Astarion hated you at first sight. He couldn't fathom your perfection – perhaps there was some kind of spell, a grand sacrifice behind it, or was it all an optical illusion?

It was then, when you first met amidst the wet sand that had gotten into the shoes, the dirt and blood that had dried onto the skin, and the smell of smoke from the wreckage that had settled in the hair, that Astarion realized that you were his enemy. Because even in the midst of this dirty disgrace, you remained flawlessly godlike. Your skin was glassy, smoothed out as if it was a piece of finest silk, your cheeks pink and your lips resembled the ripe flesh of a plum.

Astarion didn't know what he looked like, but he could feel himself – his wrinkles, his scars, the hollows under his eyes and his thinness. So he could compare, and that comparison led him to a to a barely restrained feeling of envy.

He despised you because he wanted to be you. He wanted to get under your skin, he wanted to feel that wonderful luxury of youth and mortality which were stolen from him once. But he is so used to holding himself and all his true thoughts back that you wouldn't have guessed at the depth of his suffering – you only felt the tension between you, the occasional sarcastic comments or irritated glances.

However, it all ended when you fell into Orin's clutches. Your companions took a long time to get to you, despite the urgency of the matter, and when they finally managed to free you, your beauty has already been significantly damaged. You were disfigured, yet the wounds remained only external.

However, to his surprise, Astarion didn't feel any pleasure or satisfaction that he had anticipated. No, looking at your torn, chapped lips and the long, jagged scar along your jaw, he felt only the cold emptiness of regret.

This isn't what he wanted, after all. No, he never wanted it.