#sorry this is so long gjfhdhfjgjvjvjchx

[spirestar]

There are many times that Astarion thinks he may have no feelings at all. That they could all be yet another illusion of choice, his mind a malleable thing, built to be manipulated rather than be allowed to choose anything. If he were wired this way then maybe the decades upon decades of enforced obedience might not hang over him like a hangman's axe — His rage so unbridled that he must laugh to keep it at bay. Would Cazador want him to feel that way? To make being dragged home hurt more? To remind him that he's nothing more than a tool to be pointed towards its work, an object that foolishly believes it has any more purpose than what it was made for? The sun on his skin is sometimes his only lifeline in this. Cazador would never let him have it. Giving to take away is one thing, but even giving a toy a breath of freedom like this wouldn't even be something the bastard would consider. A walk out at night, maybe; One followed by weeks locked up without more than cockroaches to feed on because he dared to believe he had earned time to himself. Never the sunlight. Never clear air and people who look at him as if he might be useful for more than what he's done for as long as he can remember—

He has plenty of time to question it. After all, elves don't truly sleep and too many lifetimes of never resting at all have left him bereft of most meditation skills. Astarion listens to cicadas. He counts their many scratching notes as if their legs are tiny violins serenading him teasingly. There's always something to look at, too: Karlach's blazing heart crackling louder than the camp's dwindling fire, Wyll's tossing and turning as he slowly but surely grows accustomed to his devilish form, Lae'zel's almost-comically tense posture as if she is a stone knight cast on a coffin, sword covering the length of her body. At times he wonders, with a kind of undeniable glee, that they never wake to stare at him in horror. For a not-quite-vampire, it only gets better than that when one is allowed in a building.

Tonight is different though. Astarion is awake once again, of course, but the difference is in his companions. All are asleep, save one — the cleric he's still not quite sorry he jumped at the coast that proves herself more and more useful as the days pass by. He has to think of people that way. Else he'll stop being able to question how he feels and be forced to come to terms with it all.

She's looming. And Astarion should know, he's an expert loomer. Propping his chin up slightly on his makeshift pillow, he takes in her odd position at the center of camp. Eyes far away and face flat. Usually he'd leave things be. People are wont to do as they will whether he says anything or not. But how can he — How can he possibly do that when he can't control what she might do next? If she's only contemplating whether to wake someone up and venture out, that's one thing. Maybe she wants to go kill a few extra bandits just to feel their blood on her skin. Astarion would understand! Instinct is a funny thing. After living in a state of alert most of one's life, it refuses to quiet down for any anomaly.

"Briar," he hisses softly, shaking his head with irritation (mostly at himself, also because she's made him think too hard). "Dear, what are you doing? You're not a statue, you're a half-elf."

@hauntedurge