What has he done to you?

There are two things you realize in that moment.

One, you don't want Raphael here. Devils may be cruel, but his eyes are not. You sense his pity, which surely only serves to belittle you, and you almost wish he kept talking—baiting, goading you over how far you have fallen.

You don't know what to make of his silence.

And two, your eyes are wet. You refuse to let the tears fall, but you're acutely aware of how the presence of this insignificant devil affects you. He is a relic of your past, someone who has witnessed your rise to heroism, and is now one of the very few to have watched you stumble, and plummet into a darkness of your own making.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Raphael's attention darts to the chambers, and soon, he's walking around. You track him closely as he strides through the room, his eyes lingering on the neatly made bed, the cleanly tub. There is a slight crimson residue on the tiles from the blood you spilled, but if he notices, he doesn't comment.

His heavy boots thud on the floor as he curiously studies your quiet enclosure. More than once, his eyes dart to those boarded up windows.

And now, there is a challenge in his eyes when he turns to you, his gaze landing on your hands that now rest on your closed book. His head tilts towards the windows. "You can't tell me this keeps you contained?"

You cross a leg over the other. "What should I do, devil? Burn the damned place to the ground?"

"That is a start, yes."

Your head turns quickly to the fireplace, your fingers anxiously fidgeting with the belt on your robe. Having a male in your chambers… worries you. It shouldn't. But Astarion's handling of Sylas has left you bewildered, scarred, and eternally walking on eggshells.

But would it really be so terrible to watch Astarion tear Raphael to bits?

Now, you hear the devil shift around, and then finally, he comes to stand before you.

"Dreary, isn't it?" He gestures to the space, examining the room once more, as if searching for something, something… "Though it is missing..." He snaps a finger. "Ah."

And the very last thing you see is the flash of his crooked smile before there is a burst of flames around you. The warmth is sudden, and new—yet… old. Ancient. It sings to your soul as you're engulfed by this sensation that seeks to sear your skin. The world around you is a dance of yellow, and orange, and red as the flames blanket over you. Momentarily, you are airborne, and your feet kick above ground, and you're transported to…

"Raphael," you growl the moment you feel the solid ground beneath you.

You feel a sense of familiarity with your surroundings. You know you have been here before.

Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed.

Yes.

The House of Hope.

It is as lavish as you remember it. Firelight burns from fireplaces and candles all around. There are accents of crimson fabrics and rich, dark wood in this magnificent grand hall, in which you have stood before. There is a large, octagonal table at the center with platters already served up with food. You spot lamb, pork, and venison, along with soups, breads, and colorful sugary treats.

Your head turns to the windows that are large, framed by thick curtains that are swept to the side, revealing perpetual darkness. Revealing… Avernus—the first layer of the Nine Hells.

"Isn't this so much nicer than whatever enclosure your beloved has arranged?"

It's not lost on you that he's comparing Hell favorably to the manor. "Take me back. Now."

"I'd like to properly welcome you to my home." He smiles. "As friends do."

Your mind is reeling—with the fire, and this place, and your sudden disappearance from your chambers that surely someone will notice. "Raphael—"

"What scares you?" He crosses his arms as he regards you. "What do you think our vampire lordling would do if he noticed you were stolen away by a devil?"

This is a threat, isn't it? You call upon your fire, and it bursts to life to a healthy height from your palm. "I am not stolen."

But your attention is immediately directed to the back of the hall, where curtains pull back before a section that appears to be closed off. The figure that emerges… confuses you, because it is a mirror image of Raphael himself in his infernal glory.

The twin devil now approaching is a devil, with reddened skin, and powerful horns atop his forehead. He saunters closer to the table, clad in a loose dark robe that brushes the floors with each step.

"Ah, so this is one of your little thieves," the look-alike purrs, those blazing orange eyes running all over you. "Hello, thief."

"Thief?" You demand, your head snapping back and forth between him, and the devil you know to be Raphael beside you. "What trick is this?"

The look-alike ignores the question, and creeps closer to you. "You haven't brought a woman to our bed in a while, Raphael."

You move away, side-stepping around Raphael, who tells you, "No tricks. Meet Haarlep, my…"

Haarlep smiles sinfully. "Personal incubus."

You dismiss your flames. "Incubus?"

There is something proud about the way Haarlep continues, "Glamoured and transfigured to appear just like him." He stares at you, his chin high. "So? How do I look?"

"This is creepy at best, Raphael." You cross your arms tightly. "Take me home."

"Home? You won't stay?" Haarlep questions, his movements slow, and graceful as he begins to circle you. Your palms warm at his predatory gaze, and you step away from him every time his orbit nears you. "A mouse can certainly find a home in the lion's den."

Raphael merely watches his incubus, and you take a moment to admire their miraculous similarity, though their subtle differences become clearer the more you're able to compare them. While Raphael remains in his human form, he still looks older, and more refined, whereas Haarlep presents a smoother, gentle face with more forgiving angles.

"Although," Haarlep says, his judgment clear, and concise, "you are far too thin, little mouse."

He reaches out a hand, and it almost brushes your bare wrist. You jerk immediately, drawing yourself away.

"Oh." His voice drips with disappointment. "A little mouse… who doesn't like to be touched?" He glances at Raphael. "For what purpose is she here, then?"

"I'm not here for any purpose," you say. "Take me back, Raphael."

Raphael merely waves a hand. "You needed a change of scenery, sweet Lilith. And what better place than a house filled with hope? Surely something you've been missing in those dreadful chambers of yours."

"Lilith?" Haarlep hisses delightfully. "A very important thief, indeed."

"Stop calling me that."

"Isn't it true?"

You whirl at Raphael. "If the only reason you've brought me here is to be insulted by your incubus, I request my leave. Promptly."

"I don't understand why you're in such a hurry." Raphael smoothes a delicate hand down his immaculately embroidered vest. "Your beloved is off prancing away with the Fists and his latest spawn." His pauses, his smile slow, and mournful. "Oh, Sylas Vore. Truly a walking tragedy. The woman he loves—bedridden, and with child. And him—a bloodthirsty monster."

Anneliese. You advance on him. "You haven't told Astarion. Tell me you haven't."

"So protective over your sibling," he tuts.

"He didn't deserve any of this."

"And did you?"

You're close to him, practically seething two inches from his chest. "This is not about me."

"Oh, how wrong you are." He snakes around you, and pulls out a seat at the table. "Do take a seat."

You linger, and you realize that there is a part of you that expects some sort of compulsion to kick in—to command you to do his bidding. Yet, you're surprised to find that your limbs are loose, and free.

"I have nothing to discuss with you, or your incubus," you say, your gaze snagging on Haarlep, who has already taken a seat a few chairs away.

"Chatter is a bore." Haarlep smiles, wolfish. "I can show you how much more fun it would be to be deliciously… silenced."

Raphael ignores his incubus, and maybe you should, too. "I thought we may discuss. I have noticed that there is something quite... different about Astarion."

"Oh, have you?" You mock, glancing at the seat he's offering you. "Have you also noticed that I can't consume a single thing on that table?"

With a snap of his fingers, a golden goblet materializes just in front of the chair. You can already smell the sweet scent of blood.

"Indulge me," he says.

You hesitate. "Why am I here, Raphael?"

"I bring all of my clients here."

"I am not your client."

Haarlep begins to pile helpings of food onto his plate. "Every sinner is the devil's client."

Raphael's hands caress the wood of the chair he stands behind, his attention unwavering from you. "Astarion Ancunin is not cruel by nature. By nurture, perhaps, but it is highly uncharacteristic for him to be conducting himself in such an…" He considers, his eyes blazing over you. "…unbecoming manner."

There's something sobering about his analysis, and you find that you agree.

The chair scrapes on the floor as he pulls it out further. "Dine with me, and let's discuss."

You sigh, and you don't hide the hopelessness in your tone when you say, "It would be wasted breath."

His hands fall from the chair, and he stalks closer to you. With a clap, a large scroll appears before him, stained and torn at the edges, with fiery, glistening script that you can't quite make out from your angle.

"The ritual," he says quickly, reading, "would have satisfied the Vampire Ascendant clause. The power of the Ascendant gives you protection from sunlight, the pleasure of mortal foods, a very generous sense of compulsion, and yet…" His eyes flick to you. "I cannot find a single reason for this discourteous behavior. What possibly could have made him so…"

"Terrible?" You feel the tear race down your cheek before you can catch it. "It's the ritual. This damned infernal ritual."

He looks at you expectedly.

"It's not him anymore, Raphael."

"You wish to undo the Ascension?"

You stare at the devil. "I just want Astarion back."

His fingers snap, and the scroll burns away with fire that beckons you. "In that case, I wonder where he has gone." His strides are large as he moves to the other side of the table, merely a few spaces from Haarlep. "Won't you dine with me, Lilith Savini?"

You inch closer to the chair he has pulled out for you, resting your weary hands on the back, letting it bear your weight. "You can fix this."

Raphael takes a seat, laying down a white napkin on his lap. "Can I?"

"You know something."

"A mere speculation." He gestures grandly to the table, to your chair. "Please. Indulge me."

The blood in the goblet is warm, and to your pleasant surprise, the first few sips don't make you sick to your stomach. By the time you're a quarter of the way through, you say, "I must be back before Astarion."

Raphael swipes at his lips with his napkin, his plate half empty. "I do wonder why you haven't killed him yet."

"I can barely hurt him."

"He is Ascended, not indestructible."

Haarlep sighs, taking a long sip from his wine. "The ailments of love."

"No," Raphael disagrees. "You are his spawn. Astarion never could rise above his master—until he had the tadpole occupying his brain, of course."

"He's…" You stare hard at your goblet. "He's in there, Raphael."

"No, I don't believe so." Raphael holds his own goblet in a hand, gazing at you over its rim. "Besides his memories, there is nothing of the old Astarion I see when I look at him."

Your head hangs slightly, and you let it. You hate relating to a devil so closely. "Your damned father—"

"I also don't believe it is his doing." You hear his chair scratch at the floor when he stands. "The ritual had been meant for seven vampire spawn, and seven-thousand sacrificial souls. It was a procession carefully curated for Cazador Szarr to become the first Ascendant Vampire." He snaps his fingers, and points to an empty seat a few chairs from you.

You straighten at what he conjures from fire and flames.

Astarion sits, staring blankly at the distant wall. He's in breeches, and nothing else. It is saddening to feel such a visceral reaction that has you inching away from him. You notice it, and attempt to calm your body into a neutral alignment.

"Stand, please." Raphael taps at his lips, examining this image of Astarion as he stands at the command, and walks to stand at a spot where all three of you can clearly observe him. His vacant eyes don't focus on anything in particular.

"Now turn around," Raphael commands.

Astarion turns, and the scars on his back burn before you—red, gleaming, and in motion, like lava flowing through thin streams of forbidden etchings.

"Cazador Szarr carved infernal runes on all of the sacrificial souls for this ritual," Raphael says. "For it is a requirement for these souls to be specifically marked for sacrifice."

Haarlep leans forward in his seat with a little twist of a smile on his lips.

Your eyes burn into those runes displayed on Astarion's back, and you stand, your limbs loose, with a sudden electric feeling you can't place. It's a foreboding sensation that runs all the way up to your chest as you approach this… Astarion.

Once you're close enough, your fingers hover over the scars on his back—scars you have traced, scars that your fingers have clawed over in ecstasy, scars that you now barely register when he is bare and on top of you.

And you can't bring yourself to touch him. Astarion peeks over his shoulder at you, as if he expects the press of your hand, as if he braces for it.

"The Ascension came with a predetermined price of seven-thousand and seven souls," Raphael continues. "Though if I am correct… given the carvings on Astarion's back at the moment of Ascension... I presume seven-thousand and eightsouls were traded for this ritual. An overpayment."

Astarion turns fully to you, and gods, that sudden devotion in his eyes is enough to stagger you back.

"Overpayment," you repeat, your voice tight, eyes fixed on the man before you. "You're saying Astarion sacrificed his godsdamn soul?"

You hear Haarlep chime in, "Unintentionally, one might assume."

Astarion takes a step towards you, and you meet it with an equal step back. There is confusion on his face as he moves forward yet again, and you continue to recede until your back collides with a chair.

And when he reaches out a hand to your face, you turn your head sharply to Raphael, and order, "Get rid of him."

Raphael sits back down to his seat. "No! Enjoy him. Bask in the potential of what could be."

Your fingers curl on the back of the chair behind you before you scurry to the side, and away from his reach. Astarion merely watches you with a distinct crease on his brow, as if he cannot give reason to your behavior.

"Of course," Raphael says, "this is all merely speculation. But I am inclined to believe that Mephistopheles has Astarion's dreary soul tucked away somewhere." He pauses. "It is certainly plausible to assume that this is the reason for such a drastic change in demeanor."

Astarion smiles, highlighting those soft crinkles at the corners of his eyes. But he doesn't try to approach you this time. Purely, adoringly, he simply admires you.

And you can't imagine what he sees, because there is not a single thing you can find to admire about yourself.

Your eyes tear away from him to look at Raphael. "And what is the price of a soul?"

You despise the way Haarlep perks up.

A/N: What is the price of a soul? Anyone care to answer?

Brief commentary: Raphael is alive, right? So we can assume the gang never made it to the House of Hope to steal a certain important hammer. Raphael is also not a powered up dick, so we can also assume the gang didn't make the crown deal with him. So. Yay.

(Huge credit to Sneepy for helping me figure this out, as I have still not finished the game...)

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