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wilteddreamsofbaldursgate · 21 days

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Springtime Caresses

III. Angsty Dadstarion, but it's quite alright.

“Here, papa, here! You have to lie down right here! Don’t move!”

Warm grass tickles the back of Astarion’s neck. With his eyes closed to the bright sun above him, he listens to his surroundings, takes in the bird song and wind dancing through the trees. The static buzz of honey bees. Children’s play.

Life.

He’s not asleep but pretends to be. It’s part of the game, or so he’s been told.

“Sweet dreams, papa!”

Most of his dreams are sweet these days, but he doesn’t mention that, just complies.

The scents of sun-warmed soil and perfectly ripened strawberries carry a promise of summer to his nose, lulling Astarion into a twilight state of content drowsiness. Maybe he will allow himself to fall into reverie, after all. He’s tranced in worse places, and with worse company, too.

But that was a long time ago.

Now, he enjoys ruining his silken shirts with grass stains. Fresh air filling his lungs all day long. The feeling of tiny hands weaving wildflowers into his silver curls.

Even after all these years, this experience will never cease feeling novel to him—the warmth, the tranquillity. This deep sense of belonging.

Peace.

It’s not a sweet dream, but reality. It’s as real as the wild shrieks and laughter sweeping across the meadow. Children jumping over and around him, eager to slay this or that imaginary fiend. The hem of a skirt he mended only last night brushing against his legs. A young boy humming a song his mother sang over breakfast close to his ear.

Astarion smiles, or tries not to, since he’s promised to be fast asleep—even when there’s a sudden tug at his hair.

The humming stops; the laughter fades into displeased groans all around him. Astarion doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that the face eclipsing the sun above him is a much younger version of his own.

“Careful, Miri, that hurts papa!” The boy scolds as he gently untangles his little sister’s hand from their father’s locks.

“Uh-oh!” the toddler mumbles before she helps the boy pick stray sticks from Astarion’s hair. “Bad!”

“Yes, Miri—bad.”

Astarion suppresses the urge to take his daughter’s clumsy hand in his and press a soothing kiss to her small fingers, telling her it’s quite alright. That no harm was done. There never is. Not here. Not with them.

But all he has to do today is feign sleep, so he will reassure the child later when it’s his turn to braid her hair in time for bed.

“Sorry, papa,” another girl calls from near the treeline. “Miri didn’t mean to hurt you! But don’t worry, we’ll protect you from the true beast!”

This time, Astarion cannot help the faint smile tugging at his lips.

It’s a lovely promise, lisped through missing front teeth. And it’s true—most of the time, at least.

These children, this family he helped create with nothing but love and devotion, distract him from the beast prowling the everlasting darkness far in the back of his mind.

Yet, sometimes, distraction alone isn’t enough…

Astarion doesn’t like to dwell on the rare occasions when the beast eventually does find its way to him. It’s tamer now, the years have made it lazy enough, but every now and then, it will probe him. It can still sniff out the weakness he’ll never be able to shed, knows whenever he’s at his lowest.

The beast only lunges at easy prey—it always has.

So, sometimes, when Astarion’s nights are tense with endless whining, misplaced toys and sharp words, the beast breathes down his neck, whispers in his ear.

On your back, boy, right here. Do not move. It will not hurt unless you let it. Your screams have always sounded the sweetest. Are you hurting, yet? Good, it’s because I want you to. It’s what you deserve, you insolent fool. Have you no respect for yourself? That’s why they hate you so, that’s why you’re but a pathetic little boy who’s never amounted to anything that’s why you’re nothing that’s why—

Once the older children perform their duty to scold the youngest among them, the laughter returns. Their faceless fiend is fair game again and all Astarion has to do is sleep, trust in his family’s sweet promise that holds his cure.

Because, as exhausting as it is, he has learned to ignore the beast, become numb to its poison. It’s a thing of the past and he won’t let it taint his future.

Astarion lets out a deep breath. He can feel himself grow tired under the little hands stroking his hair.

“No worry, papa.”

No worry, no. Not here. Not with them. Never with them…

There’s a gust of wind coming from up north. It carries the scents of sickly sweet strawberries and petrichor and, ever so slowly, Astarion can feel his mind slipping.

He doesn’t sleep; he hasn’t in a very long time. Sleep, true sleep, is vulgar and reminds him of death. Instead, Astarion drowns in memories, but even there he’s buried six feet under today.

There are no strawberries in this freshly dug grave, only the stink of decay. The damp wood of his coffin presses uncomfortably into his back while worms and maggots tickle his neck. Eating at him. Consuming him.

His broken fingernails hurt as he claws at the darkness surrounding him—this deep in the ground, all shades of grey are tainted black. Sometimes he wonders if his eyes are even open, but they must be because they burn with tears and blood and dust.

There’s laughter coming from somewhere above. It’s rumbling like far-away thunder; it hasn’t reached him, yet, but the threat of it is already stunning him with fear.

He cannot speak he cannot see he cannot be he cannot—

The laughter isn’t coming from above, nor is it coming from anywhere, really. It’s residing inside his head, this vile laughter that won’t let him in on the joke. And why would it? He is nothing, is he not? All he is is blood and screams and death. Bodies piled atop his aching shoulders, weighing him down.

So why is he moving? Why is he digging through wet soil until he can see moonlight illuminating his path to…

The beast eclipses the moon and the stars shining down on him. It has stopped laughing, though its maw is stretched into an unnatural grin, revealing a pair of sharp fangs—the key to the wounds on his neck. A promise of endless misery.

He cannot stop moving towards the beast. It holds its claws out to him, stroking his hair, scratching his scalp raw. There you are, boy, always crawling back to me. My good, prodigal son—look at you! Do you know why you’re here? With me? It’s because, after all these years, you’re still mine. And you will always be.

“Astarion?”

There’s a light drizzle soaking his skin.

Astarion opens his eyes to a sun that’s crawled past its zenith, taking the music of children’s play with it. The silence feels oppressive, just like the calm before a great storm, and all he can feel are the small, warm bodies Astarion helped create press against him. They’re curled up against his side, lying draped over his legs, clutching his arm. Weighing him down.

No.

Grounding him, always ever grounding him.

He needs to shield his sleeping children from the rain, he thinks, but his arms are still caged somewhere between nightmare and reality.

Fuck, how long had he been out?

Astarion inhales deeply. He just needs a moment to come to his senses.

He can smell rain-soaked cotton, crisp air and that faint scent of magic he would recognise even if he were buried deep in the ground.

Oh, of course…

“Astarion.”

He allows himself a relieved half-smile as the rain above him is coming to a sudden halt a moment later.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, my heart,” Tav says as she steps into the meadow, one eyebrow raised at the sight in front of her. “But what in the nine hells are you doing out here?”

Astarion can only watch as little droplets of rain run down the magic dome enclosing him and the children, tear drops that can never reach them now.

“I’m a sleeping princess, or so I’ve been told. But I’m rather afraid my knights in shining armour fell asleep before they got to wake me…”

Tav joins her family under her shield of magic, strokes the head of the child closest to her as she smiles at her husband.

“I see. May I kiss you awake instead, then?”

“You already have, darling,” Astarion whispers. “But do it again, yes? Just to be on the safe side…?”

His hand brushes the swell of Tav’s stomach as she’s trying to settle comfortably against him. It’s getting rather crowded—the house, life, moments like this—but there’s always room for one more, Astarion thinks.

Tav grins as she sweetly kisses her way from his cheek to his mouth, where she finally lingers.

To Astarion, Tav’s lips taste of freedom, of nightmares swiftly broken. Of home—the best distraction he never dared to hope for. One he never wants to end.

In the distance, there’s a gentle thunder rolling towards the meadow, but that’s quite alright. Astarion knows that it can’t do any harm. Not here. Not with them.

Never with his family around him.

@seaofdaydreams , my dear, I hope you do not mind me borrowing Miri's name for this one ♡