Work Text:
He flows into his own body, stretching out into familiar limbs. It’s home. It’s where he’s supposed to be.
For a moment, all he feels is joy. He’s back. They found him. They saved him. Then, he fully slots into place.
Everything burns. His eyes, his skin, his bones, his lungs . The first gasp of air feels like knives down his throat, and he’s unable to keep it down. He coughs, his entire chest rattling with it, but it doesn’t help. The next breath fits no better, barely getting down his throat before he’s coughing again.
He remembers.
It’s not images flashing before his eyes, not a sudden rush of everything that happened, but a shift in how the world feels. He isn’t supposed to know what it feels like to have his skin flared off. His body shouldn’t remember the feeling of having all of his bones broken, of being kept at the brink of death, healed only to allow for more pain, worse pain.
Every part of him vividly remembers what it’s like to break .
He forces air back into his lungs, fighting the urge to keep coughing. Astarion is next to him. Astarion is safe. He’s safe. She’s not there any more. He’s safe. Astarion is there.
He looks up at him, his vision swimming, eyes refusing to focus on anything. He can’t think. There is only one thing in his head, echoing loudly, screaming from every memory. “It hurt so much.”
He almost startles as Astarion pounces forwards, grabbing at his face. But it’s Astarion. He’s safe. He won’t hurt him. Astarion’s side of the bond still burns bright, worry and love and relief and fear.
“Gale? What hurt? Are you alright? Did something go wrong?” There are so many words. He can’t process them. He’s usually so good at words. It hurts when they don’t work.
He feels a tear roll down his face. Astarion’s face is blurry. He can’t make his eyes work. But he was asked something. He’s not sure what. There isn’t much it could be about, though. “What Orin did.” She did so much. He was barely in her grasp for more than a day. She fit so much into that day. So much pain. So many ways to inflict it. Even healed, his skin aches. His bones sting inside of him. It doesn’t stop hurting. It feels like it will never stop.
There’s a swell of panic from Astarion. “You- you remember?”
A whine builds in his throat, involuntary. It just all hurts so much. He can’t stop it. “I remember it. All of it.” His lungs start hurting worse, his throat aching as he tries to get air. He’s not getting any air. He can’t breathe. Astarion’s hands on his face shake. He needs to answer Astarion. He needs to breathe for that. He needs to- “She was- she wouldn’t stop. Even when I stopped responding. She just- kept cutting. Until there was nothing left.”
He feels like all of him was cut away by her. Even as his soul was safe with Astarion, she carved away everything left of him in him . He doesn’t need to think back on it, it sits heavy, front and center in his mind, refusing to be ignored.
Astarion’s forehead presses against his, a soft reminder that he’s there, that he’s safe, that touch doesn’t mean pain. He wants to look at him, wants to see him with his own eyes again, but moving feels impossible.
“Oh Gale…” Astarion’s side of the bond is nothing but guilt, all consuming, clambering over any of the other feelings he was getting from the man. It crawls into Gale too, clinging in his chest, curling itself around his heart, constricting.
Something touches his shoulder, and for a moment, all he can feel is remembered pain. Skin splitting, bubbling, tearing, bones cracking, white hot agony. Everything blanks out for a moment, and when he’s aware again, he’s leaning against Astarion’s chest. That’s good. That’s nice. Astarion is safe. He won’t hurt him. His shoulder still burns.
“Please don’t.” The words catch in his throat painfully. He clings to Astarion, his only beacon of safety, the only respite from the pain. “It still feels like- it feels like everything will hurt.” Everything does hurt. Everything that isn’t where he’s touching Astarion, where the other’s cool hands are holding him, where his soul sits in Gale’s chest.
The guilt in their bond dims, overtaken by a seething rage. He’s not sure at what. Astarion wouldn’t hurt him though. So he doesn’t need to be afraid of him. He has enough things to be afraid of already.
Astarion hushes him, and he realizes he’s been whining low in his throat. The other man’s thumbs trace under his eyes, wiping away the tears he can’t stop. “You didn’t deserve this, my love. I’m so sorry.”
It doesn’t matter what he deserves. It still happened. It still aches inside of him, something he’s lost, something he doesn’t know how to heal. No one gets what they deserve, not in this life. They just get to suffer.
The swirling vortex of pain and fear inside of him is buffeted by the raging fire of guilt and rage leaking in from Astarion. It’s all too much. He doesn’t want it. He just wants it to stop. To stop hurting.
The world hurts.
Astarion doesn’t hurt.
Maybe if he sinks deep enough, he can find some place inside of him where there is nothing but Astarion. Nothing but safety.
Gale’s shaking slows, bit by bit, until he almost stills, fine tremors still running through him at uneven intervals, but fewer. Smaller. His breath hitches against Astarion’s neck, his fingers twitching where they’re still wound into his shirt. He looks small, fragile. He looks as if pieces will start falling off if anyone moves too fast.
Their bond is louder than ever before, whatever wall was there before crushed, broken, gone. The empty silence in Gale’s mind echoed through him, no thoughts, no words, just fear. He tries to push something in, feelings of comfort, of love, but it’s as if he’s throwing pebbles into the ocean, the waves too big for them to leave even ripples, swallowed up in moments.
It’s similar to when Astarion floats off, but also entirely different. He goes away, leaves his body behind, somewhere up in the air behind himself. Gale is shrinking in. He’s pulling away from everything, shutting everything out, sinking to the bottom of his own sea, down where the waves don't crash, where there’s nothing but suffocating pressure and silence.
Behind them, Wyll pries the Netherstone from Orin’s blade, making a disgusted noise at her disintegrated body. He leaves them to recuperate though, walking over to the other side of the platform where Shadowheart already stands, solemn.
They’re saying something, worried frowns on their faces. When he meets their eyes, they look away.
Everything feels far away. Gale feels far away, despite being pressed against his chest. The echoing chamber is suffocatingly silent. Gale’s staccato breathing is drumming in his ears, the only sound he can hear.
They can’t stay here. Gale can’t stay here. Not in this state, not when this was where everything happened. This is where Gale was-
As the word forms in his mind a new wave of agony rolls through him from Gale. A word rides the wave, desperate, begging. Don’t.
The jaws of his mind clamp down on any thought he would be having, an uncomfortable silence even in his own head. His next thoughts are formed carefully, trepidation in every word.
It would be best for all of them to get out of there. They will be okay. They just need to get back to camp.
He hears nothing more for Gale, the silent void in his chest gaping open, threatening to swallow him if he doesn’t tread carefully.
He leans back, just slightly, and Gale tilts with him, remaining propped up against his chest, completely lax.
The shirt he embroidered for Gale feels childish. Not even close to enough to do anything, the groping clumsy attempts of a toddler, pressing a kiss to a gaping wound.
It will have to do though. There are no remains of the robe Gale was wearing when he was taken, his torso bare of anything but dried and drying blood.
He guides limp arms into the sleeves, pulling them up, and he has to push Gale off of his chest to pull the neckline over his head. The moment contact breaks, Gale whines, pained and low, but he makes no attempt to get back.
The shirt falls around him, covering his scarred torso, the drying blood, far too little to fix anything.
As he relaxes his arms again, Gale topples into him, a small, almost satisfied noise escaping him as Astarion wraps his arms around him.
For a while he just sits there, attempting again and again to push his love, a sense of comfort, safety, into Gale. All of it sinks into him with no reaction. He just hopes that, somehow, wherever at the bottom of this ocean Gale is sitting, some little pebble of love might hit him. Some sense of safety might find its way there, too.
Once Gale feels a slight bit more settled, more real, Astarion tries again. “Come on, love. We need to get you out of here.” He keeps his voice as soft as he can, hands loose, letting Gale choose when he moves. The other man pulls back slightly, looking up at him, his eyes still wide, still scared, but not as wet. He studies Astarion’s face for a moment before nodding, but he makes no effort to move, remaining half slumped against the vampire.
With some slight prodding he gets Gale’s legs over the edge of the slab. They dangle uselessly, limp, and it’s an effort not to cry. He seems so broken. So lost. He doesn’t want Gale to feel like this.
His torso lists, his head tipping to one side, and it’s only Astarion’s reflexes that keep him from falling off the slab. He looks back at him after being caught, blinking slowly, completely quiet.
He helps him up, pulling with one arm firmly wrapped around Gale’s waist, slinging the other man’s arms across his shoulders, keeping him upright. He’d ask for help, Gale too heavy for him to support on his own all the way back to camp, but he asked not to be touched. After everything, he deserves to get his wishes met. Astarion can power through. He has to.
The walk is slow, Shadowheart and Wyll penning them in, one in front, one behind, as he half carries his wizard back to camp. His legs don’t lift high enough to step over the loose rock, smacking into them almost every step, prompting a wounded noise from Gale and sending a spray of gravel out across their path. He lists forwards, overbalancing, and Astarion goes down with him as he tries to right him.
Their knees hit the ground at the same time, accompanied by a weak whimper from Gale. He looks at Astarion with big pleading eyes.
He can’t tell what Gale wants. Their bond is a cloying void of pain and fear, climbing into his chest, making a home for itself.
His free arm wraps around Gale’s chest, holding him closer, taking on more of his weight.
He isn’t strong enough for this, not really. Gale is solidly built, far softer than Astarion’s lean form. Something in his back shifts as he lifts him, but he doesn’t have the time to deal with that right now. He isn’t important right now. All that matters is Gale.
He gets their feet back underneath them, Gale’s weight mostly on his own legs, something Astarion appreciates greatly, as his lower back feels as if someone just drove a knife into it. It doesn’t matter. Gale is alright.
They keep walking, every step sending fire up his spine, his muscles fighting him, wanting to cramp, to let go, but he can’t.
Shadowheart sends him a worried look from where she’s leading them, and whatever she sees only worries her more.
He squeezes Gale’s hip, tugging him closer. “Come on darling, you can do it.” It feels like he’s talking to a pet, a small child, the sort of being you whisper empty encouragement to. That isn’t how Gale is supposed to be. He’s strong, bright, clever. Not empty. Not silent.
Gale lets out a weak hum, but he keeps walking, and that’s enough. It has to be enough.
When they get back to camp, everyone cheers, happy to see them returning victorious. They quiet down almost immediately though, as they take in Gale’s blank face and how Astarion is taking almost all of his weight.
“Is… what happened?” Karlach’s voice is cautious, far quieter than usual.
“Orin happened.”
He doesn’t need to elaborate more, the looks on the other’s faces telling him that they have a good sense of what Orin does. Did . She won’t do anything any more.
He wishes she could still suffer.
Gale’s weight is still on him, still pulling him down. His back is still screaming. Gale hasn’t responded to seeing their friends again. His mind is heavy and blank, a lead weight inside of Astarion.
They can’t go on like this.
He doesn’t know how to fix it.
“We’re heading to bed.” No one questions him, their exhaustion obvious. He hopes they can actually get some rest, that something, anything, will be better in the morning.
Their worried eyes follow them all the way to their tent.
He sits down on their bedroll, pushed into the furthest corner of their tent, the canvas at his back an imaginary barrier against the world outside. At his front, Gale is curled, his face buried in the side of Astarion’s neck, his arms around Gale’s waist. He is keeping watch, a silent sentry.
He couldn’t protect him before, but he can now. He has to. He can’t let anything else happen to his Gale.
Gale breathes shakily against his neck, Astarion’s hand pressed between his shoulder blades. The camp is growing silent, everyone else heading off to bed. After a long while of sitting, staring, the only sounds remaining in their camp are the crackling of campfire outside and Halsin’s low humming as he keeps watch.
He lets his free hand pet through Gale’s hair, teasing out the tangles, picking out the dried blood. He needs to get cleaned up. Astarion needs to get cleaned up too. That can wait, though. It can wait until Gale is more than a ball of fear and pain, until he gets his words back, until he does more than just follow Astarion’s prodding.
It feels like he’s holding a doll, not a person.
Blood flakes off of his hands too as he pets Gale’s hair. He’d forgotten how bloody he’d gotten.
He doesn’t know if he’s ever been blood-free. If he ever will be.
Gale fades in and out of consciousness, almost sleeping, almost waking, always teetering on the edge. Astarion doesn’t rest. He doesn’t deserve to rest. Not now. He needs to keep him safe.
They stay like that until the sun crests the horizon again.
Gale shifts, his first movement in hours, and Astarion holds his breath. His wizard pulls back, eyes meeting his, and the relief Astarion feels when they fully focus on him would have knocked him over had he not already been sitting. He blinks up at him. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
His eyes grow wet, a frown creasing his forehead. “I-” He buries his face in Astarion’s neck again. “Everything is just wrong.”
He wraps his arms tighter around Gale, pressing a kiss to his temple. “And none of that is your fault.” If anything, Astarion should apologize for failing him. That wouldn’t help Gale, though. His guilt doesn’t matter. He just needs to do better.
By his neck, Gale whispers. “It’s not yours, either.”
He wishes he could believe that.