Her Pretty Little Throat : An Ascended Astarion Fan Fiction

Astarion

I wait outside Amara's door as she goes in to change. I didn't mind her wearing my clothes. Truthfully, the way our scents mixed nearly brought me to distraction, but she felt it wasn't appropriate attire to wear when seeing the prisoner, Arnav King II. I would say he isn't worth the trouble, but the way my shirt fell over her breasts was borderline indecent. One lecherous glare or knowing smirk from him, and I'd dig his eyes out of their sockets.

I focus on her soft footfalls on the other side of the door, and the sound of her muttering under her breath brings a smile to my face.

"My lord." Drystan says, clearing his throat. His somewhat imposing presence beside me.

"Yes?" I said, keeping my eyes trained on the door as though I could see her.

"The guards are out, and I stationed a few extra at the front and rear entrances just in case. The magical wards have been tested and should hold."

"Good." I say, "Thank you."

The guards being out means it's past sunset. This day feels like it has gone on for centuries. Living as long as I have, I never stopped to appreciate the passage of time. Now more than ever, I feel stuck in a moment that I cannot escape and cannot grab hold of to control. I cannot make it easier on anyone.

"We've taken care of," he pauses, and I look over, "the ashes. What would you like for us to do with them?"

It is the first time that death has visited the palace—at least one of our own.

Our lives have been tangled together for so long that I cannot separate them or reconcile the fact that Saffie is truly gone. It feels like there should be more fanfare, more of a moment for us to collectively grieve, but there is little time at the edge of war. That is what the Wizards have begun by taking my spawn from me. Innocents that I have brought into the fray and have served me out of loyalty or ambition.

I am all too aware of the lives that weigh on my own. The ones that it is my job to protect, Amara being one of them.

"Roses." I say, "There's a bushel of red roses down on the edge of the grounds. We will have a priestess of Selune say a few words."

"Of course, my lord." Drystan says, his voice softer than before.

"Drystan." I glance toward the door. "Is our prisoner still—"

"Yes, my lord. I went to see him after Saffie. The last time I saw, he was sleeping off the alcohol in his system. Other than the bruises, he is not worse for wear." He explains, "Why do you ask?"

I straighten as the door swings open, and Amara stands there before me, fiddling with her outfit. She's still wearing my shirt under a corset top with form-fitting leather pants. The garter that usually secures her dagger's sheath to her thigh under her skirts is on full display, the gold hilt almost glowing in the low light of the wall sconces. She looks every bit the rogue, a thief in the night, even though I can sense her fear and apprehension.

Those emotions fade away as she looks up at me, her gaze softening.

"I'm taking Amara to visit her old acquaintance." I say with a smile.

Something dark passes behind her eyes, but she still reacts to my smile with the shadow of one playing at her lips. I'm beginning to think this meeting holds more weight than I initially thought. Doubt is beginning to take root.

There is so much I don't know about her past. The way that King, as they call him, was able to skirt past her defenses reminds me so much of Cazador. If he had found her when she and her brother were young and malleable, I think of all the horrible things she might have gone through, and I wonder if I will be able to control myself if she is taken by fear again.