You wake to darkness.
The sheets are cool against your naked skin as you turn to your side, only to find Astarion beside you.
For a moment, you admire his neutral, resting face. His expression carries a sort of calm unaccompanied by his usual contempt, and you wonder where he is in his mind, progressing through his trance. The covers have shifted to his torso, and your hand comes up, tentative and heavy, as it hovers over his unbeating heart.
You press your hands into his chest, applying the necessary pressure on the wound.
Astarion laughs, just a little delirious. "Did you see the way that fool fell onto his own sword?"
You press more firmly, and bite your lip. Shadowheart is nowhere to be found, and you could use a little healing support.
"My love," Astarion coos, seemingly unaware of the amount of blood he's losing. "You are so lucky to have such a skilled rogue by your side."
Your hands are sticky with blood. "How in the Hells did you manage to take a dagger to the heart?"
"It's not that concerning, darling." He smirks, eyes heavy. "My heart has never been my most vital organ."
You sigh sharply. "Shadowheart!"
Astarion delights over your panic, as if your concern is a silly overreaction. "Burn me, would you? Your flames are more than enough to cauterize."
"I am not burning you, Astarion."
"Pity." He pouts. "I've always wondered what it would feel like."
You let your fingers make contact with his skin, and spread out over his heart.
Yes, there had been a time where you had heavily considered roasting him to a crisp. It had been that fateful night—all that time ago—when his teeth had been inches from your neck, and you had jolted awake just in time. You recall that fury blazing through you, ready to ignite.
You should have killed me that first night, you know.
But the thought hardly stays in your mind. You can't imagine summoning a flame in your palm, blasting through his heart. Harming Astarion is an idea that won't take root in your brain. Is it the spawn-master relation that prevents you from thinking such things? Or is it because your wretched soul still loves this man beside you?
Your eyes trail up his neck, then to his face. Your touch hasn't woken him, and you are relieved.
The tiredness of the night before weighs on you, even after hours of rest. Astarion had carried you from his study to your chambers, and the moment he laid you down on your shared bed, his lips were already on your shoulder, trailing down, and down, until they could land between your legs.
You didn't protest. You let him consume you thoroughly before he slipped inside you once more. It had been a small mercy, you tell yourself, that he kept to his predictability. Your body was allowed to go through its preprogrammed motions—natural, sequential, and expected. You knew when to moan, scream, and curl your fingers around the sheets. You knew exactly when to roll your neck over, and offer up your neck. You could predict his pace, and when he flipped you to your knees, you perfected that arch in your back.
But afterwards, he kissed your shoulder, and with a low rasp, asked, "Do you still love me, Lilith?"
It was a question that was entirely out of script. A taunt, really. And it had been jarring to be brought back to the moment. You recall blinking at the crumpled sheets, and at the stains of blood on the pillow, as if newly awake. You remember feeling the ache between your thighs, and hearing the hoarseness in your voice as you replied, "Yes."
I want to make love to the woman who loves me.
You do love him. Because if you didn't, you would have blasted through this manor already. Nothing could hold you. The servants would be collateral damage, but Astarion would be the one to pay. He would burn in the same fire you imagine Mephistopheles is all too familiar with.
But again, the thoughts hardly solidify in your brain. Your palms are cool as an air of dejection washes over you.
Finally, your fingers retreat.
You curl away from Astarion, and trance.
The next time you wake, your awareness is groggy, and you're alone.
You roll over once more, and trance.
You wake frequently throughout the day, but make no effort to crawl out of bed. There is nothing to do, and no one to see. Sylas is likely banished to his rooms when Astarion is away. It might not be a sound idea to see him, anyway.
So you wrap the covers around you, and trance.
"Mistress."
You blink, squinting fiercely at the brightness of candlelight. It is dark otherwise, and you can't quite tell the time of day, the obscene slab of wood barricading the windows.
Eliza finishes lighting two more candles near the bathtub before approaching your bedside. "You must get ready for dinner," she tells you. "Let me help."
You feel no embarrassment when she peels back the covers. Your inner thighs feel sticky, and there is dried blood in your hair, and likely somewhere on the sheets. You let her lead you to the bath, and the water steams around you as you lower down.
You scrub at your skin, feeling the weakness in your bones. It isn't sickness—it cannot be, yet you feel exhausted. Eliza washes your hair, and you wince when she has to pull on it to detangle the knots. Your breath hitches every time your head is yanked to the side, and you find yourself bracing for the phantom teeth to tear into your throat. The water has a rosy hue by the time Eliza is able to run her fingers through your hair without resistance.
Toweling off quickly, you pull your robe tightly around you. Eliza sits you down at your vanity and wordlessly presses some rouge onto your cheeks and lips. She braids your hair and tucks it into a bun.
"Master won't be joining you tonight," she tells you.
You hardly register her words. "He won't?"
"He has let me know to inform you that he will be dining elsewhere."
Your knees wobble as you stand, and you start trudging back towards bed. But before you can throw yourself onto the covers, Eliza's hands close over your wrist. "Master said to ensure you dine, Mistress."
"Tell the servants I'll be dining in here."
"Master said you are to dine with Sylas in the dining chambers. I would be in trouble if I disobeyed his orders," she tells you. "You wouldn't want me to get into trouble, would you?"
You yank your wrist away, disgusted. "I don't even think I know who you are behind these compulsions."
"I don't know what you mean."
You head towards the doors. "I'm sure you don't, Eliza."
Sylas has already been seated in the dining chambers when you arrive. You plop down onto your chair and stare briefly at the unlit candles on the table. You can't quite bring yourself to summon a flame for them.
And then, you regard Sylas.
"You look well," you manage. And it isn't a lie, or an embellishment. The effects of regularly scheduled feedings shouldn't be underestimated. He looks well rested.
"Thank you," he says, but doesn't return the compliment.
Wine is served, and then your meals are carried out. A goblet of blood is placed before Sylas, but when you turn back to the human serving you, she places down two.
"Master says to finish both," she informs you quietly.
After the servants leave, you take the extra goblet and push it towards Sylas in silent offering. He doesn't move to take it, and instead says, "You should drink it, my lady."
You scoff at the formality, and begin to take small sips from your wine.
Sylas licks the blood from his lips after a sizable helping from his goblet. "Do you know where he gets it?"
"No."
"Is he killing for the blood? Siphoning it from bodies?"
You close your eyes. "I don't want to think about it."
Sylas reaches for the goblet that you offered, and gently pushes it back towards you. "It wouldn't be good to go against his orders."
"You're learning."
He takes a sip. "And my control is getting better."
"Well, you're able to talk."
But he goes quiet when a servant enters to light the candles. You note that his chest is still until the servant leaves.
You swirl your wine in your grip. "I'm sure you've figured out Astarion's compulsions."
"The man ordered me to self-mutilate. Yes, they're a little hard to ignore."
"I've found that they don't last, though I haven't been able to theorize a duration," you say. "But even with a time limit, they're powerful tricks."
"No one should have this much power over anyone."
"Well, he paid a great deal for it." You stare at the blood before you. "Seven-thousand and seven souls."
His eyes are wide. "Pardon?"
You snort. "Insanity, isn't it? An infernal, damned ritual."
"You're telling me he made a deal with a devil?"
"Essentially." You take a long sip of wine. "Like us, Astarion used to be a spawn. But now, you may have noticed that he can roam about freely during daylight, and he can enjoy the pleasures of food. The ritual made him into this… Ascended vampire." You regard him. "I'm sure you've heard of Cazador Szarr?"
"Of course."
"Dead now, but he was Astarion's master," you explain. "He was the one who pursued the ritual. Astarion killed him, and took his place."
"He took Cazador's place in many things." Sylas considers. "This manor is now his, and he's already infiltrated our court." He fingers the stem of his goblet. "It was always odd how quickly he was able to gain such traction."
"Now you understand what sort of power he has." Over me, and now, over you. "He compelled you to not breathe during dinner, didn't he? It's a good thing he did. It's a good thing you were forced to keep your mouth shut when he brought up your mortal history. Anyone you knew before, Sylas—forget about them."
Your statement is pointed, and you can tell that he recognizes that. Instantly, there is sorrow in his eyes, and his expression pleads with you. "I need to see her."
"A mistake. She will only be used as leverage for Astarion's games." Sternly, you tell him, "Forget about her."
"I can't."
"You can. You're eternal now. Whatever she is, she won't last." But you catch the hesitation in his expression. His eyes dance wildly on the table before looking up at you, and you're forced to question, "What?"
"She's pregnant, Lilith."
You curse, the wine sloshing over the table as you set the goblet down.
"Her health has been unstable as of late—the babe isn't making this easy for her—"
"Quiet, Sylas." You stare down at your goblets, a sudden ache in your chest. "You must be quiet."
You can hear the servants hurrying down the hall, and you don't trust any of them.
"What a mess," you mutter under your breath when the commotion has settled, and you don't sense any potential of eavesdroppers.
"You said to drink the blood for her, and I am. I will control this bloodlust."
You find that your tone is angry. "You aren't the only threat to her. If Astarion compels her out of you, there is nothing we can do." Your mind flashes through the possibilities, and your eyes meet his. "Come closer."
He scoots his chair to the best of his ability, and you look deeply into his eyes.
"I can protect you against his tricks, but only if I'm there." You begin to burn the shape of his eyes into your memory, including their red hue—so similar to that of Astarion's, and consequently, yours. "Astarion has to maintain direct eye contact to compel you. If I blind you, his compulsions won't work."
"Blind me?"
"Only temporarily. Astarion won't be able to tell. At least… he shouldn't be able to." You watch him. "We'll need to practice."
"And—after? Once I get my thirst under control, will I be able to..." He trails, hopeful.
"Does anyone else know about her?"
"No—Gods no. I know what I signed up for when I pursued the Fists. It's why I never married her. There are too many people who would hurt loved ones over petty politics."
You sigh. "This is dangerous, Sylas."
"I know, and I understand—"
Your grip tightens on your goblet. "We'll think of an excuse. When the time comes, I can keep Astarion distracted."
Sylas goes silent. And then softly, and almost with pity, he says, "You never told me what you were to him, Lilith."
"What I am to him?" You take a large sip of wine. "I'd like to think he wouldn't hurt me as much as he would hurt you."
"Is that true?"
You look up at him.
"I meant to say, he loves you, surely, and—"
"No, Sylas." You stare down at your blood-brimmed goblets, your heart heavy. "Don't let his sweet words of mockery fool you. What Astarion feels for me is something much darker and more sadistic than I can even put words to." You get up, head spinning lightly from the wine. "Most days, I can hardly tell if I'm the hero or the villain in his story."
A/N: I'm always surprised to see that you guys are still reading this.
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