Your Dark Gospel (Complete)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Elira

Elira took one last look at her hastily scribbled note before handing it to a servant.

Yes.

Three simple letters, with no additional details. Raphael would understand its meaning. 

Instead of filling her belly with food, she chose wine, ordering several bottles to be brought to her room. She drank atop the feather cushion mattress, limbs sprawled out like a marionette with its strings cut. Wine spilled sloppily onto the ruffled shirt she wore, but what did she care? It was too reminiscent of Astarion's taste for her liking, anyway. The wine that bloomed on the cream-colored fabric left a dark stain that set her teeth on edge. 

She tore the shirt off, letting the wine that dribbled down her chin mix with beads of  sweat until she passed into blessed darkness.

The darkness didn't last long.

She didn’t know how much time had passed—hours, minutes—before servants were shaking her awake, pulling open the curtains to let in the fiery light that shone like the sun over Avernus. They ignored her threats and warnings as she tried to shoo them away. Their master had given orders.

There was a wedding to prepare for. Arrangements had to be made.

And so she found herself standing before the mirror as a small, and rather annoyed, tailor pinned a blood-red gown lined with gold. Raphael had already chosen the cut and design; all she had to do was stand still for the fitting—a task she was already failing miserably. 

A pin, intended to shorten the long, lacy sleeves of the gown, pricked her wrist as she stumbled off the tailor’s stool, attempting to direct the bile rising in her throat toward the nearest waste bin.

The table where the Necromancy of Thay had sat lay empty now, though Astarion had left it the night before. Perhaps he had come back, like a thief under cover of night; it was certainly his style. Elira imagined that he was likely already a full vampire, following the path toward Baldur’s Gate to exact the revenge he craved against his master.

He wasn’t thinking of her.

And she, she reminded herself firmly, wasn’t thinking of him either.

“Perhaps next time you decide to guzzle down enough wine to serve an entire party,” Shadowheart said from the corner of the room, examining an empty wine bottle with her boot. “You should consider eating first.” 

Elira sluggishly wiped at her mouth as her head spun. Despite the tailor's attempt to guide her back onto the stool, she shrugged him off, crashing back onto her bed, pins and all.

"We're not finished," the tailor insisted, his annoyance evident in his tone.

Elira rolled onto her side, pushing herself from the dress until it pooled at her feet. With a determined kick, she sent it tumbling off the bed. "I believe we are," she countered firmly.

The tailor's expression soured as he folded the dress neatly in his arms, gathering his supplies before departing with an audible huff.

“Well,” Shadowheart prompted, breaking the silence. “Are you going to tell me why I'm here?”

"You were supposed to be fitted next." Elira groaned, covering her eyes with her forearms. It was too damn bright. She wanted to shut the curtains and curl into blessed darkness.