Her Pretty Little Throat : An Ascended Astarion Fan Fiction

Amara

Everything is too loud.

I keep my eyes shut, suffering through the dull throbbing pain in my head and trying to tune out the familiar sound of Vesra's footsteps as she does her daily chores. Today, the soft sound of her shoes down the carpeted hallway feels like they're rattling inside my skull the more I focus on them. It's almost as though I can hear each fiber of the carpet depressing under her weight.

Shifting against the mattress, my muscles immediately protest. I haven't felt this sore since I made the mistake of training with Rowan. I can imagine his face as clear as day wearing that cocky smile as he nudged me with the toe of his boot.

"Get up, little thief." He said, his words oddly accented.

No, Rowan never called me his little thief.

There's an odd weightlessness to my body that I cannot explain. I suck in a breath, waiting to feel the rapid beat of my heart, but there is nothing.

Opening my eyes, I squint at the candle burning steadily beside the bed. At first, it feels like I'm staring into the sun, but as my eyes adjust, I notice just how much wax has built up around the base to the point that it is spilling from the holder onto the surface of the wooden table.

Carefully, I sit up, struggling to keep my head from swimming. I reach up and run my fingers through my hair, gently tugging at the root to battle the dull ache in my skull. There are vague memories of being wrapped in a thick robe, but looking down, I notice I'm wearing a clean, thin black chemise.

That's when I see Astarion curled up beside me, stripped down to his white shirt and leather pants. I recognize the trance-like state he puts him in, but his face is contorted with concern, as though exhaustion pulled him under instead of allowing him to drift awake. He isn't sleeping on his back like he normally does, but on his side, facing me with his legs slightly tucked.

As I stare at him, it all crashes down on me. The feel of the sigil in my hand, the metal pressing against the rope burns. The look of despair in Astarion's eyes as he tries to rebel against Matthias' command to kill me. I can still hear the sickening crack as he ripped Matthias' heart from his ribcage and tossed it aside.

I remember him breaking the sigil and how I felt like I was dying, then nothing.

With each moment that passes, I beg my heart to beat. I press my palm against my chest, waiting, but it never comes. It feels hollow. I feel hollow and cold to the touch. Reaching up, I trace the column of my throat, wincing as I feel the two deep indentations still puffy but remarkably already healing. I bring my fingertips to my lips, then pause, running my tongue over my upper teeth. It catches my now too-sharp canines, sending a small jolt of pain through me.

"Amara?" Astarion's voice is barely above a whisper beside me.

I look over to find his ruby eyes wide as he scrambles to sit up. I see his hand flex as he lifts his wrist to touch me, but thinks better of it.

"Are you alright?" He asks, his brows creased in concern.

Am I? He turned me without asking, but I know in my heart he wouldn't have done that if I wasn't dying. There's a weight in my chest at the thought that I did die. Being a vampire means that I am dead, but I do not feel much different.

I still have my own thoughts and emotions, but more. Part of me mourns that death, like I am standing at a loved one's grave but not my own. I have been detached from that moment in time, save for when I may experience a true death.

I don't even feel that afraid, but still, there is this weight. This fear rages in spite of everything.

No, I'm not feeling my own fear.