The battle was chaos — blood and steel flashing under a bruised, storm-dark sky. You fought side by side with Astarion, as always, but it happened too fast: a blade slipping past your defenses, sinking deep into your side. The breath rushed from your lungs. You stumbled, blood blooming hot and sticky against your clothes.

Astarion caught the movement instantly. He turned — and when he saw the wound, saw you crumpling to the ground — something inside him snapped.

“No,” he snarled, voice low and dangerous. It wasn’t the polished, mocking voice you knew — it was something feral, ancient. The enemy who struck you didn’t even have time to scream. Astarion was on him in an instant, fangs flashing, claws ripping, tearing through flesh like wet paper.

And he didn’t stop.

Anyone who so much as looked at you with a weapon in hand was cut down without mercy. He moved like a force of nature — blood spattering his pale skin, eyes wild, teeth bared in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

You tried to call out to him — tried to tell him you were alright, or at least still breathing — but the world tilted sickeningly, and you collapsed against the dirt. By the time the last enemy fell, the battlefield was eerily silent. Astarion was at your side in an instant, dropping to his knees so hard he nearly skidded.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, hands trembling as he pressed them desperately against your wound, trying to stem the bleeding. “Stay with me. Stay with me.”

Your vision blurred — but you managed a weak smile. “You’re… scary when you’re angry,” you joked, voice barely a whisper.

A broken laugh tore from his throat — half sob, half hysterical relief. He bundled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it hurt, but you didn’t protest. You could feel the way he shook. How close he was to falling apart.

When the cleric finally reached you and began healing the worst of the damage, Astarion still wouldn’t let go. He kept his forehead pressed against yours, breathing you in like he was terrified you might vanish.

Later, when you were safely tucked in your tent, bandaged and resting, he stayed close — hovering like a ghost at the edge of the firelight. You called to him softly.

He approached, and for once, there was no swagger in his step. Only a haunted, hollow sort of look in his crimson eyes. He sank to his knees beside you, almost gracelessly. His hands reached for you — then stopped, trembling. “I almost lost you,” he whispered.

You opened your mouth to reassure him, but he cut you off, voice cracking. “I can’t— I don’t know how to live without you anymore.” He laughed bitterly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Gods, listen to me,” he muttered. “Pathetic. I spent two centuries surviving on my own, and now— now—” He finally met your gaze, and there was no mask left. “I don’t want to survive if you’re not there,” he said, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to.”

Your heart shattered. You reached out, grabbing his hand — and this time, he let you. Tears slipped silently down his face — not the heaving sobs of a man falling apart, but the quiet, exhausted kind that spoke of wounds too deep for words.