled with him soon enough as he takes you earnestly, your back flush against the wood. But the only thing you truly notice is the warmth that radiates from your shoulders, down to your lower back.

Once the grogginess of your trance fades, it isn't hard to figure out where it's coming from.

Your lips twist up, and your eyes unfocus. The morning sun, warming the boarded windows, also warms you. You hardly feel Astarion buried deep inside you, because you're elsewhere, lying on your back, in a meadow, perhaps. Colorful birds, sweet-smelling trees, and soft grass. You are the sun's mistress, and the night's enemy. You wear a crown of scorching rays.

Yanked back to the moment, you feel Astarion's grasp on your chin.

"Eyes on me, my love." You feel his fingers on your clit, urging you on. "You will come for me."

And you do, because your body isn't yours when you're with him. But that doesn't quite bother you then. You can only focus on the sun behind you, practically on your skin. You pretend it is.

Because this, you know, is the closest you will ever get.

A/N: I'd like to point out that I truly didn't intend for there to be this much sex in this story. But here we are. Maybe it's because my husband pre-reads these, and I love watching him squirm. But in all seriousness, Astarion's Ascended character progression in this story is tragic, and if/when he realizes what he's really doing to the woman he loves (once loved? all that time ago), he'll surely be devastated.

Some readers have been wondering about the rest of the party and their reactions. Fear not, we will get there.

Also, Crees pointed out how fitting the name Lilith was. I didn't even realize that: Lilith was the first wife of Adam who left the Garden of Eden and became the mother of demons and the supreme empress of Hell. Pretty cool.

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