~O~
Baldur's Gate had never been a city of light, but under Darcella and Astarion's ambitions, it had descended further into darkness. Each, in their quest for power, had become a master of shadows, moving unseen, manipulating the strings of the city's underworld. The streets whispered their names with a mixture of fear and reverence, but the echoes carried a loneliness that neither would admit to.
In the heart of the city, Darcella watched from the rooftops, her cloak fluttering in the night breeze. The city stretched out before her, a tapestry of dimly lit streets and shadowy figures. This was her domain, her kingdom, bought with blood and loyalty to the legacy of Bhaal. Yet, as she observed her subjects, a flicker of memory disturbed the satisfaction she usually found in her power. Once, she had not been alone in her dominion. Once, Astarion had stood by her side, not just as an ally but as something far more profound.
Flashbacks haunted her—the way Astarion's laughter had broken through the darkness of their journey, the warmth of his touch in the cold night, moments of vulnerability shared between battles and bloodshed. He had understood her darkness, embraced it because it mirrored his own. But that was before his ascension, before the power he had sought changed him, driving a wedge between them.
Amidst the chaos that Baldur's Gate had become, Darcella found herself caught in a whirlpool of memories, ones that clung to her like shadows in the moonlight. As she navigated the rooftop, a particular memory surfaced, vivid and aching with a raw intensity of passion she had almost forgotten.
It was the night her Dark Urge had woken her with vicious and cruel intent, a night that still graced her memory with a perverse pleasure that left her breathless. The night she found him feeding on Alfira. The night she knew her urges were not to be feared, but to be embraced, encouraged by the desire and wonder in his eyes.
Hours later, after basking in the glow of their passionate encounter, Astarion, illuminated by the moonlight, had turned away from her, exposing the myriad of scars that marred his skin—each a testament to his centuries of servitude under Cazador. It was a moment of vulnerability for him, allowing her to see the remnants of his torment. That night, they shared more than just wine; they shared a connection that transcended their physical desires, a moment of understanding and acceptance that bound them together.
The memory shifted, transporting her to another night, one that followed their encounter with the drow alchemist at Moonrise Towers. After a fierce standoff, where Darcella had defended Astarion with a ferocity that surprised even herself, they found refuge under the stars. Bruised and weary, they had spoken of possibilities, of what it might mean to stand together not just as lovers but as allies, as friends. That conversation, filled with dreams of a future where they could be more than their pasts, lingered in Darcella's heart like a promise.
But those moments of connection now seemed like echoes from another life. The man she had shared those nights with was gone, replaced by a creature of pride and cold ambition. Astarion's current demeanor, his coldness towards her, belied the depth of his internal turmoil. She knew the pain he masked, the ache for something lost that mirrored her own. Yet, understanding his pain did not bridge the chasm that his choices had created between them.
Meanwhile, Astarion convened with his allies in the underbelly of Baldur's Gate, a network of thieves, assassins, and worse. His ascension had granted him powers beyond mortality, but it had also imbued him with a pride and arrogance that pushed everyone away, especially Darcella. He convinced himself that it was for the best, her choice to not remain at his side made her incompatible with the aspirations he thought they had once shared. Yet, in the quiet moments, when the adulation of his followers faded, he felt an emptiness that power could not fill.
Their paths crossed again on a night painted with the promise of conflict. Darcella, seeking to expand her influence into the docks, found herself face to face with Astarion's forces, intent on the same prize. The confrontation was inevitable, yet neither had anticipated the ache that accompanied the sight of the other.
Their confrontation was not just a clash of power but a stark reminder of what they had become to each other: adversaries haunted by the ghost of their past intimacy. As they stood opposed, the memory of Astarion's scars, of their shared dreams and vulnerabilities, weighed heavily on Darcella. It underscored the tragedy of their divergence, the transformation of shared pain into a weapon used against one another.
As the night air bristled with the tension of impending conflict, Astarion stood with a facade of indifference, his followers arrayed behind him like shadows against the cobblestone. The moon above cast a silvery glow, accentuating his pallor and the aloofness in his eyes. Yet, those very eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper, a turmoil hidden beneath layers of pride and power.
When Darcella stepped into the open, commanding the space with her presence, Astarion felt a pang, a sharp pull at the heart he had tried to harden against such emotions. She was a vision of strength and beauty, a reminder of everything he had willingly sacrificed for the sake of ascension. His demeanor remained icy, a deliberate choice to mask the ache that gnawed at him. Seeing her, not as an ally but as an opponent, was a torture he hadn't anticipated.
"Darcella," he called out, his voice carrying a coolness that belied the warmth he once felt for her. The distance between them, more than just physical, was a chasm filled with his regrets and her disdain. "This doesn't have to be our battlefield," he said, each word measured, but laden with a yearning that he desperately hoped didn't seep through.
Her response was as he expected, yet it cut him deeper than any blade could. "You made your choice, Astarion," she said, her tone resolute, yet not devoid of the pain that their separation had caused her. "You chose power over us."
The ensuing battle was a maelstrom of chaos, a violent ballet that mirrored the turmoil within Astarion's soul. With each spell cast and each blow exchanged, he fought not just Darcella's forces, but the onslaught of memories and what-ifs that surged with relentless force. His external coldness served as his armor, not just against her attacks, but against the onslaught of his own emotions.
As the confrontation reached its crescendo, and then slowly, inevitably, faded into a tense standoff, Astarion stood across from Darcella, the woman who had once been his confidante, his ally, his love. The space between them was charged with the electric current of their shared history, a testament to the depth of their connection and the tragedy of their parting.
In that moment, Astarion's heart was a battlefield of its own, a tumult of longing, regret, and an unwavering pride that forced him to maintain his facade. As Darcella vanished into the shadows, her departure was a physical manifestation of the void within him, a hollow ache that no amount of power could fill.
The night grew colder as Astarion retreated, the emptiness of his victory a bitter reminder of the cost of his ambition. He had achieved greatness, ascended beyond the constraints of his former servitude, but at what cost? The realization that he had lost Darcella, perhaps forever, was a wound no magic could heal.
Astarion's journey back to his lair was a solitary one, his thoughts a cacophony of could-have-beens and the haunting melody of a love lost to the shadows of ambition. The Game of Shadows had claimed many victims, but none so poignant as the love that had once blossomed in the heart of darkness. As his cloak billowed in the shadows, he let his mind wander to a time when he first embraced her darkness, enmeshing it with his own. His own hunger had grown beyond the borders of his control, a mere animal no longer sating his immense thirst. The sleeping bard proved to be an excellent candidate for his ravenous hunger, and yet that was the night it all changed. He watched as his fiery love claimed her sinister yearnings, evoking a deep and flagrant desire in him that followed him to this day. His eyes darkened at the memory:
Rather than the expected shock of a horrified discovery, Darcella's presence was marked by a distant look in her eyes, coupled with a wicked grin that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. It was a sight that froze Astarion for a split second, caught as he was in the act, yet the expression on her face was not one of judgment but rather of a shared, dark amusement.
With a grace that mirrored his own predatory elegance, she knelt down opposite him, placing herself on the other side of Alfira's still-slumbering form. The tableau they presented was one of a grim, macabre parody of a dinner setting, with the bard unwittingly cast in the role of the feast that lay between them.
He watched in fascinated horror as Darcella leaned down, her tongue lapping languidly at Alfira's weeping bite wound. He swallowed loudly, his eyes following her hand as it reached behind her, pulling out a dagger and running it along the length of the bard's body. Alfira mumbled in her sleep incoherently, her fingers twitching at her sides.
Darcella locked eyes with Astarion, a flicker of dread crossing his gaze, and in a flash of movement she swung her dagger down sharply, landing squarely in the sleeping bard's chest. The drow let out a low moan, her head tilted back, her eyes closed in rapture. Astarion fell backward onto his romp, his eyes wide as the smell of Alfira's blood permeated the air around them.
His nostrils flared at the alluring aroma, all sense of dread leaving his body as his vampiric urge to feed subdued any rational thought. They exchanged a dark and heated glance, filled with the primal bloodlust surging between them.
Darcella pulled the dagger out, holding it above her head, eyes trained on Astarion's as he crawled over to Alfira's neck. In one smooth motion, the dagger sank into Alfira's chest again, Astarion accompanying the piercing of flesh as he sank his fangs into her neck at the same time. He shut his eyes in ecstasy, drinking greedily from the bard, all the while feeling the sharp jolts beside him at Darcella's persistent stabbing.
Several chaotic moments passed before they both pulled away, chests heaving with exertion and the rush of adrenaline. Astarion's eyes glinted in the darkness, taking in Darcella's blood covered face. She looked like a feast before his eyes, the desire to bury himself in her overwhelmingly strong. He knew he must have been a sight, too, the wet sensation of blood covering his mouth and chin filling him with a deep sense of animalistic pride.
Darcella returned his gaze through a drunken haze, and with a low growl she leaned toward him, reaching behind his neck and pulling him toward her. He growled against her mouth, their lips opening for each other upon contact. He kissed her back hungrily as he crawled over the bard's limp body. The sound of ripping garments and heavy breathing echoed in the darkness of the night.
She pulled Astarion down over her as she laid back, positioning him between her legs, their kiss an unbreakable tether. He pressed himself into her, groaning at the warm wet heat that enveloped him, his thrusts set at a bruising pace. His mouth covered hers in an effort to quiet her moans, the sound and feel of her arousal ramping up the urgency building in his loins. Burying his face in her neck, he growled as the compulsion to bare his fangs grew too strong to resist. His fangs sank into her skin, her surprised gasp quickly replaced by soft cries as she shuddered around him. Her blood filled his mouth and spilled down his throat deliciously, as he joined her at the peak of their euphoric release.
Slowly removing himself from her, Astarion looked down at her with a perplexed expression. His chest housed a tempest as she met his gaze sleepily, a sated smile forming on her lips.
As he paced the dimly lit corridors of his lair, his thoughts were a maelstrom of love, anger, and desperation. He was a creature of the night, no longer bound to the darkness by the sun, he was powerful and feared, yet he felt a gnawing emptiness that his ascension had failed to fill. Darcella had been the one constant in his tumultuous existence at a time in his life where he truly found himself, her strength and darkness a match for his own. But she had slipped through his fingers, like shadows at dawn.
His anger was not just directed at Darcella for leaving him; it was also a reflection of his own insecurities, his fear that he was unworthy of her unless he could conquer Baldur's Gate and lay it at her feet. His love, once pure and untainted, had become twisted by his profane ascension. He believed that if he could prove his worth through power and domination, he could win her back, or at the very least, quench the thirst for vengeance that her departure had sparked.
His schemes to wrest control of the city from Darcella became more calculated, more ruthless. Each move was designed not just to gain ground but to demonstrate his superiority, his worthiness. Yet, with each maneuver, the hollow victory reminded him of what he truly sought—her approval, her return.
But beneath the layers of anger and ambition, Astarion was lost, a soul adrift in the darkness of his own making. His love for Darcella, though tainted by his transformation, was the beacon that guided him, the only light in the profound darkness that had engulfed his heart. He clung to it, even as unwilling as he was to recognize its destructive power, for without it, he was merely a shadow, a ghost haunting the city he sought to control.
In the quiet moments, when the adrenaline of the battle waned and the silence of the night enveloped him, Astarion allowed himself to feel the full weight of his longing and despair. The city of Baldur's Gate, with all its chaos and power struggles, seemed trivial compared to the war that raged within him—a war between the man he once was and the monster he had become.
A/N: Astarion's flashback is adopted from my other fic The Wolf's Dark Urge (w/different Durge) I loved writing it so much that I inserted it here.