#double update

In all her decades of darkness, pursuing countless foes and splashing herself in their blood, she never once felt homesick. Love sick, yes. Grief stricken, yes. But it wasn’t until his love for her thawed the chill of her hatred and pain that she remembered home.

And now, she lived in a luxury not of her own heritage. Her skin was cold and her teeth were sharp. Her heart no longer raced with the pleasure he coaxed from her still, and it didn’t rap against her ribs in battle or flutter nervously when Astarion smirked at her. It was probably for the best that their past was nearly as eradicated as their own hopes for a life among their people.

She knew their village had left, that everyone journeyed to other reaches of Faerûn or other realms after the death of their High Lord and Lady… their murder in the City and the ultimate decimation of their line had been exacted.

They had been robbed of their rulers, their line… and their prince. Astarion.

It was all pain that should have been so easy to forget in their palace gardens. Leaning against the great oak tree at its heart, she sat with her skirts fanned, a book on her lap. This late summer sun warmed her too much; even back home, she preferred the cool caress of shade.

Not like him, her love, her lord. He stood near her, gazing down into the pond that collected the bubbling streams of water from the fountain of pure gold. Opulently, impeccably dressed, his silk jacket and pants caught the breeze making that cream, pearlescent material shimmer in the sun. But the gold and silk, the water or the sun itself, none of it was as radiant as him. His fearsome, handsome reflection no doubt shined up at him at his feet, that rakish tilt of his brows, those full, smirking lips rippling and paling in comparison to their original.

He was magnificent, glorious…. Ruthless to his enemies and adoring to his Bride.

The Vampire Ascendant.

It was a far more intimidating title than a mere elven High Lord. Astarion traded in being a prince for the mantle of a Vampire Lord, his ancestral manor now overshadowed by the walls of the Crimson Palace. His wealth was uncountable and ever-growing, untold powers at his command, gifts from the hells and magic beyond what any of the undead should wield.

It was what he deserved after centuries of suffering. But…

What she wouldn’t give for a blanket spread on their mossy bank in the forest, a single bottle of Ithbank to pass between them, the filtered sun above the foliage kissing their naked skin. She closed her eyes, letting the bark of the oak score into her skin through her waif-like dress. The scents of the forest, of nature, came back with instant recall, that soft gurgle of the fountain barely different in pitch from the stream in the glade where Astarion had taken her—

“Cordehlia,” he breathed her name, lips brushing her right ear. A warm hand on her cheek turned her face into his as her crimson eyes fluttered open once more. “My love,” he purred so tenderly, the warm pad of his thumb caressing the gentle arch of her cheek.”Tell me, what do you desire?” his voice was low, a gentle rumble in his chest as he poured all his love down their bond. “What can I do for my dearest?”

“It is nothing,” Cordehlia smiled softly; pulling him to sit beside her, so close their bodies flowed nearly seamlessly from one to the other. “Just thoughts of…”

“Home,” he interrupted. A subtle smirk tweaked his mouth just enough to show a fang. “It’s been a year, you know, since we defeated the Brain…”

His lips whispered against hers. And she whispered back. “A year since I found you on the beach and nearly trussed you up to gut you, you mean…”

“Oh,” he laughed with a husky giggle, “feel free to truss me up any time just to relive it, my love.”

Cordehlia sank her fangs in his bottom lip, making him laugh properly. “Be thankful I let you live long enough to fall back in love with me.”

Astarion broke from their kiss. Where she expected to see that impish glint, that rakish smirk, Cordehlia only saw purity, sincerity. Love. “I am thankful. Everyday,” his words so quiet, even her keen hearing struggled. “Come,” he stood swiftly, pulling her gracefully to her feet. “There’s… something I’d like to show you…”

Making their way inside, they hurried down corridor after cooridor. That nostalgia only deepened. Memories flashed of how these halls festered in darkness and rotted with wickedness under Cazador. She could still smell the dank of the dungeon, still recall the pain of that bastard’s bite as he tried to kill her…

A year ago. A year that passed faster than a blink of an eye. If time was nothing to her existence as an elf, it was less than nothing now that she was undead.

Now that she wandered the bright scarlet and golden halls of their palace. Now that she held the hand of her Sire, their hearts beating as one as his Bride.

She smiled at the word. Bride.

Feeling her thoughts, Astarion paused at the threshold to their rooms. “Oh yes, my Bride, don’t think I didn’t get you a little something to commemorate our union.”

“Always one to spoil me,” she shook her head, leaning in to taste his kiss once more. A sly smile twisted his lips as they pressed together.

The door creaked on its hinges, opening to reveal their bedroom, bathed in blue green light from their windows. Their sanctuary.

Her gaze instantly settled on the box on their bed, a small wooden chest. A nod of his head, a sparkle of childish delight in his crimson eyes, Astarion pulled her closer to it.

Eager fingers lifted the lid, and Cordehlia’s undead heart burst as if it had stopped beating altogether.

A shining silver war helmet, plates once cracked were soldered back together. Intricate designs of feathers spanned the sides, and a great eagle’s head rested on the crown of the helm. She would recognize it anywhere. She had polished it countless times as an elfling, wearing it in their home to pretend to play soldiers and war… a merry laugh coming from the chair by the fire as he watched on…

“Father,” she choked, her musical voice cracking with grief. “Oh, Father,” she breathed again, reverently stroking the eagle feathers and face that was their namesake, Aquillae. Eagle. That same name shined, etched into the back of the armor: Cassius Aquillae, The Great Eagle. Her eyes leaked the tears she could no longer keep at bay, and two warm arms embraced her from behind.

“Halsin found it,” he explained. “With the Shadowcurse lifted, all manner of relics were found. But he searched with great care for anything of your father’s.” A small laugh sounded in her ear. “My idea, of course. Don’t give the Druid any more affection or credit than he deserves, my love.”

A wet laugh was his reward for his possessive, bratty humor. As always. Astarion reached for the helmet, lifting it out to reveal two more pieces that instantly struck her in the gut.

Sharp pains of grief again. A bright silver locket, inlaid with golden leaves, and a small teal ring, that crest of its signet shining brighter than the gold it was made of. She didn’t need to look closer to know it was a heart and two daggers slicing cross-crossed through it, a pattern of little stars speckling its background.

The Ancunín crest.

His voice was heavy, his own throat bobbing against the back of her head as he reached around to caress the pieces. “Mother’s locket and Father’s ring… I found these in one of… his… vaults in the Counting House. The trophies claimed from Mother and Father’s murder.” Tenderly, he set the helmet back in the box, closing the lid silently. Then, he pulled her stiff, suffering body into his warm embrace. “Those aren’t my gift, don’t you fret.”

“I should hope not,” she forced a aggrieved laugh. “Still it is… good to have pieces of them, their bodies never put to rest,” she whispered into the cream silk of his jacket.