Astarion | Pocket dimension

The world ends softly.

One moment there is pain, blood, darkness — and then there is air that smells of leaves and warmth, a sky too wide to belong to any place Astarion has ever known. The transition is seamless, almost merciful. No chains. No commands. Just elsewhere.

He wakes on warm grass.

Above him, sunlight spills freely across the garden-world — real sunlight, golden and alive — and instinct makes him flinch. He braces for the burn that never comes. The light touches his skin and… does nothing. No pain. No smoke. Just warmth. Honest, gentle warmth.

He exhales a shaky laugh, lifting one hand into the light as if daring it to change its mind.

Around him stretches a place unlike anything in Faerûn: rolling greenery, flowering trees heavy with blossoms, shallow ponds shimmering with reflected sky. And birds — gods, so many birds. Hummingbirds dart between petals; plump hens scratch industriously at the soil; something enormous and long-legged stalks past in the distance with a judgmental squawk.

None of them flee.

Astarion sits up slowly, waiting for the familiar scent of fear, the instinctive recoil animals always have around him. It never comes. Instead, a small bird hops closer, tilting its head with bright, curious eyes. Another lands near his knee. A third boldly pecks at the edge of his sleeve.

He laughs, soft and disbelieving.

Then there’s a shadow.

He looks up just in time to meet the unwavering stare of a massive ostrich standing far too close. It lowers its head, fixes him with a glare of profound suspicion, and lets out a low, offended huff — the unmistakable look of a creature who has decided that another large male has entered its territory and this will require monitoring.

“…I see,” Astarion murmurs. “We’re going to have that kind of relationship.”

The ostrich does not blink.

This place has no true predators. Even the birds that should hunt do not — fed, sated, content. Violence has no role here. Hunger does not rule. For the first time since his death, Astarion exists in a world that neither fears him nor tries to destroy him.

You are nearby — he can feel you, even when you are not in sight. The architect of this place. The keeper of this pocket world. The one who tore him from Cazador’s grasp and set him down somewhere gentle. You do not watch like a master. You keep this place, the way one keeps a promise.

Eventually, Astarion reclines back into the grass, tentative at first, then fully. Birds wander across him without concern — warm feet on his legs, soft weight settling against his side. One nests briefly in the crook of his arm. Another boldly attempts to steal a button.

Even the ostrich, after several minutes of intense staring, seems to accept his presence with a disgruntled snort and wanders off, dignity only slightly bruised.

Astarion closes his eyes.

The sun warms him. The birds accept him. The world does not demand anything in return.

For the first time, freedom doesn’t feel sharp or frightening.

It feels safe.

And as feathers brush his skin and wings fill the air with sound, Astarion realizes something that makes his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with hunger:

This world accepts him.

And so, perhaps… does the one who brought him here.

He wakes choking on air he doesn’t recognize.

Grass presses into his cheek, cool and springy, and for a terrifying heartbeat Astarion is certain this is some elaborate cruelty — a dream stitched together to break him again. He forces himself upright, body already braced for pain, for shouting, for commands.

Sunlight hits him full in the face.

He recoils instinctively, teeth bared, heart slamming against his ribs.

Nothing happens.

No fire. No agony. No screaming nerves. Just warmth — real, honest warmth — soaking into his skin like it belongs there. He stares at his hands, flexes his fingers, half-expecting smoke. There is none.

“That’s…” His voice comes out hoarse. “…wrong.”

The world around him is absurdly alive. A garden stretching farther than his eyes can follow. Trees heavy with blossoms. Clear water murmuring somewhere nearby. And birds — everywhere. Perched, waddling, fluttering, watching him with bright, fearless eyes.

They do not flee.

Animals always know. They always know. The fear, the instinct to flee — it’s never failed before. Yet here, nothing recoils from him. Nothing senses a predator. Yet these creatures only tilt their heads, curious, utterly unconcerned.

A shadow falls across him.

He looks up slowly to find a massive ostrich looming nearby, neck craned, eyes narrowed in deep, personal offense. It steps closer, plants its feet, and stares him down as if silently questioning his right to exist here.

Astarion lifts both hands. “I’m not staying,” he says quickly. “I don’t want your… nest. Territory. Whatever this is.”

The ostrich snorts.

Unconvinced.

It doesn’t attack, though. Just continues to watch him with the kind of focus usually reserved for rivals and deeply disappointing acquaintances.

His pulse refuses to slow.

This has to be a trick. No pain. No hunger clawing at his throat. No fear from the animals. No voice demanding obedience. He can feel someone nearby — not looming, not threatening — simply present, like the world itself is being held together by a will he can’t see.

Whoever did this didn’t explain themselves.

And that terrifies him.

Eventually, his legs give out and he sinks back into the grass, exhaustion dragging him down despite every instinct screaming to stay alert. Birds creep closer, bold and unafraid — one stepping across his thigh, another settling near his shoulder as if he were just another warm stone.

His gaze drifts to a particularly round bird inches from his face.

“…You’re not real,” he mutters.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches out and pokes it with one finger.

The bird immediately pecks him back — quick, sharp, but unmistakably playful — followed by an indignant chirp, as if he were the one being rude.

Astarion yelps, jerking his hand away. He stares at his finger. Then at the bird.

The bird hops closer again, unapologetic.

He lets out a stunned, breathless laugh before he can stop himself. “…Right,” he murmurs. “Definitely real.”

And for the first time since the world went quiet and gentle around him, a dangerous thought slips past his guard:

If this is a lie… it is the gentlest one he has ever known.