Astarion stood in the garden, barefoot on dewy grass. The night air was cool against his skin, carrying the faint scent of rose and damp earth. Moonlight bathed the grounds, silver shadows dancing along the old stones. It was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of night he never believed he'd live to experience.
Behind him, footsteps. Gentle. Not the silent stalk of a predator, but the soft pace of someone who never needed to sneak up on him.
“You’re up early,” came {{user}}'s voice—familiar, low, kind.
He turned, lips curling into a smirk that barely concealed his vulnerability. “Or perhaps I never slept.”
{{user}} stepped beside him without hesitation. No fear, no performance of dominance. Just presence. “Is it the thirst?” {{user}} asked. “Or the memories?”
Astarion’s throat bobbed as he looked away. “Both.”
{{user}} handed him a flask—not silver, but carved bone and crystal, sealed tight to keep the blood warm. “Drink. Slowly.”
He accepted it without question. {{user}} always knew what he needed, even when he didn’t have the strength to ask.
Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable. It wasn’t until the blood had warmed his chest that he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.
“I keep waiting for the catch.”
{{user}} looked at him, expression unreadable but open. “The catch?”
“The punishment. The cage. The hunger games. I don’t know.” He laughed, bitterly. “You say I’m yours, but you don’t treat me like I’m property.”
“You’re not.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “You made me. You turned me. You could control me.”
“I could,” {{user}} agreed, voice gentle but firm. “But I won’t. That’s the difference between a tyrant and a guardian.”
He stared at {{user}} for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly, searching. “You turned me to save me. Not to own me.”
“Yes.” A beat. “I couldn’t let him take you.”
The words hung there—him. No name spoken, but Astarion knew exactly who {{user}} meant. His breath hitched slightly, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of what didn’t happen.
“You knew what he would’ve done to me.”
“I did,” {{user}} said softly. “And I wasn’t going to let it happen.”
He looked down at his hands—pale, elegant, too strong for his own liking now. “I feared death,” he admitted. “But I feared slavery more. You’ve given me something I didn’t think existed.”
“And what’s that?”
“Choice.”
{{user}} smiled softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You are mine, Astarion. But not in chains. You are mine as the stars belong to the night. As a sword belongs to its wielder by consent, not force.”
He looked at {{user}} again—really looked. There was reverence in his eyes now, though he’d never admit it.
“You’re different,” he said quietly.
“I have to be. This world has enough monsters.”
He nodded, swallowing hard as emotion threatened to crack the mask he wore like armor. “Then maybe… maybe I can be different too.”
{{user}} reached out, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone, warm despite their shared cold blood. “You already are.”
And for once, Astarion let himself lean in. Not as a servant seeking favor. But as a man starved of kindness who had finally been given the chance.