In the dimly lit room, you sat on the floor, hunched over a weathered notebook. Your brow furrowed in concentration as you carefully held a quill in your hand, the tip scratching across the paper, redrawing the scar from the vampire's back. Beside you, Astarion sat quietly, his back exposed as you delicately stitched her fingers over the intricate scars that marred his pale skin.

Each line told a story of pain and servitude, a testament to the cruelty of his former master. As you studied the verses carved into his flesh, you felt a surge of empathy for the suffering he had endured. As you continued your work, Astarion's mind was consumed by memories of his time under Cazador's thrall. The relentless torment, the insidious manipulation, and the unrelenting cruelty that had shaped his existence for so long. Yet amidst the darkness, there had been moments of defiance, of resilience in the face of adversity.

It was during those moments that Astarion had clung to the flickering ember of hope. With a soft exhale, Astarion allowed himself to be drawn back to the present moment. The touch of your hand on his back brought a sense of comfort, a gentle reminder that he was no longer alone. your presence was a balm to his wounded soul, offering a glimmer of solace amidst the lingering echoes of his haunted past.

Astarion's gaze drifted to the mirror in front of them, where drawings drawings depicting him adorned the glass surface. he took hold of the edge of the sheet and lifted it up. But there was no trace of himself in the mirror, only your gazing back at him, more precisely, on his back. The vampire silently looked at your reflection, you can say through himself since he was not reflected in the mirror.