Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I asked Persephone, “How could you grow to love him? He took you from flowers to a kingdom where not a single living thing can grow.”

Persephone smiled, “My darling, every flower on your earth withers. What Hades gave me was a crown made for the immortal flowers in my bones.” 

— Nikita Gill

He had to have her. 

It was all Astarion could think when she turned to face him. Prior to materializing behind her, he had not decided what his course of action would be. Ask for recommendations on lodgings for the night or drain her dry for the energy and continue on to Baldur’s Gate, but now— 

Astarion wanted. 

She looked as exquisite as she smelled. Her features were delicate and refined, though her beauty was somewhat marred by the scar branching across her right cheek. Or it ought to be, but it only added a brutal sort of grace to her.

The setting sun picked out the strands of gold in her red hair, highlighting the freckles across the bridge of her nose and the crest of each cheek. She stared at him with incredible, dark golden eyes lined heavily with kohl that made them seem to glow in the dying light. 

“You seem lost,” she said. 

The wind picked up from behind him. The golden fields rippled and swayed, seeming to bow before her. 

“I feel like I am right where I’m supposed to be,” Astarion said. 

“In a wheat field just outside of Reithwin?” 

Astarion laughed softly at her wry tone, the sound shocking him. When was the last time he had laughed like that? Something not false and laced through with complete cynicism?

“No, in your presence, darling. It is a fine one.”

“Is that the only reason I’m still alive?” She said it tonelessly, like a casual observation. One surprisingly lacking in concern for someone able and willing to recognize the reality of their situation. 

Instinctively, curiously, Astarion reached out to gently press into her mind. For a moment, he had access to everything. 

Astarion saw a longbow, sunlight drifting through speckled glass into a room and illuminating countless motes around it, a trail of tiny purple flowers. He tasted her wishes, her regrets. Her name.

Her anger. 

“If you could not do that,” her voice was ice. “I would appreciate it.” 

“My apologies,” Astarion lied, inclining his head. “It’s a habit. Though, people do not usually detect I am there.” 

“It appears neither of us are what we seem.” 

Astarion grinned, excessively pleased with that fact, and provided a convenient glimpse of his canines. “Quite,” he said. “Which is why, as delectable as you would undoubtedly be, killing you for a few minutes of bliss would be a waste.” 

“I suppose I should thank you for that.” 

“It would be the polite thing to do,” Astarion agreed.

It was interesting how the very air around her seemed to thaw. 

“Thank you,” she said, that wry tone back again. 

“You’re welcome, my dear, and now that we’ve gotten the formalities out of the way, my name is Astarion.”

A glimmer of amusement lit in her eyes. “Well, Astarion, assuming standard fare will sate your appetites. The Last Light Inn has an excellent cellar, and the main suite should suffice. It’s not Upper City, but it’s better than most places outside the Gate.”

Astarion stepped closer, relishing the slight increase in her pulse. It was not fear, exactly. Nor desire. Anticipation of the unknown, perhaps, because she did not shy away. She just looked up at him as if facing down the prospect of death was nothing new. Astarion had seen enough of her mind to know these fields were not all she had ever known. 

Nor all she wanted to know. 

“Sating my appetites aside, you’re willing to set me loose here?” Astarion asked.

“I doubt you need my permission to go anywhere.”

“I don’t, but we both know that isn’t what I was asking,” Astarion admonished. 

Her eyebrows furrowed into a faint v. “There is no need to cause problems for you, no matter how minor,” she said. “You haven’t done anything.”

Astarion almost laughed again. “Oh, darling, I’ve done plenty.”

“As much as I don’t doubt that, I also don’t care as far as it relates to me.” 

“How…” he tilted his head to the side. “Pragmatic of you.” 

“Not everyone has a death wish,” she said simply. 

The wind picked up again, and his fingers itched to tuck a lock of hair that had fallen loose from her bun back behind her ear. 

“You should come with me to Baldur’s Gate, Asher Claill,” Astarion said, permitting her name to touch his tongue alongside the decision. “This place is too insignificant for someone like you.” 

“And die in a week when you get bored? No, thank you.” 

“I believe tiring of you would be impossible.” 

Asher did not say it, but Astarion felt it. How the comment touched on her pride. It was in her smile, slight as it was, and in the whisper of warmth in the air that hadn’t been there a second before.

“Goodbye, Astarion,” she said. Then Asher turned and walked away as if she did not comprehend that she had piqued his interest more than anyone had in his entire existence. 

Or what that meant. 

For the time being, the Last Light Inn would suit his appetites precisely as Asher had said. It did have an excellent cellar, and the main suite was, in fact, sufficient. Despite his lack of a retinue, his attire and chain of office marking Astarion as a magistrate opened both to his immediate disposal. Not that Astarion had suspected anything to the contrary. 

Asher had exhibited no telltale signs of deceit. No increase in respiration. No hesitation. However, Astarion dealt in lies and embellishment. Disappointment, it seemed, had somehow become his standard. That he was left feeling satisfied, for once, only added to the appeal. 

It was with thoughts of her filling his head that Astarion selected another grape from the cheese platter. 

“Are these grown here?” he asked the innkeeper. 

The power behind it was barely a push. It was a nudge more than anything. Hardly a compulsion when a charm could make someone believe Astarion’s thoughts were their own or be a force to turn someone’s body and mind against them. 

“They are, my lord,” the innkeeper said. 

Astarion allowed his fang to pierce through the skin and release a burst of flavor onto his tongue. He hummed, pleased. 

“Delicious,” he said, then selected a slice of bread to be the vessel for some goat cheese pressed with chopped almonds. “Cheese from the Dalelands is a pleasant find all the way out here.”

The absent comment struck a chord of unease. Astarion paused for a moment, considering its value. Then he finished smoothing the cheese over the crusty bread. Lesser vampires needed eye contact to maintain compulsions, but Astarion was not lesser. 

“Is its absence going to cause problems for you?” Astarion asked. 

“No, my lord.”

“Then what’s the issue?” 

“There isn’t one. I like to have it in stock for one of the residents, is all.” 

Her voice had been dark and fluid, accented like the honey touched by lavender that Astarion drizzled over his creation. 

“Who?” he asked, seeking confirmation. 

There it was again, that tension tightening as the man tried to tip toward breaking free to protect this individual. Astarion smothered it. Pressed into the innkeeper’s mind, digging into it like a spike. 

What little mental fortifications this half-elf possessed were immediately broken. The man’s life was laid out before Astarion in still frames and fragments of memory, but he only touched on what he was looking for and withdrew.

“The wood elf with red hair,” Astarion prompted. “Tell me about her.” 

“There’s not much to say, my lord. She keeps to herself for the most part.” 

Astarion didn’t speak for the space of two to three bites. “I’m sure she does, though that doesn’t help the rumors, does it?” he asked, at last. 

“It isn’t as bad as it used to be,” the innkeeper said. “Time and memory work in her favor, but it’s believed she’s responsible for the eternal spring here.”

Astarion swirled the wine in his glass, triple-checking his own memory, but no, he could not recall ever hearing the name Reithwin or of a place untouched by winter. Not that the information would necessarily reach him, and if it did, Astarion had centuries working against him. 

So much of the outside world still seemed new as time reshaped the land while his focus remained on the Gate. It was pure circumstance that Astarion’s errand had sent him farther south than planned, putting this pocket of color and warmth in an endless grey landscape directly in his return path to the city.

“Do you believe it?” Astarion wondered. 

“I do, my lord. It’s a rarity now, and it wasn’t always that way, but I remember a time when flowers used to bloom in her footsteps.” 

“Where does she live?” 

Astarion could feel the innkeeper trying to stop himself, but Astarion had control, and he pushed until the man was hemorrhaging secrets.

“I don’t want to harm her,” Astarion soothed, keeping his voice low and persuasive. “Quite the opposite, in fact.” 

What Astarion did want exactly became a little less definable a few hours later, even as his desire to have it only increased. 

Asher’s two-story cabin was as the innkeeper’s memory provided. Due east of Last Light and framed on either side by dense trees. Firelight poured from the balcony’s open double doors, cutting a path of vibrancy into the moonless night. 

The intention had been to verify the information pulled from the innkeeper. Observe. Find a way in, so to speak. But there Astarion was, shifted out of bat form and perched in a tree he had selected based on its vantage point, watching someone, or well, something have that which should be his. 

Asher was lying on her back, with a being so like, yet so very different from Astarion between her legs. Halsin, based on her breathless plea. His large hand caressed her breast, coaxing her nipple to respond to his touch. It hardened into a peak under his fingertips, and he groaned from somewhere deep in his chest, sounding almost like a low growl. 

Asher’s eyelashes fluttered, and she made a soft, desperate sound as he rose up on his knees, gripping her hips to fuck into her harder. Astarion wanted to see her like that for eternity. Asher was a vision. Her naked body, her scent, all of her called to Astarion as much as her racing heartbeat, which was so unfathomably loud in the absence of another. 

Want was building inside him. Astarion was harder than he could ever recall being. His desire to have her just growing and growing alongside his indignation and pride and determination. Astarion was not used to feeling so many things at once. Or perhaps, anything at all, really, and that was why it felt all twisted up inside him like a maelstrom.

As much as Astarion wanted to purge that by tearing this entity’s throat out, killing him would undoubtedly be more difficult than that, and Astarion did not get where he was by being rash. It was by being slow and insidious yet hard and unyielding. 

He wanted it to be his cock inside her. His name on her lips. He wanted her attention and reverence and dedication, and Astarion wanted it given simply because he deserved it. 

Astarion could not care less about the flowers that bloomed when she finally came, but he wanted them to bloom because of him. 

And they gave him an idea. 

Poisons were of little use to Astarion now. Weapons, too, for the most part when he himself was one. Then, flowers were overrated. Bright, gaudy, and overall useless, but there was an intersection of the three that would serve Astarion well here. 

He twirled his chosen weapon between his middle finger and thumb, watching the starburst arrangement of purple petals move around a pale yellow center. According to one of the books Astarion had taken from the apothecary to help him pass the time waiting for this opportunity, it was an aster. The name deriving from the Ancient Sylvan word ἀστήρ meaning ‘star.’ 

It was simple compared to the flowers he was accustomed to seeing in the Gate. Though, Astarion supposed that only made sense. Convenient, too, for his purposes. This Halsin, who had the appearance and shapeshifting abilities of a druid, did not seem the type to reach for pretentious, high-maintenance nonsense like the roses and orchids Astarion despised but used to decorate his main hall for appearance’s sake. 

Astarion set the wildflower onto her balcony railing so the blossom was angled toward the open doors. His fingers brushed against the impatient, burning dawn of sunlight cresting over the foothills. The warmth reminded Astarion of the fire he had felt in her the day before, subdued as it had been. Like a glowing ember instead of the blaze he knew rested at the center of her. 

Satisfied with the presentation, Astarion withdrew a vial from his inner breast pocket and held his breath. His heart did not beat, and he didn’t need oxygen, but breathing was a habit. An automatic reflex between speaking and being aware of his surroundings. Amplified senses would be of no benefit if he did not utilize them. 

As it was, his hearing confirmed Asher was still downstairs, allotting him the time and caution to do this right for her. Essence of ether was a highly controlled substance with good reason. Second only to torpor. A single inhale of this odorless poison would incapacitate her, and a light dusting on the bloom would be more than sufficient.

It worked precisely as planned. The intentional scuff to draw Asher’s attention. Her assumption that Halsin had returned to leave it for her. The flick of Astarion’s wrist when Asher inspected the bloom, ensuring she got the full, intended dose with a gentle puff of air. 

How Astarion had just enough time to be right there to catch her. 

The heat from her body seeped into him through her clothing. Her hair was soft in his palm where he cradled her head. Like the day before, her slender legs were encased in practical, fitted trousers and knee-high boots. A simple roughspun tunic hung from her frame and exposed the valley of her breasts. She had a wide leather belt around her waist and bracers on her forearms, and Astarion could not believe anything other than the finest silk and linen and leather was allowed to touch her. 

Against wisdom, against the knowledge some poison may linger in the air, Astarion inhaled. She smelled crisp and clean, like sunlight, like freedom, and green tea and lemongrass. He could even smell, underneath it all, the faint scent of sweat and parchment on her skin.

Astarion took a moment to finally tuck that lock of hair behind her ear before polymorphing her into a field mouse. A tiny thing that felt like fire as much as she looked like it, and a powerful urge to protect welled up inside Astarion at the feel of everything she was resting in the palm of his hand. 

It was not something Astarion was familiar with. He had never felt the need to keep anything safe but himself, and even that was nothing more than a faded memory. 

‘My heart’ was what Halsin had called her. A fitting endearment, Astarion thought, for a being without one. But Asher deserved more than to occupy the dead space in Halsin’s chest. She deserved more than the cage this pedestrian little town had become.

Astarion transferred the vial from his breast pocket into another, then gently placed the field mouse in its vacancy.

“Don’t worry, my pet,” he told her, placing his hand over the warmth resting against his chest. “Soon, you will have everything.”  

Chapter Text

Everything started with spending the remaining time working the essence of ether out of her system in the comfort of his vast, canopied bed. 

Asher looked peaceful. Like she belonged there. Breathing slow and even as if she were only trancing. The shift back into her usual, perfect self had not disturbed her. Neither had adjusting her so that her head rested on his favorite down pillow, but it wouldn’t. Astarion had been mindful with her, just as he had been in Reithwin, and the one time he wasn’t, it had been an oversight.

Stopping to feed halfway back to the Gate had brought about the only minor complication in all of this. Panic was the natural response to prey finding themselves caught unexpectedly in his jaws, even if it was in vain. Astarion always had control. Over everything, really. But the act of descending upon them, that initial brief struggle, had jolted Asher hard enough to rip her back into consciousness. 

Using torpor, an ingested compound to incapacitate for surgical procedures, instead of essence of ether would have prevented that entirely, but so would have breaking the man’s neck. It still would have been an acceptable feed. The concept of doing anything different just did not cross Astarion’s mind until he was faced with the unfortunate act of having to dig a very small, very frightened mouse out of his pocket and redose her. 

The upside was that it was a significantly smaller inhale than the first. It should not take too much longer to metabolize out of Asher now that she was back to normal. Then, Astarion could mitigate the damage. Issue an apology even, if necessary. 

He went to one of the bedroom windows. The translucent curtain slipped against his skin as he moved it aside. Sunlight reflected across the sea and turned the water to molten gold. It reminded him of her eyes. It reminded him of her fire. 

Astarion lifted his hand to examine the corresponding bite Asher had given him now that he had a moment. The wound had been agitated since their arrival at the palace. A drop of blood beaded from the dual marks on his finger and was partially smeared across his pale skin.

It was not how Astarion imagined her teeth on him for the first time. 

Still, a smile tugged at his mouth. It was… something. Fitting, perhaps, that Asher was the first to taste his blood since shedding his weak, pathetic form and becoming what he was now. She would be the only one, too, and that truth made the slight ache almost exquisite. 

The uptick in Asher’s heart rate pulled Astarion from these thoughts. He turned from the window, pleased when it immediately slowed a fraction when their gazes locked, as if the sight of him alone was enough to ground her.

Asher stood and looked him over like she had when they met. Astarion returned the favor. Something in her expression was off, however. Detached as though she was processing. Then she looked away. 

She began making a slow half-circuit of the room, taking in the details and all the fine, delicate treasures decorating the shelves and tables as she arced toward him. 

“You don’t take no for an answer very well, do you?” Asher asked. 

“Considering people do not say no to me, I took it exceptionally well, my dear. The problem rests in the fact that you didn’t mean it,” Astarion told her. “Brief as my venture was into your mind, that you want more in life had been apparent.”

“Did you take advantage while I was unconscious to rifle through it some more?”

“You asked me to refrain from doing so, and so I did.”

Asher’s wandering came to a stop in front of him, and she nodded absently. The rug whispered under her feet as she shifted. Sunlight streaming through the window sparked against the shimmering gold embellishments on her boots. There was another heartbeat of quiet, and then Asher took a step in his direction. 

Her fist slammed into his nose. Astarion rocked back in surprise rather than from the force, but it still hurt more than he would have expected. A shock of pain flared into his skull, and his eyes watered. 

Before Asher could finish following through, Astarion caught her arm, twisted it behind her back, and pinned her against the wall. Astarion held her there with one leg hooked around his so she could not maintain her balance without him. His claws extended on instinct, and his thumb bit threateningly into her skin where he held her other wrist. 

“I thought you didn’t have a death wish, darling,” Astarion demanded. 

“What,” Asher replied, a hair breathless. “Bored already?”

Astarion barked a laugh, helplessly amused despite the transgression. “I think that is a question better asked of you.”

“What do you want from me?” she asked instead. 

“What I want from you should be rather obvious.” 

The air around her rippled with anger. “Fuck me then, and get it out of your system.”

It was tempting. Unfathomably tempting given the position they were in. 

Asher was so close. The heat of her felt endless, even between all the layers of clothing between them. Her face was mere inches away, and suddenly, her heart was pounding harder than when Astarion had crushed her against the wall. 

Without thinking, his claws retracted so he could touch it, brushing his thumb over the pulse point on her wrist. Astarion did not know if the feeling of her heartbeat or her skin was more distracting. The thought of her underneath him while he enjoyed both in excess was enough to make him almost agree. However, for a being so limitless, it seemed Astarion still had his limits. 

“I’d love to,” Astarion said near her ear, his voice low, and there was a dangerous quality to it that she recognized. Her body’s reactions continuing to give her away whether she wanted it to or not. “You have absolutely no idea how much I want to be inside you, but I want you willing.”

“I am willing.”

Astarion loosened his hold just enough to pull back and look down at her. Red hair falling loose from its pins, her eyes locked onto his again, dark with a determined gleam. An entire confession seemed to be given in a single glance, confirming his suspicions.

“No,” Astarion corrected gently. “You are upset and willing to do what you think it takes to sate my interest here when it is so much more than that. You clearly do not see yourself for what you are or what I’m offering you yet to appreciate any of this as you should, but you will.”

“A gilded cage is still a cage,” Asher said accusingly. 

“The limitations on your freedoms are entirely up to you,” Astarion promised. “It’s something for us to discuss, among other things, I’m sure, but let’s do that over lunch. Given how long it took us to get here, you must be starving.”

Astarion released her and stepped back. Unconcerned that she would lash out again. The fight had not left her. Astarion did not think it could ever leave her, but she felt calmer. 

“I’ll have a bath drawn for you in the attached room and send someone to the Wide to bring you fresh clothes while it is prepared,” he added.

She took a breath before turning to face him. “Did you kill him?” was all Asher said.

Astarion stared at her, speechless, his growing contentment guttering out. The question was honestly inappropriate at present. 

“I considered tearing out his throat, but I did not have the time or information necessary to ensure that would actually work,” Astarion informed her, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice as he utterly failed at reining in his offense. “Should Halsin decide to interfere here, that will change, and I’ll pull the answers out of your head while he suffers to guarantee it.”

The air immediately turned to ice, though her expression remained indifferent, like he had only responded precisely as expected. Asher turned and went to the window he had been standing at when she came to. Only then did Astarion register that his blood had stained the curtain while brushing it aside, reminding him that this was for her as much as it was for himself.

“All of this unpleasantness aside, I’m giving you a gift, you know.”

There was a pause as Asher touched the curtain almost exactly as he had earlier. “I’ll see you at lunch,” she said. 

He stood there a moment. Unsure if he was mollified by her cooperation or irritated that nothing about this went the way he intended. But then, Astarion decided to let it go. 

As misguided as the offer had been, the way Asher seemed to believe having sex with him would be the end of it quelled his discontent more than anything. It was possible that Astarion even regretted her perception of the situation. He could not recall experiencing this odd weight in his chest before, but somehow, he was certain that was what it was. 

Considering the lengths Astarion had gone to obtain her, it should be apparent that he believed she was more than a thing to be used. That he had known she was different from the moment her golden eyes lit on his. Astarion still could not explain it, even to himself, but every interaction and observation only evinced it. 

“My study is just down the hall if you need anything before then,” Astarion told her. 

Asher turned her head just enough to look at him. “I’ll find you if I need you,” she said.

Astarion tipped his chin despite her voice still being aggravatingly blank. He was not vexed by it, exactly. Just… bothered. It was not the same thing. 

Still, if anything was worth some effort, for once, it was showing Asher how wrong she was. 

The decision to withdraw to his study was twofold. A secondary wardrobe was kept there, and after the extended trip, freshening up was welcome. Then, it was where his steward knew to wait for him when he returned from these outings, rare as they were. 

Astarion sorted through the shirts while relaying his instructions pertaining to Asher. Discarded one on the grounds that it looked too similar to what he had on, another for having a koi embroidered on the shoulder, and settled upon one just because it complimented his complexion. 

It was a heavy wool, white, with steel grey striped designs in the same pattern as his chain of office. The sober colors would bring him ahead of his clothes, emphasize the red of his irises. However, changing would have to be put on hold for a moment because Patrick was judging him. 

Astarion could feel it, could feel the steward’s eyes on him, could feel the slight balk in proceeding on with the tasks at hand— and he was appalled that he even considered expanding on the situation. That was simply not how things worked. Patrick knew better. 

He had been a useful instrument in life and was an even better one in death. Patrick did not become Astarion’s oldest spawn, the only one who had survived multiple purges, by questioning things. It had been by getting things done, and it seemed a reminder of that was in order. 

“I do not require you to think to get this accomplished. This is not one of those moments,” Astarion said. “Although, if you believe you need it, I’m happy to send you to the Wide for her. Let you get some air. Clear your head. Then we can try again tomorrow, assuming you’ve recovered from the momentary lapse.” 

Patrick pressed his mouth into a line, and his eyes flicked over to the windows. Today, the sky was crystal clear. The sun, isolated. Cold weather would allow Patrick to comfortably cover up, but he would still feel it. Would still return burned and chapped. 

“If that is what you wish,” Patrick said. “But I will have questions either way. She is the first guest since I have been here, and I am not sure of the correct procedures.”

Astarion could not maintain his annoyance to be truly angry with Patrick. He was too busy wondering what those should be himself. 

He shut the wardrobe and hung the chosen outfit on the front. “Asher is not a guest. She will be a permanent addition to my wing, so the same general rules that apply to me will apply to her,” Astarion decided. “The spawn aren’t allowed to speak to her unless spoken to, you being the sole exception with your position here. Whatever she needs will be supplied without question.”

Astarion paused as her heartbeat came into range. Trying to read what was spurring the tempo on and perhaps her too. Still, it was nice that Asher was seeking him out as told she could. 

“And the parlor across the hall from my chambers will need to be remodeled into her private rooms,” he added. 

“And where shall she stay in the interim?” 

“With me, of course,” Astarion clipped. “Where else do you expect her to be within the parameters I’ve laid out for you.” 

Patrick looked down at the floor. “I am not trying to be difficult,” he said. “I would just rather ask than assume incorrectly.”

“That seems like a reasonable thing to do,” Asher noted as she appeared in the doorway. Her gaze sweeping across the room before locking with his. “Asking what someone wants instead of assuming.” 

Astarion smirked slightly, unexpectedly amused by her yet again. “Of course, eminently reasonable. So what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk sooner rather than later.”

“Then come in, my dear,” Astarion said, gesturing her forward while Patrick studied her. “This is Patrick, my steward. If you cannot find me for any reason, he should be available for whatever you need.” 

Patrick gave a mechanical half-bow. “Is there anything I can get you at present?” 

“Something to eat,” she said. “It’s a seven-day walk from Reithwin, but since I spent that time unconscious, I don’t actually know how long it’s been since I last ate.” 

The look Asher gave Astarion was pointed in the extreme, and he smirked again. 

“Only two days,” Astarion assured. “But fair point. Have something quick sent over. Perhaps a cheese platter.” 

“Do you have a beverage preference?” Patrick asked her, his expression an odd mix of respect and surprise. 

“Tea.”

“I do not believe we have that readily available, so there will be a delay.” 

“Water is fine then.” 

“The spring water, of course,” Astarion interjected. “And send someone else to the Wide on these errands. Better yet, send someone to my tailor for the one. You have more pressing things to handle here anyway.” 

“As you wish,” Patrick said with a very formal nod before turning to Asher. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

He exited then, closing the door behind him, and Asher looked up at Astarion.

She had such incredible eyes. 

Astarion was unsure if it was just because of the color or if it had to do with whatever she was. The bright, burning gold of them called to Astarion as much as the sun itself. 

“Alright, my dear. Let’s talk.” 

Chapter Text

“Outside of the help, is it just you here?”

Astarion gave her a bemused look. “Help is a little generous of a term for most of them, but yes.”

“Cogs in the machine then,” Asher offered, delightfully void of any judgment. “Replaceable.”

“Precisely.”

Asher held his gaze a moment longer, then passed in front of him. She touched the corner of his desk as she made her way around it. The wood was in need of a polish, but overall, it was impressive in size and age. 

“I used to have a flat in the Lower City. I wasn’t there often, but it had a perfect view of this building,” Asher said, picking up a book from the small stack and glancing at the spine. She set it back down. “I should have guessed this gothic monstrosity was a vampire den.” 

“Subtle, right?” Astarion said with a faint smile that he could not stop as much as he wanted to. “You can thank my former master for being that cliche, but it’s also one of the few properties that predates the Gate’s founding and has survived intact. I doubt anyone gives its appearance a second thought.”

Astarion retrieved his outfit and moved to the folding screen. “I did try to make the exterior more palatable once I got my hands on it, but only so much can be done with stonework that’s part of a building’s structure. The entire interior was gutted and redone at least.”

The entire palace was a masterpiece now. Vaulted ceilings, bookshelves that nearly scraped the ceiling molding, and furniture that was as beautiful as it was comfortable. Fine art decorated the walls and colorful rugs on the floors. 

“It’s completely different than it was,” Astarion told her.

“I imagine being able to open the curtains helped too,” Asher ventured. “Unless that was always a thing?”

Astarion could sense her curiosity. Picture it, too. He should have stepped back around the screen so he could see it. Revisited that adorable look Asher had given him when they met instead of the dim memories of what this place had looked like... before. 

He removed his chain of office and began to work at the buttons on his shirt. Trying to ignore how his mind had brushed against that broken, decimated thing that had been trapped in the darkness, like an injured animal in a cave licking at its wounds. A part of Astarion wanted to be mad at her for that. It wouldn’t have surfaced if not for her comment. 

But that was the past. Not even a fragment of that wretched soul remained. 

It didn’t matter. 

“No, that came with what I am now,” Astarion allowed, then shrugged out of his shirt. “After two hundred years without seeing the sun, it certainly made things around here tolerable until the renovations were finished.”

“I’m sure it did,” Asher said after a pause. “What about your spawn? Does your ability to be in the sun extend to them?”

Astarion took off his boots and unlaced his trousers. He knew what Asher was doing but could not blame her for it either. There was a similar allure and sense of confidence around her that Astarion wanted to crack through. 

He also wanted to start picking the lock. Feel the tumblers drop into place one by one until he understood the precise way that Asher was put together. Then, Astarion could dig himself into who she was so deeply that she could never separate him out.

When that happened, he’d own her. 

It would be different than how Astarion owned the spawn or even the city. Something unique, like her. Like his good self. 

“Just because I’m different doesn’t mean they are,” Astarion said. “Aren’t you a ranger, darling? You know how this works.”

“It doesn’t hurt to check, considering.” The way Asher said it made it sound like she regarded this as the most obvious thing in all the realms.

Astarion looked at his naked reflection in the mirror. The physical proof that he was above the rest of his kind in every way, shape, and form, and decided she was right. 

“That’s fair,” he said, taking a moment to ensure his hair was in order. “But no, the core aspects of how the affliction works remain the same. I wouldn’t extend the ability to them even if I could. They’re spawn for a reason.” 

“Few of their master’s strengths, all of their weaknesses. None of their free will,” Asher said, and then there was the rustle of a turning page. “Cogs.”

Astarion smiled at her bored tone and began to pull on his fresh clothes. “Precisely.”

“I assume you haven’t made another true vampire?”

“You would assume correct, and when I start leveling questions at you like this, I assume you plan on cooperating as well?” 

“I imagine as far as you are,” Asher said.  

Astarion felt a flash of irritation. He tightened the laces on his trousers and moved to step around the screen. 

“And how exactly have I fallen short?” he demanded.

Asher glanced up from her book at his appearance, clearly intending to respond, but stopped short. Her eyes flicked down to his lean muscle, the vaulting of his ribs just barely suggested beneath his pale skin, then moved up. Astarion practically preened under the appraisal.

“I suppose you haven’t,” she seemed to allow. “But you’ve taken plenty from me already. I can’t possibly fathom what’s left for me to give.”

Everything, his mind supplied, but he couldn’t say that. 

Not yet. 

“My dear, there’s so much more to you than what a little peek into your head could provide, and I’ve already apologized for that. What more do you want from me?”

Asher stared at him, and her voice became very soft. 

“I think we’re done here.” 

Astarion blinked in confusion, not following her reaction. “What?” 

She didn’t say anything. She just set the book down, and she left. 

Several minutes later, Astarion was dressed and dabbing perfume onto his throat and wrists. It was a creation of his own that he seemed to always come back to, no matter how far he strayed into trying other blends. A little bergamot, rosemary, and a hint of aged brandy— the perfect final touch before going after Asher, as much as he should not have to do that in the first place.

It had been reflex when he realized what was happening, though. Finding himself halfway across the room before the absurdity of it clicked into place, and he stopped in his tracks. He had been half-dressed. Asher had walked away from him. 

His jaw tightened as he replayed it all in his mind. Again. The door shutting. That odd look on her face before she turned away. Astarion wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Just that it was negative, and he resented her for it. Even so, Astarion went toward his suite on the assumption that Asher might return there. 

She had not. He found the rooms as empty and quiet as they had felt outside its doors. It was discouraging, of course, but Astarion continued down the hall, wondering if Asher had been drawn to the sitting room just beyond. 

That ever-present still feeling remained, but Astarion passed through the open double doors anyway. It was one of his favorite places. He had liked the look of it during demolition, stripped of everything unnecessary, so it remained like that. 

Heavy stone blocks, exposed beams, the massive fireplace Astarion could almost stand inside. It was different from the rest of the palace. Beautiful in its own way. He believed Asher would feel the same, making it an ideal place to have lunch and continue their conversation. 

Like anywhere in the west wing, they would have privacy, but the floor-to-ceiling windows here were unique. Maybe it would make all of this feel less… restrictive. Because that had to be part of the problem. Emphasize this was not a cage, gilded or otherwise, and show Asher just how much he was offering her with the entire city sprawled out below them. 

With the decision made, Astarion moved back down the hallway. Having removed this part of the palace from the list of places she could be, the only other direction available to her would put Patrick in her path. He would have prevented her from wandering too far. Alone, at least. However, that did not appear to be the case when their paths intersected at the grand staircase. 

“Where is she?” Astarion demanded.

“I escorted her to the kitchen,” Patrick said. 

“And you left her there?”

Patrick’s brow furrowed. “Yes.”

Astarion stared in disbelief as several very obvious reasons why that was unacceptable flitted through his mind. Then he raised an eyebrow, daring Patrick to explain himself. Astarion would love an explanation.

He swallowed. “I did not realize that would be an issue. She wanted to go there and then did not seem inclined to have me or anyone else present. You said the same general rules that appl—”

“I know what I said!” Astarion snapped. 

Patrick flinched slightly but remained silent, watching him with a tense expression. The sort of look he gave Astarion when he was facing the possibility of something he really did not want to do. Astarion hated it. It wasn’t helping. Mainly because Patrick had acted accordingly. 

Putting his hands on Asher or forcing her to do anything she did not want to was an intolerable thought. It would have been enough for Astarion to send Patrick into the sunlight to never return. Abandoning her in the kitchen was at least… not that. Asher should be fine there. Undisturbed and not lacking options in food or drink. But that was not the point. 

Astarion exhaled through his teeth. Sometimes, it felt as though he never got what he wanted. 

“Just… do what you need,” he said. “Including informing the others of her and what’s expected.”

Patrick inclined his head, and Astarion swept past him for the kitchen. 

He took the stairs two at a time, turning back west when he hit the ground floor. A couple servants scattered like cockroaches at his appearance. Impatiently, Astarion extended his senses out past the interruption to verify that Asher was there. And she was. The calm, steady beat a counterpoint to seemingly everything he was feeling. 

It took a moment for that to register. Not really processing what that meant until Astarion arrived and was surprised to see Asher looking perfectly composed, standing at a prep station and shucking oysters. Her delicate fingers slotted a knife into the hinge of a shell before she twisted her wrist sharply. 

Astarion watched from the doorway, taking in the sight of her, limned by the winter light. Curiously torn between not wanting to disturb her and doing just that. It hardly seemed fair that she appeared so unbothered.

Asher solved this dilemma for him by setting the shell down on the far side of the countertop. 

“I assume you like them since they were going in the soup,” she said, lifting another oyster to repeat the process. 

“I do,” Astarion said stiffly, finally noticing the partially assembled cheese platter beside her and the scent of something spicy and rich abandoned on the stove. He moved toward her. “Though, raw isn’t my favorite.” 

There was a pause, and then Asher reached for the oyster she had set out for him. Astarion quickly took that final step and grabbed her wrist to stop her. Asher’s eyes locked onto his face, studying him as though trying to get a read on him. 

Astarion clenched his jaw, painfully aware he did not know what he felt besides… upset. 

“Why did you walk off like that?” 

It upset him further that he sounded more petulant than angry. Astarion was both, of course. Perhaps more the former than the latter with her specifically. 

“It was either that or start yelling at you,” Asher said, then gently withdrew her hand. Astarion let her. 

“About what?”

She squeezed a lemon wedge over her oyster before doing the same for him. “Does it really matter?”

“I would argue that it does,” he snapped with impatience. 

Asher rested the shell against her lower lip, then tilted it up. She looked at Astarion while she chewed and swallowed slowly. Then she dropped the shell into the waste bin. 

“Can I ask how old you are first? It’s relevant. I promise, and don’t look at me like that,” Asher insisted. “Age means you survived. It marks you as a threat, and despite your physical appearance, you’re clearly not a young vampire. You’re too still for that.” 

Astarion tried to make his face even, to soften his features so he would not be glaring at her with such severity because she wasn’t wrong. He did survive. He was a threat.

“What do you mean by too still?” Astarion asked.

“You’re like a statue until you decide to move or breathe. It’s unnatural. It’s what gave you away in that field. Though, for what it’s worth,” Asher added in a low, thoughtful voice. “I wasn’t sure what you were until you showed me your fangs.” 

Astarion sniffed, disliking how the need to ask only seemed to validate her perceptions. “What is the year again? You stop paying attention after a while.” 

“Fourteen ninety-two,” Asher said and reached for another oyster.

“Then I’m somewhere around nine hundred and fifty. Give or take.”

“And from what I can gather, you’ve spent at least the last seven hundred of that as you are now?”

“That is correct.” 

Asher gave him another long look before slotting the knife in the hinge. “Earlier, I would have accused you of losing touch with your mortality, but that would have been— unfair of me.” 

She twisted her wrist, then her brow furrowed. “Your kind isn’t exactly known for its empathy. No vampire would just let a spawn become what you are, so you must have risked everything for it, and after that much time in the dark, I can’t imagine you had much of anything left to get in the way.”

His anger surfaced a little more alongside the past. The pieces of himself that he had walled off and left to fade away in the recesses of his mind. Astarion felt like he was just barely keeping himself in check.

“No, I didn’t,” he said, teeth flashing as he spoke through them. “And might I suggest you get to the point of all this.” 

Something in her expression shifted. Something Astarion could not define but made him realize he had finally upset her. 

Asher set the items down. “You know this is bullshit, right?” Her voice was soft and calm, uncomfortably similar to how she had spoken before walking off. “I didn’t ask for this. You upended my life because you were bored and liked the idea of having me, but it’s clear you don’t actually like anything about me.”

Her mouth twisted slightly. “I’m not trying to offend you. I’m trying to do the exact opposite of that, in fact, but apparently, I can’t even begin to try to understand you or come to terms with any of this without pissing you off. And we both know that’s my only option because I’m not stupid enough to try to kill you and if I run, I won’t be the one to pay for it, at least not at first. Halsin will, and he won’t even see it coming.

“I. Am. Trying.” A flush rose in her cheeks along with the temperature in the room. “You might not think so, but I am, and I appreciate that you don’t seem inclined to harm me, but that doesn’t mean you won’t once you realize you just want someone to bend to your will without being asked. I saw the paperwork on your desk. You can’t be lacking in options. Not with your money and position in the city. So I’m going to ask you again, what do you want— from me?”

Asher was no longer remotely composed. There were even tears of outrage in her eyes. Astarion found that the mess he was feeling suited her even less than he could have imagined it would. Then, the idea of her behaving like the Gate’s high society was downright repulsive. 

Astarion used to relish in how everyone was his for the taking. How they threw themselves at him cunt and cock first. But for centuries now, the tedium of it seemed to stretch out endlessly before him. 

Then he saw her, and she had seen him. 

It was a very pale description of what had happened— of what Astarion had felt when Asher turned around, and he found himself pinned by her stare. But it was the truth, and the way she was looking at him now, it made his anger and frustration feel hollow— less important.

“This isn’t because I’m bored,” Astarion insisted evenly. 

Her eyes burned as she continued to glare at him with everything she clearly didn’t want to be feeling. “There’s no way it isn’t with that much time behind you and nothing in front of you.”

Words could not express how little he liked seeing her this way or how the accusation touched the back of his mind like the pinprick of a needle. As foreign as it was, Astarion regretted upsetting her as much as he regretted her continued misconception. It made Astarion want to be gentle. Do what he needed to draw out her confidence in his intentions until she could understand and accept them for what they were. 

“You really need to stop selling yourself short, darling. There’s plenty in front of me.” 

Asher laughed bitterly. “I know what I’m worth,” she said. “Don’t worry about that. It’s why I expect you to let me go when you inevitably get bored again.”

“Of course,” Astarion allowed. “If I get bored, I’ll even apologize for the inconvenience.”

She flexed her fingers and then lifted the oyster. “Fucking ridiculous,” she muttered.

Astarion smirked and did the same, setting the shell against his lower lip. The truth was, he hated them raw, but she did not need to know that. Not when the way forward was so apparent.

The cold, slippery oyster slid into his mouth, briny and sharpened with lemon juice. Asher studied him intently while they chewed. 

The fire was there, burning bright but appeased. Astarion could still feel it in the air, like he had unlocked a new sense. He needed to fuel it— the correct way. Coax it into something that would burn for him and not against him. Astarion just had to be clever about it. Dust off old habits then put them to use.

Chapter Text

Hours later, after the sun had sunk into the sea to allow the stars to adorn the night sky, everything finally felt as it should.

Astarion stood just inside his private sitting room, watching Asher. She had not noticed that he had returned to her. Caught up in whatever book she had in her hands. Nor did Asher notice when she set it back on the shelf to continue exploring the room, but Astarion was content to observe. Take in how her fingertips gently landed on book spines and the quiet way she moved with a practiced sort of grace. 

The empty promise to let her go had been the first step to achieving this sense of accord. Then, past that, there had been some concessions Astarion had to grit his teeth through, but he quickly discovered that when he gave, even a little, so would Asher. 

Allowing her to finish prepping lunch and eating together in the kitchen had brought about a fragile sense of equilibrium. Her anger cooled. Her willingness to be in his presence stopped feeling highly conditional. Conversation picked back up too, as idle and surface as it had been. 

The shift had made it somewhat easier to step back. To give Asher space to meet with his tailor and fulfill the rest of his wishes at her own pace. Astarion had needed to address some of the finer points of her acquisition and the correspondence that had gathered in his absence anyway. A few distracted hours apart was a small price to pay to be informed that Asher was in this room, waiting for him.

Astarion could not help but wonder if she had searched for him first. Checking rooms and finding them empty as he had earlier before giving up and seeking Patrick out. Which would be rather unfortunate. Astarion liked the idea of looking up at a knock and being met with her golden gaze. 

He imagined it would feel similar to when Asher came up next to the mirror and her eyes found his. It was like, for a moment, Astarion was free-falling inside himself. 

“You’ve been scarce,” Asher said, then reached for another book.

“I didn’t think you’d like an audience when it came to bathing or meeting with Figaro, but I apologize if that was not the case. If you’d like, I can promise to do better when the opportunity arises again.” 

Asher gave him a bland look in the mirror. “I’m not sure it matters either way,” she said. “You already turned me down.”

“Hardly, my dear. As I said, it was the wrong sort of willing. Nothing more.” 

Astarion came up behind her and took in how devastatingly beautiful they were together in the glass, the way her warm tones complimented his cool, and how she smelled of his soap.

Her outfit was not something he would have selected, but Astarion could not imagine her in anything more fitting. A white, flowing tunic was cinched around her waist by a long belt double-wrapped around her, and she wore black, skin-tight pants. The floral designs woven into the dark fabric were subtle, only perceptible when light played against the flexes and shifts of her movement. Then, her boots appeared to drink in the light. Paired with the sharp, angular designs, they could only be Night Walkers. 

That pulled unpleasantly at Astarion a little— the request for something rare and wrapped in magic designed for secrecy and escape— but he had been very clear: whatever Asher wanted, no matter the cost. Astarion just did not consider how that cost could extend beyond a simple exchange of gold.

Astarion straightened, gaze flicking back up as Asher turned to face him. He lifted his chin. 

“You’ll thank me for that someday,” he noted. 

Asher studied him for a moment as though she was weighing and measuring who he was. 

“I suppose I might,” she said, then stepped past him. “So, where did you disappear to?”

“Why? Did you miss me?” 

Her mouth quirked in faint amusement, firelight reflecting in her eyes as she looked back at him. 

“Sure,” Asher said. “Why not.” 

Astarion privately delighted in her willingness to play along. “I was around,” he promised. “I had to impress some new instructions upon certain individuals, then catch up on work. My formal office isn’t far from the ballroom. I was there most of the evening. Patrick was supposed to show you around.”

“He tried.” Asher sat down on the loveseat. “But I asked him what areas you would like me to avoid and why and decided that was good enough to look around myself.”

Astarion hesitated, but only for a second. Patrick would err on the side of caution. If not for Asher’s benefit, then definitely his own. 

“And did you avoid them?” 

“I did,” Asher said. “I have no desire to encroach on the spawn, especially unarmed. You don’t have to worry about me wandering around the east wing or lower level.”

He stepped forward to join her. “I wasn’t necessarily worried about it. They can’t touch you. I’ve made sure of it. It’s just… beneath you, but would being armed help in general?” 

Her eyebrows knitted together. “Why would you allow that?” 

Astarion sat, ankle over knee, and rested his arm along the back of the loveseat. There was distance between them. Enough that she was just out of reach. Enough to show he was being mindful. 

“You already said you wouldn’t try to kill me, and I don’t want to harm you. I doubt a dagger is going to upset that.”

Asher inhaled. “No,” she said. “Not much would on my end.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Astarion replied. “I have a collection. You can choose what you like from it.” 

She nodded absently. “You said the restrictions on my freedoms are up to me. What did you mean by that?”

Astarion ran his middle finger along the wood detailing and looked at the fire. Trusting did not come naturally to him. It never had. The key would be extending just enough to cultivate hers. Feed the embers until they grew into something uncontrollable. Something Asher couldn’t stop herself from feeling. Then, Astarion would have no reason to worry. She wouldn’t want to go anywhere.

It would take time, but Astarion was patient when it came to his goals.

“Assuming we can operate on some level of trust, I don’t see why there need to be any restrictions,” he told her. “This isn’t a cage. I am offering you everything here. You deserve no less. We just need to be prudent on how we move forward when it comes to you leaving the estate and for how long. Slowly expand outward so we’re not testing one another’s limits all at once and undoing what we’ve put in place.” 

“That’s fairer than I expected, to be honest,” Asher said.

“Darling, you wound me,” Astarion said with mock solemnity. “Do you really think so little of me?”

She gave him a disapproving look. “Your ego doesn’t need my help.”

“Well, it’s too late for that now because here I was all worried I haven’t been on your mind at all.”

Asher shook her head faintly. As though she would rather do anything except admit just how much he’d been in her thoughts but couldn’t stop herself either.

“I think you’re self-absorbed and like to manipulate the world around you on a matter of principle, then layer in your temporary fixation with me, and none of this is something I should trust.”

Astarion exhaled a quiet laugh. “Come,” he said, then stood and held out his hand. “I think I’ll enjoy this conversation more while you choose a dagger.”

The corner of her mouth twitched in a suppressed smile. “You’re an asshole,” she said, then placed her hand in his.

Asher’s hands were small and delicate, like her, and perhaps that was why Astarion had assumed they would be soft. But as his fingers had enveloped hers, Astarion had been struck, somewhat unexpectedly, by how rough they were. Then, Asher had looked up at him with her golden eyes and countless freckles and the complexity he knew existed there had only heightened the pleasure of holding a piece of it in his hand. 

It had been for only a moment, but Astarion could still feel an echo of it. Like her warmth had found a temporary home in his palm. 

Astarion gently rubbed his fingers together as he watched her make a slow circle around the room. He studied her features, the curve of her lips and the tiny flock of birds tattooed on her left cheek. He considered her hands, with their small scars and calluses, and her lithe body. People probably never saw her coming, even when they were looking right at her. 

He sure hadn’t. 

“I know they’re not your preferred weapon, but are daggers at least your blade of choice?” Astarion asked. 

“They are,” Asher said. “I used to lean toward scimitars, but that was before I figured out how I like to hunt.”

“And how’s that?” 

“Swiftly and efficiently. I’m a gloom stalker.” 

That explained the Night Walkers and, well, quite a lot, actually. Rangers were independent almost to a fault, but gloom stalkers took it a step further by gravitating to the shadows and jobs no one else wanted. 

Now that Astarion knew, he couldn’t not see it. The way she moved. How she took in a room. Her confidence that she could run, yet opting to stay to mitigate the risk. The unconcerned approach to waiting him out. Asher looked like prey but operated like a predator. Astarion wondered if her brain ever turned itself off. 

Asher looked up at him and frowned. “Some of these daggers are really impractical,” she said, and with that, Astarion decided it probably never did. 

He walked over to see which one had offended her. 

Three daggers rested in the case, but the one Asher was referring to was not a mystery. It was something designed more for an art museum than practical use. The damn thing could not even lay flat or be sheathed because of how the secondary blades spiraled around the center. 

Rhapsody, his mind supplied along with the echo of another, older voice he hated hearing. 

Fury rose in his chest. Astarion’s jaw clenched for several seconds as he thought about how that blade had touched him. How he would always carry the scars when he should not have any at all. At least, he couldn’t see them without considerable effort. Most of the time, Astarion forgot they even existed. Though that, nor how he had returned the favor before killing the person responsible hardly made up for any of it. 

“Not all of them were meant for fighting,” Astarion allowed. 

The furrow on her brow deepened. “Whatever this one was used for, I hope you killed them for it.” 

His mouth twisted into a vicious smile. “And then some.”

Asher gave a short nod and then moved to the adjacent case, seemingly unbothered that she had struck a nerve. It made him want to be cruel. Get under her skin like she had his, but all that would do is set him back. 

Again.  

He could not afford to wreck every opportunity to draw her in. This would taper off. There had to be a point where Asher would be integrated enough the past would stop cropping up. Plus, he had no desire to see her pushed past her limit again. Feel that heavy sensation in his chest. So Astarion swallowed his anger and chose to focus on hers. 

“Earlier, when you were upset, I could feel it. The heat in the air,” he specified. “But back in the field, it seemed absent, like the cold had been allowed in. You said we were both more than what we seem, but I haven’t a clue what you are.” 

“I’m too curious for my own good sometimes.” 

Astarion paused because if he was not so curious himself, and perhaps in a slightly better mood, how adorable that was might have put the topic to rest for now.

“Cheeky,” he said. “But that doesn’t answer the question.”

“No, it doesn’t, but do you plan on telling me how you can walk in the sun?” she asked, then looked up at him. “And I don’t mean the easy answer or the vague one you gave me earlier, but the real one. Where you risked everything.”

Astarion glared at her. “No, I don’t,” he said.

Asher lifted an indifferent shoulder. “This is what I meant when I said I planned on cooperating as far as you did.” 

He exhaled and tried to force his feelings back into alignment with reason.

“I’ll make you a deal, though,” Asher continued, still annoyingly indifferent to his growing outrage. “You show me how easy it is for you to use compulsions, and I’ll tell you everything I know about what I am, even how it happened.” 

That— appeased him more than he would like to admit. “Alright,” Astarion said stiffly. “How about tomorrow we go to the Wide then? Patrick said you had requested some more items. You can pick them out yourself this way. But for the record, I would have shown you just because you asked.” 

“I know you would have, but at least this way, you can’t hold it over me.” 

Astarion scoffed. It was almost a laugh. “You call me an asshole, but you’re not any better.”

Asher looked away. “I am aware of that,” she noted.

He said nothing. Astarion had no idea what kind of response to make to that. He did mean it, but not as any sort of criticism of her character. 

“Is anything in this case an issue?” Asher asked, touching the wood framing.

“No, and I am sorry about the one,” Astarion offered. “I forgot it was in here.” 

“It doesn’t matter. If it wasn’t that, it would have been something else I did wrong.”

The comment burned, and Astarion had to bite his tongue. “Right,” he allowed, then unlocked the display and opened it for her. 

She lifted what most people would dismiss at first glance as a simple blade. Everything about it was subtle and purposeful. Intentionally unassuming, a lot like her.  

It had a larger-than-normal hilt wrapped in white leather that allowed for a tighter grip. The pommel was diamond in shape and doubled as a secondary weapon. It wouldn’t do much damage, of course, but in a pinch, the right hit could buy the wielder time for a more proper, fatal blow. 

Asher tested its weight and balance and then angled the blade in a specific way to catch the light. A thin orange line ran along one edge that spoke of razor sharpness. The other side was waved, each crest coming to an impossibly sharp point, which Asher discovered when she touched one. 

His mouth watered as a drop of blood bloomed from her thumb. 

She went very still for a second, then set the dagger down. “Where did you get that one?” 

Astarion spent a moment trying, and failing, to not think about how much he wanted to taste her in more ways than one when Asher put the pad of her thumb between her lips. At least, it would seem like he was just trying to recall. 

“A couple of years ago, someone after a Bhaalist rank and title tried to kill me as part of their application.” Astarion cleared his throat when Asher looked up at him again. “He learned the hard way I wasn’t simply a name to tick off a list.”

Asher smirked, but it was actually closer to a smile, for once. She retrieved the dagger and knelt down to slip it into the sheath built into her boot. 

“I don’t know what I expected.”

Astarion shrugged a little, the very picture of ‘c’est la vie.’ “When you’ve lived as long as I have, nothing really surprises you anymore.”

“I don’t doubt that. What is it called?” 

“Dolor Amarus.”

“Harsh suffering,” she translated, shifting her weight to test how it felt.

Astarion inclined his head in agreement. “Or bitter sorrow. Either way, I assume it is to your satisfaction?”

“If I were to start complaining, being handed a dagger would not be on the list,” Asher replied.

He stared at her in disbelief. He wanted to strangle her. Not really, of course. Just metaphorically. 

“What would be?” 

“That your books seem disorganized.” Asher slid the key out of the case and held it out to him. “Outside of your private sitting room, I can’t figure out how you’ve decided to sort and separate them.”

After a beat, Astarion accepted the key and tucked it into his pocket. Appreciation for his generosity would have been the preferred response here, but rationally, Astarion knew that Asher was unhappy with him. Her decision to be amicable in the face of that was valued, especially with how he had been making a valiant effort himself. 

That the complaint was valid helped too. Astarion had spent centuries amassing his collection. Some of the oldest and rarest books were at his disposal. However, organizing it all became a challenge after a certain point, and he had to get creative. 

Astarion did not doubt that she could figure it out, but he was happy to streamline it for her. His library was a point of pride, and common ground in a simple area like this could benefit their growth because he wasn’t lying. He wasn’t being insincere, either. Having Asher aware of his manipulation did not negate why he was doing it. He was only weaponizing it for the time being.

“My dear, all you have to do is ask.”

Asher smiled, her eyes glittering because she knew what game they were playing. Or, she thought she did. 

Chapter Text

The wind off the sea had picked up gradually throughout the day, ushering in grey skies and an even greyer afternoon. It cut in and out as they moved between buildings. Then, it blew so hard as they crossed a thoroughfare that it momentarily stole the air from Asher’s lungs.

She swore under her breath when she got it back and held onto the hood of her cloak to shield her face. 

“Maybe we should have waited until the front passed,” she said. 

Astarion cut her a look that went unnoticed. What they should have done was left for the Wide earlier. He had wanted to. It had been the plan. Except Asher had set out to familiarize herself with the palace some more, then, apparently, got sidetracked in the attic for a couple of hours. It was no wonder Astarion had been unable to locate her. 

The wind was painfully frigid now, but knowing that Asher was suffering too made it a little easier to let go of his ire. Plus, having her in one of his favorite cloaks was immensely gratifying. It was a blackish-blue with silvery black-tipped fur lining the hood. It was not his heaviest cloak. Astarion had reserved that one for himself since the cold sunk into him so deeply, but comparatively, Asher should not feel winter’s bite beyond her exposed skin. 

And, Astarion supposed, her comment was the closest thing to an apology or admission of fault that he had heard from her yet. 

That was welcome since they had come very close to arguing over this outing. A part of Astarion had wanted to just for the sake of it because Asher had tried to accuse him of a lack of communication. But how in the hells could he communicate anything when he could not even find her? At least, the question, rhetorical as it had been, put things into perspective enough for her to drop it.

It was not as if he wasn’t the one trying to do her a kindness anyway.

“We can turn back if you’d like,” Astarion offered. He’d be lying if he said he would not welcome it. They had clearly agreed to still go out of spite for the other. 

“Maybe after Read Ink since we’re almost there,” Asher said. “I forgot how much the sea breeze can be sometimes.”

She had said it’d been a hundred and fifty years since she’d last been in the city. Astarion did not doubt that. The questions Asher had asked about specific businesses and districts leaned into the accuracy of that gap. Yet something about it all did not quite add up. 

Astarion got the impression Asher had developed and honed her skills in her homeland. Her soft spot for foods from the Dalelands only reinforced his belief that Asher had spent considerable time there— and then away. Probably in the Gate, for how intimately familiar she was with the city, before relocating to Reithwin. 

And yet, Asher could not be over two hundred and fifty. 

“Astarion.”

“Hm?” Astarion looked at her, then realized he had not addressed her suggestion. “Oh, yes, the one stop is fine.”

“I assumed so since we kept going, but is this you?” Asher gestured toward a couple who had been walking directly at them but angled off course to give them a wide, noticeable berth.

“It is,” Astarion said. It did not matter what direction or speed someone was walking, nor how many individuals were in a crowd. If they were in his path, the compulsion cut through them like how the bow of a ship cut through water. 

“Does it require any effort?” Asher asked. 

The wind whipped their cloaks forward as they rounded a corner to travel up the next avenue. 

“It’s like breathing. Something I don’t need to do, but it has its purpose and is just as habitual,” Astarion told her. “Though, now that I am thinking about it, I should probably ensure people aren’t listening to what we’re saying either.”

Asher shook her head slightly as if she could not quite believe how simple it was. “Does anyone ever notice?”

“On a rare occasion, someone will have the mental training or fortitude to naturally resist, but they don’t seem to register anything is amiss. It’s a— passive sort of ability compared to altering thoughts or digging through memories.”

Asher pulled the shop’s door open, and Astarion wrapped his hand around the wood, holding it against the wind so she could slip inside. 

The shop was relatively empty and dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The one person near the door moved away as they moved inside. No one greeted them or acknowledged their presence. Just as intended. 

Asher lowered her hood and glanced around before looking up at him. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and her eyes were bright with open interest. 

“And I’m unaffected because I’m close to you or because you are allowing it?” Asher asked. 

The corner of his mouth tugged on a smile. Her desire to understand him in this way pleased him. Fed him somehow. 

“Both.” Astarion pushed back his hood and pulled off a glove to run his fingers lightly through his hair. Ensuring it was in order as much as he could. “As far as I’m concerned, those things are one and the same. No matter how you want to look at it.”

Her lips pursed adorably. “That’s fair.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he admitted. “But shall we? It smelled like rain. The front might be moving in faster than I realized.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Asher said, then stepped toward a nook with a few small mahogany tables. 

An assortment of quills, inkwells, stationary, and the like were set out on them. On the shelves above were rows and rows of books of varying sizes and colors, but all of them had Read Ink embossed on the spine. Asher rose up on her tiptoes and pulled down a mid-sized, burgundy one. 

She fanned through the blank pages and then snapped the journal shut. A moment more, and she also had a charcoal pencil set selected. Clearly, little had changed about the shop over the years, but then again, Read Ink was one of the oldest bookstores in the Gate for a reason. 

Astarion had never had a use for them, but these journals were magical items. A trace amount of the Weave was sewn into the pages to prevent smudging and water damage. They were expensive. Rightfully so, since how they managed it so perfectly was still proprietary. However, if Asher wanted to know, he would happily pluck the answers out of the current artificer’s head.

“Maybe next time,” was her promising reply when he offered. 

“I’ll hold you to it,” Astarion said, then held out a hand. 

Asher gave him the items. He could feel the hesitation in her fingers. The awareness that she was handing over more than just a journal and a small tin of charcoal, even if she could not name it any more than Astarion could. 

He was not smug about it, but truthfully, he did not really feel it. There was something else there, though. Astarion held her gaze when she looked up at him again and wondered if she could feel it too, how things could be if she would only accept this for what it was. 

She must have because Asher was the first to look away. 

Astarion relented and returned to the front of the store. It had gotten greyer outside, and he tucked the items under his arm to pull the glove back on. Asher waited patiently at his side, oblivious to Astarion cutting through the shopkeeper’s mind like a scalpel so he could climb inside. 

Then he implanted a memory. 

It echoed through the shopkeeper, reflecting back at Astarion as it took hold. The dwarf blinked and then looked at them. 

“Thanks again for your purchase,” he said from behind the counter. “You two stay warm out there.”

“We’ll do our best,” Astarion replied, smiling graciously. “Won’t we, darling?”

Asher stared at him. “Of course,” she said. 

Somehow, the way Asher looked at him seemed more like the way she had in the field. Like she was actually seeing him rather than her misconceptions. Astarion could hear the conflict in her pulse, her heart beating a little quicker than it should. Not out of fear but that kind of strange anticipation.

His smile shifted into something more honest, something just for her, and then Astarion stepped forward to push the door open. 

Outside, a gust of wind immediately assaulted them, damp and cold enough to sting his face. He waited until they were no longer walking into the wind and Asher could appropriately breathe again before returning to their conversation. 

Astarion pulled his hood up. “Was that a sufficient demonstration?”

“It was more than sufficient,” Asher replied, doing the same. “I just don’t know if I should be impressed or concerned.”

And there it was. The moment that negated everything prior.

Astarion was starting to hate this. Hate how no matter what he did, even if it was fulfilling a request, it was still not what she wanted. 

“How about reassured because you still have the ability to doubt me,” he clipped. 

“I mean concerned in that trusting any of this feels unwise, but I’m running out of reasons not to.” Asher gestured helplessly. “You literally don’t need to try to convince me of anything, and yet, you are.”

“Apologies for not being the monster you seem to think I am.” His tone dripped with false courtesy. 

“And here I was, ready to thank you for that,” she said flatly. 

Astarion blinked at her, uncertain how to respond. Being so suddenly devoid of anger left him feeling confused. Especially because Asher had said she was trying, and Astarion felt… wrong somehow for disregarding that. 

He could not even triumph in Asher beginning to accept this. Instead, he felt oddly betrayed by it. 

“Maybe next time, lead with that?” Astarion suggested, not unkindly. 

Asher refused to look at him. “You could try giving me the benefit of the doubt every once in a while too,” she said. “For the sake of variety, if nothing else.”

The victory seemed to slip further from his grasp, and it struck him as remarkably unfair. Asher seemed to only try when he did, but he had tried. Surely, she could see that. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Astarion said, only the slightest bit resentful that she probably wanted an apology. 

And that she deserved it. 

The front held until they were comfortably settled back at the palace. It was cold enough that the rain would probably shade into sleet within a few hours, but for now, it drummed against the windows. Asher touched the glass as if trying to feel it against her palm before turning toward him. 

Astarion paused at the sideboard to pour himself a glass of blood-infused wine from the decanter he had brought up. “When was the last time you experienced weather like this?” he asked. 

“Assuming you mean winter in general, it’s been a few years.” Asher wrapped her fingers around the cup of tea as if to chase the chill away. “I’d go to Elturel when I needed something I couldn’t get nearby.”

“Like what?”

“I’m picky about my bow strings,” she said. “I used to take contracts too on occasion if there was something worth my time, but the Companion put a stop to that pretty quickly.”

‘Pretty quickly’ was a bit of an understatement. The Companion was a shining golden orb that liberated Elturel fifty years ago from a vampire’s nearly successful attempt to take control of the city. Its appearance in the middle of the night instantaneously obliterated the issue. 

Afterward, the orb remained, hanging directly over Elturel’s High Hall like a second sun. It illuminated the city day and night and could be seen from virtually anywhere within Elturgard. Undead of all kinds were burned by it, and creatures of darkness could not even bear to look toward the city, practically eradicating Elturgard of these threats. Or, at least, it did until all hells broke loose— quite literally. 

It turned out this symbol of the realm was actually an infernal device created by Zariel, archdevil of Avernus, as part of a plot to steal Elturel, which she successfully did earlier this year when the terms of the deal that had saved the city were fulfilled. Elturel had since been returned to its place in the Material Plane, but the ramifications of The Descent were felt far and wide in Elturgard.

“A lot of good it did them long term,” Astarion said, sitting on the sofa. 

“No shit,” Asher replied. “But at least I got regular work for a while because what survived had to go somewhere.”

With the mountains a wall to the west of Elturel, it would have been the quickest way to escape the Companion’s light. Then, avoiding the heavily protected roads near Fort Morninglord on the south side of the Chionthar would practically funnel anything fleeing into the lands around Reithwin.  

“Toss in the perpetual spring there, and it would be a perfect place for any undead,” Astarion said. “Though, I suppose that might not be the case with you gone.”

“Subtle,” she said. 

Astarion smiled at her. “As one who was fortunate enough to find a much-needed respite in it and your company, you can’t blame me for wondering if the two are connected with how you seem to have some sort of effect on the world around you.”

Asher gave him a long look before taking a sip of tea. “Was it the innkeeper that you pulled information out of?”

“It was, and thank you for that, by the way. The Last Light Inn did suit my appetites exactly as you had said, and then some.”

She was silent for several seconds, then her lips twisted faintly as she looked away. “I can’t alter the climate of an entire region. The flowers only bloomed because the land was already primed for it.” 

Some parts of a puzzle fell into place with that. Asher was aware of it too; the extent of what she had given him. She seemed cornered by the realization that Astarion likely knew enough to detect any lies and extrapolate well beyond what she felt comfortable admitting. 

Regardless, Astarion couldn’t care less about Halsin outside a particular set of parameters. The scales tipping toward him being responsible for the eternal spring fit perfectly inside that, but it was a detail to examine later. Astarion was more interested in why the flowers stopped blooming in her footsteps. It felt… pertinent in a way the rest didn’t. 

“That’s not the only reason,” he said. “Clearly.” 

Asher was silent for several seconds. “Do you know what you are? Like, is there a name for it?”

“There is. Though, it’s not anything you would find listed in a book, or at least one that’ll share its knowledge without a fight,”  Astarion admitted, confident he possessed the only one that did and that she couldn’t unlock its secrets if she wanted to. Then, the original scrolls on the ritual he had destroyed himself. “I’m a Vampire Ascendant and the only one there ever will be.”

Asher nodded slowly. “I’m not sure what I am, just that I’m not a Chosen, which would be the easiest and closest explanation I could offer. Or, if I am, I wasn’t selected the usual way.” 

Astarion tried to imagine Asher wasting her days away in a monastery with prayer and charity, and his mouth quirked up. 

“Either way, it’s been centuries, and no god has ever spoken to me,” she said. “But maybe it’s because Amaunator is still dead no matter what his or Lathander’s followers say. I wouldn’t attribute it to him, but too much of what I can do lines up with him.

“Most of it is passive or protective like I’m immune to light and fire and nullify the opposite when I come into contact with it. I can see through illusions and invisibility. I don’t know if it was a Shard of the Sun or something else that did this to me, but when I said I’m too curious for my own good sometimes, I meant it. It was just a golden fragment in some rubble, but it seemed so out of place,” she said, suddenly sounding far away. “Like it was what had done the damage.”

Asher stared into the fire but seemed to be seeing something else entirely. “I barely touched it. But I came to in a crater, choking on smoke and everything around me, the trees, the people I was with—,” her voice faded for a moment. “Even the shard, it was all obliterated.”

She was quiet for a second. 

She started to speak again but then pressed her lips together. Her brow furrowed as though she was choosing and discarding what to say next. 

“It took me a while to figure out everything it did to me and even longer to discern what might have happened,” Asher finally said. 

Her voice had shifted. It was more familiar, detached as she moved back outside this story of her life. Like there was a switch somewhere inside her, where she just turned herself off. 

“Unlocking a Shard of the Sun is supposed to be impossible to non-Amaunatori, and even then, it’s supposed to be a tool, not something that becomes a part of you. But if he’s dead or it was just a piece of one,” Asher gave a dismissive gesture. “Maybe there just wasn’t anything keeping it locked.”

The more Astarion learned about her, the more it felt like he was meant to have her. Like it was as inexorable as the movement of the stars. Astarion had never felt that way about a person before. 

“Maybe you were just the key,” Astarion said absently. 

“I doubt that,” Asher replied, sitting next to him. 

There was not such a precise distance maintained between them this time. It felt— natural. Warmed him as much as the fire and wine. 

Or maybe that was just her.

“I don’t know, darling. Amaunator wasn’t just the Keeper of the Eternal Sun. He was the Netherese deity of order, law, and time too. His adherence to the law was such that he knowingly did nothing to stop the fall of Netheril because he lacked the contractual power to do so and effectively killed himself by losing his entire worshiper base. I doubt his relics would simply ‘choose’ anyone, for lack of a better word.”

Asher set her tea down and tucked her feet underneath herself. “I’m not sure that it matters either way.”

“It doesn’t,” Astarion agreed. “But you can’t blame me for conjecturing. Have you spoken to anyone else about it? Gotten any other opinions?”

“Just one, and they believed the shard was the key. That it just unlocked what was already there since it functions like an extension of myself. It’s just been long enough that I’ve accepted there probably isn’t a solid answer.”

“And how long has that been?” he inquired. 

“Around three hundred and fifty years. I had just reached my first century when it happened. My condition, or whatever you want to call it, seems to slow down how I age, or it’s suspended or something. I honestly don’t know because I am very mortal.”

Astarion stared at her. The gold in her eyes glowed as though they were rings of fire. It was subtle, only really noticeable when the light was dim. Still, it was like getting a glimpse of just how brilliantly she burned.

He knew, of course. The reminder was in every beat of her heart. In the blood flowing through her veins. Even the warmth of her skin. But he had also forgotten. 

Astarion had always been drawn to the sun, but he had never really considered that it was just a star. 

And that even stars could die. 

“I’m going to do some digging if you don’t mind,” he finally said. 

Asher gave a smooth shrug as though the statement didn’t surprise her. 

“You’ll get bored with it, just like I did.” 

Chapter Text

Astarion did not get bored. Instead, he found the longer and deeper he dove into theological sources and theories, the angrier he got. As if there was a bottomless well of hatred that he did not even know was there. 

Forgotten memories tried to resurface if he focused on where it stemmed from for too long. A low light would emerge from the dimness. Limbs too heavy to move. The scent of blood, his blood, lingering in the air, and something wet on his cheeks— then his mind would immediately recoil. Stopping anything else from clawing upward into his consciousness.

Sometimes, Astarion got so caught up in the feeling that he had to check himself. Stifle the resentment and remember none of it was Asher’s fault. Not to mention, it was all simply beneath him. He could not remember the details of who he had been in life, the place he had called home or even the color his eyes had been before they turned red. Yet, Astarion was sure he had always known that. 

Religion was, by definition, a way for people to feel like they mattered, even in death. They dedicated their lives to magic, the night, the pursuit of knowledge, inventiveness, or even tyranny and murder for a celestial being who they believed, against all evidence, cared about them individually. 

In truth, the gods only cared about ensuring they had the numbers. That they had the prayers necessary to prevent themselves from becoming another corpse on the Astral Plane, and Chosen were a way to guarantee that.

They were tools, albeit powerful ones, that existed to build up a god’s church. To further solidify their existence because the more abundant the worshipers and the more fervent the worship, the stronger a god became. People were the foundation of immortal power from start to finish. They were cattle, and Asher would not have been left dormant for three and a half centuries if she was a Chosen. 

Still, there was something to it all. Amaunator. A Shard of the Sun. How, one moment, Asher was that first kiss of true sunlight against his skin and then blazing and vengeful the next.

No matter what the golden fragment had been or how it imbued her with power, it made sense that it would have been a violent process. The sun did not just ‘exist.’ It was a force of nature. It burned. It scorched earth and dried river beds. It was steadfast and unforgiving. 

The sun could also be distant. Beautiful, brilliant, and content to do nothing while the earth froze and died beneath it. And it could be gentle, too. A warm caress that could breathe life into anything, even him. 

It was those moments that Astarion craved from her. That stirring of warmth was the one thing he had not felt from Asher again since that day in the field. Anyone else, Astarion would have it in excess because she wanted for nothing. 

Her suite had been appropriately furnished within the week. Complete with an ornately carved bed and soft down mattress that rivaled his. Two more weeks past that, the tub he had specially ordered was delivered. Figaro also sent over the final pieces of her winter wardrobe he had tailored and began planning for spring. 

Astarion was aware her limitations detracted from, well, everything he was offering her. Both tangible and not. Still, he held off on easing them for as long as he did because it had its place. 

She had needed to acclimatize to her life in the palace. Form new habits that revolved around him. Then, knowing where Asher was, being able to lay eyes on her simply because he wished to made him happy. Most importantly, though, Astarion had been certain he would feel her gratitude when he finally gifted this to her. However, Asher had taken the news that morning like she did everything else— like it was owed to her. 

And it was. Astarion could admit that. If Asher had been undeserving of his time and consideration, if she had been just cattle like the rest, he would have left her in Reithwin to rot or put her out of her misery himself. 

He did not need this from her, of course. Astarion did not need anyone or anything to elevate himself. He accomplished that on his own. It was what put him above the gods. It was just... difficult to balance out in his head because he deserved what he was owed, too, and the longer Asher was gone, the harder it became to set aside.

The frustrated desire that shimmered beneath the surface kept rising until it filled him. Tangling with his irritation at her until Astarion could not tell them apart. 

He tried to keep himself occupied. Distract from the issue with work and various tasks he had been putting off because Asher would not run. Astarion knew it, even if he also despised acknowledging why. He hardly allowed that detail to enter his thoughts. 

However, as Astarion extracted some bergamot oil, he found himself contemplating how he would express the warmth that lingered just out of reach— then became conscious of the realization that Halsin did not have that from her either. 

Understanding Asher as he did now, how her powers tied into her and manifested when she felt something strongly— if she had been content in Reithwin, truly happy with what she had, the flowers never would have stopped blooming in her footsteps. 

The land was still primed for it, but not her. 

There was no lie in her fire. 

Astarion could not help but be immediately placated by this. Couldn’t avoid the tendril of pleasure that curled inside him at knowing he would be the one to correct that. Give them both what they deserved. 

It was only a matter of time, Astarion reminded himself, and Asher’s return that evening only reinforced it. 

The sun was low on the horizon, and Astarion was sitting at his desk in his formal office, reviewing a long-awaited report, when there was a knock at the door.

Astarion looked up to find Asher standing in the doorway, just as he had imagined once. Her scent and the rhythm of her heart had gotten lost among the servants and thralls in this part of the palace, allowing him this simple pleasure.

The annoyance at being interrupted instantly abated. Astarion adored the way Asher looked in his cloak with that flush high on her cheeks from the cold, but he loved that she had sought him out upon her return— loved it.

“Yes, my sweet? What is it?” 

Asher froze for a moment, then blinked. She rested her hand against the door frame.

“I just wanted to let you know I’m back.”

“I’m glad to see it,” Astarion admitted. “How was it?”

“It was— something,” Asher said, which sounded a lot like a thank you instead of a criticism. 

A smile pulled at the edges of Astarion’s mouth, and then he flipped through the remaining pages to determine how much longer he would be.

“Did you eat while you were out?” he asked. 

“Honestly, it slipped my mind.”

Astarion looked back up at her. Once the mindset to look at this situation objectively set in, he had anticipated as much and planned accordingly.

She was used to living on the edges. Wherever there was solitude, there was danger, but peace, too, Asher had explained once. Cured meats, cheese, bread, fruit, and nuts seemed to be part of that peace. Comfort foods. Yet Astarion had noticed she had an appreciation for finer things, too. Rare and expensive delicacies he could provide for her that she might not otherwise experience. 

“Well, then, I imagine you’re hungry, but since I didn’t know when you were returning, I forewent having dinner prepared. One meal alone today was enough for me,” Astarion noted. “That said, I did send someone to get new options for you if you’d like a cheese board. Otherwise, it may be a little while.”

Her lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “There’s no need. You know I don’t mind putting something together.”

“Then I’ll join you momentarily. I’m almost done here, and I could eat.” 

“Alright,” Asher said, then her hand shifted slightly against the wood. “And thank you— for today.”

Astarion lightly touched his hair as he preened a bit. “You’re welcome, my dear.”

She exhaled and gave him a small nod. Then she was gone.

Astarion smirked and looked back down at the report. He brushed his thumb over her name, then leaned back in the chair. There was not really a need to finish it. Patrick would have led with anything of import. Anything that would require Astarion’s direct involvement, but there was nothing.

She had no family left. No close friends. As far as could be determined, there were only a few acquaintances within the Gate to keep tabs on, but even then, no one of consequence. No one who would risk the weight Astarion commanded in the city coming down upon them. Of course, there was Halsin, but that had been deemed a nonissue. 

The innkeeper had no knowledge of Halsin. Not even a glimpse of the man had lived in his memory. Only legends of a giant bear roaming the mountains and protecting the land. Legends that had been practically forgotten because of Asher and the eternal spring that settled there with her. 

The gaps in the innkeeper’s mind had been so evident once Astarion realized Asher did not just ‘see through illusions and invisibility.’ Like Amaunator, like Astarion himself, Asher possessed truesight. 

She had the ability to see what was really there. Perceiving the original form of a shapechanger or a creature transformed by magic, even detecting an entity hiding in the Ethereal Plane. From there, the first book Astarion picked up on Druids gave him the answer. 

Halsin was a spirit of nature. 

Meaning he could not come looking for her, even if Astarion had somehow overlooked removing a trace of himself from Reithwin. Halsin was tied to the land he was connected to. 

Astarion had poured through books on the subject in secret for a way to kill him. Unfortunately, nature spirits varied greatly in appearance and power. Some were lesser deities or even gods themselves. Others, though, had their life force contained in a specific plant or natural object such as earth or water. Then, if the source of their life force was damaged, the nature spirit suffered harm. If it was destroyed, the spirit died.

“Send a mercenary group to Reithwin under the pretense of passing through on the way to Elturel,” Astarion instructed when Patrick appeared a few moments later to check-in. 

“And what are they to do there?” Patrick asked. 

“I want an update on the state of things. How bad the winter is. If the people are scrambling to get food and supplies so they don’t freeze or starve to death.”

Astarion stood and went to the fireplace. He dropped the report outlining Asher’s isolation into the flames, watching the edge blacken and curl until there was nothing left but ash. 

She tried to keep everything so perfectly contained. Set aside how much he upset her or pleased her or entered her thoughts at all. However, Astarion was starting to understand just how much she said with silence and stillness alone. 

Her behavior upon her return, the borderline discomfort with her comfort surrounding him, told Astarion that he already had a place in her mind— that the heart was next.

The one place she could not ignore. 

“I want to know that he’s aware she’s gone and that there is nothing he can do.” 

Upstairs, Asher was on the sofa with her journal when Astarion walked in. The book was closed with her finger between the pages to hold her place as she stared at the fire. Her mind was clearly elsewhere, but she seemed to come back into the room when Astarion did. 

Asher pulled her eyes from the flames and looked up at him, then she slid off her flats to tuck her feet underneath herself. The absence of her Nightwalkers pleased him. Further assured Astarion that it had never been something to dwell on. 

Rationally, he knew that. A chat with Figaro had cleared things up quickly enough. Asher’s preferences had only been blended with Astarion’s, and the Nightwalkers were hunted down solely because they had fit the intersection of form and function between them too perfectly. Astarion could not disagree with that, at least.

He poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle set out alongside the platter on the low table before her. There was plenty left for him, but Asher tended to graze as she put them together. Astarion did too, when he was present. Unfortunately, he had taken longer than intended to enjoy that ritual with her, but Asher would not question it. 

He had a city to run. An entire military order to oversee. Like the spawn, the city’s government had been shaped into an extension of himself, operating independently within a specific set of parameters, but it still required attention. All in all, a convenient excuse for the delay. One Astarion did not even need to offer outright.

“Apologies for not joining you sooner, my dear,” Astarion said, then topped off her glass too. “Wrapping that up took longer than anticipated.”

“It’s never a problem.” 

“Still, the sentiment stands,” Astarion tried again and handed Asher her wine. 

Her fingers slipped from the pages to brush against his as she accepted the glass. Astarion let the touch linger for a moment longer than strictly necessary. Her reaction to the extended contact, how it drew her eyes to him so intently, never disappointed. It was the expression that usually vanished the moment Astarion caught her watching him. Intrigued but calculating, like she couldn’t figure him out and wanted to more than anything. 

“I’m aware,” Asher said. “You wouldn’t have offered it otherwise.” 

Astarion took a seat next to her. “But you don’t understand why,” he surmised. 

“Something like that.”

“I admit I was unhappy with you for a while today,” Astarion allowed. “But I also had enough time to reflect on it and move past it.”

Asher studied him like she could bore inside his head with her eyes and read the truth on the surface of his mind. 

There were times, like now, when Astarion wondered if she could. If her truesight went so far as to alert her of deceptions. Astarion had never lied to her though. Or, not outright, at least. There was always an edge of truth to everything he said to her. It was easy, given things between them. Instinctive.

He suspected Asher was aware of this like she was aware of his manipulations. However, Astarion also suspected that was enough for her. It was as if knowing his motivation and intention surrounding her subconsciously filed him away as a safe entity.

“I had assumed the time would only make it worse,” Asher finally said. 

Astarion felt his mouth curl up at how well she knew him. “It did at first, but as spirited as our arguments can be, I find these moments to be a bit more— invigorating.”

“I think it’s a little premature to say it won’t happen.” 

“Come now, darling. It’s been a bit since we’ve had a significant disagreement, and unless there is some grievance you have yet to air, I don’t possibly see how that would occur.”

Asher set her journal aside. Her leg brushed against his elbow as she shifted. An absent touch of proximity that would infuriate him if it were anyone else.

“I guess that depends on if today was a one-off,” she said. 

“It wasn’t,” Astarion promised. “But it can be, if it will make you feel more comfortable.” 

Her mouth twitched into a brief, almost smile that she hid behind her glass. Asher looked at the fire and took a sip. 

“I hate when you do this,” she said.

“What, be charming?” Astarion asked, feeling something between amused and smug. 

“Corner me.” 

He leaned forward to select a crostini smeared with soft, creamy cheese. It was topped with thinly sliced green grapes arranged in a way reminiscent of fish scales. It was a charming little bite that highlighted how Asher must have been searching for distractions like he had earlier, and yet, could not find solace in her journal as she so often did. The charcoal tin was closed, and her hands were spotless, signaling she had not made a single mark in it. 

Asher did not just expect to return to a fight or reestablished boundaries. She had wanted it. Such an affront would have made it easier to maintain what little distance she could. Asher wanted that as much as her pride demanded she be treated in a sincere and respectful manner. She wanted to hate him but couldn’t. 

Astarion was precisely what she needed. 

“Darling, I’m only trying to give you what you want,” he told her. 

Asher glanced at him and smirked, but with none of the humor he was feeling. She just looked tired. 

“I know,” she said. “And I can’t fault you for that either.” 

He placed the crostini in his mouth and chewed. Astarion hummed, more than satisfied.  

Not with the flavor, though it was delightful, but the moment. 

“Tell me about your day, love.” 

Chapter Text

If Astarion needed further assurance he made the right decisions that day, the duration of Asher’s first outing proved to be an anomaly. Subsequent trips alone only lasted a few hours. They were not daily occurrences either. 

At present, she was there. Not just in the palace but in his formal office with him, sitting in the window off to his right. It was the second time that week that Asher had joined him like this while he worked. She never asked. She had just come in and stayed as if habitually seeking his company.

She had her journal today as opposed to a book. The sunlight cast her lithe frame in a warm glow as her thoughts took on weight and form with each stroke of charcoal across the page. Astarion watched her for a moment while the Bailiff of the Wide droned on about whatever trivial thing he decided to drone on about and thought this was a ritual he could easily become accustomed to.

Then, there was a rustle, a step too, and Astarion’s attention was forcibly redirected toward his unwanted guest. The compulsions would have prevented him from getting close enough to touch Astarion, but the concept alone was offensive.

Rodhlann was lovely, of course— Astarion never would have fucked him otherwise. He had appreciated the man’s appearance in the past. Still, he had never captured Astarion’s interest beyond that, even in the slightest. At best, Rodhlann had been a physical outlet, and Astarion felt annoyed and… anxious, perhaps, to be finished with him and this interruption to his otherwise agreeable afternoon.

“Rodhlann, I did not invite you closer. In fact, I did not invite you to the palace at all.”

“No,” he conceded. “But the last time you did was rather pleasant.” 

“And it never occurred to you there was a reason it was the last time.”

Rodhlann shrugged. “Aside from the social season ending and you being busy? No.” 

Astarion chuckled. Not one of the laughs Asher was known to draw from him as of late, but something dark and cruel. Familiar. A sound he rarely directed at her.

“You should leave.” 

“You don’t really want me to go,” Rodhlann murmured. Then he touched the corner of the desk, clearly seeking to come around and drop to his knees like he had in the past. “Not before I apologize for the overstep, at least.” 

Astarion bristled, his anger blotting out the sick feeling that something about all this was profoundly wrong. The intensity of his awareness of Asher, of what he did want, was stark in its contrast to what he didn’t want. Then, the way Rodhlann seemed so sure that Astarion would allow it. 

“Perhaps you should be apologizing to my intended,” Astarion snapped. “Or did you forget she was in the room amid all your delusions?”

Rodhlann looked at Asher and blanched as if noticing her for the first time, which, to be fair, he was. 

Astarion disliked how people stared at her or asked invasive questions they had no right to ask. Any new face among the social elite inspired this sort of trite behavior, but it was exacerbated by this new and exquisitely lovely face belonging to him, for once. 

Adjusting his compulsions to shield her had been a given. Asher was something to be admired. Not treated as a passing curiosity.

She seemed to appreciate the gesture for what it was. People were less likely to bother him on their walks or linger in his office when dropping by on city business. Then, when they did, for some reason unnecessary in nature, Asher waited out the interaction, looking as uninterested as he felt.  

It was much like the expression she was currently directing at Rodhlann, just with a faint edge of disgust that he even acknowledged her existence. It could not have been a more fitting reaction, and it appeased Astarion’s anger some. 

Rodhlann made an awkward gesture and dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” he finally said to her. “I should have noticed you there. I don’t know how I didn’t.” 

“I do, but it doesn’t matter, does it?” Asher replied smoothly. A truth and a lie at once. 

He cleared his throat, glancing at Astarion. “No, I suppose not, but I am sorry all the same.” Then, he had the wisdom to bow in deference to her, at least, before turning on his heel and leaving.

Only then did Asher look at him. 

Astarion rolled his jaw and kept his gaze averted. Wishing he hadn’t been so spitefully impulsive. Not because he felt he should apologize or offer an explanation or anything like that. Why would he? She knew where things stood. Asher had proved as much on her first day in the palace when she had accused him of not lacking in options. It was not his fault that Rodhlann had stopped by under false pretenses and needed to be put in his place. 

But this was not Asher seeing his privilege, knowing Astarion first and foremost as a powerful and dangerous immortal, the only one of his kind, and the Gate’s true potentate. 

Astarion had intended it to be all those things, but somehow it wasn’t. 

“He deserved worse than that,” Asher said. 

There was a long silence as Astarion absorbed what she had just said, what it meant. Relished in it even as something in his chest loosened. 

He leaned back in the chair and finally looked over at her. “I’m liable to agree, but I am rather fond of the rug in here.” 

“It does tie the room together,” she acquiesced, and Astarion smiled a little. He knew Asher couldn’t care less about that or how much it was worth. Still, Astarion appreciated what she was doing, even more so when she added: “There’s always later.”

“Is this where you ask me if you can hunt again?” Astarion inquired, not without affection. 

“No, but the offer is on the table.”

“It wouldn’t be worth someone of your caliber.”

“The effort wouldn’t be zero since he’s a patriar and city official,” Asher said. “You know that.” 

He did know. It was why he did not often kill people for transgressions like this. They were infrequent as it was, and living with his disfavor was a different sort of death in these circles. However, this would be more than delegating a removal to the spawn. 

Astarion ran his finger along a decorative groove in the chair’s armrest, trying to be objective. Trying not to imagine Asher sinking her dagger into Rodhlann’s chest— for him.

Cloaked in darkness, her lovely eyes glowing like embers as the man bled out at her feet. 

Just because she believed he deserved it.

It was impossible that Astarion could want her more, and yet, somehow, he managed. 

“I will consider it,” he promised. 

Asher looked out the window for several seconds. “I respect what you’ve done here for what it’s worth, not just with the city but for yourself. I don’t need to know what you did to know I would’ve done the same in your place or died trying. I wouldn’t do anything to lessen that.” 

Astarion blinked in surprise. Yes, that felt good to hear— better than it had any right to. There was something in her tone of voice, in the way that Asher looked at him, too, that Astarion wanted to bask in. However, all the possibility layered into her short speech felt strangely inconsequential in light of her doubt.

He trusted her more than he had ever trusted anyone. How that occurred was lost on him, but it had been almost a relief. Astarion no longer pretended at it. Feeling like his shirt was too tight across his shoulders and chest as he went against everything he had ever known. Or felt taken advantage of and wished to punish her for it. 

How did she not recognize that? 

“It never crossed my mind that you would,” Astarion replied, finding himself offended and somewhat hurt. “I only said I’d consider it because there’s surely something better I could offer you.”

The corner of her mouth just barely turned up. “I wasn’t trying to convince you of anything, Astarion.”

He loved the sound of his name with her accent wrapped around it, and it soothed him as much as her reply. After everything, it was only right that Asher trusted him.

“A compliment then,” Astarion noted. “And not a small one at that.” 

“You could just say thank you.” 

He smiled, but it faded as quickly as it had appeared. “Darling, you cannot blame me for finding gratification in this,” he said, then was hurt again. That dull ache in his chest resurfacing as he recalled. “You were terribly critical in the beginning.” 

Asher stayed silent for a moment. 

“I was upset,” she said at last, as if that explained everything, and maybe it did.

Astarion had lashed out at her plenty because he despised what he felt. Overwhelmed and confused by emotions he did not recognize, then did not want to recognize when he figured them out. 

“And now?” Astarion asked because it seemed important that he did. 

She inhaled and looked down at her journal. Then she closed it. 

“I’m more content than I thought I could be,” Asher said, and Astarion realized, with some surprise, that he was too. 

He tried to assimilate this, feeling as though something was shifting or slipping through his fingers, but he didn’t understand what. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Patrick appeared, and further examination was put to an end. 

“I am sorry to interrupt, but I thought it prudent to have Figaro come by and ensure the gown he is tailoring for Asher is to her liking,” Patrick said. “When I sent word, I did not mean for him to drop everything and do so immediately, but that is how he took it.”

It was a lie, of course. All of it. Figaro would do nothing less than exactly that. Astarion’s business kept his business flourishing. Clearly, Patrick needed Asher to be securely occupied for a set duration, which could only mean one thing: the mercenaries had returned from Reithwin.

It was sooner than anticipated— quite a bit sooner, in fact— which made him impatient to know what possibly could have gone wrong. 

“It’s probably for the best,” Astarion responded, not bothering to veil the displeasure in his tone. “The first ball of the season is in less than two tenday.”

Asher stared at him for a moment, somehow conveying disapproval without actually expressing it, then stood to leave. 

Attending the ball with him was a point of contention. Informing her of his expectations when planning began the month prior had been ill-met. Astarion could not convincingly pretend he cared more about that at present, but he did care. 

It was the assumption that was the issue. Something Astarion should have foreseen, given her nature, and he had been waiting for the right opportunity to bend the oversight to his advantage. Extend the illusion of choice because how could she choose anything else but him?

Astarion stood and came close, giving her pause. “I want you willing, even in this,” he told her. “So, if nothing else, this will ensure you have something to wear when you do wish to join me.” 

She did not react immediately but then moved her chin slightly in acknowledgment, proving him right. Asher was already choosing him in almost everything she did, whether she realized it or not.

Dark, heavy drapes and closed doors kept out almost all daylight in the east wing. The sun’s positioning had allowed Patrick to uncover the windows in this room, but it did nothing to ease the chill. Astarion did not recall it being so noticeable; then again, he only made an appearance in this part of the palace when necessary. 

The spawn knew the rules and what was expected. They knew Astarion did not employ torture or use fear tactics to keep them in line. Failure was simply met with the sun. There was no room for error. It was the first thing he explained to new spawn. 

Contrary to what Astarion had assumed, the mercenaries did not fail. He had touched their minds when he entered the room, a series of images rising to the surface, and immediately understood why Patrick had taken the steps he had. 

Astarion sat in the high-backed, ornate chair at the head of the table, then settled the compulsion more heavily over the room. Crushing their wills and forcing their minds to unfurl for him to examine. At Astarion’s side, Patrick shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with the swell of power that could kill him with a passing thought. 

“Let’s start at the beginning,” Astarion prompted, then sunk into the leader’s mind. 

A wall of darkness rose up before him, permeating everything it touched. The dead grass and morning sky were so grey it was practically white, almost as if the shadows were leeching all the color from the world. He looked back at a human— 

The memory shifted and changed; grew dark. Shadows curled around her body, winding from her toes to the top of her head. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, a black tendril reaching down her throat and seeping from her eyes and ears. 

“Did they all die like that?” Astarion asked. Initially, there had been seven members in their group. Only two remained before him.

“We didn’t stick around to find out,” the dwarf said, void of the shame and anger lingering in his mind. 

“Understandable. Just a little longer, and you’ll join them. It’ll be quick. Patrick knows I don’t like it when my spawn toy with their food. But as I said, the beginning.”  

The news of his impending death was like a small, quick disruption in his mental state and then stillness and indifference again. 

“We saw it on the horizon miles before we got to it,” he said. “Thought it was smoke at first. The forest or maybe that town burning, but as we got closer to the valley, we realized it was just darkness.” 

“And it was contained to the valley?”

“Seemed to be, but we didn’t make it past the town and could hardly see ten feet in front of us, even with a torch, so I couldn’t say how far east it went.” 

Astarion thought about the fields where he met Asher. Everything the inverse of what it had been. Her gone. The wheat dead, lying broken on the ground in monochrome. It felt fitting, and yet Astarion was vaguely aware he would rather not see it.

“Tell me about Reithwin,” he decided. 

“It looked like most people left in a rush. A few places were just abandoned, though. Too much of value left behind to be anything else.”

“There were no corpses?” Astarion said, barely a question. 

“None that we saw, but we were trying to get a grasp on what we were dealing with before going too far,” the dwarf explained. “The darkness wasn’t normal. It weighed on you. The light kept the worst of it at bay, but that’s what must’ve attracted it.” 

Recognition stirred in Astarion’s chest. “Attracted what?” 

“It looked like a bear.” 

Instinctively, Astarion reached out again. The blank expanse of a subdued mind greeted him. Independent thought had been smothered. He was a servant. He lived for orders. He wanted to obey. Astarion only needed to give him a command.

“Show me,” Astarion said. 

Thirty minutes later, Astarion stood in the doorway to Asher’s outer chambers. He could enter, of course. He was just— processing.

Asher wore an off-white dress that flared out subtly from her natural waistline. Her hair had been pulled back into her standard loose bun, leaving almost the entirety of her back exposed. The fabric parting in a deep v down to the base of the spine.

Astarion wanted to run his fingers down her back. Connect as many freckles as he could with his fingertips. 

He took a breath. “What do you think, darling?” 

Asher looked over her shoulder at him. “I think I was misled. Patrick said gown, as in one. This is the sixth one I’ve tried on.” 

“And there’s at least ten more,” Figaro said, undeterred by her lack of enthusiasm. 

He put several pins in his mouth and bent low to work on the hem. Then, through partially closed lips, Figaro continued. “I’ve been planning for this since your arrival, and yes, I may have gone a bit overboard, but you cannot wear the same gown all season. I would be ruined by that alone.”

Asher gave a slight, barely perceptible shake of her head, then stared out the window. There was something stripped and defenseless about how she stood there that made Astarion’s chest ache. Longing perhaps? Restlessness? It was difficult to determine because it wasn’t negative. Or, at least, not in the way he was accustomed. Either way, having these feelings was disconcerting when he should be enjoying the state of things.

That would be easier if it was just them.

“Six is enough for today,” Astarion decided and stepped into the room. “You can take the ones you have ready to finish, then size and collect another six when you return to drop those off. It’s been well over an hour, and Patrick did imply this would be a short affair.”

Figaro paused, then fixed the final pin to her skirt. “If you insist.”

Astarion gave him a thin smile. “I do.”

“Very well,” Figaro said. He grinned pleasantly, but it did not reach his eyes as before. “We’ll store the others in her private study.” 

His attendants hastened to obey, and Figaro followed after them, taking the hint and leaving Astarion alone with her momentarily. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said. 

Asher gestured helplessly. “This isn’t me, Astarion. How do you not see that?”

It was apparent she was referring to more than just the dresses or ball, but ‘this’ couldn’t be any more her if Astarion wanted it to be. Asher fit into his existence so seamlessly, as if she belonged there. 

She did, of course. Astarion felt that he would have met her no matter what.

“You said that you’re more content than you thought you could be. You shouldn’t fight that or take it away from yourself and perhaps you would feel it more. I can only do so much to counteract it when you do.”

“Is that what this is?” Asher demanded, honing in on what she thought was evidence to the contrary. 

“No, this is admittedly for me,” Astarion said. “And I know you will disagree, but I haven’t asked you for much.”

Her eyes flashed. “You asked me to trust you.”

“And you asked the same of me.” 

Asher pressed her lips together. She looked strangely lost. 

“So what now?” she asked finally. 

Astarion extended a hand to help her down from the step riser. “I have a few ideas to keep our scales balanced, but let’s start with Rodhlann and perhaps some armor befitting a city hunt.” 

She didn’t say anything. Astarion did not expect her to, but the way her heartbeat picked up when his fingers wrapped around hers was all he needed to hear. 

The magnetism between them was becoming harder to ignore. 

For both of them. 

Chapter Text

The day Asher’s armor was delivered, Rodhlann’s life came to an abrupt and perfectly executed end. There had been no discussion on when or how. Asher did not even ask where he lived. Late that evening, she had simply gotten up and said she would return within a couple of hours. 

Astarion had followed her, of course. Not because he didn’t believe her capable but because there had been no other course of action. Restricting himself to his imagination would have been an injustice. Just seeing Asher in her armor, fading into the shadows as she moved down the darkened hallway, had been all the evidence needed to support that.

Rather than hunting Rodhlann down or killing him in a random alley, Asher had broken into the estate and waited for her opportunity. Being unfamiliar with the building, Astarion lost track of her for a bit. He changed his vantage point a few times. Flying from one roof to another until he found her cutting into a pomegranate somewhere on the third floor. Asher had nibbled on it as she browsed through books and correspondence, stole at will, too— then sunk a dagger into Rodhlann’s throat before driving another into his chest when he entered an hour later. 

Her recount had been modest. Almost offensively so, considering Astarion had witnessed how brutally yet effortlessly Asher had conducted it. Astarion impressed himself with his restraint in the face of that. He had a thousand things he wanted to say to Asher once she finished. Then, a thousand more when Rodhlann’s corpse was found late the following morning and deemed a robbery gone awry. 

From start to finish, everything Asher said or did regarding Rodhlann had been a gift. Perhaps the only one Astarion had ever received, he realized. A thought that engendered feelings Astarion did not entirely recognize and yet did not sense a need to. 

It was enough to know Asher was the source as she was for so many things. Attraction, desire, contentment— power even due to having such a perfect creature at his side. Still, Astarion wished to reciprocate on some level, if only to emphasize that she was unique in this regard. Treasured for it, even. 

The following week, after some thought and preparation, Astarion escorted her to the courtyard to do just that. 

“I have a gift for you,” he told her. 

Asher knew what it was at once, but that could not be helped. Nor did it matter. The case, carved from a rare dark wood, contained more than an ordinary longbow, and the quiver and targets were necessary to appropriately demonstrate that. 

“Is there a specific reason?” she asked. 

“You’ll understand once you have it in your hands.”

Her fingers hovered over the case in a rare display of uncertainty as if hardly daring to discover the purpose or what it might mean to her. Then, Asher reached for the latches. 

The top opened on silent hinges. Inside, on a bed of black velvet, rested a golden bow. Thin, layered metal flowed along the curve of the limbs and tapered into points. It was an object that was as defiant and beautiful as it was deadly. 

Astarion sensed her reaction more than anything; the slight increase in blood pressure as her body chemically processed a rush of thoughts and feelings. 

After a moment, Asher lightly touched the grip. A slight furrow appeared on her brow that deepened when she lifted the bow to find it was deceptively light. Asher pressed her cheek against the metal as if listening for something. 

“I can feel it.” 

“I thought you might,” Astarion admitted. “I’ve always suspected it was celestial in nature and that without divine support, it is bereft of power outside that of a normal bow.”

Her eyes lingered on the bowstring before she looked at him. Astarion could hear the conflict in her heart rate. See it in her eyes, too. But he did not comprehend the cause to offer a solution.

Asher did not seem to expect one, however. She raised her arms and notched an arrow. The bow bent, allowing the grey feathers to caress her cheek as Asher held the position for a moment. Then, she simply let go.

A bolt of sunlight split the entire courtyard in half. 

In the following stillness, curls of smoke rose from the target. Too scorched and splintered to tell where the arrow had hit. And Asher’s heart was pounding. 

She did not look conflicted anymore or even bothered. It was remarkable how she could appear calm and collected while simultaneously being entirely outside herself.

“I don’t understand why you would give this to me,” Asher finally said. “It’s priceless.”

“So are you.”

A smile ghosted in the corner of her mouth, but there was something tense about her eyes. Asher looked down at the bow in her hand for several seconds.

“Did someone do that to you?” she finally asked. “Is that why you have this?”

Astarion knew he should not be smug about it, but receiving evidence of her attachment in this way was rather flattering.

“It was centuries ago, my conscientious little pet. A mild inconvenience, at most.”

“Was the inconvenience ruining your favorite shirt?”

Astarion exhaled a laugh. Glad to see her being more… well, her. “Even if it was, I’ve clearly moved on to better things.”

Asher did smile, then. “I appreciate that you aren’t stuck in the decade you turned,” she said.

“I’ve never understood the appeal of living in the past like that. There’s so much that eternity has to offer,” Astarion said. Then, the brightness of the moment faded as he watched Asher place the longbow back into the velvet. 

“Do you not like it?” Astarion asked. 

Asher shut the case and stepped toward him. “I love it,” she said. “I’ve just never been one for shooting targets.”

Her hand lifted, and there was a beat of hesitation before Asher cautiously placed it on his chest over his heart. Astarion wrapped his fingers around her wrist almost automatically, unsure what he felt besides warmth.

It was not just him, that wave of emotion without a name that she inspired. Now that Astarion was touching her, the fire that lived in her skin, he could feel it in the air in a real, tangible way. It was subtle. Something Astarion was confident he would have missed had they been indoors and not in the crisp morning air.

Perhaps it was always there, and he just hadn’t noticed. Astarion could not explain why that was a comfort to him. 

“Thank you, though,” Asher said. “It was a nice gesture.” 

He stared at her, feeling indignant, of course, but also oddly wounded. “It was meant to be more than just a gesture, darling,” Astarion replied. He was not sure what exactly, but he knew that much. 

“I can’t leave the city walls. I can’t hunt.”

“You didn’t ask,” he pointed out. 

That small, sad sort of smile graced her features again. Asher withdrew her hand and gently squeezed his fingers as she slid from his grasp.

“I shouldn’t have to.” 

It took a moment for Astarion to understand what she meant. Then, he spent several seconds trying to rein in the offense, and when he couldn’t, he laughed faintly. Astarion couldn’t help it. He was so angry. And hurt. Which only made it all worse. 

“Right,” he said. “As if asking for something you want or even making a desire known is unreasonable.” 

“Astarion—“

He interrupted her immediately, resentful of the pleasure his name in her voice always gave him. “It doesn’t matter. The ball is in a few days, and it requires my attention. Since you can’t be bothered with that either, you’ll have to live with the gesture until things settle again.” 

Astarion turned and walked away, leaving Asher to stare after him. Her heart was pounding again, her expression strained, and vindication burned hot in his chest. Turning everything that had felt knotted up inside him into ash.

The relief from it all was satisfying. Freeing almost. And sensing the fear and concern Astarion had left her with was more satisfying still.

The amount of time he dedicated to her was drastically reduced. Event preparation had been delegated to Patrick in his preoccupation, and the steward had done well enough. Astarion had no complaints about that, but reclaiming the task was a welcome way to displace her. Like the anger, it was familiar when somehow nothing else was. 

Asher tried to talk to him several times, but he mostly ignored her. When Astarion did engage, his replies were brief and often lies. He did not particularly enjoy it. Nor did he enjoy how Asher suddenly seemed as though she no longer knew how to interact with him. Then again, it was her fault. 

Nothing he ever did for her was good enough. Never concluded in a way that felt precisely like what he wanted. It was as if Asher did not understand the gravity and scope of being his Chosen. 

Astarion had no limitations. He possessed abilities that gave him infinite potential. Deigning to share that and everything it gave him with anyone had never crossed his mind until her. 

Cutting her off from that, from himself, had been reactive. Perhaps later, Astarion would regret the psychological pressure he was exerting on her by doing so. He did not intend to remove the sense of security and comfort he had meticulously established. Still, some perspective was in order, after all. 

Maybe even for himself, too, because by the day of the ball, Astarion had reevaluated and reanalyzed his progress with Asher, or what sometimes felt like the lack thereof, until he felt as though he was a bit mad. 

He had been patient. He would continue to be patient. At this point, Astarion wanted her more than just willing, and that would not change. However, the inconclusiveness of his efforts grated on him. 

It made him want to pour his frustration into her. Bury himself inside her until the ecstasy between them washed away everything holding her back. Her past, her doubt, her pride… all of it. Fuck her until there was nothing left in the world but the pair of them together.

He hated it because thinking about Asher in this capacity only made matters worse. Astarion thought he just needed a few days, and then he would have enough emotional distance to be objective. Use what had happened to his benefit. However, the split-second Astarion tried to plan how to approach her, the confusing feelings, her warmth, her thinly veiled rejection, everything would come crashing down on him. 

It would take him a while to rein it all in again before it simply started over. Leaving him trapped in some cycle where the only ways out felt like screaming at Asher or shoving her into a wall and kissing her. 

Fortunately, Astarion was spared the temptation of either before heading to the ballroom because there was a third, more productive way to accomplish this. 

That had taken longer than it should have to register, but the event Astarion was about to host would provide plenty of outlets for him to choose from. Then, the east wing was full of unused rooms and convenient alcoves that existed solely for this purpose. 

After that, after he no longer felt so pent up, Astarion would break this silence between them. 

Making a selection took longer than usual. None of them met the standard he had grown accustomed to. None of them were Asher, and that was perhaps where the trouble started. 

Astarion didn’t even remember his name, just that he was a Linnacker. He was handsome, of course. They always were. But Astarion had been bored by his company throughout dinner, by his flirtation and flattery, just like he had by everyone else, and that was ultimately what made the decision for him.

From there, all it had taken was an offer for a private tour to get him into this study. Then, Astarion simply pointed at the ground, and Linnacker smirked before sinking to his knees to unlace Astarion’s trousers. Even knowing how he had literally gotten here, some part of Astarion could not quite grasp it.

It felt good, at least. Better than good. A certain level of expertise was assumed from individuals who were so obvious. Though, Linnacker surpassed even that with the way he swirled his tongue around Astarion’s cock and then took him down to the hilt, licking and sucking and even scraping gently with his teeth.

He was touching himself, too, as he pleasured Astarion. Having someone get off on the privilege of servicing him was something Astarion usually enjoyed. All of it was something he usually enjoyed. Yet, somehow, he felt… bored again, and ready to be done with this and the evening. It made no sense.

Honestly, it was taking effort just to stay hard while the man worked on him. And Linnacker was working hard for him, but Astarion knew he would never come like this. He had no desire to touch Linnacker either, or Astarion would bury his hands into his hair and fuck his face to get what he needed. 

Astarion leaned back into the desk and sighed, closing his eyes to remove his sense of sight at least. Sink into the sensations being lavished on his cock. However, his thoughts drifted back to Asher as they often did in his recent discontent. If she had only approached her desire to hunt differently, perhaps it would be Asher on her knees for him right now. 

It was easy to imagine disappearing with her like this. Both preferring the company of the other as they did. Astarion would have taken her back to his wing, though, where he would have charmed and seduced her into his bed because Asher was not a tool or a means to an end like the man before him. 

Astarion would intend to be inside her, of course, new as the physical side of their relationship would be. However, he would not deny Asher if she moved down his body, seeking to taste him. Astarion would only brush the backs of his fingers across her temple, encouraging her golden eyes to his as the head of his cock slipped between her parted lips.

There would be no temptation to fuck her mouth, either. Not for a while, at least. Just having Asher like this, with her tongue swirling around his cock, would be enough. Astarion would make sure she knew that too. Gods, you’re perfect. Everything I could have wanted. He’d pet her hair or touch her face as he said it. But mainly, he would watch Asher pleasure him and know it was worth the wait. 

Astarion would warn her, of course, when he felt the stirring of his orgasm. I’m going to come, he’d say, even as he hoped Asher would take him in so deeply that he was practically coming down her throat. Just a little more, my pet. Don’t stop.

“Anything you want, Astarion,” Linnacker rasped.

His eyes snapped open, and Astarion felt like he was doused in ice water as he realized he had spoken aloud. The idea of saying any of that to Linnacker was repulsive. As was having the reality of the situation forced back upon him in this way. 

Astarion could probably still come if he did it himself, but the thought held no actual appeal. Neither did letting Linnacker finish him off, even if it wouldn’t take much more. Perhaps a few more passes, another well-placed flick of his tongue. The temptation was only there because that had been the point of this, but Astarion did not want any of it. Not really.

No, what Astarion wanted was to tear the man’s throat out and then go confront Asher.

So, that was precisely what he did. 

Chapter Text

Asher was wearing a dress. That was his first thought. 

A crown of golden leaves adorned her red hair, which was pulled back into a low chignon. The himation-like gown was the color of stone. Pleated silk draped around a gently cinched waist so that her body seemed to shape the dress. Yet, the design was not meant to hide her. Asher vividly contrasted light and warmth against the sober color— almost glowed with it— making her seem otherworldly. Or, too radiant to be real.

Astarion was so stunned by the sight that he felt eerily removed from everything he had been feeling. It was like he had been cut out of one reality and dropped into another. The one he wanted versus the one he had been dealing with.

The dress fluttered around her ankles as Asher took a few steps down the hall and then turned. Her golden eyes met his, and she faltered to a stop. It appeared Asher had been pacing the hall near his private study as she waged her own internal war on what to do or say. 

Her gaze lingered on his before flicking to his mouth, then down over the rest of him. 

“Bad night?” she asked. 

The question immediately set him on edge as it all slammed back into him. Astarion was not as remotely composed as he ought to be, and he resented her for it. Not that he would tell Asher why. The blood staining his chin and jacket was all the excuse or explanation he cared to offer, even as his stomach twisted at the extent of it.

He did not make mistakes. Still, it was there: the knowledge Astarion had let someone touch him that he did not really want to and wished he hadn’t. He did not know how to begin to reconcile that for himself. Then again, how could he when it was her fault? 

“I suppose I could thank you for that,” Astarion snapped.

Asher gave a disbelieving smirk. “How original,” she said. “I guess whoever you’re covered in is the type of person I should strive to be.” 

Her reply was like a slap across the face. Before Astarion could recover enough to respond, Asher was walking away. Effectively deciding it was not worth the effort she was clearly attempting to put into rectifying things. 

Anger, Astarion expected and knew how to diffuse, but this was… not that. It was distant and cold and unlike anything Asher had ever directed his way. 

He had been so cornered by what he felt, what he wanted. He still was, but now Astarion was sick to his stomach. His chest felt tight. The irony was not lost on him either. Essentially, this was what he had done to Asher in the courtyard. He had derived pleasure from leaving her in a similar state even. 

Unlike her, Astarion would not allow that to be the end of it. He was not made to accept things. It was not in his nature. 

He started after her. 

“Asher.” His voice was just sharp enough to be the command he wanted to issue. 

“Back off, Astarion. I’m not interested in fielding anymore of your bullshit.”

“That’s not— would you just stop so I can speak to you,” Astarion insisted. When she did not immediately comply, his hand shot out to grab hold of her arm and force her to cooperate.

There was a spike in temperature. A blistering, searing intensity like the touch had fissured its way through her sense of control, but her voice lacked even a trace of warmth. She would not even look at him.

“For someone who doesn’t like being touched, you are real quick to put your hands on me.”

“You know that’s not true,” Astarion said, even as something about the remark made him uncomfortable. “I extend the offer for you to accept more than anything.”

“Except when you know I won’t.” 

His hold on her wrist tightened. Like he reached some hard limit on his capacity to let her or any of this go. “I do not want things between us to continue as they are, and neither do you. Otherwise, you would not be dressed so perfectly for an occasion you have expressed zero interest in.”

Asher shot him a glare. “You do not get to use this against me.”

“That is not what I am doing,” Astarion said because it wasn’t. Or, at least, not entirely. “I am merely stating the facts as they are presented to me, and I know my response left something to be desired. As much as I appreciate finding you like this, it was also an unwelcome reminder that the evening would have gone much differently had you been there, even for a little while. So if you would, I’d like to clean up and try this again.” 

“Whatever inclination I had to go is gone. You saw to that.” 

“I am not referring to the ball. That is over as far as I am concerned, but this, right here, is not. You know it isn’t.”

Her mouth twisted as she looked away, leaving Astarion with only part of her profile. Still, she seemed to be wavering. 

“Darling, let me make this right,” he pressed and brushed his thumb gently over her skin, urging her to give in. She was so close. Astarion could hear it in her heartbeat. 

Then, Asher sighed. “Sometimes, you could just apologize. You don’t need to corner me all the time, but fine. Don’t make me regret it.” 

A moment passed before Astarion released her, but the apology he kept to himself. He was not accustomed to them or the myriad of feelings that he just wanted to go away. 

Promises were easier, and would still accomplish what he needed. 

“I won’t.” 

Astarion did not require much time to set himself right. To mentally and physically put everything in its correct place that had been shaken free throughout the evening. After all, more had been gained at the cost of a few minutes of tense animosity from her than Astarion could have hoped for. 

Even prior to speaking to one another, it was apparent that Asher was his. There was no other explanation for how he found her. After days of feeling on edge from trying to contain and dissect everything, it was nice to feel in control again, as was knowing that the residual stress could be channeled into something productive.

Astarion checked the mirror a final time, ensuring everything was in order. The outfit he had selected, a periwinkle doublet with silver embroidery over a faintly shimmery grey shirt, was more casual than what he had been wearing but still befitting of the night ahead of him. He lightly touched his hair, settling a curl more into its proper place, then rejoined Asher in the sitting room. 

She was out on the balcony, looking out over the city, but turned toward him at his approach. Her outrage appeared to be spent. She just looked tired, which was exacerbated by the argent glow of moonlight bleaching her of color. 

A shade of his earlier discomfort settled in his chest. Had he conversed with Asher at any point, even surfacely, he would know if she had been resting or eating properly. She was prone to getting distracted by whatever was going on in her head, and it would not be the first time she had bypassed one or the other because of it. 

“Did you eat?” Astarion asked. 

“Patrick brought me what you were serving downstairs.”

The information did not negate the feeling as it should have. Undoubtedly, Patrick only acted on the compulsion: whatever she needs will be supplied without question.

But Astarion had never stopped to think about what that entailed exactly. 

He bit back his annoyance. “That doesn’t quite answer the question.”

“I ate enough,” Asher replied.

Astarion started to feel like she was being intentionally vague as if she did not really trust why he would ask. Still, he endeavored to let it go. The behavior was protective but halfhearted at best.

“Alright. Then perhaps something to drink,” Astarion said and gestured toward the room. 

“Whatever you want is fine.” 

Inside, Asher bent a leg under herself and sat on the sofa while Astarion stopped at the sideboard. He poured her a glass of spring water. Sharing a bottle of wine would be preferable, but Asher tended to passively refuse when there was dissonance between them. The selection would acknowledge that and highlight his desire to be rid of it. 

When he returned to her, Asher paused momentarily before accepting as if processing these facts. Then, to his satisfaction, she took a sip. 

“I’m sure I care as much as you do, but what about your guests?” she asked. 

Astarion sat next to her. “I address everyone before the banquet, and Patrick handles the rest, including closing the evening. Nothing out of the ordinary will seem amiss if my absence is noted.” 

“It will be noted by everyone,” Asher said, then turned to set her glass on the side table. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He smiled faintly. “True, and as much as I enjoy the attention, the only individual who has a place to make note of it in any real capacity is you.” 

“Is that why it was so easy to shut me out?” she returned smoothly. 

“It was not easy,” Astarion admonished. “Quite the opposite, in fact.” 

“You could have fooled me.”

“I was only upset.” 

“There was no need to be. A gesture can still mean something. You should’ve been able to see that.” 

On the surface, the reply was straightforward, dismissive even, but Astarion felt keenly aware of her. What Asher was saying. What she wasn’t saying. And he could not help but feel positive she was equally conscious of him. 

“Well, I see it now,” Astarion said, then dropped his gaze. 

He brushed his fingers against her dress. He was not touching Asher or trying to— just emphasizing its significance. But he could hear how the light, flowing material shifted like a whisper against her skin and caused her heart to beat a little faster.

“I was rather blindsided by it when I saw you,” Astarion told her. “Is this how you felt in the courtyard?”

Asher stared at him a moment, then glanced away and exhaled. It was almost a laugh. Maybe it was a laugh. “I think I’ve felt this way for a while and didn’t register it until then.”

“I should have realized,” Astarion admitted, a tad reluctantly. “I knew you were troubled. I could sense it, but there was this warmth, too. It was similar to how you feel right now.”

“I hate that I put myself in a position where I can’t deny it. I was so mad and wanted to prove you wrong so much that I didn’t stop and think until I was in the hall.” 

“I presume it still would have happened. I came up here to confront you about everything, and I know a fight would have made you feel better, like you tried a final time to undo it, but it would not have changed anything. You know it wouldn’t have.” 

“Still, none of this is costing you anything,” Asher said quietly. 

“It doesn’t have to cost you anything either, love. This was always meant to be for you as much as it is for me.”

The corner of her mouth turned up. “I think that’s the most manipulative thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Astarion smirked and let the dress slip from his fingers to extend his hand to her. After a beat, Asher slid her fingers into his, allowing him to pull her close. 

He touched her face, his thumb tracing the arch of her cheekbone. He did not kiss. It was too intimate and too much to give, but Astarion had wanted to taste Asher since the moment he saw her. Already, her heart’s cadence was lit with the anticipation of it. He imagined his would be doing the same if it still beat.

Astarion dipped his head closer so their lips were almost touching. But he wanted to kiss her less than he wanted her to kiss him. 

“That doesn’t mean it’s untrue,” he murmured. 

“I know,” Asher breathed, then her mouth barely brushed against his before pressing lightly. 

Her hand slipped away, moving to rest over his chest with the other. To keep him back or just touch him, Astarion was not sure. 

But then her lips parted.

The kiss shifted, deepening into something else. Something familiar yet foreign at once. His fingers twisted into her hair, ruining Asher’s fine work as her blood began to pound through her veins. 

For all the times Astarion had envisioned this moment, he had entirely failed to capture what it would actually feel like. Her lips were soft against his, softer than he had expected anything about her to be. Asher tasted like sunlight, like the sky. Her arms around him felt like being bathed in fire.

Astarion relished in the consuming feel of her. With every burning touch across his skin, he wanted more. 

Needed more. 

He moved her skirt aside, glad for the slit that went all the way to her hip, and pulled Asher into his lap. Not that Astarion needed to pull. She didn’t let go, her lips never left his. 

One hand curved around her thigh, then up to the swell of her ass as she settled on top of him. Astarion made a sound of approval as he realized she was bare underneath. 

“Darling… you shouldn’t have.” 

A flash of a smile. “It was for the dress.” 

“We’ve already established that was for me too,” he said, tangling his fingers into her hair and tugging lightly. 

Asher complied and tilted her head back as he caressed her waist, then shivered when his lips traveled along her jaw and down to her neck. Astarion lingered there. Brushing his fangs against the delicate skin as he kissed and sucked at her throat. He could almost taste the blood that ran so close to the surface. 

She would let him. Astarion was certain of it. But he had never known it was possible to want someone like this. It was as if he was… hungry— starving in a way he could barely remember. 

Instead, Astarion only nipped her, flicking his tongue at the precise spot he would break skin someday. Maybe tomorrow. And tugged the sleeves from her shoulders. The tiniest gasp escaped Asher as the dress pooled around her waist, exposing her to him. 

Freckles were scattered across her chest and trickled down her waist to disappear under the silk. Astarion splayed his hand across the small of her back. Pressing her against his stomach and seating her more firmly against his cock. Then, as his thumb brushed across her breast, just barely touching the pebbled areola, Asher arched into his hold with a faint whimper. 

Astarion obliged the silent request, lowering his head to her breast. He closed his mouth around the rosy peak, swirling and flicking his tongue. The sound that left her went straight to his cock, making him throb against her, and her fingers tangled in his hair if holding him there so he wouldn’t stop. 

Not that it was necessary. Astarion didn’t plan on doing so anyway.

Her breath shuddered out of her when he moved to her other breast. Astarion traced around her nipple with the tip of his tongue before lavishing it with the same attention. Asher moaned quietly, her hips shifting against the insistent hardness pressed against her, searching— 

“Astarion,” she said, and there was so much want infused into it that his name had never sounded better. 

It was tempting to make her spell out exactly what she wanted. Or, slip his hand beneath her skirt and feel how ready she was for him. Perhaps even explore her with his fingertips until she couldn’t do anything but beg him to fill her. 

However, after denying himself earlier, the tide of arousal building inside him was getting near unbearable.

“I can smell how much you want me,” he told her. 

Asher met his gaze unflinchingly. “I assume that’s willing enough for you.”

By way of answer, Astarion extended his leg and shoved the low table out of the way with his foot. The idea of separating himself from her, even just long enough to get to his bed, seemed just as unacceptable to Asher. Already, her fingers were working at the buttons of his shirt. 

He moved her to the plush Calishite rug. She weighed almost nothing, it seemed, her body so slender and lithe. Astarion pulled his mouth from hers and rose up on his knees to remove his shirt. 

Asher pushed herself up on an elbow to pluck the golden crown from her hair. Then, she moved her dress aside and very deliberately spread her legs for him. The sight of her delicate pink folds and the tiny bud of her clit sent a fresh surge of desire through him.

Astarion unlaced his trousers to take himself in hand. 

He was just as wet as she was. 

He caressed his cock just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to let Asher appreciate how ready he was for her. Then crawled over her. 

Astarion positioned himself, the tip of him just stretching her open. She muttered something he didn’t catch, her fingers carding into his hair as he buried his face into her neck and pushed in. It took everything in him to not bite down as her cunt welcomed him in. 

She was all heat. 

Delicious, unfathomable heat. 

He held still for a moment, feeling her breathing under him, her blood rushing through her veins, her walls surrounding him and making him throb inside her. It was just enough— or too much, really, but the crest of pleasure waned.

Astarion withdrew slowly before pushing in again, and Asher moaned. 

Perfect.

Yes, she was perfect. 

Astarion lifted his head to catch her lips with his. He touched her breast, fingertips brushing over her nipple as he kissed her, and her hips shifted, making him slide deeper. 

“Astarion— Please.” 

“Patience, darling. We’ve got all night. An eternity of this even, if you’d like,” he said, then he began to fuck her. 

Whatever she was going to say broke off on a moan as he set a slow, steady rhythm. Filling her with each thrust. Determined to make it last as long as possible. Asher moved with him, her hips tilting just so to always keep him deep. His mind reached for a way to describe it. The feel of her, her scent, the sweet sounds she made.

Submission.

With her spread wide beneath him, giving herself to him like this, it was hard to think of it in any other terms. It was beautiful. Asher was beautiful. Astarion had always thought so, but like this… The next time he had her, he would have to make sure he could see his swollen cock disappearing inside of her again and again and again because it would be the only way to improve upon a moment that already felt like the most perfect one of his existence. 

But then she came. 

Astarion could feel her ripple around him. Cunt tightening involuntarily as she climaxed. He groaned, managing one more controlled thrust into her body before pounding into her. Her breasts bounced with the vigor of his thrusts. Little pleas left Asher as she clung to him. Then he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside her. 

It was wrenching in its intensity. Astarion’s entire body burned with the searing pleasure of it as her ecstasy prolonged his. 

When it faded, Astarion sighed deeply. Then he rolled his hips into her a final time and slanted his mouth over hers. She felt sated, pliable even, as her breathing and heart rate slowed while she kissed him.

“I suppose I should say thank you,” she said, touching on the first conversation they had in this room. “Or apologize. I never thought it would turn out like this.”

Astarion had always pictured a sense of triumph at having her concede to him about this. But instead, there was only warmth and satisfaction at having her as he had always intended. 

“I suppose you could do either.” 

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Thank you,” Asher whispered.  

“You’re welcome, my treasure.” 

Chapter Text

When he acquired Asher, setting up private rooms for her had been a formality. Not an empty gesture, per se, but the intent had always been to have her in his bed.

Astarion had taken her twice more in it before the sun had come up that first night together. Once upon entering his bedroom, then again when he had roused from his reverie to Asher still naked beside him.

She always seemed slightly on guard, slightly beyond reach. But there she had been, stunning in her utter abandon to him. It had caused something fiercely possessive to rise up within him. Touching her had been almost a compulsion. 

He had found her lips almost the instant her eyes fluttered open. Pressing the warmth of her mouth against his so that Asher awoke to the touch and taste of him. Then, to the feel of him between her legs, touching and teasing before sliding into her welcoming body. 

Astarion had fucked her for what seemed like hours. Gliding his entire length in and out, slow but insistent, until it had felt like one continuous sensation. Asher had come twice before the pleasure built inside him to a point where he could no longer contain it. No longer wanted to contain it.

He had itched to keep her there, tangled in his sheets. Hoard her to himself the entire day and perhaps the following night, too. The lure of it had been nearly inexorable, but allowing Asher to eat and rest was necessary to indulge in her as much as intended. 

The return of her usual presence had alleviated the worst of it. As had the tedious business of verifying a few assignments from the evening before were fulfilled to his expectations. At least, at first, but then, as the hours passed, Astarion had become more and more distracted by thoughts of returning Asher to his bed.

It had been little things. The way the sunlight caught her hair or how she laced her fingers together, raising them over her head and arching her back as she deepened into a stretch. It had been in her scent and the fact that Astarion was so accustomed to the specific way she smelled that the distinct notes of himself on her skin only served to remind him how they got there. Then, in how Asher had asked if she could kiss him out of the blue.

Astarion could not explain how or why the request mattered. Or why, in light of that, it had felt unnecessary for Asher to do so. He only knew he loved that she did. He had relished in it even as he captured her face in one hand, holding her jaw as he listened to her heart respond before lowering his mouth to hers. 

His whole body seemed to come alive as her lips parted under his. Every nerve lighting up with lingering echoes of what it felt like to have her.

Then, Astarion had to have her. 

Returning Asher to his bed quickly became a non-priority. But bending her over the desk in his private office and watching her spine bow as she presented herself to pound into was possibly the best thing that had ever happened to him in that room.  

As the days passed, it became easier to contain that insatiable feeling, whatever it was, to kiss Asher and bask in her attention or encourage her blood to sing for him, only to make her wait for him to fill her purely because he could. Though, sometimes, it felt like a persistent undercurrent, even after she had brought him bliss.

Astarion found himself reflecting on it a couple of weeks later after experiencing just that. He had pulled out and settled his weight on top of Asher to further luxuriate in her, and that was where he remained. Head on her chest, still half-hard, the setting sun caressed his exposed back along with her fingers. 

He had been on the receiving end of her scathing anger and the radiant heat of her passion, but this was a different sort of fire. A soft, golden warmth that bled into him as Asher traced his shoulder blade and the steps of his ribs. Then, her fingers followed his spine to the nape of his neck, and he shivered slightly. 

Not once since Asher had given herself to him did she appear interested in the extensive scarring on his back. Just him. And tonight, it was as if Asher wanted to know the precise way he fit in her hands. The careful attention she paid him filled Astarion with pleasure and comfort and desire. How such a simple touch could make him feel so much was impossible to say. It was… disconcerting, really, to feel like he could never get enough of it. 

Or her. 

However, it had to be a symptom of being denied something he had wanted for so long. Someone who was already unique in every regard before the novelty of expending time and energy to have her. 

Asher was so responsive for him, too. It was like she had been specifically attuned to his wants and needs. A brush of his fingertips on the side of her breast was enough to send goosebumps rippling across her skin and her nipple pebbling.

“I want you to come with me tomorrow night,” Astarion decided.

“What’s tomorrow?” she asked. 

“The Council of Four are holding their annual spring banquet for the patriars at High Hall.” 

“Ah, the unofficial official start to the social season then.”

“So they like to think, but I have to allow them something, or they may start creating work for me.”

“You give them plenty by just dealing with them,” Asher said. “Sometimes I don’t know how you do it.”

He made a noise of agreement because he did, didn’t he? Astarion let them live their pathetic little lives alongside his and do so oblivious to the fact it was entirely contingent on his whims. Life among the social elite had always been seen as a game, but it was a bit literal for him. Astarion made houses and leaders rise and fall simply because he could. Simply because it amused him.

“I have my ways to offset it,” he allowed. “Plus, I have you now.”

Asher was quiet for a moment, then her fingers moved through his hair. Her nails lightly scratched his scalp, making Astarion close his eyes and want to commit the feeling to memory.

“If it really matters to you that I go to some of these, then I will,” she said.

Astarion inhaled, breathing her in. Deeply appreciating that with the acceptance of her place in his world, Asher had handed over some kind of control over her.

It no longer required calculated actions to get what he wanted. Astarion did not need to ask or give to receive. A desire was only voiced, and Asher responded appropriately. Even with her open dislike of these social affairs, Asher had agreed for his personal benefit. Honestly, with everything taken into consideration, it was no wonder it sometimes felt like his restraint had completely snapped. 

“Of course, it matters, my pet. I am rather partial to your company.”

Partial as Astarion was, he did not have her company the entire evening. Asher had sought permission, of course, before wandering off. Expressing her desire to explore the upper floors where the general public was forbidden from venturing.

Denying her did cross his mind. Asher had been a refreshing counterweight to the usual trite conversation. However, the diversion would please her and foster her willingness to join him regularly.

Besides, as Astarion had learned from her ‘exploration’ of Rodhlann’s estate, should Asher find anything of interest, she would relay its existence if not outright steal it for him. Prompting Astarion to grant her permission to do as she pleased with a kiss and a gentle reminder to not keep him waiting too long.

Asher did abide by that to his delight, catching his eye from across the room just over an hour later. She held his gaze for a long moment before moving toward one of the exits to the central courtyard.

The night air would have been unpleasantly crisp if not for the brazier and gentle warmth that Asher seemed to radiate just for him. She looked up at him as he came close. She was stunning tonight. Brilliantly golden with her eyes darkened and in a dress that looked as if it had been cut from the moonless sky above.

Astarion tilted her chin up and touched the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “Did you find anything for me while you were away, my pet?”

“Not unless you want an update on Ravengard’s son.”

“I couldn’t care less about that,” he said, and Asher smiled faintly.

“I figured as much,” she said. “Other than that, Stelmane’s journal was odd, but I couldn’t tell you what I thought was off about it exactly.”

Astarion hummed and leaned down to grant her a kiss. In truth, he did not expect her to find anything substantial. The upper echelons of the city leadership, the old and conservative who quietly and unknowingly kept things in order for Astarion, hardly strayed off course. For most, so long as they remained rich and their seat of power unthreatened, they were content to leave the city structure intact.

It was the idealists who strayed off course, but they were usually predictable in their variations at least. Overall though if their sense of duty was occupied, problems were typically solved versus created. Duke Stelmane tended to walk the line between the two, but to date, her crusades have only brought more diverse trade to his shores.

“My interest there only goes as far as yours,” Astarion said.

Asher lifted a shoulder. “It doesn’t go very far.”

“Then, as long as you got what you wanted from the excursion.”

“I did,” she said. “And did you get what you wanted from me being here?”

Astarion had received more than the pleasure of her company. Unlike the random paramours in which he had sought temporary amusement in over the centuries, Asher did not preen under the knowledge she had been chosen. No matter how alluring she looked, Asher did not enjoy being observed by anyone other than him either.

She had cataloged the attention in her own detached way. Observing and processing everything but experiencing very little of it. Asher did not care what these people thought of her. She played the game perfectly for him by refusing to play whatsoever.

Asher would do this for him again, too. Astarion could see it, somehow, even without reading her thoughts. He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger and considered how this might be used to his advantage. A dozen options came to him. However, not one seemed to be quite what he wanted to do with this development.

“I did, my sweet, and then some,” Astarion told her. “Is there a reason you wore your hair down tonight?”

Asher raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t find enough pins to put it up.”

He smiled. He did enjoy drawing the pins out of her hair until it rippled in shining waves. However, he could never say where they ended up. Astarion was too busy threading his fingers through her hair. Breathing in the hints of charcoal and green tea that seemed to cling to her as he kissed along the column of her throat.

“That’s a shame,” he said. “I suppose I’ll have to get you some more.”

“It would be the polite thing to do, but since we are standing in the cold talking about my hair, I assume the evening is over.”

“This part of it, yes.”

For as long as Astarion could remember, these evenings had simply… ended. The next part was only part of the previous. Then he returned home, unmoved by any of it. Tonight, however, he felt warm with desire and something perilously close to happiness.

Asher’s eyes met his in the mirror as he came up behind her, the she smiled when he reached for the buttons on her dress. The back was a single layer of sheer black silk held together by small black pearl buttons, starting at the base of her neck and spanning the length of her spine. Astarion slipped each one free, and midway down her back, leaned forward to place his lips on the fragile skin where her pulse lived.

“How did you do all these by yourself, darling?”

“Determination.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know what possessed me to ask.”

Asher looked over her shoulder at him. “I don’t either, but I have a question for you that I don’t have an answer to or even a clue.”

“Ask, my treasure,” Astarion said.

“You seem like you want to, but you haven’t tried to bite me or even float the idea.”

Astarion touched her shoulder and ran his thumb up the side of her neck. It pleased him unreasonably that Asher should wonder why he had not sought to have her so completely. He had done the same several days into their physical relationship, fully aware he had yet to follow through on the intent, but not why.

Apparently, even the subconscious things he did had a purpose. Buried and wrapped in instinct.

“Of course, I want to taste you. I have since I first laid eyes on you,” Astarion noted. “As to why I haven’t, it occurred to me that the possibility of harming you in the process holds no appeal for me.”

“Harm me how?” she asked. “It’s clearly not a control issue, or you would’ve by now.”

Astarion returned his attention to the last few buttons. “Not as it pertains to the hunger of my lessers, but there is a necrotic element to my bite that I have never bothered to see if I have control over.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the steady beat of her heart. Every cadence and its meaning had been committed to memory. It was another way Asher spoke to him without speaking at all.

Anticipation stirred in his chest. Something almost like desire, too, but not quite. Astarion did not know how to explain it any more than he could explain why this conversation suddenly seemed to matter so much.

“I doubt I would’ve either,” Asher finally said, then pulled the dress from her shoulders.

Astarion extended a hand and her fingers wrapped around his before she stepped out of the silk. “I’m not hearing a refusal,” he told her.

She looked up at him. “I just want to see it coming, Astarion.”

“We’re discussing it, aren’t we, darling? I’ve always wanted you willing.”

Her fingers lightly squeezed his before she stepped away. Asher pulled on the undershirt she had commandeered from him earlier in the day. The fine linen fell softly over the lines of her body and brushed the tops of her thighs, concealing just enough to make her seem more revealed than covered.

“I don’t think you would risk seriously injuring me at this point,” she said.

“I don’t know that I ever would’ve,” he admitted in a low voice.

Asher smiled at him, but it was tempered. Indicative that she was troubled by her natural reaction to whatever he had said or did.

Astarion touched her chin, tilting her face up. “So that bothers you, but not letting me have you like this?” he asked, brushing his fingers along her throat for emphasis.

Her heart replied before she did. A gentle uptick Astarion would never tire of causing. Then, her fingers wrapped around his forearm.

“Sometimes I just worry a little that I won’t find my way back from this.”

Hearing her say that made Astarion feel like his hand was wrapped around her heart, and each and every beat was just for him.

Given at his discretion.

Astarion kissed her softly then, teasingly, and wondered if Asher felt as possessed by him, by this, as he felt he possessed her.

“I don’t want you to.”

“I know,” she said.

It was not until Asher was lying in his bed and he moved over her so that he could sink his fangs into her that Astarion realized just how much he meant that.

Because he could almost see it— what her eyes would look like red instead of gold.