From the way your palm warms on the large slab of wood obscuring the chamber's windows, you know that it is day. You press your cheek to the wood, because you are alone, and the comfort it brings you is immeasurable.

It would only take a single flame, you know. You could ignite this entire room—bookshelves, curtains, four-poster bed. You wonder where Astarion's compulsion would truly begin and end if you sent a bolt of flames to the doors. If the room didn't exist, would your chains still hold?

You can't stand it, can you? The power you fought to give me is now—somehow—unacceptable.

You block it out. The guilt, the accusations, and the regret. Your forehead rolls onto the slab, and you take a deep breath. You've missed the natural cadence of breathing, an action that has always grounded you. Now, it is forced, and synthetic. The air doesn't feel the same in your lungs anymore—flowing through your chest without purpose, or direction. Your heart is similar. Cold, dead, and silent.

You're used to it by now, but you wonder how Sylas will react to his new stagnant body. You know it won't be good.

You want to visit him down in the dungeons, where you know he is locked up. But you have a suspicion that your compulsion to stay in your chambers is because of him. Astarion doesn't want you roaming the manor with a newly turned spawn in its depths.

As if you couldn't defend yourself.

But perhaps that's not the reason you're locked in here. Perhaps Astarion doesn't want your immediate access to Sylas Vore because you just might kill him out of mercy.

Astarion knows you too well.

There is a tray with a singular goblet of sweet blood on Astarion's desk. You drink half of it before returning to bed. You fall into yet another trance, because there isn't anything else to do. This time, the Putrid Bog welcomes you.

There is fear in his eyes that you haven't seen before. It's fear so deep, and sharp that you find it hard to keep your attention on the man in front of you, who has introduced himself as Gandrel. A monster hunter. He also kindly lets you know that he's hunting a vampire spawn.

Astarion is the name he gives you.

"…I was hoping the hag of these lands could help me flush him out. But it seems she is no more," Gandrel says, his eyes roaming over you, and your companions. Lae'zel shifts behind you, and you can almost make out the glint of her longsword from the corner of your eye. Shadowheart lingers by your right, and one glance at her expression tells you that she already knows how this is going to end.

Astarion, however, seems inward. Wary. You have read the fear in him easily, yes, but there is also… distrust. And it's not directed at Gandrel.

You cock your head to the side, your right palm warm, and ready. "And when you find this… Astarion, was it? What will you do? Kill him?"

Gandrel swipes a hand clean across. "No. Not this time. My orders are to capture him."

To your surprise, Astarion takes a hesitant step forward. "Oh? And bring him where exactly?"

"Baldur's Gate. My people wait for me there."

You flex your hand, calling on your fire, and letting it simmer beneath your skin. And maybe Astarion notices, because there's a slight straightening of his spine.

Did he really think you would give him away? The mere thought helps focus your magic, and channel it. Anger has always been a good heat conductor.

"A vampire spawn." You smirk at the monster hunter, and state amusedly, "That's a pity, sir. It's not like he's a real vampire."

Astarion turns partially to you, and you can sense both his anxiety, and his annoyance. "I don't know, Lilith. I'm sure a vampire spawn could still rip out your throat if he felt like it."

"Ah." Gandrel points at him. "A fellow monster enthusiast. He is right, unfortunately. They are only weak when compared to their masters." He gestures around the swamp, where sunlight flits through the dreary trees. "During the day, we have the advantage. But at night, when they hunt? You will never find a more deadly quarry."

Your eyes slide to Astarion. "Oh, yes. I'm sure they can creep right up on you, in search of a throat to tear open. Especially when you're asleep." You feign a shudder. "Gods forbid."

Astarion crosses his arms. "Well, you—we have survived so far. Let's focus on that."

You hear Shadowheart snort, but Gandrel is completely serious when he says, "It would be wise to post guards at night. The threat is real."

Astarion takes a slight step back to align his footing with you. His eyes dart to your palm. "Indeed it is. We should do something about this threat."

You smile, a flame easily igniting over your skin. "Yes, we should."

The fight is quick, and efficient. The monster hunter is ridiculously outnumbered, and Astarion strikes the final blow—a dagger right through Gandrel's eye.

"Let's head back to camp," Shadowheart says, swinging her bloodied mace. "A hag, her minions, and a monster hunter—all in one day? I'm exhausted."

Your eyes are on Astarion, who twists his knife out of Gandrel's skull. When he looks at you, you see the light in his eyes. You note the triumph that squares his shoulders. But then his gaze drops to Gandrel's singed, blackened hair, and the burns on his forearms. You don't miss the apprehensive glance he throws towards your hands. You don't know why, but you hide them behind you.

As you walk back to camp, you hear him mutter, "I am not going back to him."

Cazador. You're left to assume that Gandrel had been sent by Astarion's master. "Rest assured, he's dead now."

"Burnt to a crisp," he agrees, but doesn't look at you.

"And skewered like a pig." You tap your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Nice touch."

That evening, when most of your companions are finishing up dinner, or lying about the bonfire, you feel eyes on you. You know exactly who's staring at the back of your head, and you can't imagine why he wouldn't just join you by the flames.

Eventually, you decide to get out of the way as Shadowheart and Lae'zel seem to be dangerously close to pummeling each other. You saunter your way over to Astarion's tent, wine bottle in hand.

There's a sudden agency to him when he notices you coming over—as if he didn't expect it. As if he simply wasn't… ready.

But he patches it up quickly with an easy smirk. "Here's my little treat with their cheeks all flushed." He looks down pointedly at the bottle in your hands, and places his book down on top of a nearby chest.

"Aren't treats meant to be sweet?" You ask through a grin.

"And you are the sweetest of them all."

The flattery is slightly uncomfortable—there's something about its delivery that feels off. "I don't know about that."

"Well, I do," he insists. "I've tasted you, and I can vouch for it." His red eyes observe you. "You will come to my bed tonight, won't you?"

You look down at the bottle of wine in your hands and you immediately feel the heaviness in your legs, and feet. Today has been an exhausting day, with most of your magic stores drained, begging to be restored through rest and relaxation.

You open your mouth, with every intention of abandoning this rendezvous in favor of a calming trance, but Astarion seems to sense the imminent rejection. Swiftly, he straightens, and says, "Perhaps my sweet treat spiel is not my best work. How about this one…" He prepares himself, as if stepping up on stage, and getting into character. "All these accolades from the Tieflings are nothing compared to the sound of my name, cried from your lips."

Your smile is small, and tired. "No."

His hands fall to his sides. "No?"

You tease, "For one, I don't think I've ever cried out your name, Astarion."

He narrows his eyes, as if to recall. "Well that is a shame, isn't it? We must rectify, and soon. But let me give it another go." He prepares himself again, hands swaying about. "Every part of your perfect body whispers temptation—it's as if the Gods made you just to ruin me."

"Ruin you? That sounds drastically… unhealthy, don't you think?"

He steps closer. "My dear, have you ever heard the term romance? None of it is meant to be healthy, by nature." His gaze and tone are sultry as he continues, "And I can go all night with the flattery, believe me—but is that really all you want?"

You take a small step back, and you can tell it vexes him. You can tell he's losing you—but you're not sure why it matters so much.

"How about if I said these little words," he adds quickly, "Everyone's favorite." This time, he doesn't prepare. After a mere beat, his eyes bore into yours, and his mouth thins. There is something vaguely painful in his expression, when he utters plainly, "I love you."

You stare at him, and you aren't exactly sure of your own expression. It's somewhere between quietly alarmed and thoroughly terrified, you imagine.

Nothing about his tone or enunciation is convincing. Nothing about the way his wary eyes watch you gives you any indication that he wants to be saying such things to you.

Your mouth is dry when you tell him, "A pretty lie."

Astarion blinks, but then agrees, "Though a beautiful one, isn't it?" He raises a hand, as if to stop you from vanishing away entirely. "And it can be true, if only for tonight."

"Astarion—" you begin to refute.

And instantly, his mask crumbles. "What, Lilith? Tell me what to do. Tell me what you want, and it's yours."

It becomes too clear to you what's happening, and you feel both heartache and anger for how he's been trying to proposition you. "If you're trying to pay me back for not selling you out to that Gur, you're wasting your time."

It seems he has to take a moment to collect himself. "I'm sorry, is this you rejecting me, Lilith Savini?"

You push the bottle of wine into his chest. "No, Astarion. I'm setting you free."

You wake with a gentle feeling on your face. A soft caress of fingers, and your eyes open slowly. Astarion is seated beside you in bed, leaned back against the headboard, an arm framing your head on the pillow. His thumb absently strokes your cheek, and occasionally, the column of your neck.

On the precipice of waking, you're still reeling from your memories. Your head twists up to the man you've set free. He's one and the same—soft silver curls, and dashing red eyes. Blankly, you ask, "Do you remember Gandrel?"

He looks down at you for a moment, as if he had forgotten you were there. "Gandrel the Gur. I do remember his blood on my collar when I sliced through his eye."

You close your eyes, and smile. "Do you remember when you came to me that night?"

He sighs, clearly uninterested, but his tone doesn't quite bother you in your half-wakeful haze. "What of it, Lilith?"

"I turned you down—Gods, you were so… confused." You laugh lightly. "But you still followed after me to that clearing." Your voice is as distant and heavy as a dream. "You simply laid beside me on the grass, barely just a foot away, and you said…"

I'm grateful.

I've never had anything substantial to feel gratitude for in the last two-hundred years.

But this. And you.

I'm grateful.

"Does it matter what I said?" Astarion's fingers find the lapels of your robe. When he manages to slide the fabric down your shoulders, you truly jolt awake, your hands reaching up to stop his. But he quickly wraps your wrists in a palm, and traps them against your chest. "And you know what?" He leans down to your ear, and grins. "You should have fucked me anyway." His lips are soft on your throat, but you soon feel the scrape of sharp teeth. "But you'll make it up to me now, won't you?"

A/N: I told myself I needed a break away from the angst and sadness for this chapter, but I just can't do it. It all sucks and we won't escape it. (But that's why you're reading, aren't you?)

I'm sad I can't directly respond to Guest comments. xYora, thank you for your reviews!

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