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Summary
The whispers were unceasing. They crawled like maggots at the edges of his mind and bit like horseflies when innocence crossed his path, begging for his abominable attention. He counted every minute, every second of every day—each day a little closer to an answer, each day something else to lead them to the source of the corrupting influence on the land, and, he prayed, his mind. But he grew more and more tattered as the whispers gnawed at the edges, until—
In which Durge, at the end of his rope after endless days chasing cures and battling whispers, uses Astarion to self-medicate. It doesn't go well.
Note the tags; this is gross, uncomfortable, and upsetting.