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Assistant: Title: Love's Lament
        Author: bludaze bludaze 
        Chapter: 4/9 
        Summary: “Adultery,” Raphael repeats plainly. “Infidelity.”“Yes.” Astarion tosses his quill down. “It appears that I’ve spent the last few months drinking, f@ck@ng, and compelling people of our government. I recall none of it, mind you. But given Lilith’s absence, Halsin insisting that I not be left alone, and Shadowheart desperately praying for my damned soul—I can conclude that I have dragged myself into a bender that has wreaked havoc on my life as I knew it."A sequel to the events of Hellish Rebuke. This story will not make sense if you have not read its predecessor.
        Contents: Chapter 4: Spawn
    

    


  

  
  
    
    Another day of the trial, another Zhentarim connection to prosecute. Astarion leans against the upper balcony of the courtroom, watching the witnesses and judges beneath. It’s a distraction, if nothing else. Being here, surrounded by people, is preferable to walking the endless, desolate halls of the manor. There still remains a bitter taste in his mouth after Raphael’s visit, one that has left him yearning for a drink to wash it all away.
  Lilith Savini has left you. What more is there to know?
Astarion finds Raphael to be someone deeply incapable of empathy. Perhaps it isn’t a devilish trait to feel so thoroughly, to long for something other than your own gain. But there was something uncharacteristic in the way Raphael reacted to Astarion’s probing. He hid it behind occasional smiles, but there was something protective about him—something rigid, and defensive. As if Lilith would need protecting. As if Lilith needed protecting from him. “Ravengard hasn’t signed,” a voice too close to his ear says. Astarion leans away, turning his head to find Casimir Roe behind him. “Perhaps he thinks the executions aren’t a good idea,” Astarion says, then returns his eyes down below. “I won’t compel Ulder Ravengard.” “Like you haven’t before.” Astarion stiffens visibly. “Is that an accusation?” Roe steps up beside him, leaning against the balcony. “Gods, cut the act.” He nods to the prisoner chained to the podium below. “We need these idiots to be taken care of, lest they suspect something amiss. If they start talking to each other, if any of them escape, there will only be trouble.” Astarion’s eyes slide to Roe. “I don’t have any bl@@dy idea what you’re talking about.”Roe gestures behind him, to where the other two Dukes sit towards the back wall. “They can’t hear you, Ancunin. Stop playing stupid.”There is a sudden sense that Astarion does not want to be around Duke Casimir Roe in the slightest. “Excuse me,” he says, and peels away from the balcony. As he reaches the stairs to descend down to the main hall, Corrin Renault rises and places a quick hand on his forearm. “Astarion, I wanted to check in with you. How have you been with—”“Perhaps later, Corrin,” Astarion says politely, hoping the tightness in his expression is hidden well. He turns to Ravengard. “May we speak?”“The Council knows of my Ascension?” Astarion presses, as he walks briskly through the High Hall, with Ravengard in tow. Seemingly taken aback, the Grand Duke says, “Partially, yes. You told them yourself.” “I recall no such thing.”Ravengard opens his mouth, and then closes it. “Well, Cazador Szarr couldn’t walk in the sun, and you are decidedly quite different from Cazador Szarr.”A nice compliment, if he ever heard one. “That’s all they know?”“Besides the sun, food, and mirrors, naturally. They must know about anything outwardly visible.” “And the compulsion?”Ravengard’s steps falter briefly. He cannot hide the fleeting moment of panic in his expression. “You haven’t mentioned that to me, Astarion.” But clearly, he knows about it. “And yet, you are aware.” “Yes,” he says quickly. “Lilith... she had informed me.”How difficult it is to hear a simple name being uttered aloud. How disarming, and debilitating it can be. “You are the only one who knows?”“Yes.” But that is false. Astarion is deep into the Lower City, weaving through the afternoon crowd on his way back to the manor when his feet suddenly stop. A feeling. A tug, deep within his chest. So familiar. So achingly familiar that it has to be— Astarion veers sharply to the left, narrowly avoiding a carriage with two dark mares. The city is a blur around him as he follows this invisible trail. It isn’t a scent, it isn’t a sight, but a feeling. It has to be.The roaring hope within him is powerful, driving him forward, bringing him through alleys, and wide plazas. At last, his feet halt before a building. It seems to have been renovated recently, likely after the Netherbrain attack, with parts of the exterior mismatching—as if the builders painted it in the dark, and couldn’t tell the difference between off-white, and white. There is momentum pushing him forward. He is drawn to this building, even more so with every step that brings him closer.And in the next moment, he has easily slipped through the large front door, revealing a hall of other doors, and a spiraling staircase. Apartments. There is no thought, and no consideration. His stride is set, and he knows exactly where he has to go, and that is up. He climbs floor after floor, round, and round until the feeling solidifies. He hardly registers the number of flights he climbs, but he knows that he is here.The apartment at the end of the hall. He is in front of it in just a few large steps, and his fist is against the wooden door, demanding entry. There is shuffling behind the door. He can hear the sound of feet dragging on the floor, coming closer, and closer. And finally, the door cracks open.A gasp from the woman peeking through at him.A yell from inside.
  Mary!
An order to close the door. But Astarion jams his foot in before it can be shut. No—he doesn’t need permission to enter. Not anymore. He is able to elbow his way inside, which is no surprise, given that the force attempting to keep him out is a frail old woman. There is fear in her eyes as she scurries further inside.“Step back,” a man commands desperately, throwing himself in front of her. He holds out an arm, keeping the woman behind him. His red eyes are wide and utterly terrified, but his face gives Astarion pause.A striking face, with a strong nose, and well-defined cheekbones. His long blonde hair is loose upon his shoulders, sprinkled upon a white tunic that is tucked into dark trousers—but that face. That is when Astarion realizes… he knows him. “Sylas Vore,” he says, with great surprise.“Mary, go into the bedroom,” Sylas orders. “Now.” The old woman hurries away, shutting the door behind her.But when Astarion knew Sylas, he was alive. And the man before him is very much dead. So this is why Sylas Vore hadn’t been at court for so long.Astarion examines the man’s form. Such pale skin, such manic, crimson eyes. The two bites on his neck are evidence of a sire… and Astarion bristles at the thought that there might be True Vampires lurking in his domain. But the feeling in his chest remains insistent, pulsing strongly within this room. “I know she is here.”Sylas bends into a protective crouch before the bedroom door. “You can’t have her. You can’t.” Decency is not something that is on the forefront of Astarion’s mind. In fact, it rarely is. “Move away from the door, and stay.” He says it with a blazing gaze, staring deep within Sylas Vore’s eyes. The compulsion is easy, and the vampire spawn succumbs right away. The Ascension has made him master of all. “No!” Sylas screams, even as his feet drag themselves to the side. “No. She’s healing. Please.” Healing? That only hastens Astarion’s pace, striding past Sylas quickly. He pushes the door in, nearly taking it off its hinges, but after a single cursory glance, he shuts it again immediately. Whipping around to Sylas, he asks with eerie calm, “Where is she?” “Please, master—”“Answer me. Where is Lilith?” The desperation in his expression lightens, his face smoothing out at the question. “What?”“Lilith Savini. She’s here.”Sylas straightens, attempting to move his feet. “No, she isn’t.”Astarion heads into the other rooms, throwing open their doors, glancing over the bathing chambers, and then the kitchen. The house is bl@@dy empty, save for two unknown women holed up in the bedroom. One scared out of her wits, and the other bedridden. “You’re lying,” Astarion grits out, eyes running frantically over every square inch of this cursed place. The bedroom door opens, and it isn’t the old lady that appears, but the other one. A young woman, with rounded, human ears, clearly weakened by illness. With a hand at her belly, a wince on her face, she peers through at Astarion. “Please, no,” Sylas says to her, battling his limbs, exertion evident on his brow. “Please, go back inside. Please.” He looks at Astarion, begging, “Don’t touch her. She has much to heal. Please.” “I want nothing to do with her, d@mn you,” Astarion growls. “I don’t know who in the Hells she is. I am only here for—”“Lilith Savini,” the woman croaks, leaning a shoulder against the threshold. She closes her eyes briefly, clearly wincing through a bout of pain. “Lovely woman.” “Anneliese, I beg you,” Sylas pleads. “Pale hair, pale face. She could be Sylas’s sister. That Lilith Savini, yes?” The woman says, squinting at Astarion. “Are you the Ascendant Vampire Lord?” “Anneliese,” Sylas emphasizes. “I apologize, she has been given medication, and—”“Enough,” Astarion says, hands on his hips, pacing in the little sitting room. He unravels the compulsion holding Sylas, who springs forward, toppling to the ground before scurrying towards the woman. Astarion’s senses are on high alert, attempting to chase that feeling. He’s turning in circles trying to pinpoint— “She is here,” he rasps. “I can feel it.”“What do you feel?” Anneliese wonders, blinking at him, one hand on the threshold, and the other on Sylas’s arm. “Her. I feel—” “No,” Sylas says. “What you are feeling is a bond. One which ties you to a spawn.” “I don’t have any spawn.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “It takes two to create one, you know. With significant effort on my part.”“Lilith was your spawn, was she not?” Anneliese says, partially slurring. “When she was here, she told me your story. How tragic it was. Astor—Astar—Astarion, is it?” “Mary,” Sylas calls. “Please. Will you…” Two hands appear, gently prying Anneliese back into the bedroom. Sylas closes the door, and then turns, immediately averting Astarion’s eyes. “Again, she is healing, and her medication is heavy. I apologize.” “You called me master,” Astarion says carefully with a probing stare. “I’ve never bitten you.”“You have bitten me.” His hands brush his neck, over those two imprints of fangs. “And you feel the bond, don't you?” He swallows roughly. “I suspect that is why you are here.” Sylas’s body language is one of fear. He keeps back towards the door to the bedroom, knees slightly bent, as if to leap up in a strike, or leap away to safety. His fingers flex, as if preparing for a punch. Astarion’s presence is a threat—to him, to the two women in this apartment.A vampire spawn is still powerful. Sylas could easily tear apart an opponent with his fingers, with his fangs. But he couldn’t rise up against his master.“I think I would remember if I bit someone, and gave them my blood,” Astarion says curtly. Sylas keeps his eyes far away from him. He blinks once, twice. His voice wavers, as if it is difficult to get the words out. “You had a lot to drink that night, master. I would be surprised if you remembered.” Astarion shakes his head at the incredulous suggestion that he— “So I’ve drunk myself into biting you—a damned Flaming Fist officer—and then fed you my blood. You transformed, and simply… left? Is that it?” Astarion’s eyes return to the closed bedroom door. “And Lilith has been here? She… knows you?” He cannot prevent the groan that escapes his lips, the pain dizzying him momentarily. “Of course, she knows you. You met her during that party... at the High Hall. And then you came over for dinner, and—”He falters, because the more he thinks, the harder it gets to visualize that night. “—and we had duck, venison... there was pie, and...” Nothing.He blinks. Hard. “That was the night? That was the night you…?” A night that is nothing but a haze after a certain point. The wine, he recalls, was always in his grip—at the party, as he weaved in and out of circles of nobles; during dinner, as he watched Lilith, seated there before him, as she picked up her own goblet…And that was the last time Astarion had seen Sylas Vore. “F@ck,” Astarion whispers, eyes slashing up and down Sylas’s form. He takes a step back. “F@ck. Sylas Vore, I’ve f@ck@ng killed you.”Sylas is silent. There is a small loveseat near the entrance. Astarion slowly lowers himself onto it. With great disbelief, with hardly any words he can form, he manages, “Lilith came to visit you?”Uncertainly, Sylas nods. “She never told me about you.” Astarion stares down to his hands, limp in his lap. “She never mentioned you, but she knew. She knew... because she was there.” He buries his face into his hands, at the realization, at the pain blossoming in his head. “Gods, Sylas. I am—I am so sorry.” Sylas doesn’t say a word.“And you are afraid of me.” He lets his hands slide away from his face. “But you have nothing to fear from me. Nothing.” There is no part of Sylas Vore that seems to believe him. “I need to take care of Anneliese, master.”“Astarion. Call me Astarion. And I can emancipate you from this—you do not have to remain a spawn. I can—”“Please, Astarion,” Sylas says uneasily, keeping his eyes low. “I need to take care of her.”“If you do need anything—”“I appreciate it. I do.”He doesn’t. The only thing that he seems grateful for is the permission to slip through the bedroom door behind him. There is a harsh click of the lock, and Astarion is alone in the sitting room, left to stare after his spawn.It is a few minutes later that he stands, and heads for the front door. There is no one to see him out, so he carefully closes the door behind him, as if he has no right to disturb this place more than he already has. And then, numb with disbelief, he takes the long road back to the manor.When he finds himself home, he pauses in the entrance hall. There is a servant—young, and male, who hurries through with a pitcher in his hands. “Master,” he says, and Astarion flinches. “Welcome home. Would you like for us to set up an early dinner?”Distractedly, Astarion says, “Would you fetch me a quill and paper?”The servant disappears up the stairs, and Astarion enters the dining chambers. Instead of walking all the way to the other end of the table for his seat, he pulls out the closest one. It is Lilith’s chair, right at the mouth of the room. A moment later, the same servant appears with a piece of paper, a small ink pot, and a quill. “Wait here,” Astarion says, as he writes down a vague description of the location to the best of his ability. There is one thing he clearly remembers, though. The apartment number etched into the door he had pounded on. He slips the note into the servant’s hands. “Have dinner prepared to feed three, and send it here.”The servant takes a moment to read through it. “And for you, master? What will it be for you, and Sir Halsin? And is Lady Shadowheart—?”“That can all wait.” Astarion leans back in the chair, and stares ahead, attempting to conjure himself at the other end of the table, placing Sylas Vore to his current left. “Are you sure, master? I can fetch you a drink, if you prefer.”But he hardly hears him, gaze locked in on that chair at the midpoint of the table.And he wonders why, during the fateful dinner that night, he had kindly asked Sylas Vore to pick up a knife.
  A/N: Why, indeed?'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
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