Recovery (Astarion BG3 Fan Fiction)

2: Mirrors

Aysla wakes up with nine bottles remaining. Two was just enough to grant her the brief respite of an hour or two of dreamless sleep before her heart rate begins to pick up, and her palms begin to sweat. She'll take the broken rest over the visions, though. When she's sober, her dreams are vivid and frequent, and she dreads their assured return as she brings her bender to a reluctant end.

In the wee hours of the morning, she stares at the stars, willing her chattering bones to calm their shaking. Bolting to the edge of camp, bottle in hand, she wretches. Nothing in her stomach to hawk up but air, she clutches at her gut weakly until the heaving stops.

She takes a few measured swigs. What a way to start the day. Just enough to stave off worst of the tremors, but not enough to get her good and drunk. She's tapered off before, but she always forgot how god-awful it is.

All her companions are asleep, but one. Astarion leans on a tree off to the edge of her camp, watching her as she rises.

"Good morning. How is our charming resident inebriate? Rising bright and early to greet the day?"

She smiles dryly back at him, amused.

"One could use a drop of my blood as a fire starter right about now - so, more sober than I'd like," she replies archly.

Astarion thinks he could use her blood for something else, but he keeps it to himself.

"How do you do it, if you don't mind me asking?" he inquires curiously. "I've seen that particular brand of hooch knockout grown men three times your weight - but you seem thirstier than ever."

"Impressed or disgusted?" she retorts. "You gain a tolerance - it would take a barrel full of whiskey to even get me buzzed."

"Hmm. I'm sure our little group will thank you for reducing all your barrel-consuming for our benefit - and probably your liver, too," he says lightly.

He slithers away without an explanation - to clear his mind perhaps? In the forest, in middle of the night? Aysla notes that he didn't pry, so she won't either. She takes one more swig before going to wash up.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

First to rise, Astarion, Aysla, and Lae'zel spend the morning looting through an abandoned village in which they find, among other respective treasures and trinkets, enough swill to last Aysla the rest of her taper-down.

Her rapier bobs at her hip, covered in goblin gore.

They're joined by a muscle-bound Tiefling woman that they picked up along the way. She has a jolly disposition and a hot temper, and they collectively decide that she's too charming to be as bad as the Karlach of Avernus that Wyll describes.

Marching back to camp, Aysla shaky fingers itch for more fighting. The midst of battle is the only place where the curl of cruelty in her heart gets some air, and she almost doesn't notice her cold sweat and her weak nerves. Her heart rate is vital, rather than light and fast like a hummingbird's, if only for a few moments.

She catches a few glances from Lae'zel, who looks like she may finally be beginning to appreciate Aysla's presence as an asset rather than a sloshing burden.

Hiking back to camp is slowed down, bedraggled by heavy bundles of loot as they are. Aysla shuffles through her miscellaneous spoils: a silver ring that doesn't fit her, some boots that seem to glow, and a pretty, decorative handheld mirror. Her hand lightly shakes as she holds up the trinket admiringly, checking her face.

"Find anything good?" she says, to no one in particular. Karlach and Astarion walk on either side of her.

"Nothing to write home about, soldier," Karlach responds. "What've you got there?"