Chapter Text
This is what you asked for. The figment of your fucked up imagination is pretending to be what he was before — and gods, he really does look so, very, very sorry.
It doesn’t make you feel any better.
Better would be ripping out his throat. Better would be peeling off his skin layer by layer. Better would be carving out his —
“I can’t,” he says.
You blink. You swallow. “You can’t what?”
“I can’t take you to Shadowheart.”
Oh. That’s right. That’s why you’re here. “What do you mean you can’t?”
“I mean I can’t yet. There’s something you need to see first.”
Better would be sinking your teeth into his throat and —
He’s just an illusion. Stop letting your mind play games with you. “I don’t want to see anything you have to show me.” You shove your way past him — he’s not real, he’s not real — but . . . he feels real. You pause just a few paces away.
Your back is to Astarion, the table, and —
The scent of blood is suddenly overwhelming and clouds your senses. You want it. You need it.
You recognize it.
“The blood in the goblet. That is real, isn’t it?” There’s another question there. A question you don’t dare ask.
“Of course it’s real,” he says.
Why didn’t you notice the scent sooner? Don’t think about it. There’s only pain in the truth. “Is she still alive?”
“Yes, little bird. She’s still alive.”
“Don’t call me that.” You spin on your heels to face him and approach the table.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Stop. You’re not sorry. You’ve never been sorry.” You don’t look at him. Instead, you grab the edge of the table and peer over the goblet, staring down into the blood. “What’s the point of all this? Just to make me suffer?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“But you know?”
“I know as much as you do,” he says.
You laugh. “I don’t know anything.”
“Oh, that’s not true at all. You know everything. You just have to remember.”
“Then how do I get it back?”
“Are you sure you want to?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then drink that and follow me.”
It would be an incredibly bad idea to drink from the goblet. But you’re already hopelessly lost. The magic that twists your mind won’t let you find your way to where you need to be.
So you lift the goblet to your lips and swallow. The viscous nectar glides down your throat, warm and sweet. It’s everything. She’s everything.
Every swallow brings more relief. You drink until there’s nothing but a deep red residue along the edges of the cup and blood is dripping down your chin.
It takes all of your strength not to press the goblet to your face and try to lap up every single drop of blood. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand and then press the flat of your tongue to your skin, licking yourself clean instead — like some sort of demented cat.
“Look at you,” Astarion whispers, voice tinged with a mix of awe and disgust. “Look what I did to you.”
“Gods, you don’t get credit for everything, Astarion.” You slam the goblet down onto the table and turn to face him. “I was always a monster.”
His eyes are searching your face. There’s pity in his expression — and a guilt that you can’t stomach. If you’re forced to face his guilt, then you’ll be forced to feel your own. So you turn away from him. “Just show me what I need to see, please.”
“I will just give me —”
“Give you what, Astarion? Haven’t you taken enough from me?”
“I’m not trying to take anything else from you. Besides, isn’t this what you wanted?” He presses his palm against your cheek and gently turns your face, forcing you to look up at him. If your heart still beat, those wide, soft eyes of his would have stopped it. “This is what you asked for. I’m this version of me — the one you want to touch you . . .”
He brushes the pad of his thumb across your lower lip, pulling slightly and pressing hard enough that you can taste the salt on his skin.
You grab his wrist and push him away.
“. . . though you still shy away. We both know the truth,” he says. “That this is how you always preferred me. Sorry. Guilty. Sad. Pathetic. Insignificant. Just like you.”
The words tear open a wound even you weren’t aware was there. You drop your hold on his wrist and step away from him.
“All for what?” he asks. “So you could be more than me?”
“I never compared myself to you. I was —”
“A victim,” he says. We both were.”
“I lost you, Astarion.”
“Then I’ll give you what you want. I’ll apologize again, and again. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything I put you through. I’m sorry for making you this. I’m sorry —”
“Stop. Stop. I don’t want to hear it. I can’t.”
“Why not? This is what you want.”
“No. I don’t know what I want. But I can’t stand here and listen to you apologize when I know . . . I know you’re just in my head. That this isn’t real. Because I killed you. If I’m going to hear those words come out of your mouth . . . I need it to be real.” You sigh. “Just . . . please, just take me where I need to go.”
Astarion doesn’t say anything else. You’re both silent as he guides you down the hall. He’s always close enough to touch, but you’re careful not to brush against him.
You’ve stopped trying to remind yourself that he isn’t real. It’s too difficult to know what’s real or not anymore — it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
He stops just outside a door you don’t recognize. He briefly stares down at his fingernails before lifting his gaze to meet your eyes. “Why did you let me do it?”
Rage washes over you, but you swallow it back. There is so much he’s done. So much he’s gotten away with while you — no, it’s not your fault. It can’t all be your fault. “Do what, exactly? You need to be more specific.”
“Ascend,” he says.
Your stomach drops. That’s right. You could have prevented all of this. You could have said no. “Why are you asking me this now?”
“You leant me your eyes. I want to know why. Did you want something from me?”
You laugh. “I don’t know, Astarion. I don’t know. I wish I hadn’t.” You sigh. “No, no, there was nothing from you I wanted. Maybe I’m fucked up. Maybe I’m just like you, power-hungry and cruel. Maybe this is all some divine punishment.”
“Maybe,” he says.
“Is that good enough? Are you satisfied with that answer?”
“It’ll have to do.”
You look past him, just for a moment, then meet his eyes again. “Will you answer a question for me?”
He tilts his head slightly, eyes fixed on yours. “If I can.”
“The magic making me lose my way here. Who did this? Why?”
“I’ll answer one of those. Which is more important? The who or the why?”
You growl softly with annoyance. “You’re obnoxious. Tell me who.”
He smiles. It’s a smile you’re fond of, one of the gentle ones — though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You.”
“Me? Why? How?”
“Your rules. I can’t say more. Now, go through that door.”
“And then what?”
“We’re going to play out a memory. You — and me — the real me.”
“You’re not real.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Whatever you say, darling.” He steps back and disappears through the closed door.
You remember now, which room this is. It's the kennels.
Is it worth it to try and continue without his help? It’s your magic after all, according to him. Maybe you can break through this spell.
Once more you try to reach it and again, pain digs through you. It twists like a knife in the pit of your belly. Whatever this is, you don’t control it. Not anymore.
The ache is a warning. If you’re not careful, you’ll lose yourself completely here. You’ll never see her again.
So you’ll play by his rules.
You open the door and step through.
Astarion is waiting with his back to you. He’s dressed in the finest of silks. This isn’t the same shadow of a man that’s been taunting you. This is a memory. A vivid one.
His body is stiff, his head is facing forward. No breath. No movement at all. Something is wrong.
You take another step forward. Bare feet meet cold stone. Your fingers curl around the fabric of the dress you find yourself in and you tug uncomfortably.
This isn’t right. This isn’t real. This is dangerous. It’s just a memory. You survived it once. You can survive it again. Can’t you?
“What are we doing here, Astarion?” Your words. Your voice. An echo of the past.
Astarion doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t move. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?” he growls.
Your heart, it flutters in your chest at his threatening tone. Fear. You taste it. A chill runs up your spine. Everything feels just as it did when you were alive.
“Notice what?” you hear yourself ask. Your words from the past. This version of who you were and you are — now standing in the same place — sharing the same moment.
But you don’t remember this.
He snaps his head to look at you, staring into and through you all at once. The muscles in his jaw clench and unclench. His lip curls up in disgust. “My cock will never be enough for you, will it? I will never be enough for you. Gods, if only you could have seen yourself. On your hands and knees practically begging him to fuck you. Pathetic, truly.”
Him? Him? There was never another man. There was only her. Shadowheart. The woman Astarion says you asked him to help you forget.
You hold your breath as your body moves closer to him. Every instinct tells you to run, but you ignore it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Astarion. I don’t remember.”
He sighs. “No, you wouldn’t remember, would you? Only I am forced to carry the burden of your foolish decisions.”
Carefully, you cross the room, not stopping until you’re within his reach. Until you’re reaching out to him. “Let me remember.”
“What good would that do us?”
You manage to gently lay a hand on his arm. “You’re angry. I need to understand why.”
He moves too quickly for you to react. You blink. You taste blood. Then you feel the pain. Astarion’s hand is on the back of your head and your face is pressed against the wall. Blood trickles down into your mouth from your nose. It might be broken.
No. It’s definitely broken.
“Oops,” Astarion whispers. He turns your head, scraping your face against the brick, and waits to speak until you’re looking up at him “You don’t need to know anything. You do need to be more careful though.” Astarion brushes two fingers across your lips and presses your own blood into your mouth. “You know, if you let me turn you then perhaps you’d be less likely to injure yourself in such silly ways.”
“No,” you say around his fingers before biting down gently. His control over you won’t let you hurt him. But your blood. Your blood. It tastes good. It tastes like power.
“A pity,” he says, pressing your tongue down with two fingers. “I would have at least considered forgiving your little . . . transgression . . . if you’d said yes.” He releases his hold on your head, allowing your body to slump against the cold wall. His fingers are out of your mouth.
“How can I ask forgiveness for something I don’t remember doing?”
Astarion sighs and begins to pull at the straps of your dress. “Isn’t it obvious, darling? You betrayed me. All to try and steal a little power. Unsuccessfully, I might add.”
“Whatever I did I —”
“Did it because you had to? Because I made you? No, not this time. This one was all you. Greedy little slut that you are.” The straps of the dress fall down your arms and the dress goes tumbling down — pooling around your ankles. “He has been sufficiently punished. You helped with that. Though your punishment . . . well, it will need to be more severe.” One of his hands is pressed against the small of your back, keeping your body tight against the wall. You squeeze your eyes shut, plunging yourself into darkness.
The bricks feel cool. Somewhere between the memory — and now — you remain. But, gods, does it feel good to feel again. A heart pounding away in your chest. Blood pumping through your veins. Weak? Maybe. Scared? Certainly. But alive. Completely alive.
Beneath it all though, every inch of fear and loathing — buried under your absolute hatred for him — is a deep, uncontrollable longing. The inability to deny him anything and a little voice in your head telling you that you want this. You deserve this.
“I don’t understand.”
“No?” Astarion tuts. “Stupid, stupid, girl. You’re about to.” He lifts your hands far above your head. Shackles snap around your wrists, holding your arms in place. He tugs your bra off next, leaving your bare chest pressed against the cold wall. Skin scraping uncomfortably against brick.
“The two of you thought you could outplay me. You thought I wouldn’t notice,” Astarion growls.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” you mumble, tears beginning to burn in the corners of your eyes.
Astarion’s hands are on your hips, fingers sliding beneath the hem of your panties, nails digging into your flesh. His warm breath ghosts over the shell of your ear when he speaks. “You’re sorry?” he whispers. “No. I want the truth. You liked fucking him, didn’t you?”
The feeling of another man’s hands on your hips returns to you — Astarion commanding you crawl into a lap. Another man’s lips against the curve of your throat. Then pleasure forced upon you. Inescapable.
You hear his breath. Feel his skin beneath your hands. His voice. He’s sorry. Everyone’s always sorry. Mournful brown eyes staring up at you with regret as you do as you’re told. Magic pulsing beneath his skin.
“Gale.” Your skin goes cold. “Gods, Astarion. What did you do?”
“Ah, so you do remember.” One of Astarion’s hands is around your throat now, the other is beneath your panties, two fingers pressing against your folds. “I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do.”
“I didn’t want him. I don’t want him,” you say. Tears break free from the corners of your eyes, stream down your face, and mingle with the blood you taste in your mouth.
“But he wanted you.” Astarion puts pressure on your throat, more than enough to stop the blood from reaching your brain. He glides two fingers up through your slick and slowly circles your clit.
You didn’t want that. You don’t want this — but your body betrays you. Muscles clench. A moan fights its way up the back of your throat.
Astarion is pressed against your back, the hand between your legs drags you closer and closer to the edge as the hand around your throat guides you toward death. Your heartbeat gets slower and slower.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
Just when you think, maybe, you’re about to black out, that’s when he relaxes his grip. Your body is still weak and now the room is spinning. Your heart rushes back to life — slamming against your chest as though it’s trying to escape. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Astarion,” you manage to choke out.
“There it is again,” he says. “More pathetic apologies from a useless, little slut.”
“How . . . how can I make it better?”
“Beg me to turn you,” he says as he sinks two fingers into your cunt.
You try to squirm free of his grip, a futile effort. “Never,” you say between clenched teeth.
He laughs cruelly at your resistance. “Then your suffering will have to do for now. You deserve to suffer, don’t you?” His fingers pump slowly in and out of your cunt. “Say yes, little bird.”
“Yes.” The word is forced from your mouth. But it’s a lie. You don’t want this. “Please, Astarion.”
“Please, what?” he asks, while his fingers, curl, and move, in and out of you. His free hand slides down your chest, your breasts, and your stomach, before settling on your hip.
“Don’t make me do this, please.”
“Why? It’s what you want. You do so enjoy being reminded how powerless, weak, and pathetic you are.” He slides his fingers through your folds again and begins to gently stroke your clit once more, sparking a fire in your low belly.
You gasp, and strain against the chains holding your wrists to the wall. Somewhere in your twisted psyche, despite everything you’ve done to change for the better, you are reminded of what you are. You were born to kill, to torment, to dance in the artistry of death. Is this punishment any different than how you worshipped? Do you deserve anything less?
Astarion’s lips are pressed against your neck, searching for that tender place where blood flows so freely. His fingers gently circle the bundle of nerves between your legs — forcing you ever closer to the edge. “I am a benevolent master, but I have needs too,” he whispers against your skin. “I want to hear you beg. Beg me to let you come.”
He wants to humiliate you. He wants to use you — and he will do that by offering you momentary bliss. When you are like this, a mess, for him, you are nothing.
“Please, Astarion, please,” you whisper between soft gasps of air.
The length of two of his fingers glide between your folds and enter you, the palm of his hand presses firmly against your clit. His other hand slides up to your chest and he pulls your body tightly against his. “Please, what?”
You move your hips, desperately rutting against his hand — hungry for more contact, to feel more of him. You have no dignity left. “Please let me come, Astarion, please.”
“Again,” he growls as the edges of his fangs begin to pierce the delicate skin on your neck.
“Please, please, let me come.”
His fingers are out of you again, back to moving gently around your clit. The first stroke comes just as he sinks his teeth into your neck with a moan. The sharp, cold pain collides with the warmth that is building low in your belly.
He will not need to command you this time. Pleasure rushes through your veins as you fall apart. Your breath, your blood, your body — it all belongs to him. He knows this. He’s always known. He slips two fingers back inside you and your walls clench and pulse around him.
He removes his fangs with a gasp and runs the flat of his tongue against the wound he’s created. Your hips jerk away from his fingers when they lightly slide over the overly sensitive bundle of nerves. “Such a good little slut,” he mumbles into your ear. “Now say thank you.”
This isn’t what you want. But the words that come from your mouth don’t belong to you. “Thank you.”
He hums happily against your neck. “Perhaps I’ll leave you here. Strung up, naked, and wanting for more.” He bites at your earlobe, then buries his face in the curve of your neck, pointed teeth taunting an unmarked area of your flesh. “You’d be so, very vulnerable if I left the door unlocked,” he mumbles against your skin. “But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being reduced to the castle whore. Just holes to be filled and a mouth to be used.”
The moment of pleasure has passed. There is a rage that lashes out from within you at this newest threat. A need to punish him for controlling you. After all, this would be far more enjoyable if he was suffering too.
“Is this what he did to you, Astarion?” you whisper.
He has one around your chest, the other pressed against your low belly. You’re held so, very close to him. “What, exactly, do you think you’re doing, darling?”
“Did Cazador bind you and leave you vulnerable and afraid? How long were you alone before you began to beg and —”
His fingers are around your throat again, squeezing hard enough to silence you. Your chest heaves as laughter tries, and fails, to escape.
“You think you’re so clever? First, you betray me, and now this. I give you everything you need and yet you insult me this way. You know better than to speak his name in my home.”
It takes him a moment, but he eventually eases his hold on your throat, allowing you to speak.
“And you think you’re so original?” Your voice is raspy and quiet. “You know nothing of real suffering.”
He slowly slides his hand up your neck, over your jaw, and away from your face. In one swift movement, he’s unbound your wrists. “I’ll show you,” he whispers. “I’ll show you everything I know.”
There is a once-familiar softness in his eyes. This is not a threat or a command — this is a question.
“Show me,” you say.
You blink, and he’s gone. You’re back in the present moment and you’re completely alone. You have a clear memory of what happened next.
He dragged you out of the room and back to the dungeons. He healed your wounds. He left you there for some time — and when he returned — you so foolishly let him invite you into his mind.
He held you close and he watched as you relived his suffering. He stroked your hair as you writhed in his arms. You felt everything he felt over the last 200 years — every painful moment — including his love for you.
He was part of you then. He’s still part of you now.
Will you ever truly be rid of him?