Chapter Text
It had been six months since she had foolishly helped him Ascend, five months since they had defeated the Netherbrain, four months since she had begun to fear what he had become, three months since she'd noticed something was wrong with herself, two weeks since she had last seen him, and one day since she had begun to earnestly pack bags, making plans for escape.
She couldn't stay any longer.
Astarion was no longer the same man that she had fallen in love with, and Willow could no longer afford to hope that he would wake up from his dreams of endless, decadent night.
He wasn't even the same man he’d been the night he had begged her to help him, and she had relented, something she regretted almost since the moment she agreed. She could no longer pretend that the man she loved existed any longer. That man had been a vampire spawn… and had died with all the rest of them.
All 7,000 souls weighing on her conscience, his foremost amongst them.
She couldn't stay any longer, couldn't hope and dream. Now she had something precious to protect. A last vestige of his goodness, the remnants of his love, before it became a corrupt, dark possessiveness.
She honestly couldn't believe he didn't have her in a leash and collar yet, but perhaps that was part of whatever had kept him away so long. Or perhaps he had forgotten about her already, lost in his own world of splendor and debauchery.
That, cruelly, might have been her best-case scenario: abandoned in a castle redolent with blood and filth. It would make this next part easier.
A note, addressed to Astarion. Not Lord Astarion, not His Highness Astarion, nor any of the fancy titles he'd played with the last time she'd been privileged enough to spend time in the same room as him (on his lap, at his side, always touching, reminding all of who she belonged to). Just the name of the man who she believed had loved her, once.
She had to believe as much, or the despair would drown her.
She left the note on her pillow, bed cold the last several days and nights. She had been too worried to get much sleep, and what little she did was in her study, the only other room in the palace in which she had a reasonable expectation of privacy (which was to say, almost none).
The bedroom she left as it had been when he gave it to her: cold, ostentatious, bedecked in finery that she hated (that he knew she hated, or had known, once upon a time).
The study, she carefully looted. Everything she could actually use, she took. Everything else, all of his displays of petty vanity, the carefully crafted claim on her heart, was quietly burned. All of the little meaningless love notes (written by someone else, initialled by him), the trinkets, most of the lavish clothes (which he had no hand in creating or modifying).
She saved a few of her road clothes. Her hurdy-gurdy. Handkerchiefs embroidered with stars and willow trees, a pair of trousers he'd modified for her tail. Remnants from when he was hers, and she was his, and they could call it love.
Now, it all tasted like ashes.
An open window served as her escape route, and she remembered the nights they escaped her own home this way. Down she went, careful, silent, nimbly making her way across the paths, still-beating heart pounding frantically. She didn't want to think of what he might do if he thought she was leaving (even if he had forgotten about her). Didn't dare consider the weight of his fury.
She made it out of the estate grounds. Made it across the way. Another street. A mile. And there it was before her, like an old friend: her home, her safe place, the haven her friends had retreated to in their times of need. The charms were still intact. They welcomed her with open arms and she bolted the doors on entry, weeping with relief. She had made it this far.
Before she could leave the city altogether, she wanted to at least say goodbye to those she'd lost along the way. She didn't know when she would return.
If she could return.
Perhaps if she found some way to bring him back… Or take him out.
Until then, she would run. And hope she had time to get ahead, before he discovered things were amiss.
Before he discovered anything else, either.