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Flicker,
flicker,
flicker.
The lights rushed past his closed eyes.
One.
Two.
Three.
Darkness engulfed him again.
A cold gust caressed his skin, making him shiver. It reminded him of the hands of the one who had once been the center of his universe. The one who'd grasped his throat and squeezed until all he had left was the gasp of his name on his tongue.
The pain, the love, the loss. It hurt. The memory, the sudden lack of it, the darkness, the cold, the rattling of his body as he was moved. It hurt.
He did not know what It was but he was sure it hurt. Everything, every single cell in his body felt as if it was rewritten, as if some irrevocable fact of his being was missing.
His name, his existence, his purpose. Dion felt a hollow echo where once the thing that was the sum of his parts had sat. The memory of a whisper instead of a roar sitting in his chest. A floodwave had drowned him, cleansed him, suffocated him, until all that remained had been his own mind, his own body. A being without a purpose, without a higher goal. Useless. Fatherless. Godless. A person of his own, not a puppet, not parts of a machine.
Dion smiled, he had never felt so free, so light.
He did not know where he was, what had happened. The bed he was lying on rattled and rumbled, apparently on wheels. Hushed whispers, frantic, panicked, around him. The smell of blood in his nose, a smell that once would have excited him, one he had craved, needed, been possessed by. Now it did nothing to him but remind him of old times. It was liberating, exhilarating. He was alone in his head, for the first time in his life, his existence, he was alone with his thoughts. No whispers in the back of his mind, no urge telling him to kill, tear and maim. There was no twitch in his fingertips that wanted to wrap itself around the next throat he met. His body was his. As battered and bruised as it was, as weak and beaten, it was his alone.
Dion smiled.
“He moved! He’s waking up!” someone shouted. It was a warm voice, one Dion enjoyed hearing, but the distress, the obvious worry and panic, he did not enjoy hearing that.
It was a voice that was supposed to chuckle, to mock and tease. A voice he wanted to hear moan and gasp as it called his name in reverence.
His memories only came back slowly, Dion had no name for the voice yet but the protective urge deep in his chest, growing where the hollowness could do nothing but flee from the fire of love and care that started to consume him, told him that the owner of the voice was very important to him.
A cold hand touched his, he could not move but hoped the voice was reassured by his heartbeat, his warmth, his mere presence, as weak and hollow it may be in this moment.
“Get him to this clinic or I swear by the gods we just defeated; I'll rip out your throat!” The voice still cradled his hand, Dion could feel it shaking. The man was distressed, beyond worried. Dion's body didn't obey him, he could not move, could not grasp the hand clammy with panic in his, could not cradle the voice's face until warmth and happiness returned to it, soothe tear-streaked skin with kisses and hug, whisper into his skin until it shivered in delight. All he could do was cling to life, to consciousness, and wait.
The cot rattled along until Dion was moved by strong hands that smelled like oak.
“Be calm Astarion, help is on its way. And he's already in better condition. The bleeding has stopped, he's stabilized.” A deep rumbly voice gave Dion a name to the man at his side and he was endlessly grateful that someone took the time to be gentle to him. That someone cared not only about the patient on the bed but also the distressed man by his side.
He still couldn't quite remember what had happened. A temple, a fight. A god emerging from a pool of blood, claiming Dion's soul. He struggled, refused to bow. Then: pain, his very essence getting torn to shreds, darkness, a light, a kind whisper telling him this was not how it'd end. Then darkness again, but somehow a different kind. Where things had been cold and unforgiving before, a darkness created by the absence of hope and light, now it was like a warm blanket wrapped around him, like a hand covering his eyes so he may not be blinded by the sun.
Astarion’s hand moved without letting go, maybe he had sat down next to Dion, he could hear fabric rub against wood as the person next to him shifted around, seeimingly uncomfortable but refusing to move further away. His hand never left his, a second soon followed and Dion could feel Astarion’s breath on his skin as he cradled his left hand in both of his own, pushing his face against it. A whisper he could barely hear caressed him.
Was Astarion praying?
“Don’t you dare leave me, don’t you dare to get taken away before we could actually show the world how great we are. Don’t leave.” Astarion muttered, a prayer to a nameless god against his skin, wrapping around them both like a cord, connecting them and their joined fates.
Dion could feel the warmth bubble up within his chest, the love. This man truly cherished him. The memories came back more and more, he saw Astarion, a beautiful pale creature hold a knife to his throat, sneer and mock him, watched as the scathing remarks changed to fondness, to hope. Felt sharp teeth pierce his skin and Astarion in his arms, skin slowly turning alive and warm. He remembered them falling asleep, limbs tangled together and waking up to a shock of sleep ruffled hair he couldn’t help but ruffle further, laughing as Astarion scowled at him.
He had to wake up, had to soothe Astarion’s worry, show him he was there, could hear him and would never leave him alone.
“Ain’t dead yet.” Dion whispered, every word felt like a knife slicing ribbons from his throat but it was necessary. Astarion gasped and before he knew it, he was hugged by a crying and laughing man, it hurt but the happiness, the warmth, the love suffusing him, those made more than up for it.
“Not so hard,” Dion smiled, barely able to hide the wince as Astarion lay on his wounds but before his partner could jump back, eyes wide in fright, Dion pulled him closer until they shared the small cot smelling like healing potions.
“Stay here,” he mumbled and Astarion settled down, too afraid to move but so obviously, heart wrenchingly delighted that Dion had woken up. They kept holding hands and Dion fell unconscious again, knowing he’d wake up to love and kindness instead of darkness and gore.
He was free and he was loved.
And nobody would take that ever away from him again.