Chapter Text
“You were a child, darling.”
Astarion crosses his arms against his chest, his whole body tensing under Ellith’s stern gaze. He knows he must tell her – he should have told her weeks ago.
He can no longer pretend they never met before that day on the beach.
“How old?” Her golden eyes, tainted with black filaments, are fixed on him. She won’t let go. She's too determined for that.
Astarion sighs, frowning slightly as he tries to remember. “Sixteen, more or less.”
A frozen statue, her eyes wide open, her fists clenched into balls.
“Nothing happened, darling.” He immediately adds. “You talked to me, I talked to you, and that was it."
“What did I say? What did I want? Tell me!”
In moments like this, when worry and dismay take over Ellith, her voice, cold and thick with frustration and some kind of underlying threat, Astarion can perfectly see how this unimpressive half-drow was the leader of a death cult. She has this capacity to sound so stern, so sinister... sinister enough to make Astarion instinctively recoil.
Embarrassment and a slight pinch of guilt seep into his stomach. There is no point in remembering, he doesn’t want to think about his past – or hers. But she needs it. She needs to know who she was, doesn’t she?
He owes her that, doesn’t he?
“You walked up straight to me. Confident, unafraid. Actually, there was something desperate in your gaze, but no innocence. You were starving, and you were looking for… for a client.”
Ellith’s gaze softens a little, silent as she sits down on the hedge of her bed.
“I knew instantly what you were doing, what you were looking for.” The vampire spawn explains, his voice almost a shameful whisper. “A starving orphan whose only survival relied on her ability to walk the streets. You made no mystery of it. The way you walked, the way you talked, the way you smiled.. Gods, you were so young.”
Astarion closes his eyes, a wince of disgust on his graceful features. But quite surprisingly, Ellith doesn’t look surprised at all.
“That’s what I thought...” She nods slowly, her gaze distant now, as if she is no longer seeing him. “When we went to Sharess' Caress, it felt somehow familiar.” A melodious chuckle falls from her lips, and against all odds, it sounds genuine. “What else happened that night?”
After a moment of astonishment, Astarion shakes his head. “That’s all?”
“What?” She shoots back, puzzled.
“'That’s what you thought'… and that’s it?”
Ellith gasps, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. “You expected me to cry? To throw a tantrum? To not believe you?”
“Yes! All of this, at the very least! Gods! You used to be a prostitute, sweetheart, how can you be so awfully carefree about it?”
Ellith opens her mouth as to snap back at him, before changing her mind. When she speaks again, her voice is unexpectedly calm. “Tell me, Astarion, when we met back then, did I look miserable?”
He’s silent for a moment, perfectly aware of what she's doing. “No. You looked quite... nonchalant.”
Her red curls fall over her cheek as she tilts her head with that typical, unsufferable expression of hers which always adorn her face while saying things like I told you so or And so what?. Unsufferable and oh so very attractive.
But despite that lovely look on her face, Astarion had to protest: “You just looked lighthearted! You were starving, you were not doing it for fun!"
“How can you tell? Did you ask me?”
No. he didn’t. But he knows -- He knew back then. “Darling….”
“Please, tell me Astarion... what exactly happened when we first met?” Her voice is soft now, tender even, but he can tell there is something sombre beneath that sugar-coated layer of cooing.
After a few paces around the room and a deep breath, he leans against a wall.
“I noticed you the moment I stepped into the tavern. Don’t ask me which one, it was more than 30 years ago…”
Ellith nods, crossing her legs and listening carefully.
Encouraged by her silence, Astarion continues. “At first, I paid no attention to you. You could not become a target: too young, too skinny. Barely an appetizer for… for him. Ah!” A bitter exclamation, not really a laughter, not really a groan, but something in-between. “And yet, you managed to impress me… almost.”