faderift | [CLOSED] AND YOU'LL KNOW THE NEXT TIME I WAKE UP SCREAMING

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[CLOSED] AND YOU'LL KNOW THE NEXT TIME I WAKE UP SCREAMING

WHO: Astarion, Fenris, Bastien, Emet-Selch, Mobius, Ellie, Dante, Loki
WHAT: fear spirits are no joke when you're a bag of broken glass
WHEN: backdated to Crossroads plot hours
WHERE: the Crossroads
NOTES: so many content warnings: mind control, slavery, torture, blood, mutilation and abuse of every conceivable/literal shade, possibly more warnings to be added later, not joking this is a very horrible space. There's a reason why I'm divorcing this from the main log; Astarion's canon is, in short, unkind.

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[Whatever it was about the crossroads that made things so disorienting, it seemed to be having a greater impact on Astarion than Dante for whatever reason. Of course he was no stranger to spirit and demonic shenanigans in this world, but physical pain and discomfort was easier to move through. Though maybe there was also something to be said for his demonic constitution as well that kept him on his feet.

As long as he wasn't sleeping impressions upon him seemed mild a best, annoying at worst and the only thing they could really take advantage of was memories. Sadness. Isolation. Poignant things, but not crippling things so perhaps this also gave him some measure of protection, but taversing this hellscape was nothing short of a challenge and, for Astarion it seemed insurmountable.]

Yeah, I've had better times. [Dante agreed, seeking his companion out in the dark, making out his outline and the lamplight reflection of his eyes, pearls of light in the dark.]

Guess we could both use a little break. [Although Dante suspected this was not the best place to break, in fact this was not a good place to be, but Astarion almost appeared to be in pain. What could it hurt to stop for a moment? If they needed to get out of here immediately then he'd throw his partner over his shoulder and take off.

Simple enough]

[Sharp senses are wonderful at times. A way to know what’s coming well before it strikes, a means to sniff out an advantage in an upcoming battle or pluck up a few whispered words without ever getting close (there’s a reason why Orlesian halls flocked with serving elves are pinprick troves of spilled secrets— maybe in Tevinter it’s the same too, though Astarion tries not to deeply consider it for too long). Now though, it’s reaching a tipping point: all too much at once, too constantly. Elven ears and eyes without any amount of worldly acceptance; the Crossroads reject him as if he’s just as much an intruder as anyone without pointed ears to spare.

His smile is as thin as damp paper when he aims it Dante's way. Difficult to spot, but not difficult to hear.:] Unless you feel like carrying me.

[Teasing, of course. Said as he moves to sit down across a patch of (equally compared to their surroundings) dark stone, exhaling slowly when he lifts his heels— such a small relief turned bloody massive. Gods.]

This is the last mission I’m ever signing myself up for. Calling it now.

[He doesn’t mean that.]

[Dante's senses were dulled in this world, even then the only heightened sense Dante had was sense of smell. His eye-sight and hearing might be above average, b ut fell within the range of normal when human and better than normal when demon. It was his spatial awareness and intuition that remained and so it was nothing compared to the sensory overload Astarion was probably experiencing.

He didn't envy him.]

If it becomes too unbearable to even move, I'll scoop you up and cart you around like a princess [equally teasing, but as history has demonstrated, Dante isn't above picking Astarion up and carrying him around and vice versa, much to his amusement. The reality being, however, that neither of them wanted to be stuck here indefinitely so he doubted very much that Astarion would protest if it came to that.

Sliding down the wall to rest beside him Dante shrugged out of his coat and draped it over Astarion. He couldn't drown everything out, but he could dampen it a little.]

Are you willing to bet money on that? [Dante gave Astarion a gentle nudge knowing he was just overwhelmed by this particular mission.]

[Unbearable pain isn't likely to happen, much as Astarion whines through his own set teeth; childish petulance is a luxury with his old life so far away, and he indulges dearly in it now— but his body still remembers the worst of the agony he used to howl through with all the desperate misery of a trapped animal, and in the face of it, there's surprisingly little he can't endure.

Provided he has to.]

Against you?

Not entirely.

[There’s an edge to it, like the start of humor that never quite takes root; he sinks beneath the surface of that coat the second that it touches him, bearing into it (and Dante both, in fact) like a buffering shield against the tightening screws of this place and all its unkind sensations. It might be his imagination (he’s tired, surely that’s it), but he swears he hears whispers in the lightless depths no more than a few feet from them.

Maybe one of the other scouting parties. There were more, after all.]

Doesn’t it exhaust you, too? Or am I the only one suffering between us. [Genuine, his curiosity, cheek scuffing along the lower slope of Dante's shoulder as he shifts to steal a glance at him.

(Better him than the dark, always a shade too much like home for his tastes.)] I can’t rightly say I’ve met any other cambions before you, after all.

Or...after, either. Barring the little spirit, of course.

[Not too far off, a sound like a small stone tumbling through echoing corners breaks the silence after Astarion's question. Hardly noteworthy, but unsettling all the same, Astarion's attention snapping to it like a pulled band.]

[Dante made a small, noncommittal sound that nearly registered as humor but was currently meeting Astarion where he was. Dante was infamously terrible at betting in any capacity, but he thought he'd have a fair shot if Astarion took the bet, but obviously it was at a disadvantage. He let it go at that, but reminded himself to rib Astarion about it later just to watch him hiss in protest.

For now, he craned his neck to the side, peering down as Astarion glanced up at him from the folds of his coat, lamp-like eyes earnest and curious. He couldn't see him, but Dante knew in his minds eye that it was adorable, a sentiment he'd keep to himself because anything remotely related to cute tended to make Astarion balk and that should probably be avoided.]

A little bit, it's annoying, but I guess my senses aren't as dialed up as yours are [which might explain a thing or two, Dante might have a higher pain threshold, not necessarily endurance, it takes a lot to make him respond to physical pain.

As for whether or not his devil trigger played any significant role in that or what it would look like if he did transform, Dante couldn't say. Not with scouts in the area.] Not sure how my other half would take to this...might have to--

[Dante came up short as he felt Astarion redirect his attention quickly, like a deer scenting danger. He hadn't heard the noise, but Astarion's sense were superior to his own so he trusted them.] What is it?

Edited 2022-03-18 15:55 (UTC)

I...don’t know. Probably nothing.

[The crossroads— particularly this hollow, lightless portion they now occupy— are inhabited by all too many Fadeborn oddities: spirits, magic, memories alike— crumbling stone and crawling wisps, and there’s a part of Astarion that thinks he’s being foolish, jumping at shadows as if they were real.

It could be anything, after all. Old caverns trickling as they erode. An animal (or a spirit imitating one) displacing a lone pebble, and here he is as stiff and alert as a cowering prey beast in its wake: neck stretched long where he rests, still angled towards Dante’s shoulder.

And yet...

And yet he can’t shake the feeling something is awry.

He moves to his feet in shifting silence, slithering from beneath the edges of Dante’s coat. Not a sound. Not a breath.

And then there’s a whisper in his ear.

Loud. So close it's unintelligible, matching one that snakes its way directly into Dante’s in the very next beat with a tangible puff of air— sending Astarion whirling on his heel to find—

Nothing.

Nothing at all.]

Fucking Hells—

[He bares his teeth, hissing like a snake. Surrounded by suffocating unease, and all the more unsettled for their absent antagonist.]

[As soon as Astarion climbed to his feet Dante followed in suit, if Astarion was sensing things he was not it was best to be on his guard than sitting vulnerably on his ass. He wasn't one to panic, but he could sense the distress roiling off of Astarion even if he couldn't see his face or sense another presence. That was cause for concern.

Even the undead and the demons in the Fallow Mire hadn't incited this level of upset, but that was an enemy that could be seen and if it could be seen and touched then it could be dispatched. Even Dante couldn't fight an invisible enemy.

With The Sparda drawn and ready he laid his hand on Astarion's shoulder just to be able to locate him in the dark, nothing worse than a swing and a miss unless it's hitting someone you don't intend to.]

I don't have your senses so you're going to have to point me [if there's a problem that is.]

It—

[He swivels back in a looping circle, twisting like a snake towards either side of him, reflective eyes blinking in soft bewilderment as Dante’s voice (as his words register, shaking Astarion out of his own rattled stupor:]

You didn’t hear it?

[Is his mind playing tricks on him?

No. No, he heard it— he felt it— as surely as his companion stands firmly at his side, someone was hissing in his ear.

And then from somewhere in the twisting tunnels comes the call of a sweet, soft voice.

'Astarion? Astarion, where have you gone— '

And Astarion stops. Still as death. Frozen as the grave itself, breath trapped high in his lungs. He knows that voice. But it can’t be.

It can’t be her.

'Master is looking for you. He is so terribly furious that you’ve gone.'

One hand races behind him, grasping for the edge of Dante’s jacket. His arm. Anything—

They need to go.

Only they can’t.

Whatever their surroundings were, the caverns have twisted in darkness: stony walls have become colder, hand-hewn and weathered with age, something wet pooling beneath their feet in scattered puddles. It smells like wine.

It smells like blood.]

This isn’t real—

[He whispers, aimless and shivering with wracking fear.]

[No, Dante didn't hear anything, nothing but the dense vacuity of this place that crushed the senses and the distant sounds of their peers.

That didn't mean Astarion wasn't hearing anything. Spirits perhaps? Dante was finding that to be the case whenever voices and visions paid him a visit unwanted.

But then again it might be something else.

He'd seen Astarion in a variety of states before irascible a fire, treacherous as the sea, and comforting as the embrace of flowering wisteria. He'd even seen him disoriented and injured. Downcast and alite with unbridled desire.

Fear like this was different and this was fear. Maybe he'd seen this too, but Astarion kept the cork so tightly wedged that he'd never seen it escape from the bottle before.

His eyes track Astarion as he paces and gyres around Dante, the half-demon's own body revolving with him to keep his shadow in site, the vague outline that stops to suddenly reach for him and Dante's fingers twist around Astarion's own. The scrambling grasp and tight tremulous hold communicated quite a bit.

The fear was real even if Dante couldn't sense the source.]

Star.

[His voice is soft, not hesitant, but firm enough to cut through to him the way his voice had in that hold some months ago. And just as Astarion had done then Dante drew his body into his paralyzed companion winding his free arm around slighter shoulders.]

It's not real...I'm real...I'm with you.

[It barely breaks the surface of that waking dream, Dante’s voice. Present, yes. Discernible. But not wholly there. As if reality and illusion have swapped places, and Astarion is far, far from cogent awareness beyond the heaviness of clinging fingers and intermingled scents (that, at least, he can recognize beyond the blood and stale mildew: the distinct note of a devil's presence— the non-Thedosian sort), and though it isn't an easy process, wresting himself away from the idea that he's back. That he's there. That Thedas was nothing but a blinking little flicker of a fantasy—

He tightens his hold on the man before him, face tucked in against his collarbone. Damp. The salt-slick sting of fear from fainter tear tracks, though it's no wracking, sobbing thing. Just silence. Just dread.

And in his ears rings that distant call of a livid voice. His name upon Cazador's lips.

Star—

Astarion]

I can hear him. It's him.

[His swallow is dry. Audible. Painful with the rabbiting beating of his own heart.]

My master.

[My master.

Dante was aware that Astarion had been a slave, of course, but he never inquired about the details.

The scars on his back. The uncharacteristic altruism where refugees from Tevinter were concerned. The silent tears running down his cheeks. The paralyzing fear that had him clinging to Dante, face buried against him.

What kind of a dicknosed fucktrumpet was this guy?

The sort of monster that would find itself wrapped around a bullet if Dante had his druthers.]

There's no one else here.

[To his knowledge, but that didn't need saying aloud.]

It's just us.

[He wasn't sure if his voice was reaching Astarion or not, Astarion seemed far away.]

He's not here, if he were I'd have ripped his teeth out of his skull and rammed them up his ass by now. He'd be gumming his supper.

[Hopefully Dante's brand of humor murmured in Astarion's ear could cut through the fear while he sweeps his gaze around the darkness surrounding them for an exit. Shit...Astarion's senses were definitely better, though Dante's sense of smell wasn't bad. Unfortunately this place was a void with nothing distinct to latch onto.

He had to rely on spatial intuition, not ideal, but he was determined to get Astarion out.]

[He feels sick. Racked with so much present dread— with the heavy hammering of his heartbeat in his throat— that he feels almost compelled to useless nausea. To shivering and buckling like a beaten animal, unable to wrest himself away from shackling horrors that should be so long forgotten.

But they’re not.

Nothing is.

So— what is he to do, when the world itself is divided? When Dante swears they’re alone, but every second is filled with the call of his master (who should not be here) his knuckles set with pain for how tightly he clings to the edges of Dante's coat.]

Lead me.

You— [Stop start. Stiff through his own throat.] you have to lead me out of here. I can’t look to help you. I can’t see anything but his memory each time I try.

You’ll have to remember the way we came. Exactly how I walked you in.

It's the only way.

[At Astarion's urging Dante scooped him into his arms, easier to carry him out then to trip over him the whole way. The complex part was orienting himself in the dark so that he could find his way out. There should be a the cavern wall just to his side where they were resting before the fear took over and that was his first marker, keeping that portion of the gave to the appropriate side of his body was useful.

But ultimately he was going to need some assistance to navigate the dark corridors.]

Hold on, I need to give myself an edge [Without Astarion's keener senses he was at a disadvantage and while it might have been a risk with others being so close it was one he was willing to take.

The shift from human to demon was seamless, the coat Astarion was clinging to became leathery armor that was probably familiar by now. The greatest advantage he had was the vague glow provided by his own flesh that gave him some visual rage.

Not entirely in the dark and isolated from his senses he could use his intuition to carefully edge their way back to the entrance of this tunnel.] We'll...find another way around.

[He’s grateful for it, that sudden shift in positioning. He’ll never admit it— he doesn’t know how— but there’s nothing in his trembling body that isn’t relieved the second he’s swept up in those arms, each breath near to rasping for how fiercely he’s pressed himself to Dante’s throat.

It helps.

In so many ways he wishes there were some way to sink farther into that hold, but— ]

...talk to me.

[Quiet. Hardly more than a whisper.]

Please.

[Drown out the rest of this nightmare.]

[Dante doesn't know how to fight against an enemy he can't see, that there's nothing he can do for Astarion's pain other than move is a novel situation. Taking a sword to something, fighting like hell to protect what's important? It helps when there's something he can impact.

If getting Astarion out of here is the best course of action then he can do that much, and fortunately the traces of light that radiated from him gave him what he needed so they weren't circling back around.

He's so focused on that goal that when Atarion pleads for him to speak Dante is taken aback at first, most people he's come across could hardly tolerate his monologuing...but he's not doing it for himself.]

Did I ever tell you I have...a pretty good sense of smell? I mean it's useless here because it just smells like we're in a void...it's even worse than space where at least there's some smells [though how do you describe what space smells like] Like sweet-smelling welding fumes and ozone.

The stars are beautiful though, we see white hot light from billions and billions of miles away...but they're blue and red, gold and orange. Apparently blue stars burn the hottest while red stars are in their twilight years and burn the coldest.

[Space is pretty interesting especially when you've been there.]

When people talk about walking in sunlight I wonder if it's more accurate to say you're walking in starlight?

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[CLOSED] AND YOU'LL KNOW THE NEXT TIME I WAKE UP SCREAMING

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