what I had left here, I held it tight, so someone with your eyes might come in time to hold me like water or hold me like a knife
Astarion had only ever felt like this two times before in his immortal life.
The first being when he’d awoken in pitch black – an unusual occurrence for an elf like himself who was adept at seeing in the dark. But when there was not a sliver of light to reflect and give way for him to make out his surroundings, and upon realizing his arms and legs could not move more than a few inches as he lay in total confinement, he knew something was terribly wrong.
For he had awoken with a most frightening unease that somehow replaced the predicament and growing fear of his limited space and knowledge of where he might be. It was the hunger, the deep need that rose within him that sent his breaths coming out hurried. A sanguine thirst that he knew right then could never fully be quenched.
The horror of what he was somehow paled in comparison to what would follow. The groveling of dirt that unforgivingly poured in when he clawed at the wood of his deathbed. How his fingers bled from what felt like hours of trying to free himself, only to be crushed under the weight of what he assumed to be six feet of earth. And when he screamed and cried out he thought surely someone would come. Someone would hear him and dig him out.
But nobody came. And it wasn’t until the effort of what he believes might’ve killed a normal being that he managed to heave himself to the surface. The tang of blood and sweat and dirt his only company as he collapsed and wept openly on his grave.
That was, perhaps, the most merciful circumstance. As the second time he found himself trapped he knew not what was in store. The severity that followed a simple and stupid moment of reflection. A moment of compassion he would never make the mistake of committing again.
Was he really so naive to think his master would never find out? That Cazador Szar had it in him to allow such compassion ? A split-second of misjudgement that led to over a decade of imprisonment, slowly starving yet never truly to death. Left to relive that death sentence over and over again until the pain became second nature.
Those days, months, years spent screaming. Hoping – holding onto hope that someone might free him or even show enough mercy to kill him. He cried out until his voice was raw and unfamiliar, losing yet another part of himself that was becoming so foreign. He hated himself for how he always held onto the smallest of beliefs that some soul might yet come and free him of his nightmare.
But no one came. Not until Astarion was sure the next face he’d see, if any, was none other than Cazador. His expression twisted in mockery. Have you learnt your lesson yet, spawn?
Yes. Yes, yes he had. Please, Master. It will never happen again.
And so this time when Astarion blinks open his eyes to a familiar sense of confiding walls that surround him, he knows he shall save his breath. There was no point in wasting energy to call out for any help. He knew all too well, none would come.
He had to admit, he was surprised to find it wasn’t a coffin, nor a stone slab of any mausoleum that he found himself within. It was not dark, well – not as dark as he was used to waking up in. His confinement consisted of a pod-like bed with a cover made of fleshy membrane he could peer out of. The image before him was unlike anything he’s ever seen before, that same fleshy interior lining the open space his pod and several others were set up in.
Strange. What was the last thing he remembered? The filthy alleyways of the lower city. Surely the sight before him now was an upgrade. If this was another of his master’s punishments, he wondered if he was losing his touch. But what could Astarion possibly be punished over? He hadn’t done anything wrong. If scouting for a new victim to lure back for his master at his grand castle in the well-off part of the city wasn’t considered wrong, that is. Nothing he could help, of course. Astarion was reborn a simple monster to do his master’s bidding, doing anything to the contrary often meant he wound up in a nailed shut coffin for another handful of excruciating years.
Something scurried past his pod then, drawing his attention below as something that Astarion swore looked like a large brain with legs scuttled past. Surely he must be losing it. Perhaps he was in trance back in his quarters, conjuring up a strangely detailed and long lasting dream that was, yes, strange indeed, but otherwise harmless.
But what felt like hours trickled by without much else happening. He’s sure that there are other people in the pods surrounding his own, though he is unable to get a clear enough look to confirm the theory. And when he thinks he may pass out again from inactivity and the sudden wave of exhaustion that overtakes his mind and muscles, things begin to happen all too fast.
A Mindflayer – a creature he’d only ever heard stories of – hovers into view. Its long tentacles float eerily around the pods' window, its malicious orange eyes stare into Astarion’s own with ill intent. It's even more terrifying than how he’d imagined they look from the scarce yet horrifying descriptions.
Panic seizes him, causing his already stiff limbs to go rigid. The creature lifts a claw-like hand, easily opening the pod with a wordless command and Astarion immediately springs into action, attempting to slip past it. It’s useless, as tentacles push him against the pod's interior, tightening around him while he struggles. Before he can attempt to gain an upper hand on the growing-more-dire-by-the-second situation, the creature leans in close, something wriggling just in front of Astarion’s eye so close he can’t focus on it. He thinks one large chomp and his days will finally be over, but instead he feels the complete repulsive sensation of whatever was pushed into his vision slither into his head behind his eye.
The tentacles that had enclosed around him are gone the next instant. Reflexively, Astarion brings his hands to rub at his eyes, “Ughh!” His head feels like it’s going to explode, so acutely aware of how that thing now wiggles around inside him. Then it ceases, along with the pain, so instantaneously he almost thinks it disappeared. But something within him – perhaps a newly acquired sixth sense – tells him this is most definitely not the case.
When he opens his eyes again, the Mindflayer is gone and the glass door has secured him inside the pod once more. He bangs his fists against it, trying to will it open as the creature had moments ago. Nothing happens. It's not until he hears the unpleasant squelch of something and a thud that he freezes, contorting himself to try and glimpse what he assumes in the Mindflayer’s next victim.
Astarion can’t see anything, until dark, almost black liquid begins to pool into view. Then there is a flash of something else. Raven hair blurring just beyond what he can see from the pod, and a flash of a long blade before stillness follows.
The question repeats in his mind; where is he? And what the hells is going on? He doesn’t get to ponder this for long, as shortly after his stomach drops with a weightless sensation and gravity is lost to him. The pod he’s nestled within begins to tremble, first only slightly and then not even a few minutes later violently. He squeezes his eyes shut as nausea overcomes him. Then he’s being thrown around the inside of the pod. And just when he thinks he can’t take anymore, his consciousness slips with a crescendo and everything goes black.
if you're not obsessed with a fucked up female character i hope that changes for you soon. becoming obsessed with a genuinely deranged fictional woman will change your life.
the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.
jacobvanloon
janainaart
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izzy806
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