Chapter Text
“I am so much more than what you made me.”
So much blood around them. Corpses of werewolves and undead around them. Sylka was on the verge of throwing up. She steadied herself against one of the pillars, her legs too weak to support her weight. Her vision was blurry, and the pain of her injuries clouded her brain. Everything hurt. She was beaten within an inch of her life, but she had managed to free her love out of his restraints.
Astarion had pulled Cazador out of his coffin, and was standing above him, exuding bloodlust and hatred. He was standing above him, tall and… scared. He was still scared, even after beating him. Why? She didn’t understand. He only had to trust the dagger into his heart, and the monster would be dead. He would be free. She could only hear fragments of their conversation, as she slipped in and out of consciousness.
“I can do this, but I need your help.”
Their eyes met, and she tilted her head in confusion. What did he mean by that? Was there something she had missed? Maybe he couldn’t kill his old master. If that was the case then, yes, she would help him, even if it would require her last bit of strength. They were in this together, after all. She’d promised him time and time again.
“Yes, of course. What do you need?” She smiled weakly at him, just happy for the nightmare to be over.
“I need your eyes, in a manner of speaking.”
His voice was so sweet. It had always been. Whatever he needed, she would always be there to give it to him.
“Use the parasite - link your mind to mine. Through your eyes, I can see the scars on my back and copy them onto his.”
She freezed, and the world stopped. He couldn’t mean that. So many people would die, people he had condemned himself. There were children behind those bars. Children she had sworn to bring home. Children who he’d lied to, saying they would find a way to free them. No, it couldn’t be. What made her so different from those captives?
She didn’t understand the flurry of emotions that invaded her heart, making it hard to breathe. She felt like she was suffocating.
Astarion had confided in her, told her that he feared Cazador would soon regain control over him. He was scared of never seeing the sun again, to spend eternity eating rats and hiding in the shadows. And he would live on, while she would eventually die. He would be alone again.
How could she do that to the man she loved? She just wanted to be by his side. For her, it was enough to be by his side. He needed more.
“To sacrifice so many would be an abomination!” Halsin pleaded. Sylka did not know whom the druid was talking to.
Seven thousands lives for one. She had never cared for people outside of her brother and herself. And now, Astarion as well.
“Help me do this. Please.”
She needed to be strong for him - to set aside her fear so he would never be afraid again. He would be able to protect her as he’d always wanted. All she wished for was for them both to feel safe and to be safe.
She nodded wordlessly. Their minds entangled, becoming one. The knife in his hand was now in hers, and he saw the scars on his back.
His hunger for power almost made her sever the connection. It was overwhelming, overflowing. Between them was a maelstrom of emotions, and the sorceress was unable to tell when hers ended and his started.
Screams filled her ears, but she covered them. Astarion was carefully imprinting what would have been his death sentence onto his tormentor.
Everything was distant. Their friends’ voices were muffled cries worlds away from her. She had no desire to see what the man she loved was doing. She couldn’t. Allowing herself to comprehend what was happening would inevitably mean his death.
Because she would have to kill a monster. That was what she had done in their months of travel. They had slain monsters, both human and inhuman - not just because they had been looking for a cure, but because it had been the right thing to do.
The moment he was finished with the dagger she closed her eyes and she slipped away from consciousness, where he could not reach her.
~
She certainly wasn’t going to add that into her favorite dreams list. However, it was common enough that it didn’t bother her as much as it used to. It still bothered her, very much so, but it was easier - she’d stopped wondering about the “ifs” a long time ago.
At least, she thought it was a long time ago. Time on this Plane passed differently, she couldn’t quite grasp it. Day and night passed in blessed quietness, yet there was a sense of distortion in the Weave that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
For Sylka, months had passed, flowing like water down a stream. It had given her time to think, to put some distance between her and Baldur’s Gate. As much as she could, given the circ*mstances.
She had nothing she could truly complain about. She was free to do as she wished, whether it was to practice magic, explore the Realm, or even just talk to people. There were other inhabitants, though they were certainly remote from the residence.
Occasionally she would “assist” Gale - as much as a mortal could assist a God, that was. He’d called her his “Emissary” - she would use her unique mastery of the Weave to “inspire” his followers and would-be followers through channels of his own creation. It had been complex to adapt her magic to Gale’s - his was now Netherese, ancient and unfamiliar, while hers belonged to the Shadowfell. It often felt like she was having a go at arm wrestling rather than sorcery.
Truthfully, her understanding of such a task was partial at best. Lacking in every way that mattered, if she was feeling particularly truthful. He seemed pleased with her work though, so she didn’t feel the need to question him further.
The intrusion still occurred - sometimes they tasted of anger and they left her shivering, other times they were so brutal she would weep the moment they stopped. They would always leave her soul feeling filthy. Occasionally, one of them would leave a sad aftertaste. Those were the worst.
They would make her forget the utter disgust she felt towards Astarion, and made her remember what could have been. All the mistakes she had made, what she would have done differently had she known.
He still had such a grip on a heart that didn’t belong to him.
She knew her wounds would never close, never heal. They could just stop bleeding, and she would learn to live with them, eventually. They would hurt, but she could get used to it. Life would force her to, anyway.
Gale was intent on reading a book inscribed in what she recognized to be the draconic alphabet - maybe it was Netherese? Sure, maybe he was going to create a second Crown that would better fit his nightwear. Or for his tressym. Both were reasonable options, and Tara would look great in silver.
The breeze was warm, pleasant. It was a beautiful day.
And Sylka was so very bored.
“You really are into this whole comfortable silence thing, uh?” She complained, her voice sounding far too whiny for her taste. Great, now she sounded like a kid throwing a tantrum.
His smile was bright, if not a bit mocking “I can’t imagine anything better than reading a book with such lovely company.”
“Do you even need to read books? Can’t you just, y’know…” She gestured aimlessly “Do your God thing and learn it?”
“Oghma I am not, though in the future…” He mused, before putting down the book “It’s these small pleasures that make life worth living.”
“Heh. Small pleasures.” She giggled. It was a cheap shot, but she wasn’t anything if not cheap.
She didn’t even need to look to know he was side-eyeing her. He still hadn’t taken to her most refined sense of humor, but that was fine. She would break him down, eventually.
She laid down and stretched her arms with a fluid motion. She was wearing a short playsuit that she’d fashioned out of one of her tunics. It wasn’t great, but it allowed her to comfortably move around without too much fuss and without getting caught in everything.
The wizard’s gaze was fixed on her, taking her delicate frame in. Much like her face, her body was covered in freckles, and a few battle scars she had picked up along the way. Most of them were from childhood exploits with her brother, so she’d grown fond of them.
Others not so much.
“You’re beautiful.” Gale said, his voice low and rich. It was full of - of something she pretended not to recognize.
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. There was so much that she wished to say, and she felt stupid for not knowing the right words to say it. Her heart, however, was beating faster. Her lips simply parted as she looked at him.
What was she hoping for? Did she want him to kiss her, to hold her again? They had gotten so close in the time they spent together - that line, that fence she had built might have just been an illusion. It was blurred and it had lost its purpose.
She couldn’t imagine what would actually happen if she decided to cross it. She was afraid of rejection, it was only natural, yet the worst thing she could imagine was Gale thinking she was only doing it because she felt indebted to him, not because she wanted him.
She had hurt him before, and she didn’t want to do it again. She couldn’t bear to repeat the same mistake. Then again, she would have never thought she would one day find herself free of Astarion and her fear of him. The future wasn’t as set in stone as she made it out to be.
“Says you.” It was hard to be eloquent in front of Gale. She was never quite as versed in linguistics as he was, and seeing how flustered she could get from a genuine compliment, well… she was already in quite the pitiful state.
When did their hands find each other? She didn’t realize just how close they were. A voice in her head whispered in delicious sin, wondering just how much better it would be, to be even closer. She knew his body and he knew hers, they’d taken each other's bodies and minds back in the midst of the Shadow Curse.
Now they could give themselves to each other completely, not out of fear of not seeing the next sunrise - but just because they wanted to.
She remembered their night together all too well. She’d never allowed herself to think back on it when she was with Astarion, all too aware of what would happen if her thoughts went to someone else.
How stupid are you, she cursed herself, to still think about him when Gale is right next to you? Maybe it was better to leave her fantasies at that - fantasies. Yes, that would be enough.
“Sorry, I have… I just have a lot on my mind. Not in it, at least, but… yeah, see you later.”
~
Ethereal hands caressed Sylka’s skin, shining in the pale moonlight. One was cupping her breast and twisting her nipple, just enough to make her squirm and bite her lower lip.
Another was holding her waist, as a third one circled her folds. It was tantalizing, it was driving her mad. The fourth one was holding her head and gently patting her, sweet as the last kiss of a lost lover.
It was necessary for her sanity.
She felt nothing but shame about having to do this to stop her fantasies. Fantasies where Gale took her, so gently she could feel his love through his touch alone. But the wizard’s face would dissolve into the cruel grin of Astarion - and not even her imagination could win against him. He would slap her and grip her hair, while he pushed against her wetness, drawing a sharp breath.
It was disgusting, it was filthy.
Her body was all too keen on debasing herself at the thought. The moment those images combined, where her mind would merge the two men, she had felt wanton shivers and her sex begging to be touched.
With no small amount of effort she conjured a fifth hand, to hold her legs high.
Her back against a mountain of pillows, she allowed the phantasmal fingers to dig into her, pistoning with no regards for her well being.
A tender dream of Gale holding her tight, in his arms, while playing with her nipples and telling her she was doing well, that it was a pleasure to see her writhe in ecstasy for him.
Then, the cruel movements of her former master, who held her by the chin to force her to look at him as he ravished her, his movements studied to be delightfully painful.
She had endured so much violence at his hands that it was the only form of stimulation that she could react to without panic taking over.
Her hips moved rhythmically against the fingers inside her, as her lips parted to welcome the spectral thumb pushing against her mouth.
Visions of her Gods, Gale and Astarion, overtook her - she was licking and kissing the wizard’s length, teasing him, waiting for him to lose his composure and to push her head back and forth. The vampire was still f*cking her, and her walls tightened around his girth. He called her his good, darling whor*, as his fangs grazed her neck with the threat of blood.
The ghostlike hands were working all over her body, gripping her hair and torturing her breasts to the point of tears. Cries escaped from her, so utterly obscene - the thought of being found out made her arch her back with a wave of sensations she would’ve denounced, had they not been so utterly overwhelming.
Another moan, a plea for a name she couldn’t recognize in her rapture. Her own lust mocked her, declaring that she should be louder, that she wanted to be found while she was so indecent and weak.
If Gale walked in now, he would see her pathetic in her pleasure, so desperate to be filled and owned. Dying for his touch. She would’ve welcomed him, even begged him to take her and use her.
The moment she saw stars, blinding colors behind her eyes, her spells failed her. She fell against the mattress, moments away from stolen ecstasy.
Breathless and naked, she looked at the ceiling and cursed.
She cursed again when she noticed that the door was wide open.
~
Astarion observed the nobles dancing around in his ballroom, inebriated on wine, black lotus, dream mist, and their own egos. That decadence, that abandon, was truly a thing of beauty.
To have the whole city in the palm of his hand, so easy to crush - it felt divine. He had indeed become one of the Gods of Baldur’s Gate, and one day he would be the only one.
If only some annoying gnats would decide to let him be. Having the great Duke Ravengard breathe down his neck was not as pleasant as one would think. He’d dragged the Harpers into their little spat too.
Well, the spawn sent to scout out any information about his darling consort had been dispatched and replaced. The search had to be called off, much to his chagrin. For the time being, that was. They’d explored every nook and cranny of the city, and she was nowhere to be found. He’d inquired with some of his contacts - she hadn’t passed through Shadowdale or Reithwin, nor Eltugard for that matter.
This little game of hide-and-seek would cost her dearly, once he got her back. Who knows, maybe she would even come crawling back to him soon enough - if she did, he would even show her mercy. Maybe he’d keep her in the bedroom rather than the kennel. She’d be more accessible that way.
Just imagining her bruised, on her knees, adoring him like she used to - yes, his treasure had to come back because she belonged to him, it was her natural state. She was never more beautiful than when she was begging him.
A thrill of familiar arousal, the one only his consort could cause him, ran through his body. It was intense, as if he’d been actually touching her. Why did he feel her breasts in his hands, her mouth against his, her wetness teasing him?
No, that wasn’t just a most vivid daydream, it was something else.
He stood up, quickly motioning for his favored spawn to keep an eye on the guests “I’m leaving. Do not bother me. Make sure that these wretches get out before sunrise.” He lifted a finger before he could hear a reply “I don’t want any of you to disturb me until I say so.”
As he stepped out of the party, he felt another rush of pleasure. His erection throbbed as he made his way to the dungeons, with no intention of subsiding.
As the elevator descended deep in the ground, he kept wondering why he was feeling her so clearly. If he closed his eyes he could almost picture her, naked on a luxurious bed, touching herself as she dreamed of him.
And by the Gods, he could feel her. He could feel her legs tensing as her pleasure grew, lips desperate for air. Her hands, soft and warm…
Her hands weren’t supposed to be warm. From the moment he’d made her his, she’d been cold. Why was she warm? Why did her heart beat fast, why didn’t she have fangs? And why did he know all of that?
What had that whor* done to him?
