#aurelia bg3

[ineadhyn]

Astarion's time in the tomb

And whilst I am at it, here is a more serious short drabble about Astarion's time in the tomb and the day he finally got out. It was probably not as euphoric as one would expect

Inspired by a post about Astarion and the effects of solitary confinement that I can't find anymore.

It's safe for work and not too graphic, but shows the mental damage quite drastically so continue if you feel safe with that. (Ha, I finally figured out how to make cuts)

Light fell onto the fragments of his consciousness. His mind was a disjointed swirl of thoughts and images that no longer made sense and hadn't found connection for a long time. A scraping of stone on stone accompanied the light and with it came voices. Astarion had heard them too many times. They were never real. Nothing was real. Not the faces in the darkness, not the voices, not the blood dripping from the walls - the blood he dreamt would moisten his tongue, but only drowned him in the end. None of it was real. Yet, the visions were better than hunger and silence. Deafness and blindness. Of course, he wasn't really blind. His eyes could pierce through the darkness. But when everything you saw was gray, you might as well be blind. Astarion had seen them all. Everyone who could possibly open this tomb. From his parents to unknown heroes to Cazador. And every time his fingers reached out with longing they only met rough stone. He knew that the images his brain conjured were not real. He didn't react to them anymore. What could he possibly do even if they were real? He had no voice anymore. Had lost it long ago, somewhere in the dusty darkness to his feet. It had rolled down, and since he couldn't turn around, he couldn't find it again. Of course he had screamed. The memory of himself crying his lungs out was still strangely fresh, like an open wound. He had given up quickly. Just a few months later. There was a pale spot of sunlight that wandered along the edge of his prison at regular intervals. Astarion guessed it happened once a day. Not bright enough to burn himself. (He had tried.) He scratched into the stone that locked him, marking how many times the spot appeared since he had been sealed in here. He made 249 strokes. Then he gave up counting. Gave it up like he had given up everything. The screaming, the scratching, the praying. It was endless. Astarion was dust and ash. Astarion was

Skeleton. A skeleton. Armor rattling, jaw gnawing. Godey... "Come on, get out of there!" Out? He didn't understand the meaning of these words. Didn't understand the feeling of bony fingers pulling at his body. Not … Cazador. Not real. Not - "Are you sucking on your own arm? Pathetic. Come now, boy. I don't have all day." A crypt in twilight. Dusty curtains, body parts too weak to bear his weight. Breaking. Collapsing. Dead rat! Blood - Blood - Blood Forgotten. Forgotten how it tastes. Old. Rancid. Wonderful. The first breath. Unnecessary. Freeing.

Seeing, thinking. Astarion looked down on himself. He was naked. The bite wounds on his arms began to close after he’d drunk the rat’s blood. Flesh and skin closed over the bare bones of his fingertips. "Dress up." It was his old shirt and pants. The clothes he always wore. The clothes that Astarion, the spawn, wore. Maybe he was still in there somewhere. Between the threadbare layers of fabric, embroidered into a line of poetry, as if Astarion had known he would need to store himself somewhere.

Godey pushed him forward, and he followed obediently. Back into the palace. Lamps, floors, paintings. His head began to spin, unable to process all the impressions after such a long time with nothing. "Come on, boy." He stumbled on until they reached a familiar room. Bunk beds and peeling wallpaper. Aurelia was there. When they entered, she gave them a glance. His sister wanted to say something, but the sight of Godey kept her silent. Better that way. Even after all the years Aurelia had been here she still feared the kennels.

"Clean him up." Godey pushed Astarion into the room, where he fell to his knees, unable to balance the shove. He sat there as the skeleton left and closed the door. Aurelia approached cautiously. "So, it's true. He let you come back." Silence. "Astarion?" He wanted to answer. He had to try at least. But his voice seemed to still be left in the tomb. Aurelia sighed, then grabbed him under the arms and pulled him up. "I really don't feel like it, but you heard Godey. I have to wash you." Astarion tried to speak again as he sat in the wooden tub that the spawn used for this purpose, and Aurelia poured water over his hair. He flinched away from her touch, trying to do as much as possible himself. "How long?" "Hm?" They probably were both surprised that he could speak. "How long was I gone?" Aurelia set the bucket aside. "A year." Astarion said nothing, only nodded. "I saw faces. And blood, dripping from the walls. It drowned me." Aurelia exhaled. "You were hallucinating. Pull yourself together, Astarion." He stared at her with wide eyes. "I don't mean it cruelly. But you have to pull yourself together. Cazador expects you to bring him a mark today." Astarion continued to stare at her, but the tiefling woman only handed him the soap. "Here, I think you can do this yourself." Then she rushed out of the room.

The gods truly showed no mercy to him.