Work Text:
The Master's Chambers, Szarr Palace
[The word 'Eleasis' is crossed out with several prideful strokes. In the margin, in a far more elegant and controlled script, is written the word: Eleint.], 1492 DR.
Thus, with this stroke, I shall mark the first of many entries this book shall witness, as my life is eternal, and my memories are, at the very least, worth preserving.
The craftsmanship is decent, alas, the leather is a vibrant, almost vulgar shade of crimson. A world away from the dreary, utilitarian tomes Raphael employs for his endless contracts, for which I must be grateful. The pen—which drinks the ink with a thirst unseen in the most questionable of taverns—is one of his own. A warmth still whispers from the crystal handle; whether from the blood of contracts it has signed, or from the devil’s own touch, I do not know.
It was left there, waiting for my return on top of the covers, staining my silks as unexpectedly as the arrival of a maiden’s first blood—though for to the marriage broker's surprise, I was not.
He even deigned to visit my palace to deliver it. A wise choice. He knows I have little patience for being summoned to his keep like some common familiar.
When I inquired, the devil—deep in his hellish keepings—confessed he had noticed my interest in the scribbling arts. He claimed that being the first creature to exist of my condition came with certain duties.
To deny the world such insights would be a cruelty I am not capable of.
The Villa’s Suite, The Pasha’s Ward — Calimport.
Day 1.
The villa is not what one would anticipate—not that I had troubled myself with expectations. Still, when one marries into an infernal dynasty, certain standards are to be met. At the very least, they must attempt to approximate the grandeur of my presence.
Raphael—now my husband, thanks to some dreary ceremony performed for the amusement of whichever god fancied a laugh that day—kept the location of this… ‘honeymoon’, as he insists on calling it, a dreadful secret. He called it his bridal gift. Of course, what greater gift could there be for him than myself?
Alas, he did not part with his secrets easily. It took jaw-aching hours attending his damnable hookah, and the ruin of a perfectly good pair of satin trousers on his sulphuric floors, before he finally relented. He said between smokes: “Had you not seized the ritual, my love, I would be forced to carry you in an ashtray.”
Preposterous. Had I not taken my rightful place, he would not be enjoying the feats of my tongue, either.
True to his word, my devil is. One would sooner find a shadowed retreat in the underside of Lathander’s arsehole.
The architecture is lustful in its luxury—a far cry from my palace's finer amenities, of course, but the quantity of servants proves suitable, and their blood delectable. Blood, after all, is the most intimate of storytellers, and the Calishite type speaks of an alarming consumption of spice. Paprika, the kitchen boy informed me it was called, with his final shuddering breath.
Raphael seemed to enjoy the local cuisine—particularly this spice. He had downed three dishes by the time I finished my apéritif. That boy, as it happens.
(Mem: Acquire this paprika.)
He waits for me below, and his wait is my doing. “Something special to wear somewhere special,” he said, cryptic as ever, as he presented me with the thinnest of boxes. I tore it open without grace—before him, naturally—expressing my discontent with his choice of gifts of late. By the irksome smile he gave in return, this was precisely what he had anticipated.
The fine silks now adorn my body, and wherever he takes me tonight, I expect a venue of public attendance. The sheer silks cling to every line the gods saw fit to perfect.
Let him wait and suffer the anticipation.
At least here the air does not reek of sulphur, and the screaming of damned souls does not interrupt my reading.
The Villa’s Suite, The Pasha’s Ward — Calimport.
Day 2.
Today, the sun is high, and my mood higher still.
Last night's excursion proved most entertaining, and the evening's conclusion was equally successful, if my husband's ravenous appetite upon waking means anything. He fled for sustenance with notable urgency.
A ravenous beast, is he. Though I suspect I am the one who drained him dry.
I must clarify: it was not the public venue I had anticipated, but a secluded, private garden Raphael had arranged for us.
The place was filled with ludicrously tall palm trees—ridiculously phallic things—their overripe fruit littering the paths and staining the air with a pungent sweetness. We encountered a hexagonal fountain, tiled in the garish blues and whites so typical of this region. It was all dreadfully provincial. And yet, the small table set for two beside it, lit by endless candles and with wine already poured, was a surprisingly charming touch.
With a bottle of what I can only assume was the most expensive ‘Syl-Pasha’s Sup’ to ward off the coastal wind, he began to whisper his devotions into my ear. I must concede, his verses flowed more smoothly this time. Either the devil is finally developing an ear for poetry, or he spent considerable time rehearsing. That would certainly explain all that mumbling he did on the balcony back in Avernus. Those dreadful hellscapes were never that captivating.
Undoubtedly, a performance like that warranted proper appreciation—of the most physical sort.
After making him wait until the third glass, I allowed those silks of his to fall, and continued drinking as he devoured the sight of my naked, moonlit skin. My husband's devotion lies elsewhere, but he ought to spare a prayer for Selûne today. She did lend her light to the evening's revelations. And not all miracles are my doing.
Another glass of wine—too rich a vintage to waste—and a slow crossing of my legs. In an instant, the garden was gone, and the suite materialized around us. So much for the silks.
I guided him backwards, pressing him down into the pearly depths of the bed before settling atop him. He made no protest. He never does. Eager, my husband is, but not one for exertion. Not that I permit otherwise.
I took my time arranging myself above him—let him drink in the sight. The moon from the garden still clung to my skin, and I made certain he noticed every inch as I took him inside. Two centuries perfecting the exact angle that makes a man forget his own name, and the precise roll of hip that turns devils into supplicants. Last night, he received my full repertoire.
His devil form poses no challenge to accommodate, but his human face—that I find most gratifying to watch. The way his composure cracks, the moment his eyes lose focus, the stammered attempt at my name… I watched his face as I moved, knowing exactly how I must have looked above him: devastating.
Contrary to speculation, my devil does not suffer a condition of significant endurance—to the jest of some primordial, I am sure—but this failing only serves to stoke the fires of my ambition. He emits the most pitiful of sounds when I twist my hips just so, and gasps my name with such devotion as I squeeze the life out of him. But my most cherished moments are his pleas, the way his hands desperately grip my hips to keep me there—the moment before I rise, and he loses it once again.
By the third time he begged, I had already won. By the fifth, he didn't even know what he was begging for. A masterpiece of deconstruction, I must say. Even Cazador, crude as he was, would have admired the artistry.
He remained sprawled across the sheets, boneless and dazed, while I poured myself another glass of wine and attended to my creams, which I had nearly forgotten. (Mem: Acquire bergamot cream)
There is a visit to the bazaar planned for today, I believe—once he deems his middle section sufficiently stuffed. Another liberty he took without consulting me. He insists on the quality of local fabrics, but this imperious manner of his grows ever tedious. It tempts me to defy the laws of being itself once more, though even I must concede that such a transgression has its limits.
Only to him do I permit this lack of deference. It would not be tolerated under my roof.
The Villa’s Suite, The Pasha’s Ward — Calimport.
Day 3.
Worthless. Utterly worthless insects.
Not a single one—not one—of the pest-ridden, rotten stalls in this thrice-damned bazaar had the decency to possess so much as a single piece of the fruit, let alone the cream or essence. How can an entire province fail to manage a simple agricultural blight? I should have beheaded the lot of them on the spot and purged the infestation myself.
Were it not for the immaculate state of my nails and my devil's timely offer of refreshment, I would have.
I still might.
We departed with some foul-smelling patchouli oil of my husband's choosing, and the promise of a ‘well-deserved rubdown.’ His sole redeeming contribution to the entire, disastrous affair.
No scrubbing, flaying, or boiling sulphurous water will ever cleanse my skin of the spiced pollution it has been subjected to.
This paprika disease—wrapped thrice over—lies vanquished and imprisoned at the bottom of my trunk.
Providence, hear my words: I will burn each and every piece of clothing in this luggage if that reddish filth escapes and stains even the air trapped between folds.
[Several ink drops stain the paper beneath this line. The final drop is wider, as though the pen was stabbed down with force.]
Hells… The audacity this man has.
To violate my writing—my private hours—after dragging me through that dust-choked marketplace. After the seventh time he disappeared mid-conversation, leaving me standing there like a motherless fool, speaking to myself in front of some merchant's glittering stones.
And now he arrives—naked as the day he tore through his mother's cunt—to 'grant me the pleasure' of joining him in the baths. To 'embrace in each other's intellectuality.' Oil flask in hand.
'Embrace in each other's intellectuality.' Pompous bastard. As if he did not mean to warm his cock.
I told him I would join him shortly. The sand has stiffened my curls beyond recognition, and I will not have some ham-fisted servant ruin them.
The Villa’s Pool Side, The Pasha’s Ward — Calimport.
Day 4.
He left.
To where, only the gods know, but my valuable time shall not be wasted questioning him about his comings and goings. He did leave a snack and a kiss, at least. What a thoughtful devil.
He did pester me so with his endless talking during my morning sunbathing. Clearly, he was never properly educated on decorum. Between the incessant wandering of his hands and the attention of his lips, I did not finish even one page. Not even during this 'honeymoon unwinding' am I permitted to complete this blasted tome.
And now the pages mock my wavering pursuit.
The pool stretches before me, water as crystal clear and inviting as it was an hour past when I began staring at it. The setting sun paints orange strokes across its surface—and across mine. What a fool, to abandon me to this.
Only my evening refreshment's pathetic whimpering to accompany me.
Tomorrow I shall visit the silk merchants without him. Purchase something devastating in emerald—his least favorite color. When he asks where I've been, I'll tell him I couldn't possibly remember. See how he enjoys the silence then.
The Villa’s Suite, The Pasha’s Ward — Calimport.
The same night.
He sleeps soundly now. Sprawled across the sheets with that obnoxious snoring cheap wine invariably produces in him.
Scarcely two hours past, he burst into the chambers as I prepared to retire. Said he'd been arranging something for the morrow—a surprise, he claimed, his eyes alight with that particular gleam. I find myself most curious. Possibly, even looking forward to it.
Then he proceeded to eat my arse with the fervour of twenty men. An enthusiasm I had rarely witnessed in him. Thorough attentions. Inventive, even.
Whatever awaits tomorrow evening must be of extraordinary nature indeed, to inspire such excitement.
I should return to his side. Even in sleep, his hand searches the empty space beside him.
Perhaps there will be palm trees at this event. I find I may even tolerate them, this once.
The Villa's Suite, Bedside — Calimport.
Day 6.
The bastard did not come to bed last night. Nor will he tonight, it seems.
The Villa's Suite, Balcony — Calimport.
Day 8.
I do not understand why he will not talk to me.
I wake to silence. My greetings are met with nothing. He will not even look at me as he dismisses the plans I bring up—the very plans HE spent days arranging, the ones he was so eager to pester me about.
He leaves without a word.
Does not say where he is going.
Does not say when he will return.
Does not say if I should wait up.
[Water stains blur the ink here.]
I just—
I should go back home.
The Villa’s Pool Side, The Pasha’s Ward — Calimport.
That same night.
Red clouds through the water. The paprika, finally freed from its wrappings, now bleeds freely into the pool, staining everything it touches. As did my nails across his face.
My clothes drift among the wreckage.
Luggage in hand, I encountered him on the stairs. To the poolside he followed, that ugly, swollen vein pulsing in his brow. Shouting about what I had cost him—his reputation, his clients, decades of work.
“I wanted you there,” he said. “With me.” Proud to have me at his side.
At a slave auction.
As if I should be honoured to witness his business dealings.
It was only one glass. Hardly anyone turned to look. Nobody even noticed the wine running down his face, soaking into his collar. The way it spread across the white cotton. The sound it made as it dripped across the stone floor.
The look on his face as every eye in the room turned upon us.
The cutting of my words—I don't even remember what I said.
The look on his face as I left him standing there.
[A dark, reddish smudge stains the page.]
I cannot fathom why it matters so much. First, he punishes me with his silence, then he screams at my leaving. And now I remain without words, his blood beneath my nails.
Damned be that party. Damned be this country, the slaves, the merchants. Twice-damned be my mouth and the wine and this blasted bridal retreat.
He said I made him look like a fool. That I must think he is one.
And now his face bears the proof.
The servants tremble behind the stone pillars.
He never tends properly to his wounds, never with the care they need.
The water has turned entirely red now.
I should go and see.
The Villa's Suite, Bedside — Calimport.
Day 9.
His wounds have been healed. Fast, my devil is.
We have not spoken much. But I spent the afternoon… preparing. Tonight I shall remedy this.
The Villa’s Suite, The Pasha’s Ward — Calimport.
Day 10.
I can still feel him inside.
The phantom touch of his fingers has taken my mind captive. A space has been carved within me that will not close.
My thighs still quiver.
I cannot seem to stop it.
Not long ago, he woke. Asked me to join him for breakfast. And all I could do was nod, like some naive templeboy. He knew. Smiled as he left.
I could not even meet his eyes. Not after the way he looked at me last night.
How he watched me, as though I was—
Gods, how will I ever face him again? After the way I howled like a dying animal before him. And he held me, I know he saw, looked directly at me. Ugly, so ugly, I could not stop the tears but he just looked and—and—
[The ink is noticeably unsteady here]
He said my name. “Astarion,” he said. To look at him.
And I looked. Even as I—
This body has taken much. Endured worse than most could ever fathom. Two centuries of it. And I swore—I SWORE—never again.
And yet, as I saw him approaching our bed last night, I opened for him. Asked. Tore the plea from my lips at his stare. Kept my body still as he climbed over me, his face shielding the light. The silk sheets beneath cool against my skin. His weight settling between my thighs.
Nothing could have prepared me for it.
I watched him shift—the horns, the wings, those hands growing massive before my eyes. And still I said yes. Still I spread my legs. I watched those clawed fingers disappear inside me. One, then another, then—gods—the stretch. I could see his hand, and still my body opened.
He worked me open, even when I told him it was done, that I was ready, he still did. Slowly. So slowly, a care I have never known. This body knows only pain, but his hand… those claws, that size… I should have been terrified. And still I said yes. Still I took him.
All of it. Until his entire hand was inside of me.
A weeping mess. That is what he made of me. I have never been so full. So utterly consumed. His other hand cradling my head, heavy with the scent of that foul patchouli oil. The bed beneath me soaked through with sweat, oil, tears, I don't know anymore. The room spun. I could not keep it in, sobbing and shaking like a newborn babe as he held me through it, a ruin of myself and the sheets beneath me.
And the look on his face. Gods help me. Ecstasy. As though witnessing something cosmic.
And I, in turn, feel remade by it.
The sheets still smell of patchouli.
As must his hand.
The Villa’s Suite, The Pasha’s Ward — Calimport.
Day 14.
My husband waits for me downstairs; thus, I must be swift in my recollection.
Today, of all fourteen days, it rains. A downpour of extraordinary proportions, quite typical of this region, I have come to learn. It never pours, yet when it does, it drops a year’s contents with it. The cascades sliding down the crystal window are to prove.
The heavens lament our departure; I am bound to share the sentiment.
A fitting farewell.
The past few days have kept me busy enough to neglect my scribbling duties. My most sincere condolences, future archivist.
Raphael has taken me to the most extravagant of places: godly and ungodly temples, horrid wine tastings, and some gaudy displays of public theatre with the most vile of performances. Nevertheless, they came with insights about this country’s history. I wonder if future ‘honeymoons’ could be arranged, or if these bridal retreats are one-off things.
Raphael has been quite the insufferably charming tour guide, I must confess. All those decades of buttering up clients have been of some benefit after all. He has not left my side.
He calls for me now. Annoyed as he is when it rains. He does not like it one bit.
Old man bones, he will never admit.
I find myself, for the very first time in a long time, dreading the return to my palace.
The Boudoir, Bedside — House Of Hope, Avernus.
Marpenoth, 1492 DR.
I finally put the paprika to use.
The resulting dish was a disaster, truly—burnt in some places, raw in others. Yet he ate every last bite, nearly a whole dwarf's worth, much to the visible distress of his warlock.
“Exquisite,” he lied, failing utterly to hide his grimace.
It made me laugh.
He even had the audacity to suggest adding a kitchen to this damnable house, should I wish to 'indulge further' in the culinary arts.
Perhaps I might. What are a few burns and stains, weighed against the way he looks at me for serving a poorly-seasoned dish. A most curious thought… I find I could see myself cooking for him again.
[Several orange, thumb-sized marks stain the page here.]
In the House of Hope, in the boudoir, a muted thud marks the closing of the diary. Raphael's fingers linger on the crimson leather—Erinyes wing, worn soft from handling, though it thrums faintly beneath his touch. Warded, perhaps. Or something more.
He turns. Astarion trances in his bed, silver curls spilled across infernal silk. His chest rises and falls, steady and deep. In sleep, his face has lost its usual sharpness, the perpetual guardedness smoothed away.
Raphael's smile comes slowly as he approaches, tail curling and tracing a path along the sleeping form without quite touching.
His hand hovers above one silver curl, close enough to feel the unusual warmth radiating from undead skin. Yet, he does not dare touch.
The diary rests on the bedside table, spine facing out, and waiting, as it always has, for the next entry.