'Medic! MEDIC!' a terrified voice fills my ears, the scream is from somewhere in the blood and the muck.
I try to run toward it, taking cover from arrows and spells where I can. Moving far far too slow in the thick mud. I fear that by the time I get to him it'll be too late. The mud gets deeper and deeper. Up to my ankles, then my knees. I make it within arms reach of the young man screaming in pain. My heart drops like a stone in my stomach, it's Ethan. His clear blue eyes are wide with terror, his blood mixing with the mud and the rain.
'Please, please, please,' cries Ethan, the fear rolling off of him in palpable waves 'Silas, I don't want to die.' tears drawing thin lines through the blood and the grime caked on his face.
His eyes are so blue, such a pure blue it makes me want to weep. He's so young, I'm so young, far too young to be here. To be killing and healing and serving a king who uses his own people as cannon fodder. I heal him, or try to but the magic isn't working. My heart starts to pick up pace as I cast spell after spell after spell. Anything and everything I can think of but nothing is working, he keeps bleeding, his face becoming paler and paler with every passing heartbeat.
Tears sting my eyes, 'Come on, come on.' I plead through gritted teeth, my breathing hitching in my chest as I choke back my panic, my sobs. I can't find the source of my magic, that connection to Ilmater. It's silent, dark, and I am alone. Alone and useless without that gift.
'You let me die Silas,' says Ethan, his voice no longer panicked but hollow, and dark as the grave. It's so cold it sends shivers down my spine.
I hazard a look at his face, but quickly look away. Bile welling in my throat. I don't want to look at that face, his face. I feel a strong, cold hand grip me by my neck and pull me closer to what was once my friend.
'You don't get to look away,' he spits through death-blued lips, baring his rotten teeth, 'You let me die.'
I claw at the hand around my neck trying and failing to pry it off. I try to kick and strain against him but Ethan, what used to be Ethan, pulls me into the mud. I take a deep breath as we sink into the wet earth. The mud quickly fills my ears and my nose as we sink deeper and deeper. Falling like a lead weight in a river. The weight of the sludge threatens to crush me. My mind is in a blind panic as I feel the air pressed out of my lungs and the primal need to breathe rises. My lungs burn for air but I know opening my mouth now would mean death. I hold on for a bit longer, long enough for Ethan to pull me uncomfortably close to him. Even with my muck filled nose I can smell the stench of death and rot on him. Every cell in my body wants to get far, far away from him.
'You let all of us die.' he says in nothing more than a whisper, the thick sludge around us doesn't present a challenge to him.
He touches the space between my eyes with his rotten fingers and scenes of the dead flash in my mind, one after the other after the other. Half-dead soldiers sinking in the muck with panic frozen on their faces, soldiers with bodies littered with arrows left to bleed out, the living dead with festering wounds awaiting a slow and painful death. I know each and every one, their names, and some were even among those I called friends. My will finally gives out and I gasp for air that I know won't come. My mouth fills with mud and blood, I can feel it filling my lungs. I can't breathe, and the images don't stop. I try to thrash to kick to the surface but I can't move. I can't move. Ethan is laughing now, a cold, cruel laugh. One that sinks into the very marrow of my bones and settles there like a winter frost.
Just when I think I'll be lost to that darkness I feel a gentle shake of my shoulders, a sound like my name coming from somewhere outside of this hell. When I finally emerge from the dark and the mud and the cold my hands fly to my throat. The phantom of Ethan's grip still lingers as I gulp as much air as I can manage. I'm left doubled over and panting, trying to get a grasp on my surroundings.
'Nightmares?' asks Astarion, albeit as more of a statement of fact rather than a question. There's a quiet understanding in his eyes as I meet his gaze.
I nod, 'S-Sorry,' I say, trying to still the shaking in my hands, 'Didn't I wake you, did I?'
'No,' he sighs, reclining on his hand next to me, 'I was already awake.'
We sit in silence for a moment as I calm down, try to ground myself in reality given how real that nightmare felt.
'They come less frequently with time,' he says, his voice low, 'They don't ever go away but they come less frequently.'
I let out a shaky breath, 'I-I hope you're right.' I say, terrified of the alternative.
That residual anxiety still coursing through me turns into a restlessness, I need to get up. To clear my head of that dream, those images.
'I need'ta take'a walk right quick,' I say, pushing myself up from my mat.
Astarion stands as well, assessing me for a moment. 'I understand,' he says carefully, 'But if you're not back in an hour I will send Wyll after you to make sure you weren't killed or anything.'
A smile tugs at my lips, 'Thank you Astarion,' I say before I head off to make sense of everything.
Astaron inclines his head, that same quiet understanding from before. There's no doubt he has nightmares of his own. There's some sort of small comfort in not being the only one carrying the weight of the past.