Her Pretty Little Throat : An Ascended Astarion Fan Fiction

Astarion

I shouldn't have let it get this far. I should have torn the portrait from the wall years ago, decades ago. Her existence has faded to memories echoing through my thoughts—more pain than the hints of pleasure I cling to. Reminders of who I had been, what I had been before I met her, and how she had helped shape me into something new. Something that I still felt crackling under the surface, hidden in the deep recesses of my thoughts, that I still don't have the courage to face.

I have barely been able to look at the portrait in years; the idea of her burns into me like the sun once did.

With anger and guilt searing it's way through me, I turn to her face again. This time, with new eyes, looking into the brilliance of those memories without fear, even though my gut twists almost reflexively.

Perhaps Amara was right. I wanted to get revenge on Tav for leaving me; I wanted her to witness what I had become in spite of her. Have her see how I've grown into myself, but it's becoming clearer with every moment that I stare at the portrait that it's a lie. I haven't grown much at all.

Tav's smile doesn't even reach her eyes. I don't know why I hadn't noticed it before. Maybe I was just trying to ignore the gnawing feeling inside of me and the memory of that fake smile and disappointment. Feeling her miles away when she was just a breath away from my fingertips.

We were just a tangle of souls in one piece of eternity. I have no right to hold on to this. It isn't love anymore; it's obsession or some kind of torture. I swore to myself that I wouldn't become Cazador, but I still live here in his palace, surrounded by his things. I stand just a stone's throw away from rooms where I was beaten and broken a thousand times over.

I stare at the painting for a few moments longer, then reach up and lift it from its hook.

Part of me wants to toss it into the fire to rid myself of her face. I want to take days, months, and maybe even years to learn Amara's instead, if she ever looks at me again. All I can do at this point is give her space. That's what I would want if things were reversed.

There's a knock at the door, and I set the portrait down, allowing it to lean against the wall. I hesitate as I stare out after the noise, wondering if Amara is there waiting on the other side. If she wishes to scold me further or apologize, even if I feel she was in her right to be frustrated, I should have rushed after her, but I'd rather she come to me. I don't want to seem too eager; no, I don't want to seem too insistent and betray just how much she affects me. I have enough weaknesses to tend to.

It's not her, even though I wish it was. I would have known in an instant from a warmth inside my chest—a sensation that feels more primal and old. Something bigger than either of us. A foregone conclusion that we share a connection deeper than the attraction, more than me seeing the ghost of my long-dead lover and the one female that I trusted with my heart. Even now, I still feel that Amara is close; I'm aware of her movements through the palace as if we were bound by an invisible string.

Or maybe the thought is merely my other side showing his face.

"What is it?" I ask, now disinterested in whomever stands on the other side.

"My lord." Drystan opens the door slowly; his eyes go to the empty space Tav's portrait once occupied, and I can almost see the flicker of concern. He looks over to me, "Almost everyone has returned to the palace. They're gathered below if you wish to issue your orders."

"Almost everyone?"

He lowers his eyes, "It seems we have lost another, my lord."

"So soon." I grit my teeth. "That magical prick is getting too brave for my liking."