#wchb

Chapter 8:  You’re Mine

During their year apart...

The twisted alleys of Baldur's Gate, a labyrinth of shadow and sin, snaked their way to a brothel that oozed the decadent charm of distant Calimport. Its façade, garishly adorned with flaking gold paint, shed its skin like a serpent reveling in its own corruption. The air was pervaded with the thick, musky scent of cheap perfume and stale incense, mingling with the unmistakable tang of sweat—a potpourri of desperation and desire.

Lanterns dangled from the ceiling, their sallow light casting shadows that deepened into sultry secrets. Velvet curtains, once richly hued but now faded and frayed, partitioned the narrow spaces into alcoves of anonymity. The muffled cacophony of passion seeped through the thin walls, each note a testament to fleeting ecstasy and whispered lies. Gold-painted doors, their luster long lost to scratches and time, lined the dim corridor, each guarding its own saga of ephemeral pleasures.

Why does this place always feel like home now? The thought clawed at Astarion’s mind, a bitter reminder of how far he had fallen.

As Astarion stepped into the brothel, his crimson eyes scanned the haze, and a familiar surge welled within him—hunger, sharp and demanding. The dim lighting cast an ethereal glow on his alabaster skin, shadows playing across his face like old friends whispering dark secrets. The air was a heavy cloak of perfume and raw desire—intoxicating, suffocating, wrapping around him like a lover's desperate clutch.

The sounds of the brothel played their sordid symphony in his ears—moans of pleasure, gasps of pain, and the rhythmic creak of beds. Each sound was a note in a debauched orchestra, each vibration a string plucked in the harp of his predatory instincts.

He moved through the musk, his gaze sweeping the room, searching, always searching. Who would it be tonight?

A figure cut through the dim light—a woman, her skin a deep copper, glowing like the last ember of a dying sunset. Her almond-shaped eyes held a calm assurance, a serenity that seemed both an invitation and a challenge. Her hair, a cascade of midnight waves, moved with a rhythm that echoed the silent music of the night.

She was draped in silks that clung to her curves like a second skin, each movement a whisper of concealed promises. A bandeau top of silk and chiffon, audacious in its scantiness, billowed behind her like a banner in the wind. Her smile, knowing and confident, brushed aside the stares that followed her like shadows.

Is she the one?

Astarion felt a pull, an inexplicable draw to her presence. It wasn't just her beauty; it was the way she moved with an air of authority, her confidence mirroring the power he so craved, the dominance he once wielded without question. He approached, his voice smooth, coated in the honeyed tone of interest and desire. "Greetings, my beauty. May I buy you a drink?" he offered, each word dripping with an allure that was practised, perfected.

"Why waste time with drinks," she purred, her voice a melodic tease, "when there's so much more to enjoy?" Her smirk, playful yet knowing, pierced through the haze of his thoughts, a sharp reminder of what he sought—what he needed.

Walking into this place always felt like a descent, each step a further plunge into the depths of his own darkness. The walls seemed to close in, the air thickening with each breath, heavy with the scent of opium and the ghosts of his past. Every face a mirror of another, every whispered promise a shadow of a memory he couldn't escape.

As he took in her words, a flicker of recognition sparked within him. It wasn't just her Calimportese heritage or the richness of her skin; it was her spirit, the unyielding boldness that so vividly reminded him of Sima. Could it be? No, but the resemblance...

Her silken attire swayed with her movements, the fabric whispering secrets against her skin. The invitation in her eyes, so charged with a magnetic pull, drew him closer despite the haunting familiarity. His heart quickened, the room shrinking around him, the shadows deepening as if conspiring to entwine him further in her spell.

Her scent was a tantalizing near-match—jasmine tinged with citrus, so close to the rose that haunted his dreams of Sima. Her breasts pressed against his shoulder, a softness that sent shivers down his spine, her hands weaving through his hair, stirring a connection he desperately craved yet feared to acknowledge.

Astarion closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the rush of longing. Her audacity almost convinced him to let go of the torment that clung like a shadow. She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, her words tinged with a playful edge, "Are you coming, or do you need a map?"

Just for tonight. The darkness embraced him, the familiar symphony of the brothel echoing in his ears, drowning out the voice that whispered of love and loss. Another night, another fleeting comfort. He followed her, mind slipping away into the shadows, driven by the desperate need to forget.

He allowed her to take his hand, leading him towards a shadowed room draped in the promises of the night. The air thickened, the flickering candles casting ghostly shadows, the scent of sex and opium weaving through the atmosphere—a tapestry of longing, desire, and haunting memories, pulling him ever deeper into the abyss. Time was lost, even as she poured wine bottle after wine bottle into his mouth, a balm that never soothed.

The woman's dark skin caressed his face; the texture a stark contrast to Sima's, and his hazy mind struggled to grasp the difference. Her nipples teased his wine-stained lips as she whispered a taunt into his pointed ear, "Is that the best you can do? And here I thought you looked... like a lord." She bit his earlobe, then discarded the small cloth hiding her glistening heat.

Is this what I've been reduced to? A crude jest? Her words, they burn. The flash of anger in his eyes flickered briefly before a smirk curled his lips, a mask of control slipping into place. He grabbed her hair, pulling hard, leaning in close.

"Careful, darling... If you keep teasing me, I might just have to teach you a lesson."

He pressed her hips to his, rolling them gently to tease her, the smirk never leaving his face. He needed to maintain control, to feel that power.

The woman ground her wet heat against his growing arousal, her copper skin sparking flashes of Sima before his eyes. The silkroot's haze intensified, transforming the woman into Sima. Her brown eyes, her wet heat on him... after a year. The vision of Sima whimpered in his ear, "Then what are you waiting for, my lord?"

The room spun. Is it her? His mind, clouded by silkroot, struggled to separate reality from desire. The woman's voice morphed into Sima's, her body beneath his a tantalizing illusion. His eyes darkened with possessive rage. For a moment, he saw double, like a hazy vision he had to blink away. Sinister and unhinged, he almost moved to strangle her for her teasing. Instead, he tightened his grip on her hair and pushed her down hard onto the bed by the back of her neck. Pinning her down, he quickly undid his slacks and pulled off his shirt, the vision below him mewling.

He groaned against her earlobe, whispering hotly, his voice rough and low, trying to keep the image of Sima intact. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted this... how many times I've imagined you like this. But my imagination could never come close. Your voice. Your body... so perfect in my hands. Even the sweetest music pales in comparison to you like this, my dearest love."

The woman below, aware of his state, responded, "And I have missed you... please..." She turned her face, pressing her rear against his front, grinding into his growing firmness, and moaning as she opened herself up.

His eyes shut tight, breath catching in a gasp of desire. "Gods... darling, you're incredible. My Sima."

He pressed into her like a man possessed, one hand pinning her by the neck, the other gripping the headboard as the thrusted full hilt into her dripping cunt. A low hiss escaped at the sensation, her moans sending shivers down his spine. His hips snapped as he lifted her deeper onto his cock, pressing her head deeper into the mattress. The pace was full and unforgiving, pleasure and visions of Sima flashing before his eyes, her scent rising in the silkroot haze.

Relentless, he didn't stop, his need overpowering. The rhythm was hard and rough, almost brutal. His breath came in gasps, hissing in pleasure as he growled, fingers pressing into her skin, teeth leaving marks down her back.

"You are mine. You've always been mine."

He moaned against her ear, her voice driving him into a frenzy, the image of Sima in his mind almost blinding.

Astarion's breathing quickened, a low sound of pleasure escaping as his hips slammed into her, the slap of skin on skin filling the air. She wasn't the same; he knew this in the back of his mind. But the taste of her sweat, the sound of her voice, the scent of her hair—it was enough to drive him almost mad, his heart racing.

The woman, her black wavy hair flying, her body tightening around him, moaned his name and her fingers gripped the sheets. Her deep velvet clutch gripped him as she got closer and closer, the fluttering he remembered so well when his touch brought Sima to bliss... Sima mewled again, this vision below him.

Astarion’s moans echoed through the room at the familiar, sweet sounds. One hand practically split the word of the headboard, the other held her hips as he rocked into her. Her moans were like music—music he had craved for months. Her body clenched and arched, and he reveled in the heat, the melody of her body singing for him.

His eyes closed, face buried in her neck, his body shuddering as he remembered how she felt. Just how her body felt. How she tasted. The sound of her voice, her sweet, sweet sounds of pleasure. He groaned against her skin, teeth and hands gripping her, her name falling from his mouth in a sharp, needy whisper, his arousal still firm and fast as he desperately thrust, hitting that spot within her, rewarded with her moans. It was her... it must be...

The woman beneath him cried out, tightening fast and hard, her need rushing forth, thighs shaking. Her tightness, warmth, and moans, so close yet so far, dragged his silkroot-induced arousal to a devastating peak.

Astarion’s breath hitched and a growl rolled out as he felt her tighten around him. His hand  came down and gripped her hair almost painfully while the other kept her body pressed close. He let out a shuddering groan, teeth sinking slowly into the crook of her neck. It was a needy bite, an animal craving to claim. As he spilled his seed into her, he bit down, drinking, tasting her release in her blood. 

As the blood hit his tongue, the illusion shattered. It wasn't her. She was still gone.

In the muddled chaos of the night, Astarion recoiled with a growl, pulling out abruptly and propelling himself to stand near the bed, his body tense, eyes wide with a raw surge of outrage. His breath came in sharp, rapid gasps, his mind a storm of horror and disbelief.

Why did it feel like this? Why did it always end this way?

The deed—crude, desperate—left him gasping, the air thick with the lingering scent of silkroot that clouded his senses. Yet, the acrid taste of the woman's blood shattered the delusion. It wasn't Sima. The realization crashed over him like a cold wave, dragging him from the sweet haze of escape he so desperately sought.

Staggering over to the discarded bed sheets, his fingers trembled as they brushed against the cheap, gaudy fabrics that seemed to mock his state. The woman lay there, a soft moan escaping her lips, oblivious to the storm raging within him. She was recovering from his bite, from their rough, empty encounter, her soft moans a cruel parody of the ecstasy he had once known with Sima.

His chest heaved, muscles knotted with a fierce tension as he struggled against the urge to lose himself in her again, to forget the stinging bite of reality. Yet, he resisted, his mind ablaze with a chilling blend of determination and cold fury.

He needed to move, to escape this place.

With heavy, purposeful strides, he distanced himself from the bed, each step echoing in the hollow chamber of his heart. Sadness gnawed at him, a deep, relentless ache that seemed to echo the unending hunger gnawing at his soul. This was the nadir of his existence—a night drowned in regret and unfulfilled longing. The effects of the silkroot swirled through his veins, casting his thoughts into a foggy abyss. Unbidden, memories of hands, touches from his past life as Cazador's concubine, surfaced with painful clarity. Flashes of twisted pleasure and chilling detachment flickered before his eyes, trapping him further in his own dark labyrinth.

Sitting on the edge of the divan, Astarion buried his head in his hands, haunted by the ghosts of what was and what could never be again. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening, the air thick with the palpable sense of his frustration and helplessness.

The past year had been a cruel jest, the worst of his cursed existence. Faces, countless and indistinct, floated before his eyes—a kaleidoscope of strangers and victims blending into a seamless parade of emptiness. Despite his ascent to power, his new reign as a vampire lord, the sea of faces blurred indistinguishably from those he had known as Cazador's toy.

Amidst this desolate carnival, only Sima's image burned bright, a lone beacon in his tempest-tossed world. Her kisses, soft and tender, her touch, a balm to his frayed edges—she had been his anchor, a rare glimpse of genuine affection in a life otherwise shrouded in darkness.

Her face, her voice, the essence of her presence haunted him. He remembered the last time they were together—the way her eyes had filled with a tumultuous mix of compassion, fear, and anger. Her voice had risen, sharp and clear, as she defied him, refusing to be drawn into the darkness of his world. Her rejection—her refusal to become his spawn—had sparked his fury, driving her away.

Now, as he sat there, the bed beside him holding just another faceless shape, he felt the true depth of his fall. The lingering effects of the silkroot blurred his vision, but not enough to shield him from the haunting visages of past and present that swirled around him. He was spiralling, caught in a vortex of his own making, acutely aware of the vast chasm between his desires and his stark reality.

The woman beside him moaned softly in her drug-induced slumber, her presence a mere echo of the countless others who had come and gone, leaving him nothing but deeper sorrow. Just another faceless entity in the endless gallery of his torments.

Numbness crept over him, the cold comfort of the silkroot failing him. Astarion reached for the bottle of laced wine, its contents swirling seductively. The promise of oblivion beckoned—an easy escape from the pain, the longing, the profound loneliness.

But then, her image flashed before him—Sima, her face a vision of warmth and life, pulling him back from the brink. With a growl of frustration, he hurled the bottle against the wall, shattering it into fragments.

The copper-skinned woman stirred, her eyes opening, reaching out to him in a tentative gesture of comfort. Her body was a canvas of their combined carnage—his spend, her blood—a sight that made him recoil. Her voice, soft and uncertain, was all wrong. As he stumbled back, he caught a glimpse of himself in the wash basin mirror.

Staring back at him was a man marred by anguish and despair. The charming, sarcastic facade had crumbled, revealing a soul irrevocably fractured. He plunged his face into the cold water, hoping to wash away the misery that clung to him. When he resurfaced, he felt the weight of all the lives he had drained—their hopes, their dreams, all extinguished as surely as their lives.

The woman tried to reach out again, but he turned away, unable to bear the sight of her. She could never fill the void left by Sima. No one could.

"Get out," he commanded, his voice icy, cutting through the stifling air. When she hesitated, he snapped, "Now."

She quickly gathered her clothes and fled, leaving him alone with his anguish.

As Astarion faced his own reflection, seeing not just the vampire but the shattered man beneath, he felt the last threads of his self-control unravel. Rock bottom was no longer a mere concept but a reality, an abyss into which he was swiftly drowning.

With a bitter twist of his lips, he rose from the basin, his face dripping, his resolve hardening. He looked into the mirror, his eyes ablaze with anguish and a chilling certainty.

"I want to die…" the words escaped him, a raw whisper in the quiet room. But within that declaration stirred a flicker of resolve, kindled by memories of Sima—the only light in his dark existence.

His thoughts raced, a tumult of emotions swirling within him—love, desire, desperation. All converged on her image, her touch, the sound of her voice. It was more than a yearning; it was a profound, all-consuming need. She was his anchor, his salvation, the only one who had ever truly seen him.

With a deep breath, his features set in grim determination, Astarion whispered to his reflection, a promise steeped in dark resolve, "I will have her back. No matter what it takes."

He stared at his reflection, and slowly, a smile began to curve his lips—not a warm or roguish smirk, but something more sinister, a twisted sneer that bore the marks of his unraveling psyche. "She is my eternity," he affirmed, his voice low and unyielding, tinged with an edge of madness. "And I will do whatever it takes to have her again—even if it means crossing every line, breaking every rule, challenging the gods themselves."

No price was too high. Astarion was ready to burn down the world to have Sima by his side once more.

"My love, I'm coming for you," he whispered, his voice a mix of longing and frantic hunger. The twisted smile lingered, a dark emblem of his descent into obsession and despair.

***

A week had passed since the confrontation at the docks with the Selûnites, Shadowheart, and Sima. Astarion lay ensnared in a cocoon of darkness and despair, barely leaving his bed. The oppressive silence of his chamber stood in stark contrast to the chaotic storm within his mind. His battle wounds throbbed with a relentless ache, sharp reminders of his failure. Red-rimmed eyes, devoid of life, stared up at the ceiling, lost in a labyrinth of rage and longing. His hunger grew, not just for blood but for the intimacy he had lost—a gnawing void that threatened to consume him.

She thinks she can escape me. Foolish girl, he thought, fury and obsession interweaving. Sima's eyes, once a sanctuary, now haunted him. The thought of her giving her love to another twisted his gut with rage and sorrow. His blood boiled, fangs itching with the visceral need to reclaim what he had lost. He rolled over, trying to escape his thoughts, but they clung to him like shadows, growing more insistent. Sweat slicked his skin, his body trembling with a feverish withdrawal. I will not be denied, he vowed, feeling adrift in a stormy sea without her.

Sima had been his anchor in chaos. Losing her was a wound deeper than any physical injury. The pain of that realization was so intense that even his ever-present hunger seemed to fade in comparison. She was my light in the darkness, and now... she's gone. Does she even understand the depth of my feelings? Her rejection felt like a dagger to his heart. She was mine, and now she’s gone. But not for long.

He shifted to face the wall, breath heaving, hands clenched into fists so tightly that his nails drew blood. The weakness and desperation felt like an insult to his very being. Yet a part of him clung to that vulnerability. Why am I so weak? he thought within his fraying mind and heart. He wanted to cry out, to scream and rage against the world, but he held back, his emotions coiled tightly inside him like a spring ready to snap.

A surge of hunger roared back to life, snapping his eyes open. The beast within demanded to be fed, to lash out and punish someone, anyone. He sat up, the room spinning violently, causing him to fall back onto the bed. The empty space beside him was a cold reminder of his solitude. Without her, I am nothing. Just the monster Cazador wanted me to be.

Astarion's hunger was a cruel mistress, intertwining his need for blood with his desire for Sima. Her scent, her taste, the feel of her skin under his fingertips haunted him, making his longing unbearable. He had never seen her as just a body; she was his everything. But now, his instincts warred with his love. He wanted to protect her, to cherish her, but the beast within him wanted to possess her, to make her his in the most primitive way.

"This is pointless. Lying here like a brooding statue," Astarion muttered, forcing himself up again as if resurrecting from the dead. His muscles screamed in protest, and the cold air of the chamber felt like shards of ice against his bare chest as he walked to the window and threw it open. Crisp, biting night air filled his lungs, his nostrils flaring as he took in the city's scent below.

Memories surged back like a tempest. He could almost smell her, that intoxicating blend of jasmine and rose. His fingers traced the window frame, recalling the feel of her skin beneath his touch, soft and warm. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the way her body moved against his, the curve of her waist, the softness of her lips. It was torment, this blend of love and hunger.

The thought of her with someone else, another touching her, kissing her, making her cry out in pleasure, twisted his insides with violent, consuming rage. His need for her was beyond rational thought—it was feral, all-consuming. The idea of her whispering another’s name, her body arching for someone else, nearly broke him. His hands gripped the window frame tightly, nails splintering the wood. I will not lose her. She is mine, he vowed. The beast within him roared to life, hunger intertwining with love in a dangerous dance. He dressed swiftly, the cold determination in his eyes mirrored by the icy night outside. Sima, you will see. I am not the monster you fear. I am the man who loves you beyond reason.

He left his chamber, his mind set on one goal—reclaiming the woman who held his heart, body, and soul.

***

Meanwhile, Sima was healing, though her body remained fragile, a delicate wisp of her former strength. Her magical energy slowly returned, flickering like a candle in her turmoil. She knew Astarion still loved her—his restraint in not biting her was a silent confession. The pull towards him was unyielding, dragging her towards their unresolved tension. Memories, fresh and raw, clawed at her heart. One moment she sobbed, the next, she steeled herself for the battles to come.

Days passed in a haze of meditation and prayer within the Selunite Enclave. The rhythmic chants and soothing incantations washed over her like a gentle tide, offering balm but not a cure. Shadowheart’s group of female clerics, their voices a chorus of compassion, offered her sanctuary. Despite their kind words and moments of shared tea, she felt like an outsider, her warrior spirit at odds with their serene solace. Astarion haunted her thoughts. Misguided, twisted, yet she believed there was something salvageable in him. Shadowheart warned against such idealism, pointing out harsh realities. Each night, Sima defied her friend’s warnings, driven by reckless hope. She wondered if Astarion awaited her beyond the Enclave’s sacred ground.

Astarion was indeed there, a specter in the shadows, pacing with barely restrained fury. The burning sensation at the holy ground's edges was a bitter insult to his rage, which grew with each passing moment. He could sense Sima within the Enclave, and the inability to see her gnawed at his sanity.

Sima lied to Shadowheart about her nightly excursions, but her friend saw through the deception. Despite her better judgment, Sima clung to a sliver of hope. The glimpse of the real Astarion at the docks lingered in her mind. She donned her white leathers, at Shadowheart’s insistence, with a lavender tunic underneath. Silver blades sat at her hips, and her black ringlets were braided back, revealing her deep mahogany skin.

The path ahead was shrouded in a dense, unsettling fog, obscuring the moonlight and casting an eerie pall over the landscape. The soil squished beneath her boots, damp and treacherous. The cold air bit at her exposed skin, and the fog whispered cruel taunts, words like "failure" and "disgrace" carried on the chilling breeze. I won’t let fear control me, she thought, each step a defiant declaration against the oppressive darkness.

Leaning against a weathered tombstone, Sima let her gaze drop to the moon daggers gifted by Shadowheart. The blades gleamed under the ethereal light, symbols of protection and strength. She thought of the women in Shadowheart’s group, their faces etched with stories of suffering and resilience. Each bore scars, physical and emotional, mirroring her own. Their tales of enduring and overcoming reminded her of her own battles, her desire to change the person who was hurting her. Astarion was drowning in his darkness, and she couldn’t abandon him, even if it meant risking herself.

I have to see him, she resolved, stopping at the wrought-iron gate of the Enclave, still on holy ground. Why do I keep coming here? Because he let me go? Because I believe there's still something good in him?

She could feel his presence, a heavy, predatory aura that set her nerves on edge. The hunger emanating from him was palpable, a primal force that seemed to pulse in the air. She cast Light above her, the spell cutting through the mist and casting a harsh, revealing glow. Her daggers gleamed in the light, ready to defend her if necessary. As she crouched, her eyes scanned the darkness, waiting for Astarion to make his move.

As she approached the wrought-iron gate, Sima's breath caught in her throat. The graveyard stretched out before her like a somber shroud, tombstones jutting at odd angles, their inscriptions blurred by the mist. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, the chill seeping through her clothes and into her bones. Moonlight filtered through the fog, casting unearthly, shifting shadows that danced around her, making the landscape seem alive with whispers of the past.

Astarion emerged from the fog, his red eyes gleaming with a predatory intensity that pierced the mist like a hunter’s gaze. His presence was a tantalizing paradox, a blend of promise and threat that sent a shiver down Sima's spine. His black cloak flowed around him like liquid shadow, and even amidst the sanctity of this place, his allure was undeniable. She could feel his gaze on her, a tangible force that made her heart race and her blood sing with a volatile mix of fear and desire.

Her thoughts churned with conflicting emotions. He's here. Why did I come? Am I so foolish to think he could change? Or is there still a part of him that I can reach? Memories of their past flooded her mind—the tender moments and the brutal betrayals. She wanted to believe there was still good in him, that the man she loved was not entirely lost to the monster he had become. But the risk was immense, and the danger palpable.

Astarion's voice cut through her thoughts, low and almost gentle, yet dripping with dark promise. "Gods above, woman, I can almost taste the blood in your veins. That heartbeat... so strong, so vital. What would I have to do to get you to come through that gate?" His eyes never left her face, his fingers curling around the bars. He could almost feel the heat radiating from her skin, the tantalizing pulse of her veins calling out to him. So close, yet so far. I will have you, Sima. Every inch of you, he thought.

Sima's heart pounded, a symphony of fear and defiance. She raised her silver daggers defensively. "Swear on Selûne you won't try to turn me against my will. That would be a good start."

Her mind raced with thoughts of escape and survival. Stay calm, keep him talking. Don't show fear. Remember who he was, not what he's become. She watched his features, noting the glassy sheen in his crimson eyes, the barely controlled hunger radiating from him.

She's clinging to a ghost, Astarion thought, smirking. "Fine. I swear on Selûne, by her light, that should you come through this gate, I will not force you to join me as a vampire. I will not take any blood from you except what you give willingly. I will not force myself on you unless you consent. However..." His eyes narrowed, though the smile remained. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I reserve the right to persuade you. With words or otherwise. Is that agreeable?" I will make you crave me, Sima. I will make you beg for it, he thought.

Sima smirked, though her heart ached. "I think you would have been better served being honest. You and I clearly do not see eye to eye on what consent means. So I respectfully decline."

Astarion's face darkened, his features shifting with sudden anger. "And what will you do if I break open this gate and take what I want, you arrogant witch? You are in a rather unfortunate position..." Damn her defiance. Why can't she see this is for her own good? he thought.

She narrowed her eyes, her voice steady though her mind whirled with anger and sadness. "Remember... you let me go. There's a kernel of empathy in you, of who you were. Think of that. The only one driving this towards tragedy is you."

"I will not be threatened by you, you impudent little bitch," he hissed, his intensity bordering on hate. "But... you are correct. I am making this worse. Even if you won't change your mind willingly, there's always other means. I am not bound by silly things like morals or empathy. I have the power of a vampire lord. Understand that." She provokes me so effortlessly. Why does she make it so difficult? he thought.

Her heart ached with the loss of the man he once was. Where did he go? How did we come to this? She watched him, searching for any sign of the Astarion she loved. His anger was palpable, but so was his pain, etched in the lines of his face and the tension in his body.

"You think you can tempt me with nostalgia? You have so many more lessons to learn, Sima. I am not the same person I once was," Astarion said, stepping up to the gate, his breath hot against her skin, his eyes burning with intense hunger. "Kiss me or suffer." His voice was a dark caress, filled with both desire and menace.

Sima’s heart pounded, her breath quickening as she felt his nearness. "You've lost yourself! I speak of the past to remind you of who you are—who you once refused to be like. Cazador, Godey, the kennels, the horrible existence that was forced on you! See reason, please," she pleaded, her voice cracking with sorrow. Her eyes searched his face, desperate for a flicker of recognition.

Astarion's snarl was immediate, his features twisting in fury. "I am nothing like Cazador, you foolish girl. I made my own choices! I did it for both of us!" he snapped, gripping the bars of the gate, his knuckles white with anger. Why does she insist on dragging me back to that hell? I've moved beyond it. Haven't I? he thought.

"Gods damn you. I hate you for making me think of those things—the things I hated and wanted to escape. But then again..." His eyes narrowed, hate mingling with a shadow of doubt. His voice softened to a dangerous whisper. "You think you can control me with pretty words? Do you honestly believe your memories mean so much to me? That I would betray my hunger and desires for a mere reminder of my former self? You don't understand what has happened to me at all! This new me... he is everything I was meant to be," he whispered bitterly. "Do you honestly believe I would want to be that person?"

Sima stood up, flipping her daggers into a defensive stance, her eyes never leaving his. "I know better than most there is no road back. But you are rejecting the one principle that mattered most to you, the thing that was robbed from you, and that you now seek to rob from me: choice," she said firmly.

Astarion's eyes blazed with a mixture of anger and pain reflecting in their crimson depths. How dare she speak of choice? After everything I've endured? he thought, fists clenched, veins bulging with barely restrained fury. Despite his anger, she did not back down. She still believes she can appeal to me, to my compassion, he mused bitterly.

"Your pathetic attempt at manipulation is amusing. My choices now? My choices matter more than ever before," he sneered, leaning forward, his voice a dangerous whisper that sent shivers down her spine. "I'm not the same elf I was. I'm free. Free of weakness and the illusion of choice." His eyes narrowed, though the smile remained. Free to claim what is mine. Free to covet your beauty, your body, without shame or restraint, he thought hungrily.

Astarion's eyes blazed, seething with a mix of anger and regret, as he moved forward to tower over her, his breath hot and filled with the scent of blood. "I am not the same person. You can't even imagine what I've been through! I've transcended my past, risen above the likes of Cazador. So shut your mouth and listen. This is my choice, my will, and my desire. I've thought it through, considered the options. And this is the way it will be. Do you understand me?" he demanded.

"And this is mine! I choose to say no," Sima retorted, closing up her leathers and putting herself into a fighting stance, mirroring his stance, with the daggers held above and below, her muscles tensed and ready.

His jaw clenched tight, hesitation flickering in his eyes as he weighed his options. Damn it all, she’s not going to back down. I can’t let her defy me. Not now, he thought. With cold determination, he stepped forward, crossing the threshold into holy ground without hesitation, ready to confront the woman who dared to defy him.

"You're pushing me to the edge, Sima. If I can't have you willingly, then I will break your spirit and make you mine," he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper, every word dripping with dark promise. "One way or another, you will understand who I am now. Who I must be."

Sima’s eyes narrowed as she conjured a Globe of Invulnerability, the arcane energies swirling around her, creating a protective barrier that shimmered with otherworldly light. "I won’t let you break me," she said, her focus unwavering, her heart pounding with both fear and determination.

Astarion began weaving a spell of his own, his eyes flickering with arcane power. Flames erupted from his fingertips, aimed directly at her. "Watch her squirm. Feel her burn," he whispered, a sinister smile playing on his lips as the fire licked toward her.

Sima stood her ground, the Globe of Invulnerability absorbing the searing heat. She felt the intense warmth pressing against the barrier, her skin prickling with phantom burns. She cast Thunderwave, sending a powerful shockwave that rippled through the air, knocking Astarion off his feet and pushing him out of its radius.

Astarion was thrown back by the force of the spell, landing hard on the ground. He rolled and sprang to his feet with a growl, shaking off the holy ground's relentless gnawing at his strength. His eyes blazed with fury, his muscles tensing as pain and rage intertwined. "Pain is nothing. The prize is worth every burn," he snarled, pushing forward again, his determination etched in every line of his face.

"How is it that you think I wouldn't be so furious that I would ignore the discomfort and take a little pain?" he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "This pain is nothing compared to what I’ll make you feel, Sima. You’ll see. You’ll regret defying me."

"I’ll make you submit. You’ll see reason," he lunged towards her again, faster this time, his movements a blur of predatory grace.

Sima steeled herself, casting Fly and swiftly moving to the other side of the globe, eluding his grasp. Before Astarion could reach inside the Globe, she raised her hands to the sky and called down a bolt of lightning. The air crackled with energy as the lightning struck Astarion, lifting him into the air before throwing him aside. "STOP making me hurt you, you stubborn bastard!" she cried, her voice a mix of determination and desperation, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Astarion’s body convulsed as the electricity coursed through him. He hit the ground hard but forced himself back on his feet, his rage undiminished. His muscles twitched from the shock, but he barely noticed. "You’ll pay for this. You’ll see the error of your ways," he vowed, his eyes burning with fury, his voice a snarl that echoed through the night.

"You're right. These games we are playing are pointless. It's time for me to take what I want," he growled, frustration evident in his tone. Enough of this. Time to end her resistance, he thought, his eyes narrowing.

He cast Command, his voice dropping to a deep, commanding tone. "Kneel."

Sima felt the divine protection of Protection from Good and Evil envelop her, a shield against his command. She winced, feeling the power of his voice wash over her, but she managed to resist. The divine intervention saved her, but Astarion’s eyes narrowed with fury. The fire in his chest burned hotter as he cast Hold Person from a distance. "Divine protection? How quaint. I’ll break through. I’ll make you mine," he muttered, dark magic coiling around his fingers like serpents.

He stayed within the holy ground, enduring the corrosive pain for a chance to paralyze her. If she couldn’t move, she couldn’t maintain her spells or cast new ones. His eyes locked onto his prey, his voice a deadly whisper. "Stay still. Stay frozen. Let me in."

Sima felt the magical bonds tightening like iron chains, but she fought back, breaking her concentration on the Globe of Invulnerability. Vulnerable again, she saw Astarion’s smirk, his eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction. "So, her defenses aren't impenetrable after all. This just got interesting," he mused, his gaze locked onto her, his blood singing with the thrill of the hunt.

Desperation fueled Sima’s next move. She conjured Leomund's Tiny Hut, a dome of force encasing her, impenetrable by physical attacks or spells. But she knew mental spells could still reach her. "Just hold on, Sima. You can outlast him. You have to," she whispered, her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum.

Astarion’s eyes narrowed at this sudden trick. Watching her encase herself in a bubble he couldn’t penetrate physically, he glared, his mind racing with dark strategies. With his next spell, he decided to attack her mind instead. "If I can’t break your body, I’ll break your spirit," he muttered, his voice dripping with insidious charm.

He cast Charm Person, his voice a seductive caress as he focused on her mind. "Sima, my dear, come to me. You know you belong by my side," he whispered, each word a tantalizing promise. "Be mine, forever."

Sima felt the charm wash over her, the familiar dulcet tones pulling at her will. Her body reacted involuntarily, a burning arousal aching in her core, but she fought back, shaking her head. "Is this what you think love is? Manipulation and control?" she asked, her voice trembling with hurt and betrayal, her eyes wide with pain.

"Is this your love? To hurt me like those slavers in Calimport? Does my pain matter to you at all?!" she continued, her eyes burning with the raw trauma she had shared with Astarion, vivid and painful.

Astarion's honeyed tone turned sharp and cruel. "Your pain matters less than my desire. I will take you by any measure. I want you, and I won’t take no for an answer," he snarled, his eyes blazing with possessiveness. "Your body does not belong to you, nor can you hope to escape me, love."

Sima's eyes filled with grief, tears threatening to spill. "What has become of you? Is this it? Is this who you are now? A man who will brutalize the woman he loves like he was brutalized? Do you truly refuse to see reason here?!" she implored.

Astarion’s eyes showed nothing but rage now. Not only was she resisting his power, but she was resisting him. To him, there was no difference. He came to the edge of the hut and placed one hand on the sphere, squeezing it as if he could crush her body. "Reason? Do you think I care in the slightest what you want? I want you to be MINE and nothing else matters." His grip tightened, his voice a snarl of frustration and obsession, his nails digging into the barrier as if trying to tear it apart.

Sima's eyes filled with true grief. "Then you are truly lost to me. And... I've been a fool to think you'd see me as more than just a thing to be used. To think you loved me." She clung to the edge of the hut, the weight of reality crashing down on her like a relentless tide. He cannot change. He does not see reason, or perhaps he simply does not want to, she thought.

Astarion’s body trembled with fury. The mere thought of her resisting him, denying him, sent waves of rage coursing through his veins. His every instinct screamed to take her, to crush her in his hands for denying him, to break her for wounding his heart so deeply. Yet, buried beneath the rage, something in his heart ached, something that held him back. He stared at her, his gaze a storm of longing, rage, and heartbreak, ignoring the dome that protected her. She’s mine. She will always be mine. Why can’t she see that? he thought.

For a split second, Astarion's eyes betrayed something beyond anger—sadness, regret, a fleeting moment of pity and longing for what could have been. Then it vanished as swiftly as it came, replaced by his consuming rage and mania. "You belong to me, and you always will. I don't care if you understand or accept that." His grip tightened further on the sphere, his nails digging into the barrier, leaving shallow marks as if he could tear it apart with sheer will.

Sima looked at Astarion like he was a stranger. "Astarion... you're really gone, aren't you?" Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, laced with sorrow and disbelief.

Astarion felt something cold and heavy settle in his chest, a feeling of deep sorrow and loss. He stared at Sima, trying to summon some remnant of what she once meant to him. But as he looked into her eyes, seeing no hint of the former love he had known, a bitter chill set in. She’s slipping away. Why can’t she just understand? he wondered.

"I am no longer the Astarion you met. The one you loved is as dead as Cazador's victims. He's been replaced by a new Lord, who will not be denied." His voice was cold, final, each word a nail in the coffin of their past.

Sima took in his face, every feature burning into her memory. His eyes, crimson with a predatory gleam. His hair, white as snow. She imagined the devious but genuine smirk that once graced his lips, now replaced by a cruel, twisted line. She recalled everything they had shared, everything that was. And in her heart, she finally allowed herself to let go. "Goodbye, Astarion," she whispered, stepping one fraction out of the hut.

Astarion's eyes flickered with something that might have been recognition or even pain, but it was fleeting. His rage and obsession quickly overshadowed any softer emotion. "No," he snarled, lunging forward. "You don't get to say goodbye. You belong to me!"

His hand hit the barrier of the Tiny Hut with a force that reverberated through the air. The magical dome shimmered, absorbing the impact, but Sima felt the shockwave. She steadied herself, her heart pounding. She couldn't afford to let him break through her defenses, not now.

"Astarion, please," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "This isn't you. You're stronger than this. You don't have to be what Cazador made you."

His response was a guttural growl, his eyes burning with an unholy fire. "I am what I must be! I have embraced my true nature, and you will embrace it too, whether you want to or not!"

Sima's eyes filled with tears, but her resolve hardened. She knew what she had to do. With a deep breath, she focused her energy, feeling the familiar pull of the Recall spell. The world around her began to blur as the magic took hold.

"I won't let you take me," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "Goodbye, Astarion. I hope you find peace, even if it’s not with me."

As the words left her lips, the Recall spell activated, enveloping her in a cocoon of shimmering light.

The world around Astarion seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched Sima speak the words and then vanish. The bitter chill turned to an icy cold as all the emotions trapped deep inside exploded outward in that singular moment. He shouted her name, grabbing at the air, grasping at nothingness, trying to deny what had happened. But it was too late. Sima was gone.

Astarion stood alone on the holy ground of the Selûne Enclave, now cold in both body and spirit. His breath came in ragged gasps, his mind a whirlwind of rage, sorrow, and an all-consuming need to reclaim her. Gone. She thinks she can escape me. She underestimates what I will do to have her back, he thought, fury coursing through him. He fell to his knees, clutching at the ground as if he could pull her back from the void. The holy ground burned against his skin, a fitting punishment for his sins, but he welcomed the pain—it fueled his resolve.

All this power, and yet it feels like chains around my soul, he mused bitterly. I have more freedom now, but without her, it means nothing. His chest tightened with an unbearable ache, but he couldn't dwell on that. He had to focus on her. On bringing her back.

Her words echoed in his mind, searing him with their finality. “You’re truly lost to me.” The sting of those words was a wound deeper than any blade could cut. He had become the very thing he once feared, and in doing so, he had driven away the only person who mattered.

Astarion’s hands dug into the earth, his nails clawing at the dirt. I was a fool to think I could have it all. Power, control, and her love? I was deluding myself. His tears mixed with the soil, a rare and bitter testament to his internal torment.

But even in his despair, a new resolve took root. He would not give up on her. He would pursue her, find her, and make her see that they were destined to be together. Her scent lingered in his mind, the memory of her touch a phantom sensation on his skin. I will not be denied. I will have her back. She will understand that we are meant to be together.

His sobs grew quieter, the rawness of his grief settling into a cold, hard determination. He had lost Sima, but he would not lose himself again. He would embrace the darkness fully, let it consume him if that was the price of his choices. But he would also harness it to find her, to bring her back to him. You will see, Sima. You will understand.

The wind whispered through the graveyard, the fog curling around him like a shroud. Astarion stood, his eyes cold and hard, the last vestiges of his kinder self slipping away. He had made his choice, and now he would live with the consequences. But he would also fight for what he believed was his.

Goodbye for now, Sima. You were my last hope, and I shattered it with my own hands. But this is not the end. I will find you. I will bring you back. And I will make you mine, forever, he thought, his lips curling into a bitter smile as he walked away from the holy ground, each step a testament to his transformation and his unyielding obsession.