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The moment before the whip’s crack is always the worst. It’s the anticipation, the fear, the hope that perhaps – just maybe – it won’t be as bad as the last. Astarion thinks the hope is the worst part.
That’s not to say the pain isn’t a close second. Gods, the pain. Searing. World shattering. Like the lick of hellfire against your back. It tears at your skin and you can feel your flesh split like a tree pulled apart by the cruel lash of lightning. The warm rush of blood down your back, then again. And again. And –
Astarion wakes with a gasp. Cazador. He was there. He was laughing. He saw the flash of his red eyes, the evil twist of his mouth. He’s here, isn’t he? He’s here and he’s going to hurt Astarion fuck he’s going to hurt him isn’t he Astarion did so many bad things he’s going to be lashed and torn apart and stitched back together in the most painful way possible and Astarion doesn’t even notice that he’s hyperventilating, taking in large, painful breaths that feel like they’re slicing his throat. Tears, warm like blood, sting the corners of his eyes. All he can hear is ringing, like the mocking church bells that came through the curtains in the early morning. But there’s something else, isn’t there? A name, he thinks. A name…
“-starion. Astarion!”
There! Lyra’s face filters through the fog. She looks worried, perhaps. He can’t really tell.
Lyra squeezes his hand and yes, she looks worried, doesn’t she? Very worried. Scared, even.
It sends a flash of surprise down his spine, and it’s enough to make him take a breath that doesn’t feel like swallowing hot coals.
He scrambles into a sitting position and almost topples off the bed. The soft caress of the silk sheets dispels the fog in his eyes a little more. Still, he can’t seem to stop gasping for air, eyes searching the room wildly despite seeing very little. Cazador. Where is he? Is he behind him? Gods, he’s behind him isn’t he?
“Astarion, look at me.” He should be looking for Cazador. He could be anywhere. “Astarion.” Astarion looks at Lyra, and his vision is finally clear.
She searches his eyes for a moment, unsure of what to do, clearly. Then, she asks, “Can I touch you?”
Astarion pauses, considering. Lyra likes it when he considers these questions carefully. He nods.
She doesn’t hesitate for a moment, grabbing him and pulling him into a hug that is just on the right side of painfully tight. He closes his eyes. Breathes.
“Gods, Astarion. Are you okay?”
He makes a vague sound of affirmation, burying his face into the junction between her neck and shoulder. She runs a hand down his back. Presses the heel of her palm into his spine to calm his shaking.
“Do you…Do you want to talk about it?”
He lifts his head. “Not really,” he admits, dryly. “Just another nightmare about Cazador.”
She nods, considering. Then, “Would you like to go back to sleep?”
He swallows.
“I’m not sure. I’d like to, but I’m just–” He sighs. Pathetic. “What if it happens again?”
She pulls him down onto the mattress and manoeuvres him until they’re lying face to face. Her face looks grim in the soft darkness.
“Then I’ll be here. And I’ll probably try to fight Cazador again. In the fugue plane, or whatever godless place he’s in now.” Astarion would laugh if she didn’t look so deadly serious.
“Not if I get to him first, darling.” He settles, gets himself comfortable. Sleeping is easy. He does it all the time. It’s a basic skill.
So why is he so afraid?
Lyra’s eyes are closed. She pulls Astarion into her chest and gets her arms around him like she’s caging him in. Or protecting him. It’s warm and she smells like rain and it almost feels like nothing could hurt him. Almost.
He wants to sleep. He should.
Astarion does not sleep. Instead, he listens. The creak of the wood panels in the wind. The slide and the shiver of the leaves in the trees. The distant growl of a creature somewhere far away. The way Lyra’s breaths even out as she falls asleep. Astarion still does not sleep. Instead, he waits. Waits for the cruel, high laugh of Cazador to come ringing out between heartbeats, to hear the soft hiss as he appears out of the mist at the window. Nothing comes. Yet still Astarion does not sleep.
The silence stretches on. Gods, he feels like he’s going insane.
He needs something, anything to fill the silence. The ringing in his ears is back. He needs something to–
A voice. Though this time, it’s his own.
“Do you ever get nightmares?”
Lyra does not answer right away, though he’s quite sure that she’s heard him. Always a light sleeper. He presses his ear to her heart, feels the steady thump of it like it’s rumbling in his bones. After a beat or two, she speaks.
“I used to. Not so much anymore.”
“When does it stop?”
A beat. “It doesn’t. Not for me, at least. I still get them. It just doesn’t affect me the way it used to.”
He chews his lip. “Then when does it stop hurting?” He hates how small he sounds.
A beat. Two. Three. She tightens her arms around him.
“I don’t think I can answer that for you.” She caresses the soft hairs at the base of his skull and presses her lips against his forehead. “But these things have a way of getting better. Wounds rarely refrain from healing.”
Astarion bites his lip until it draws blood. “And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll be here.” She uses the hand at the nape of his neck to tuck him under her chin. Trying to protect him, like she always does.
And Astarion tries to stay awake, truly. But Lyra's rhythmic heartbeat is just so comforting, as is the hand carding through his hair and the hand resting on his hip bone.
He finally falls asleep.