Astarion's mind was running a mile a minute as he silently sat at your bedside and watched how your chest calmly rose and fell with every breath that you took.

Your body looked battered and bruised, covered in only makeshift bandages and a thin bedsheet. Your clothes had been torn and singed beyond repair, so he threw them away after he had dressed your wounds.

The guilt was eating him alive. Had he only listened to you, then none of this would have happened.

"I'm so sorry, darling..."