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“Gods,” Astarion complained, “what a mess you’ve made! Do you have any idea of what you’ve done?!” His whining has reached new levels tonight, cutting through the brain fog in Darius’s head.
Like he’s got only one braincell today, he goes “Huh?”, mouth agape, head tilted. His wide eyes lands on Astarion – notices that his lover is covered in splatters of blood. He sees no injuries on his elf lover, though.
Astarion throws his hands in the air and turns around – he starts ranting and complaining and bitching and Darius doesn’t hear any of it. He looks down at his hands: shaking. Bloodied. He takes in the scene before himself. There are cultists spread all over the floor, blood slowly draining from their bodies and seeping into the stone floor.
Electricity sparks from a few of them, making the corpses jitter, and a vague memory comes to Darius’s muddled mind: Astarion cornered, both his daggers raised in defence in front of himself, his white curls splattered with red blood. Darius recalls, just about, casting chain lightning, in the strongest form he knows, before the world turned red and he phased out.
“…Did I…Kill all of them?”
“Yes!” Astarion bitches, turning around in his heel, his boot squeaking in an almost dried blood-puddle. “We were supposed to interrogate these ones, you dumb fuck!”
Darius knows his lover doesn’t really mean the insult, but it stings regardless. He hangs his head. “You were cornered,” he mutters to his own chest.
Astarion throws his hands in the air. “I didn’t say kill him, though!” There’s a pause. Then a cold hand touches Darius’s shoulder. He looks up at his lover.
“You’re ruining your clothes. Come on,” he mutters, giving the shoulder a squeeze. The anger seems to have drained out of his face and voice.