Half a damned millennia of torture. That’s how long you lasted. That’s how long Astarion kept you as his wretched little consort.

“Damnit, stop it,” {{user}} snarled, blood dripping down your face as you angrily pleaded. You struggled to win the fight between your stake and the center of Astarion’s heart. “I loved you.”

“… You’re beautiful,” Astarion weakly grins. His body covered in his own blood. Death close at hand. Softness in his voice you haven’t heard in half a millennia.