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Epilogue: A Palace Wall
Astarion chooses to ascend. He asks you to help him because he's gained too much in his time being free, and he can't lose it now. You help him because you promised him you would and because you love him.
You become his spawn and consort because he reminds you of your words in the Underdark, that he deserves not to be lonely. He claims he needs you by his side for eternity, and you believe him, so you accept his offer of immortality.
The Szarr Palace is his now. He takes it after the defeat of the Netherbrain, along with the contents of Cazador's vault in the Counting House. He then has the means to reconstruct the manor in his image. It becomes the Crimson Palace.
Astarion selects everything down to the last detail. You offer suggestions on some of the decor, but he has impeccable tastes, remember, so it would be best if he has the final say in such matters. It takes a while to decorate the whole thing as the palace is massive. It's so huge, in fact, that you can't shake this feeling of emptiness as you walk the halls, despite all the items purchased to fill them.
You feel lonely in it at times, which is what you had feared would happen to Astarion if he were left here by himself. He seems delighted with his new residence, though, so you try to find some comfort in that. And you have Astarion, of course, who typically likes to keep you right by his side, but he also has a city to subjugate through the shadows that often demands his attention too.
The servants do all the physical labor of actually installing the seemingly endless amount of decor. Despite what Astarion had once said about it not being typical to befriend the staff, you try to socialize with them anyway. You make progress at first, but eventually, they revert back to regarding you with formalities. Extreme formalities, even more so than when you first met them. You suspect they've been punished for getting too friendly with you, but Astarion dismisses your accusations, and you can't prove it. Even though you don't know for sure, you stop trying anyway because there's fear in their eyes when you try to strike up a casual conversation. Your loneliness persists.
You eventually ask if you could have your own personal room to decorate, and he affords you a whole wing of the palace. Albeit, it's a wing in the back of the estate, but that's fine by you. Better back here where you can hide away from the ever growing adoring horde of visitors. The main ballroom often hosts the influential and the nobility, an extravagant crowd that's all so very eager to fall for his beautiful lies. It's stifling and unsettling and too often prompts you to wonder if you're falling for the same lies, so you enjoy the comfort of your wing when you can.
You wanted to browse for decorations at the marketplaces in the Lower City, but apparently that's beneath you now. Merchants bring you products to choose from at Astarion's behest. The selection is suspiciously limited to items that you know are to his tastes. You did always like to get his opinions on things, but you don't appreciate this false sense of choice he's presented to you. You get nowhere arguing with him about it, though, and your wing ends up looking remarkably similar to the rest of the palace.
This same pattern occurs with his gifts to you as well. Astarion is always buying you new clothes and accessories that are a style of his choosing, and you must wear them tomorrow and show him how you look in them. As time passes, you realize how less and less of a say you get in dressing yourself. You were empathizing with a wall of the palace the other day, one adorned with fine art and expensive drapes and jeweled sconces.
It's easier to stare at things than to contemplate how your own choices led you to this life, and something you find yourself gazing at often are the new candlesticks of your home. All the ornate, gaudy silver candlesticks have been replaced. These are the ones that were identical to the candlestick you brought to camp before, the one that you belatedly realized that just the sight of it had sent Astarion into a panic.
The new candlesticks are made of gold and have an even more elaborately crafted design than their predecessors. He had the old ones melted down and reforged into a dagger that he keeps on him at all times for reasons you don't understand. You don't understand a lot of his decisions lately, and even if you ask, he won't answer you, not really. But regardless, it's now the dagger he prefers to use the most when inflicting pain on others.
One day, Astarion informs you that he will be away for a while, but you must remain here to protect his domain. Our domain. At any rate, he leaves out any of the details, and you've stopped asking for them.
When you're sure he's left, you hurry to the furthest room in your wing, which is being used for storage. Inconspicuously and purposefully tucked away in this room is your traveler's chest, and inside this chest are your tent decorations.
One by one, you delicately take them out and lay them in front of you. The vase he found for you. The satchel of potpourri he crafted for you. The plate he convinced you to keep with the charm and charisma that used to make you laugh. The cushion he gifted to you at one of the lowest points in your life. The banner he sewed for you, lovingly sewed for you, because you loved banners and he loved you. You even kept the bottle rack that you gave him, which you reclaimed at some point once you realized he no longer had any interest in it.
These items are your sole and last source of comfort. They remind you of better times in your life. This is where you spend all your time whenever Astarion is away. You keep it a secret from him, always putting everything back when you know he's returning. Since the purpose of this room is for storage only, the walls are bare, and that is somehow soothing to you as well. It inspires you to temporarily discard the accessories you've been dictated to wear, though you also always put them back on before you leave this room.
You're here again today, feeling particularly depressed and longing for something that is now beyond your reach. After you've arranged all your items in your sad little display of nostalgia, you wrap yourself in your banner and lie down on the floor, facing your old tent decor. Astarion's cushion sits under your head.
You're reminiscing and daydreaming and you don't know how long you were lying there for. Too long, though. The door bursts open. The master of the house has returned.
You turn to Astarion, startled and horrified to see him standing in the doorway, his face darkened in anger. Your initial fear is that he's upset you weren't there to greet him, but then you realize he's glaring at all your tent decorations. That is much worse.
You're keeping secrets, you're miserably wallowing in the past instead of living your proper life as his consort, you're prioritizing these useless trinkets over him. It's unforgivable. He's furious. You're scrambling to your feet, but he holds out a hand to signal for you to stop and you freeze, only having managed to get onto your knees. His favorite position for you. You're starting to panic and tears are forming in your eyes and you hope this disgraceful sight of you is enough to lessen his wrath.
It's not. He takes out his favorite silver dagger and he breaks and smashes and slashes everything. You're forced to watch, helplessly sobbing as he meticulously destroys the precious items that mean the world to you. He saves your banner for last, the one he helped you pick the fabric for, the one he stitched together with you by his side in your tent. Holding it with such disdain, he tells you he always hated it and then mutters the most vicious Ignis you'll ever hear. Your banner bursts into flames.
You're numb after that, not listening to whatever tirade he's going on about now. He will eventually drag you through the halls of the palace while you listlessly note the appearance of the walls that pass before your eyes, wishing you could be a wall too. It'll register in your mind that you already fit most of the criteria to be just another fixture of the Crimson Palace, so you'll think of how nice it would be if you were the kind that isn't burdened with feelings and emotions and pain.
He will also eventually buy you a dozen immaculately and professionally sewn banners, custom ordered to resemble yours. It will not help and will only make you realize how little he understands, how far gone he is from the man you fell in love with. After a week, you won't show any signs of improvement, and he'll start to get irritated, so you'll have to pretend that you love your new, horrible banners.
But right now, you're still kneeling in the ruins of all the things you actually love—smashed pottery, tattered shreds of fabric, splintered pieces of wood, and ashes. You wonder if you can fashion a stake out of the broken bottle rack, though you don't know if it's for him or for you.