lifeblood and cloud hopping (смешанная)

sunrise hits like a wildfire.
you've spent the past handful of years traipsing across faerun with astarion, hunting for a cure for undeath together, and the final morning claws its way across the horizon with all the grace of a dying thing. the flask he just chugged from shatters on the floor when he shudders and jerks, and you're not fast enough to catch him when his knees go out. sunlight spills across his skin and astarion cries out-
but fire doesn't catch.
only warm light stains his flesh.
//
or, resurrection has unforeseen consequences.