Sylas Vore looks dead.

He's nothing but a pale, stiff corpse on the floor of the dining chamber, and you cannot tear your eyes away from him. There are two distinctive marks on his neck, eerily similar to the ones on yours. The indents of the same teeth. A soulless twin.

He won't remember anything from this point on, you know. You hadn't remembered anything from the darkness that followed the bite, either.

Someone enters the room, and you can't quite make out who it is from the corner of your eye. You can't stop staring at Sylas.

"Oh—Eliza, good," Astarion says. "Take this gentleman to the dungeons. Ensure he's locked up tightly."

You hear a quick, "Yes, master."

Eliza soon enters your field of vision, and bends over Sylas's body.

He'll need blood, you know. He'll be ravenous, as you had been. It's wise to lock him up until his thirst is under control.

You track Sylas as he's dragged out of the chambers, his body leaving behind a long streak of blood on the floors.

Now, with the screams gone, it's quiet. So unbearably quiet.

Perhaps if you weren't silenced, you would be screaming. Your magic is potent in your veins, begging to be unleashed with your command. The sight of Sylas Vore mindlessly slicing into his wrist with a steak knife is permanently burned into your memory, your mind not allowing you to forget the simple injustice that was committed here tonight.

How did this happen?

How did we get here?

Your eyes flick to the man you love, and you hardly recognize him. If you could see yourself in the mirror, you wonder if you'd feel the same about yourself.

There's something guarded about the way Astarion studies you now. Gone are the grand declarations, and wicked revelations. He stands a few feet before you, observing you as one would a wild animal. When will you prowl forward? When will you scratch? When will you bite?

None of those things will solve anything, you know.

As if sensing your thoughts, Astarion asks, "If I set your beautiful mouth free, will you burn our home down, my love?"

Our home.

My love.

The manipulations are constant, and underlying. In every sentence, in every glance. You're stupid to have fallen for them.

You shake your head, no. And it's the truth. Your palms are instantly stone cold; your magic has abandoned you at the mere realization that violence isn't the solution. As quickly as a candle blown to darkness, the anger in you has faded, leaving behind nothing but cold numbness.

Astarion approaches you with caution in his step. He looks down at you and says, "Then by all means, speak."

The compulsion unravels. Your voice is small as you carefully say, "Cazador could only compel his spawn. But you… you're able to compel anyone."

There's a smirk on his lips. "A gift by the great Mephistopheles, I imagine."

The archdevil Cazador had dealt with in the first place for this cursed Ascension.

Your throat is tight, and faintly dry. You can't fall ill anymore, but you feel every bit sick. "How long have you been doing this?"

"This?"

Your eyes glisten with emotion. "How long have you used compulsion to sedate me into this miserable mess?"

His eyes are on yours, and his head tilts up in regard. He states, as if mildly surprised, "Miserable."

You take a daring step towards him. "How long have I gotten on my knees for you without a care in the world?"

He continues to stare at you, expression unreadable. And it drives you mad how silent he can be.

"Tell me," you demand, your teeth gritted. "How long have you fucked me while you made me think I let you?"

He watches you, and you wonder if you're simply amusing to him. It's maddening—the way he observes you, as if your anger is lovely, and he wants more of it.

You sneer, "How does it feel to fuck a godsdamn doll, Astarion?"

The moment you turn away, he strongly grabs your forearm. "If I wanted a doll, I would have made you one."

"You're disgusting," you spit. You hate the wetness in your eyes. "Let go of me."

"Why would I?" He asks, his thumb caressing your skin. "Let me remind you, darling, that you agreed to this. You rolled your pretty little head to the side and gave me everything that night in the dungeons."

You want this.

This life. This manor.

"No," you say, your voice frail, as you yank your arm back.

"I quite clearly remember hearing a yes."

He's such a bastard.

"What else have you taken from me?" Your eyes are hollow. "What else have I said yes to without a second thought?"

He tutts, "Where's the fun in a mindless mistress, my dear?"

But that's all you are. That's all you have been. A vacant, nocturnal vessel that dresses, and dances, and fucks—just for him. "I don't know who you are." You can hardly look at him. "The Ascension has… ruined you."

"Ruined me?" He pauses, his gaze distant, and contemplative. "I finally win, and you think of me as ruined?" He narrows his eyes as he prowls towards you. "You were always fond of the weak."

"What?"

He steps into you until you have no choice but to retreat. He traps you between himself and the dining table. The bloody pie, and Sylas's horrific steak knife rest just a few paces away.

"It was why you chose me, wasn't it?" You lean back, but Astarion's breath fans your face as he taunts lowly, "You loved the wretched creature I was. You loved that you could fix me." He voice dips into a snarl. "Is that what you want me to be? A scrambling, pathetic spawn who lives in the shadows of those more capable? Who lives under your shadow, oh mighty, flaming sorcerer?"

"No—"

"You should have killed me that first night, you know." He pulls you closer, his fingers locked on your waist. "I was starving, and how lucky for you that my broken soul was closest to your bedroll. How lucky for me that you were so… willing to give. How lucky for me that you didn't turn me into a pile of ash, when you already had the flame in your palm." His eyes narrow. "But why did you hesitate? What did you see? Was the fear in my eyes that alluring, my love?"

You're a mess of tears. "I wanted to help—"

"Was my puzzle satisfying to solve?" He pushes. "Did you enjoy uncovering every detail of my misery piece by piece? Was my soul tortured enough for you?"

The sob escapes your lips. "Astarion—"

He grabs your chin roughly. "You can't stand it, can you? The power you fought to give me is now—somehow—unacceptable."

"It's ruined you."

"Your mistake."

The sorrow, suddenly, is unbearable. It slices through your chest, along with every punch of regret.

You did this. You did this. You did this.

You gave him everything he ever wanted.

How dare you be unhappy?

Suddenly, Astarion's hand falls away, and he takes a small step back, letting you straighten. What does he see on your face, you wonder, as his hands grab yours, and lifts them to his lips? The sudden change in his demeanor is dizzying.

"Perhaps we've had enough for tonight." Does he realize how broken you are? You shouldn't flinch when he kisses your knuckles, but you do. "Get some rest."

He leaves you in the dining chambers, and you sway on your feet upon losing his steadying hands. The emptiness in you is yawning, looking to drown you in its void. You can't help but blame yourself for the reality that you're in.

Eventually, you note the two servants who have come in. They start to scrub at the floors, and the table. There's too much blood. They will be cleaning until morning.

"You should retire to your chambers, mistress," one of them tells you.

Blankly, you nod, and stumble out to the entrance hall, where the smell of sickly sweet blood eases. You're about to climb the stairs, but you notice the absence of the servants. You blink at the front doors—lavish, and large, and unguarded. You approach them, and slowly, you open one of the doors. The crisp, cool night washes over you, and soon enough, you're in the gardens. Your skirts brush over the blades of grass until you reach a small clearing in front of the manor.

There, beneath the moon, your knees buckle. You lie down and stare into the night sky with unrelenting darkness. Eventually, you close your eyes, and your trance takes you under.

You hope you don't wake up in time.

You hope the sun burns you alive.

You're jolted by the rush of air, and the thud of your own body against another. It's Astarion, you know, by his scent, and the way he holds you to his chest—a hand beneath your knees, and the other pressing into your back. You don't open your eyes.

He has collected you from the gardens. A savior you didn't ask for.

In your chambers, he lays you down on the bed, and there's a part of you that expects him to strip you bare and pry open your thighs. Because he could. And he would make you enjoy it. You would happily, and mindlessly give in.

Your stomach twists. A godsdamn doll.

Astarion's voice is quiet when he says, "Look at me."

You don't.

"Lilith," he says, his tone harder. "Look at me."

Your eyes remain closed.

And it's peculiar, because the compulsion must be heavy on his tongue, but you don't feel an inkling of the desire to look at him.

Perhaps there's a little bit of light in his Ascended heart after all. Perhaps he refuses to control you this way anymore.

But, more realistically, maybe his grand trick is simply not working on you.

Lilith.

Look at me.

Eyes on me, love.

Astarion grips your chin and yanks your head to the side. Your eyes flutter open to his, and he commands, "You will not leave this room until I return."

He lets you go, and you watch him closely until he disappears, the chamber doors slamming behind him.

You sit up, and your heart would be beating wildly if it could. You feel your weight on your feet as you follow Astarion's steps to the doors. You place a hand on one of the golden handles, but you can't bring yourself to push down.

The compulsion worked.

But it only took effect when—

Eyes on me, love.

You smile.

A/N: The eyes are the windows to the soul. Also—thank you for all of your lovely comments!

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