Lie to Me - Chapter 32 - PallidMoon (2024)

Chapter Text

In the last decade, he’s woken countless times, expecting to see her there, only to be alone when his eyes finally cast off the weight of his trance.

When daylight warms his face this morning, peeking through the cracks in the drapery, he squeezes his eyes against the light, tenses, and finds resistance. His eyes open sleepily, one at a time, but the haze is banished as soon as he sees her curled up against him, his arm cradling her.

He regards her while she continues dreaming, her lips parted, but no breath sighs from them. Her body has relinquished the comforts of life far faster than his own did. He cannot remember much beyond his bloodlust for years after he was turned.

But he does remember waking up gasping for breath for months, if not years, when he would stop breathing in his trance and his body thought he was suffocating.

He is glad she does not suffer the same.

Astarion slowly eases her onto his chest and watches as she readjusts, pressing her forehead into the crook of his neck and nuzzling him with a soft sigh. His fingers glide up and down her back gently, the pads tracing the smooth, raised edges of old scars. He counts them, trying to determine how many times she needed him, and he wasn’t there, but they are countless.

He thought she gained these scars in battles, but after their visit to Bhaal’s temple — those paintings — it’s clear that she’s suffered at the hands of a sad*stic creator.

Just as he did.

She will never suffer the likes of such abuse again, and he will be here to make sure of it. Anyone who dares to touch her will be met with his wrath. He will take care of her as she took care of him.

Neither of them will wake alone now. He will wake with the sun on his face and the daughter of destruction in his arms, and destroy they will. The whole of Faerûn is theirs for the taking.

She is a queen, and he will gladly hand her a kingdom if it means she will stay.

He will tell her what he’s done after the gala. Perhaps then she can begin to trust him.

Perhaps then she will promise to stay.

Astarion tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with the gentleness of a summer breeze. “Wake up, love,” he whispers, soft as a flower petal to make sure he does not frighten her.

He feels her long lashes flutter against the skin of his neck as she fights to liberate her eyes from the heaviness of rest.

She groans. “Must I?”

“Still not a morning person, I see.”

She shifts to rest her forearms on his chest and yawns. The tips of her adorable fangs peek out from her full lips. “I’m a vampire spawn.” He does not miss the disdain in her voice as she accentuates the word and levels him with an accusatory glare. “I’m inherently a creature of the night.”

He nearly corrects her, but thinks better of it. Now is not the time for confessions of this magnitude, especially when he cannot anticipate how she will react.

“Oh, you’re just being lazy.” He tuts, clicking his tongue with a smirk. “Come on, my lazy little love. We have a big night ahead of us. We must really be getting ready.”

She looks at him, all traces of sleep gone from her fascinating eyes, and he sees hesitation. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea if I attend the gala tonight, Astarion. Between my bloodlust, urges, and untameable magic, I’m a risk, and you know it.”

He knows the risks and has considered what he stands to lose should she detonate in the midst of the guests. She could destroy a decade of work if she slips. He could not care less. You cannot love storms without accepting that sometimes they destroy. “Don’t be silly. Of course, you must attend.”

“Maybe you should compel my magic away for the night,” she murmurs, and it takes him by surprise.

She must truly be giving up on her crusade to try to anger him into compelling her if she’s blatantly asking for it now. Little does she know, he can no longer offer her that reprieve.

He shakes his head and rubs her back. “I don’t believe that is necessary. If you should feel particularly explosive or murderous, let me know, and you and I can retire.”

“Astarion…”

“Alita,” he purrs. “If you do not attend, you will miss the surprise at the end, and we cannot have that. Can we? You would not want to hurt my feelings, surely. Come. Let’s have a bath, yes?”

“Your feelings? Gods forbid!” She rolls off of him, goes to the window, and opens the drapery.

The scattered glow of dawn gives her pale, silvery skin an unworldly appearance. She stretches her arms above her head, rolling her shoulders back.

He slips his legs off the mattress and sits in awe of her. He’s seen many attractive bodies, of course, but none as perfect and seductive as hers. Astarion lets himself admire the arc of her waist and how it flows enchantingly into the curve of her hips, as well as her leanly muscled thighs and legs that appear to go on for days despite her being much shorter than he is.

“You’re gawking, Astarion,” she tuts, glancing over her shoulder at him.

“You’re a vision,” he says huskily.

But his eyes linger on the scars on her back — the ones his fingers were tracing while she slept. Some are jagged, with uneven edges, likely made by blades during battles, but the others are almost too perfectly straight.

“I was lashed and flogged often as part of my… training.” She looks back out the window instead of at him. Her voice is tight. Whether it’s in anger or pain, he cannot be sure. “Bhaal does not accept weakness in his creations. Whenever I showed any, it was whipped out of me.”

“What?” He cannot hide his horror.

She turns around to look at him. “The scars you’re staring at.”

Alita does not wait for him to answer before striding into the bathroom, and he hears the water spurt from the taps. He walks in and gathers her in his arms, though the comfort he is seeking is his own.

She wraps his arms around him, and her fingers glide up his back and over his scars. He almost flinches, but marvels at her gentleness. He is no stranger to hands pouring over all parts of his body, but her touch is the first that makes him feel like he belongs somewhere.

They stay there for a moment before he takes her hand and leads her into the bath. She lowers herself into the hot water and hums in delight.

“You do have a gown for tonight?” He asks while pouring oils into the bathwater. Violet for sophistication, cedarwood for sensual warmth, and rosemary for spice.

She opens her eyes slowly, one at a time, after rinsing the soap from her hair. “I do. Would you like to see if it fits your standards, my Lord?”

He catches the vexation in her dry baritone and bites his tongue before yes can roll off of it. Tonight must be perfect, from the decor to their attire. It is the first time they will be seen as a couple before all of the government figures, nobles, wealthy merchant families, their former allies, and, more importantly, the other Council of Four and Parliament of Peers members.

Astarion needs them to be seen as a united front, and typically, he would dress her in something that complimented his outfit to embody this. It is not like him to renounce control — not like him at all — and yet he will do it.

For her, he will do it.

“No,” he purrs as he slips his fingers behind her neck and pulls her mouth to his. The aromas coalesce and scent her skin, sweet as any syrup, and he tastes her on his tongue, hoping to rid her of the irritation that might spoil this moment. “I trust that you will wear something befitting of your station.”

An edge of sadness flits into her eyes, and before she can speak, he whispers. “Lie to me.”

She baulks, taken aback by his request. Though he has requested lies from her in the past, just as she does from him, he has not done it since he ascended.

Her jaw clenches and her eyes close as she takes a deep breath. Her voice is soft as a zephyr and wrapped in the warm luxury of her lies. “You don’t frighten me. We are us, and everything is alright.”

He closes his eyes and lets the lie sink into his skin for his soul to feast on.

Applying the finishing touches to your makeup, you run the black liner along your lower lash line and use your pinky to smudge it slightly at the outer corner of your eyes, giving it a smoky appearance.

The pair of servants Astarion assigned to you stand idly in the corner, unsure what to do with themselves since you recoiled every time they tried to put their fingers on you.

Picking up the dress, you beckon them forward and hide your discomfort as they help you slip into the gown that must have cost the majority of your coin. The seamstress had taken your comment to heart, and the strapless corseted bodice is powdered with polished gems that glint along the delicate tendrils of swirling silver embroidery.

The skirt flares from your hips, twisting into pounds of ruffled tiers in midnight blue silk with shocks of whispering silver hiding amongst the indigos, and pools at your feet like a silken river. Every tier of the skirt is worked with the same lovely silver shooting star-like pattern and seems to cascade down the tiers like a waterfall streaming elegantly over rocks. A dainty silver necklace is clasped around your neck, and you slip on the matching gloves that extend to just before your elbows.

The wispy waves of your lustrous hair frame your face and fall like smooth honey, dripping over your shoulders and down to your mid-back. Where most women tonight will have their hair done up in an impossibly elaborate way, you’ve decided to leave your hair down.

You glance in the mirror and don’t quite recognize yourself with your red eye and white-silver skin. Even in death, you seem to radiate life.

A soft knock on the door, and you nod to the servant to answer. Astarion peeks in, catching sight of you immediately. He wears a custom, hand-tailored obsidian suit jacket with a high collar and extravagantly embroidered golden bats. A gold vest peeks out from between the twisted silver clasps with a perfectly crimped cravat.

You hold yourself with majestic confidence under his scrutinizing scarlet gaze. It’s hard to tell if he’s looking at you with disinterest or judgement; his face is just a mask that’s no more expressive than a stone wall. Astarion snaps his fingers loudly, and the servants scramble out of the room. He closes the door, and when he turns back toward you, his eyes are warm crimson pools, and the mask has dropped, a languid smile parting his lips.

Bowing low, he takes your hand and lifts it to his lips. “You are a goddess, my love,” he says, threading his arm through yours. “The cattle await.”

Astarion escorts you through the halls until you get to the top of the steps leading down to the foyer. The double doors are open to let in the soft evening light, and people file into the manor, dressed to the nines. The reverberation of voices filled with awe plugs the halls, and Astarion beams with satisfaction.

He leans close, pressing a kiss on your temple. “Remember, you have but to say the word, and I’ll sweep you away faster than I used to run from the sun. Are you ready?”

You flex the fingers of your hand at your side, take a deep breath, and nod. Astarion leads you down the grand staircase alongside him. He turns every head in the room when he walks in with the composed, dauntless demeanour he so easily manages to assume.

Mimicking him is a facade that you gild yourself with, but the chaos foams and fizzes just below that poised veneer. Everyone and their mothers vie for Astarion’s attention. It seems you cannot take a step before some overzealous fool is shaking his hand, with praises both genuine and synthetic jetting off their tongues.

Who knew Baldur's Gate was positively bursting with so many sycophantic strutting peafowl?

What’s worse is how many of them are openly flirtatious, even with you right there clinging to his arm. They laugh at everything he says — all flushed faces and batting lashes. You do not blame them entirely. Astarion has a knack for making even insults sound seductive and charming.

Nevertheless, you find yourself wondering what they might look like with their smiling lips stretched up and over their skulls, their sockets emptied of their ogling eyes, and their throats splayed open with their vocal cords shredded into a neat curtain of ribbons, so you no longer have to hear their lustful laughter.

“Lord Ancunin.” Ravengard’s stolid face appears out of the crowd, and you feel Astarion bristle, but that practiced, perfect smile does not falter. “As always, your soirees never fail to impress.”

“High praise coming from the likes of you.” Astarion says amicably. “How is retirement treating you?”

“I can’t complain, I suppose.” Ulder feigns his contentment poorly. “It has allowed me to focus my enfeebled attention elsewhere.”

“Ah-yes,” Astarion sneers with a caustic grin. “It’s delightful to see you lucid enough to attend tonight. The ravages of time affect all, even the mightiest minds. Well, almost all.”

Ravengard’s jaw tics, but that is the only indication that Astarion has irked him at all, and dark bourbon-coloured eyes snap to you. “I have not seen you attend one of these events. I had hoped you had come to right the wrong you’ve done. I never liked you; still, I am sorry to see you enthralled once more.”

“Let’s not ruin a beautiful night with such contemptuous talk,” you purr, not bothering to hide the spite in your voice.

He scoffs as if affronted that you wouldn’t take the bait. “Have you seen my son? He was set to attend, but I have yet to cross paths with him.”

“Afraid not.” Astarion jumps in. “But don’t lose your head just yet. I am sure he will pop up.”

You almost giggle at the pun but stifle it. You are engulfed by the throng of people as Astarion ushers you away. The crowd parts for the two of you until he tucks you away in a less crowded corner.

He brushes the hair away from your cheeks. “How are you fairing, my treasure?”

“Do you enjoy this?” You ask, wincing against the uproar of drunken laughter and the clacking of heels and hard-soled shoes.

Your head is starting to hurt — that constant throbbing pain in your temples and behind your eyes.

“Not particularly,” he admits. Astarion looks around at the buzzing beehive of people with his brows pinched.

“But you do it every year?”

He smiles, co*cking his head at you. “I am hopeful this will be the last year.”

“Lord Ancunin? By the Gods, Alita?”

A familiar voice carries over the cacophony, and Astarion glances over his shoulder where another set of doors giveaways to the grand ballroom. You cannot quite follow his gaze, and it strikes you just how tall he is. By and large, he looms over most people in the room. Did ascending make him taller? Were you just surrounded by unusually tall people all the time, or have you somehow shrunk in his presence?

His hand slips to the small of your back, and he eases you through the rabble until you see Shadowheart and Jaheria. They twist through the crowd toward you with smiles on their faces that disappear as they get closer, and their eyes narrow at Astarion.

He shows no outward signs of agitation as they pin him with cutting glares.

“What in the Hells is this?” Shadowheart snaps.

Why do you feel so vengeful when you look at her? Why does your urge chitter and mewl, making the pain in your head burst into fireworks behind your eyelids with every blink? Though you didn’t get along with many of your companions, Shadowheart was probably your closest friend besides Astarion. She is a sprightly little thing, and though she may not have agreed with your murderous tendencies, she certainly didn’t shy away from them either.

So why, when you look at her snub nose and green eyes, do your fingers long to curl around her throat and choke the life out of her?

There is something there, like a word that lingers on the tip of your tongue but you cannot quite remember. Why are you thinking about the Elfsong? Why does a small box keep turning over and over in your head?

“Apologies.” Astarion lifts a brow at her. “I was sure you two had met before. Allow me the great honour of introducing you to Alita.”

“Don’t play stupid with us, vampire.” Jaheria retorts, crossing her arms. “You know of what we speak.”

You try to shake off the scorn that is boiling through your stomach lining and sanity. “I asked for it,” you interject before they make a scene. “Astarion only did as I requested.”

Astarion’s eyes round momentarily before he masters his expression into one of indifference.

“This was bloody stupid, Alita.” Shadowheart scolds you with a pinched brow.

“Watch your tongue.” Astarion growls low. “You will treat me and my consort with the upmost respect while in my home.”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes with a groan. “Gods. I need a drink. Excuse me, Lord,” she spits and stalks away.

Jaheria only examines you, and you wonder if she’s waiting for you to mouth “help me” or something similar to indicate your enslavement under the great Vampire Ascendant, so you lean your head on Astarion’s shoulder. His arm snakes around your waist, and he gives it a little squeeze.

A bell chimes within the ballroom, and the crowds turn to the dias at the forefront of the room with the synchronicity of an army.

Astarion leans in close. “That’s my cue, I’m afraid. Will you be okay alone for a little while?”

“I need no babysitter,” you lie.

He grounds you, and with your head hammering and your urge wailing, you’re terrified you will sink into the depths of your insanity if he is not there to keep you afloat.

“She can stand with me.” Halsin’s wide, cheery smile doesn’t falter like the others when he nears. “I will keep her company until you return.”

Astarion grumbles under his breath but nods, slipping his arm out of yours and disappearing into the crowd. You guide Halsin closer to the far wall and tuck yourself away behind a pillar that still gives you a good view of the stage. Halsin stands nearby but is ever mindful of your boundaries, and Jaheria takes her place on the opposite side of you.

Halsin speaks softly. “You are a vampire, so I imagine you can hear me quite well even in all this ruckus.”

You nod at him. Halsin was always a comforting presence at camp. Usually you cannot stand people as warm and effortlessly good as him, but he’s always been supportive, regardless of whether he agreed with you or not. Halsin made a point of speaking to you in hushed tones, as if you were a scared animal — perhaps you were — and he never forgot about your aversion to being touched.

The thick tree trunk of an Elf moves into a place where he is almost a barrier between you and the drove of people. Whether it’s to protect you or them, you’re unsure. “I suppose I have you to thank that there is no bear this year,” he chuckles, good-natured.

“You do know why he was doing that?”

“I can hazard a guess.” Halsin’s says. “I’m old — older than even him. I’ve seen jealousy and revenge manifest in all sorts of ways. Though his was rather unique, to be sure.”

“Why didn’t you just tell him we never had sex?” You ask, co*cking your head at the Elf, who looks at you with a fondness you can’t quite understand.

“He would never have taken my word for it.” Halsin shrugs. “Some wounds are best left untouched. Are you okay, Alita?”

A man takes the stage. "Honoured guests and friends,” he begins. “Join me for a toast before we continue with the night's festivities.”

“Gods. Does everyone believe me to be a maiden in need of saving? I’m fine.” Jaheria gives you a pointed look, and you frown. “Don’t look at me like that. I am not enthralled or under any compulsion, and I am certainly not a prisoner. This is my home. He is my home.” When Jaheria seems to accept your answer, albeit with disapproval thinning her lips, you continue. “Who is that man?”

Jaheria sips her wine. “His name is Victor, a member of the Parliament of Peers. He’s been trying to get into Astarion’s… good graces for years, if you catch my meaning.”

It does not take a genius to understand what she’s hinting at. If you cut everyone’s legs off at the knees, they would all resemble a bunch of hobbling gnomes.

Astarion never liked gnomes.

How angry would Astarion be if you turned this little cesspool of life into a paradise of death? Your friends are all in attendance, though, which means they would certainly attempt to stop you. You don’t relish the idea of killing them, but it does not exactly upset you either. You push your murderous pondering down, rub your aching temples, and try to ignore the bone-deep nausea.

The people applaud as Astarion takes the stage with co*cksure confidence to stand beside the man.

Victor takes a goblet from a tray offered by the awaiting servant, raising it overhead. “Let us toast to our esteemed host, one of the Saviours of Baldur’s Gate himself and a respected member of the Council for many years, Lord Astarion Ancunin!”

Clinking glasses make your vision blacken around the edges; shouts of agreement make inky tendrils twist, but you keep your eyes anchored on Astarion. His smile is bright, and your heart swells with triumph at the genuine expression of happiness on his face. After two centuries of darkness and torment, he’s now hailed and respected as a hero.

It is everything you ever wanted for him, and together you will take more. You will take everything this city has to offer, and then you will take Faerûn.

Perhaps you will rule benevolently, perhaps you will be celebrated as Gods, or perhaps you will turn Faerûn into a landscape of blood.

You care not — as long as it’s with him.

“Thank you, Victor.” Astarion says once the clinking and shouting die down, “A decade ago, we triumphed against all odds, and with the generosity of all in attendance tonight, the city has been rebuilt from the brink of devastation, but our work is not yet done—”

Astarion’s voice fades into the background as the nausea begins to overtake you. As much as you want to listen and watch him bask in the spotlight, you must get some air before you undo all the work he’s done to get himself here.

You excuse yourself, pick up your skirts, and push your way through the crowds. Stepping out onto the terrace, you drink in the brisk, moonlit air, grasp the stone railing, drag your palm along the rough surface, and focus on the sensation.

Movement catches your eye, barely in your peripherals, but enough to make your head snap. The gardens appear quiet, but your ears quiver with the sound of rustling leaves. Odd, you think, the air is still tonight — not even a slight breeze to flutter the trees or whisper across the grass.

You glide through the gardens, passing the long, rectangular fountains in the courtyard and further out into the property.

Glowing blood-moon eyes start snapping open between the darkened silhouettes of the trees, and that’s when you hear the screaming start.