Your Dark Gospel (Complete)

Chapter Thirteen

If Astarion was going to die today... at least he wouldn’t be alone. 

He clung to that thought as he wrapped his arms around Elira, sheltering her while they fell into yet another dark abyss. 

It was only a matter of seconds before they were met by cold, hard ground, his body taking the brunt of the impact. He wasn’t sure how long they lay there, her form motionless on top of him, dust sprinkling onto them from the massive hole above. Astarion hesitated to move. He wasn’t sure if he could move. Every breath ached; he didn’t need the air, but the act of breathing was an unintentional habit that was hard to quit. The weight of Elira on his chest likely didn’t help, but he didn’t dare push her away. He wanted her there when the rest of the bloody mountain cracked and broke upon them, burying their bones for the next thousand years or more. 

A fitting end to their little charade. 

But the ceiling didn’t collapse, and eventually, Elira lifted her dust-coated head and peered at him through bleary, confused eyes before her gaze sharpened and she rolled away. He took a deep, whistling breath once he was free of her weight, and it felt like the sting of a thousand daggers slicing into his lungs. The shape of Elira’s outstretched hand edged his vision, but he ignored it. “Leave me.” 

She pulled her hand back and stepped away. “We don’t have time for dramatics, Astarion.” He watched her cup her palms together and conjure a glowing orb that illuminated the chamber. “Get up before we get caught in the crossfire again.” 

Astarion grit his teeth and pulled himself into a sitting position. The pain that shot through his torso was a throbbing wave of agony that branched across his body, followed by an intense rush of nausea. But he’d live — well, so to speak. With any luck, the others had been crushed by the falling debris—the last thing Astarion wanted was to get sucked back into the drama that had led them to their current predicament. Though, if there were other survivors, he hoped it would be the druid, Halsin. He had taken quite a liking to him in their brief acquaintance. His acceptance, or, at least, his neutrality, of Astarion’s vampiric nature had been delightfully surprising. 

One glance around the strange new chamber told him that the others were, unfortunately, not buried in the wreckage. He watched several shapes rise from the debris, clearing bits of rubble from their clothes. Only one figure remained eerily still, crumpled on the ground like a rag doll. 

Shadowheart. 

Elira knelt beside her, checking for signs of life. “She’s . . . breathing, just unconscious.” 

“Hooray,” Astarion answered with all the enthusiasm of a wet cat. 

He startled as a flash of feathers came swooping down upon them. The flurry of wings and glinting beak formed a massive eagle, its eyes aflame with the reflection of Elira’s fiery orb as it soared over their heads. There was a loud pop, and the bird disappeared, replaced by the hulking shape of the druid, Halsin, dropping lightly onto the debris-littered floor. 

He swiftly lumbered forward, taking Elira’s hands in his own while his eyes roved over her body for any signs of injury. The anger and tension he had expressed in the cave had been replaced by worry. Elira seemed to notice the concern written on his features and gave him a reassuring smile. Halsin’s gaze then shifted to Astarion, and he dropped Elira’s hands, rushing over to offer his help. Astarion grimaced when the druid yanked him up from the ground with one firm tug, but he smiled through the agony while Halsin gently patted him on the shoulder.