[ When Astarion wakes from his trance, he's drenched in sweat and all alone on the other side of the bed, having thrashed his way into solitude. He must have kicked off the covers at some point during his rest—if one can call it that—and now they're a puddle at his feet. He feels how a rabbit spotted by a wolf must feel, his fight-or-flight response fully activated as he stares up at the ceiling.
It's ridiculous, and he feels entirely pathetic for it. He's no stranger to nightmares, but this one had been a torment even with Iorveth by his side, and he feels strangely disappointed in himself for it. He'd thought himself better than this, hoped he was cured of restless trances filled with images of people who can't hurt him anymore. Or, at least, aren't supposed to be able to hurt him anymore.
A clammy hand blindly gropes for Iorveth, seeking out his elf-shaped security blanket. ]
no subject
It's ridiculous, and he feels entirely pathetic for it. He's no stranger to nightmares, but this one had been a torment even with Iorveth by his side, and he feels strangely disappointed in himself for it. He'd thought himself better than this, hoped he was cured of restless trances filled with images of people who can't hurt him anymore. Or, at least, aren't supposed to be able to hurt him anymore.
A clammy hand blindly gropes for Iorveth, seeking out his elf-shaped security blanket. ]