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The first thing Astarion registers is that he is falling. His hands fly out to take hold of something— anything —and he finds nothing.
The next thing he feels is landing. His bones snapping and his head jostling against the ground, blood pooling around his body, and then blissful darkness.
The last thing is waking again to being trapped.
He jerks and cannot move, arms and legs only meeting unforgiving stone and dirt. He can feel that several things are broken, from his wrists and ankles to the creak of his ribs. He wheezes on a cold breath and allows his chest to go still to ease the pain, but the ensuing silence is immediate and impossibly oppressive.
It’s dark—unforgiving stone just barely brushing against his nose when he moves his head, his eyes unable to see anything but washes of gray. His arm jerks up to shove against it, bones grinding and sparking with a bright starburst of pain. He makes an animalistic whining noise low in his throat when it does not so much as budge, the back of his neck tacky with his own blood. His head is swimming, lashes flickering and lights dancing across his vision. He twists and his legs are too crushed to even shift, trapped beneath the rubble, shooting sharp aches up his body when he attempts to pull them up.
Panic settles inside of him like the slow spread of rot, writhing in the tight space to no avail, his nails scraping over hard rock. He can’t hear the rest of the party, doesn’t even know where he is, whether they are even looking for him or not.
They could have left him here so easily, and he would be none the wiser. He would be trapped here with no way out, and he would not die, no matter how much he would want to. The thought claws through him like something physical, has him jolting as he pushes against the unbudging rock once more.
“Help—” He chokes on his own blood, his chest giving an awful shudder with his shattered ribs, and there is a sting of tears already in his eyes. He curses, scratching again at the stone though he knows the futility of it, skin splitting and nails cracking, the bones of his wrists jostled with the movement.
How long has he been down here already? He would have no way of knowing, hearing nothing but his own insistent scratching, not even his own breaths. It hurts far too much to let his chest so much as expand with air, bones cracked and grinding together.
He screams, unholy and pitched and ripped from him like something desperate. He beats against the stone though he knows it will do nothing but hurt him, his head already fuzzy from the pain, blood coated behind his teeth and tangled in his curls. He might even cause the rock to crush him, should he wriggle any further.
Perhaps it’d be merciful enough to kill him. It would be preferable to being stuck here in the invasive quiet and the dark, helpless and unable to fight his way out.
A year of silence—he could not bear to do it again.
He calls out, though he does not expect an answer, exhaustion already falling over him. He had lost what meager blood he’d been able to intake in the fall, his limbs heavy, a heady sort of delirium making him feel almost floaty. His breath catches once from the panic before it stops again, feeling as his ribs were fit to break through the film of his skin.
Make it stop, make it stop—he would beg if he thought it would do him any good, fear settling inside of him like a freezing weight. A tear curls over his temple, his through tightening around a strangled cry. His nails are already bloody, his wrist pulsing with a persistent agony, popped out of place and nearly limp.
And then the rocks begin to shift. Astarion thinks for one horrific moment that he is about to be crushed completely—but then it moves off of him as if it were weightless. Light floods the space and Astarion jerks, his eyes squeezing shut on reflex as he is blinded, a hissing noise catching in his throat.
Sound rushes over his ears like a film has been lifted, twittering birds and the feet of prey animals, his nose picking up on the scent of jade and the ozone tang of Gale’s magic.
“Astarion?” A voice gasps from above him, breathless and warm with relief. Astarion’s lashes flicker and he’s looking up into Gale’s soft brown eyes, his face smudged with blood and dirt.
Astarion can do nothing but stare for several moments, his breaths still and silent in his undead chest, arms shaky from remnants of pure unbridled panic. His legs have been freed but he still can’t move them, as broken as they are, and he cannot bring himself to look down at the mangled remnants.
“What did you…” Gale drops to his knees beside him, his purple cloak becoming stained with Astarion’s blood, a look of concern spelled across his pleasant features. He looks as if he wants to reach for one of Astarion’s ruined hands, but he refrains, turning away.
He can hear the wizard curse under his breath, his expression pinched as he fumbles with his bag.
“I’m sorry I was not able to find you sooner.” Gale fusses, uncorking a healing potion in his hand, “I was afraid of traipsing over you, or crushing you further, and could not simply dig just anywhere, my friend—”
Gale reaches for him and Astarion flinches, something buzzing just beneath his skin, stuck like a barb in his skin. The movement jostles him, nerves sparking with the pulse of broken bones and skin that should be bruised, had he the blood for it to appear. He makes a small noise, unbidden, his vision swimming with the jerk of his head.
“Apologies.” Gale frowns, his hand hovering in the air, “But I only wish to aid you. You have nothing to fear, I assure you.”
As if Astarion would ever fear Gale of all people. He wants to spit it, hissing like a startled cat, but he doesn’t have the energy to do anything but glare. Gale’s hand slowly slips beneath his neck, unmoored, fingers catching over the clammy cling of Astarion’s blood, before he finally brings the potion to Astarion’s lips.
The relief is immediate, a sigh pressing from his throat as he swallows, lashes fluttering. He coughs with a helpless wheeze, whining when it makes his ribs continue to pulse and ache.
“Another?” Gale says, but does not wait for an answer before he is giving Astarion more.
He accepts the second potion, and then the third, his skin feeling blessedly warm for just a moment as he heals. Bones pop back into place and reorient, flesh closing and smoothing. He sinks back with a shuddering gasp, still overcome with exhaustion but the pain blissfully dulled.
His head is still spinning, a film over his tongue and behind his teeth, but he can finally begin to breathe again. A hand brushes through his hair, as if to detangle it from its bloody matting, and Astarion is too tired to do anything but enjoy the pleasant sparks of it.
“Feeling better?”
Astarion opens one eye to glance over at Gale, unsure when he had allowed them to close, “Just barely.” He mutters, but he’s capable of stretching his legs now, twisting his back until it pops. He feels starved, a low gnaw already starting up in his gut.
“You seem tired.” Gale observes as Astarion fights to prop himself up, staring down at the sticky pool of his own blood over the rocks. It’s far too little for someone who had fallen from the height he had. Gale seems to be noticing the same things, a strange twitch to his expression.
“I was bloody trapped under stone for Gods knows how long, unsure if I were to ever be found again. My apologies for not exactly being the pinnacle of elation.” He snaps, feeling like he could tremble out of his own skin.
Gale huffs, “Not what I meant, Astarion.” He shifts on his knees, tugging at his robes like he’s just realized they’ve been stained, “We still need to get back to the others and…well, you’re not exactly in the shape to make it there. And you’ve lost quite a bit of blood as is—”
“Yes, I fell, we have established this.” Astarion hisses, sitting very still because the world is tilting, threatening to send him tumbling to the side.
Their gazes meet and Gale fidgets with his collar, his tan skin looking almost red in the sunlight, and that has Astarion going quiet, “You make doing kind things for you very hard.” He huffs, “But—while I’m certainly not your first choice, I imagine it would be better than to go hungry.”
Astarion stares at his bared throat, the trail of lines that line Gale’s neck, and feel realization jolt through him. His mouth already feels full of saliva, his teeth aching.
He swallows, “You’re quite right in that. You taste horrible.” Astarion mutters, but he’s moving closer, enticed by the thud of Gale’s pulse. He is certainly correct in saying it is far this better than to starve. He thinks they’re both rather familiar with such a concept.
“And you are no more grateful than I had expected.” Gale sighs, but Astarion can taste the racing beat of his heart, cool lips brushing over warm skin. Gale’s breath hitches, and Astarion would tease him if he were not starving.
It splits easily beneath his teeth, and the taste of Gale’s blood flooding his mouth is no less shocking than it had been the first time. But as Astarion persists it makes something in his chest kick, heat rushing beneath his skin, his head clearing. It’s thick and cloying over his tongue, but tolerable for the feeling it gives him. He feels far more content, heat clinging to his limbs, knotted behind his ribs
He gasps when he pulls back, rasping on shuddering breaths, Gale’s fingers curled into the back of his shirt.
“Still disgusting.” Astarion murmurs, but he swallows one last mouthful, Gale’s hand resting on his hip as Astarion licks over the puncture wounds. He finally feels a sense of calm wash over him, as close as he can get to contentment.
Gale hums, “I do not believe it would kill you to act at least a little thankful.”
Astarion is tempted to bite into him again, but just barely refrains.
“Oh, thank you, great and gracious supreme wizard.” Astarion drawls, leaning back enough to catch Gale’s gaze, “What would I possibly do without you?”
Gale makes a very pleased sound, “You are welcome, Astarion. And I believe you would still be trapped without me.”
Astarion huffs, licking stray beads of blood from his bottom lip, and gets back to his feet.