Chapter Text
Rain hammered the streets of Baldur’s Gate. Rooftops and windowsills were singing with the fury of it.
The town had once been in ruin, with cracked cobblestones and fallen statues—all thanks to the Netherbrain. Now it was rebuilt, standing proud and tall. The storm seemed determined to prove the city wrong.
Rivington’s tower stood just outside the chaos, half-forgotten by most. Its black silhouette cut through the storm, wind lashing the stone. A gust screamed through the streets, then pulled back all at once. It was unnatural.
The air thickened. And then he appeared.
People whispered about this man—the man who had taken over the mysterious palace in the city, who commanded noble parties and council meetings. He usually appeared from the shadows like a wraith, and then he controlled the space with the air of a man who had been born into wealth and luxury.
Not tonight, however. There was no confident swagger, no relentless charm. It was, instead, wild, unfiltered panic. A fox tearing through the streets in search of the henhouse.
Astarion sprinted toward the old bell tower, his heart pounding. He had forgotten what that felt like. Fear, true fear. A pounding heart. A fevered brow. Pulse skipping so bad he actually felt faint. He could thank the ascension for that, even with his conflicted thoughts.
The details of his new life didn't matter right now. The only thing that did was getting to her, crossing every street and alley until he was there. And when the rain slowed him down, he pulled on those powers he had, turning into mist and flying through the air.
Toward Lyra.
After countless false leads, after endless sleepless nights. His wife had finally been spotted.
They’d taken her in broad daylight, right off the streets, while he’d been at home, reading a godsforsaken letter. He would never forgive himself for that. He’d scourged every alley, every underground pit, every filthy tavern in Baldur’s Gate. But there was nothing. Weeks bled into months until he realized he simply didn't have enough time in the day.
Lightning split the sky as he approached the tower. He morphed back into his body, rain drenching his finery. He didn’t care.
She’s here, he told himself. She has to be.
His mind flashed back to all their memories together. Nights on the road, the way her pale complexion glowed in the sunlight. How her freckles looked like a splash of stars across skin. The way her green eyes always crinkled in laughter. Because he made her laugh often. Or, at least, he had. It had been far too long since he last saw her. Months.
Astarion hadn't even called for backup when the messenger burst into his study, alerting him that Lyra had been spotted. Astarion just grabbed his leathers and weapons and fled. But he didn't need help. He was the Vampire Ascendant. With a restored soul in tow, Lyra had made sure of that. Still, he couldn’t stop the guilt clawing at his insides. This was his fault. All of it.
Lyra had decided to save him. She waltzed into the god of murder's domain and struck a deal with Bhaal. Yet, it wasn’t a deal at all; she had swindled the god and fled with Astarion’s soul. Bhaal’s followers hounded her for months, and it was because of Astarion. He didn’t care why they wanted her. Didn’t give a single godsdamned fuck what the gods thought they were owed. They had forsaken him long ago, and he would remind them of that.
Revenge would always come later. All that mattered now was getting her back. Saving her, just as she’d saved him, again and again, without asking for a damn thing in return.
He reached the bottom of the tower, chest heaving. The oak door loomed in front of him. It groaned as he shoved it open, the sound splitting the silence. Inside, the air was humid.
Then—
A woman screamed.
Astarion ran. His mind raced with even more memories: the two of them, curled up under threadbare blankets, laughing over burnt rations. Arguing like children over battle tactics. Trading barbs and bruises until it all blurred into kisses. They began as friends… until all their plans went to shit and they became lovers.
He felt his rage shake his entire body. If she had been tortured—
Another scream. Then, a grunt.
Astarion hit the top of the stairs and burst into a wide chamber. A massive bell loomed at its center,candles flickering against the slick stone. Rain pelted in sideways through the window. Shadows danced. A mortal might have had a hard time discerning who was where. But Astarion was no mortal, and hadn’t been for a long time.
In the middle of the room was a scuffle of people. Five hooded figures and a smaller one. Small, but powerful, and stunningly beautiful. His wife.
Gods, there she was.
Astarion watched as one of the cultists lunged, seizing Lyra by the waist. She twisted her body, slipping free just enough to drive her elbow into his ribs. The man grunted when she jabbed her fingers into his eyes, the act making him jump back. She kicked his leg until he fell.
Pride flared in Astarion’s chest. Relief, too—but it was short-lived.
Another cultist lunged for her. Astarion was faster. The vampire gave a sharp kick to his chest. The man hit the ground hard—ribs cracking—and Astarion didn’t hesitate. A dagger through the heart. Gone. More came at him, snarling with fanatic rage. He cut them down without blinking.
One grabbed Lyra. This time, she struggled. Her movements were lagging. That’s when he saw it: dark circles under her eyes, the bruises. Gods, the bruises—across her cheek, her arms.
Astarion wanted to explode.
Lyra tripped and fell to the floor. The man raised his dagger, aiming for her thigh. Astarion knocked it out of his hand, and it went scattering across the floor. Astarion quickly stepped in front of his wife, shielding her. No one would ever touch her again.
He reached for the bastard, grabbing by his coat and slamming him to the floor. Lightning cracked, illuminating the man’s face before Astarion bashed it in with his boot.
Lyra gasped behind him as the man’s brains decorated the wood floor.
Another one. And then another. Astarion didn’t stop. He kept fighting, kept slashing, kept biting, until there was blood on his chin and bodies on the floor.
And then it was over.
Astarion turned, finding her against the far wall.
“Lyra?” His voice broke. His chest heaving, blades dripping. Heart pounding. Hands slick with blood. She stared at him with wide eyes, trembling. His perfect, perfect wife.
Astarion dropped to his knees before her. Gods, she was beautiful. Even now. Her thick, red hair was coiled into a crown of braids. A few strands had come loose and he itched to fix them. Her green eyes were red-rimmed and wide. And then it got worse. Her pale skin was mottled with bruises, and she seemed awfully smaller than he remembered, as if the days apart had carved pieces from her.
Astarion fought against the burn in his eyes as he closed the distance, gathering her into his arms. The scent of her hair, the fragile heat of her pressed against him. He almost broke then.
“My love,” he said into her hair, voice shaking. “Gods.”
Relief swelled so sharply it hurt. She was battered, yes, but alive. He could take her home, tend her wounds, make sure she was saf—
Pain exploded through his chest.
He staggered back, air catching in his throat. Looking down, he saw the dagger’s hilt jutting from between his ribs—Lyra’s hand still wrapped around it. Her expression had softened. Not with horror, not with regret. No—with relief. She had stabbed him. And she was… happy?
"Lyra,” he managed to choke out, “it's me.” Perhaps she was in shock, or overstimulated. They hadn’t seen each other in months, so it made sense for her not to think there was a friendly face nearby.
Perhaps she thought no one was coming for her. That thought made his heart ache more than from the physical wound. He clutched at it, which he knew would soon close. He had ascended, after all. It would take a lot more than that to kill him. He pulled the dagger from his chest, the noise making a slick, fleshy sound.
Lyra looked on in horror. Absolute horror. “What are you?” she asked, trembling.
As if she didn’t know. As if she hadn’t seen what he could do a hundred times before.
Gods, she must be in shock.
He reached for her. She recoiled, arm snapping up to strike. He caught her wrist, and she struggled, twisting and thrashing, but it was no use. Of course it wasn’t. Not anymore.
The Ascension had granted him immense strength. Before, Lyra took him down with no problem, but now her efforts were nothing to him. They’d sparred a thousand times, and she used to outmatch him with clever footwork and her immeasurable wit.
But now? Strength against strength? He’d win that battle every time.
“It’s only me, Lyra. Look at me.” He cupped her cheek, begging her to stare at his face, to see that it was him, and not those murderous fiends.
Lyra flinched, shoving him so hard that she was pushed back into the wall, her back hitting the stone sharply. “Don’t!” she gasped. “Don’t touch me!”
It took a moment for him to see what was happening. She was... cowering. As if she... didn't know him at all. Not recognizing the face of the man who had been through so much with her. They had traveled on the road for almost a year, spent endless nights under the stars, stealing kisses and shared breaths. They had fought and battled every kind of monster known to man.
They had saved Baldur's Gate. Made a new life. And she—she didn’t remember.
Not the bedrolls. Not the kisses. Not the life they built.
The revelation hit him like a blow. Her memories. Gone. Taken from her.
Again.