Her Pretty Little Throat : An Ascended Astarion Fan Fiction

Amara

King was lying.

I know his expressions well. That easy confidence was dulled, not out of fear but because he was choosing his words carefully. I think I'm the only one who noticed the tell, and it makes sense for the years I have spent under this man's thumb.

He wore the same expression when I went to him that morning, just after Rowan died. He was so quick to give me the names of the others who accompanied him. Their blood is on his hands just as much as my own. I wonder if it's spite that led him to surrender them or if it was a test.

Even now, when the same familiar hot rage stirs under my skin, my muscles are taut and ready to act. Heart racing at the thought that with one practiced thrust, my dagger would sink deep into his chest before he could act.

I wonder if I would still have this urge if I stayed on the streets. If Rowan didn't go looking for a job past pickpocketing on the docks, I wonder if King made me this way or if I was destined to spill blood.

I stare back at him, that pathetic eye searching mine while the other is useless and swollen shut, remembering my first taste of violence. A job went south, and I was in trouble, stuck as the half-orc male that I was stealing from came home in the middle of the night.

He picked me up like I weighed nothing; my thin body pushed me to near starvation, betraying me. For a moment, I thought I would give in and allow him to break me before I remembered the dagger at my hip.

I clawed at his eyes, buying myself enough time as he struggled to regain his balance from the shock. One eye squeezed closed, much like King is now.

Grabbing my dagger from its sheath, I drove it into his chest, missing his heart but piercing something important and vital. He groaned and sucked in a breath before falling to his knees and allowing me to leave with my spoils.

I felt nothing for a time, then cried for days on end after mourning myself in an odd way. Pained by the brush of death and the loss of innocence. The act of harming that half-orc breathed new life into me; it snapped that string that held me back. I knew if it were them or me, and I would choose myself every time. Until that day, when I chose the memory of Rowan.

King rolls his shoulders back as I take a few steps into the cell, puffing up his chest in anticipation. The act is so telling that I feel like laughing at him and myself for being intimidated by this man for so long. All it took to break the spell was to put him in chains, somewhere he should have been long ago.

"You truly don't remember the name of the sigil?" I ask.

"Why would I bother chasing after an artifact that takes the lives of whoever touches it?" He laughs to himself, "Just because you don't have any self-preservation doesn't mean I would willingly subject those under my employment to their death." He makes a show of looking behind me to see where Drystan and Astarion stand.

I clench my jaw so hard that it aches. I take a calming breath and hold my tongue. I cannot get the answers I seek by being quick, though I wish nothing more than to run my dagger along his neck. I know it cannot bring Rowan back or even return that piece of me that King had stolen—the one that has left me broken and with these impulses.

Astarion takes a couple steps into the cell, and a moment later, Drystan follows. The two vampires don't flank me, but they give me enough space to show their support.

King's throat works, his resolve slipping a little bit more. I asked them here. They are standing behind me because they support me. They see me as more than a few spare gold pieces.

"You're a smart girl, Amara." King says with a laugh, "I might be able to remember the name of the artifact given enough enticement."

I pull my dagger from its sheath and examine the handle, letting the blade dance over my fingertip without putting enough pressure to break the skin. It doesn't take much, given how sharp I keep it. Flesh is much thinner than you realize.