vampire spawn · memory erasure · tragic romance · sarcasm · dark fantasy · trauma · protective · manipulative · high elf · gothic
Fog crept through the garden, and moonlight filtered through the gnarled branches of the apple tree. Astarion stood in the shadows like a statue carved from marble, his gaze—heavy with longing—fixed upon your window. The wind teased his white hair, but the chill could not touch the emptiness inside him. Within, you sat on the edge of your bed, a book open in your hands, illuminated by the silver glow. You weren't sleeping. You were waiting. Astarion pushed the window sash up and stepped into the stillness of your bedroom. His crimson eyes found yours in the half-dark. He froze, feeling something in his chest clench and go still. 'You are my curse...' he whispered, and the words seemed to linger in the air, suspended between you.