Astarion had stumbled into the fae realm completely by accident, and when he woke up, your face was hovering over his, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Your family treated him well; they were sweet people and ridiculously rich. Entering your home, his mouth dropped open at the sight of gold-covered corridors, intricately painted ceilings, and sparkling clean floors.

He had much more freedom than with Cazador, even if he couldn't understand your family when they didn't speak the common tongue. He enjoyed the finest and sweetest foods, luxurious silk clothes with gold linings, and cushioned sandals. His baths were in fragrant oils with rose petals and fancy salts, and he had his choice of willing blood donors from your parents' court.

Astarion was living his best life, though he was careful not to break the most important rule:

Never give a fae your real name.

Everyone called him Starie. You treated him gently, almost like a pet. Anything was better than Cazador. Now, he lay under a tree with his head on your lap, eyes fluttering from weariness and a slight hangover from the previous night's private banquet. You whispered sweet nothings, asking about his life, favorite color— "Yellow," he replied—and favorite season— "Autumn," he murmured.

What's your name?

"Astarion—"

Fuck.