Her Pretty Little Throat : An Ascended Astarion Fan Fiction

Astarion

I watch Amara disappear into The Blushing Mermaid from the other side of the street, trying my hardest to remain as inconspicuous as I can in spite of the strange tugging feeling I feel through the bond.

At first, I think it's Amara's apprehension. From what I can tell, she is in her element. There isn't the slightest scent of fear emanating from her, and if I had to guess, she was more excited than anything.

No. The feeling I'm experiencing is too close to being anyone other than myself. It's been hundreds of years since I've actually stepped foot anywhere except Baldur's Gate proper. It's strange to be so close to the alleyways that I used to hunt. I feel very much like a relic from another time and another world.

Not many of the original buildings are intact, and from the outside, even The Blushing Mermaid seems to have had some misfortunes. I notice that a good portion of the structure has been replaced, I assume from a fire, given its proximity to what I remember to be the kitchen area. The wood has already begun to age, so this might have easily been years ago.

I wonder if Amara was there when it happened and if this is part of her timeline.

Still, something isn't sitting right with me. I could easily brush this off as the anxiety of Amara being out of my eyeline, but it's more than that. It's not every day that I go up against a god, especially one with the power to enslave me. I promised myself it would never happen. That is why I made my deal.

A grey blur shoots out above me, and I look up to see Drystan standing atop The Blushing Mermaid's roof, looking down at me with a question in his eyes.

I express my intentions through the bond, ordering him to move to the alleyway at the back of the building and not allow anyone to sneak out. He gives me a nod and melts easily into the shadows.

"Fuck." I mutter under my breath, "That hasn't been forty yet, has it?"

Adjusting my hood to cover more of my face, I walk across the cobbled street, my hand hovering just over the latch. Anxiety continues to twist through me. Something is definitely wrong, but I cannot put my finger on it. Perhaps I am just imagining things.

The whole tavern goes silent as I step across the threshold. One by one, I feel the entire tavern sizing me up. It takes a moment before the conversation swells again, and their eyes return to their chosen companions.

I do my own sweep of the room as I slowly walk to one of the few open tables and sit down. I find Amara and angle myself every so slightly away, keeping her just out of the corner of my eye. She does her best not to stare, but I can still see a hint of sadness behind her eyes as I make an effort to barely notice her.

There's a halfling sitting beside her, and from their shared body language, they know each other. In fact, he's sitting way too close for my liking, and Amara seems distracted. One of his hands remains firmly on his drink, and the other slithers across the table, nearly close enough to touch hers.

Though I am currently more interested in the two guards who are watching the halfling's movements from their respective tables, both of them are trying their best to remain hidden, but they are hard to miss. I recognize one as a wood elf—quite the gargantuan thing. He reminds me of someone, an ally I knew from a lifetime ago, but this elf's hair is much darker and his eyes are cast in a permanent, mistrusting frown.

The other, a half-orc female, is wearing a similar set of leathers to the wood elf, embossed with elaborate knotwork. Her white braids are pulled up and cascade down her back as she leans diagonally in her chair as if waiting for something.

Now that I look closer, I can see both of the guards have their sights set solely on Amara. Alarm courses through me, and I can smell the sickly sweet scent of Amara's fear from here.