Recovery (Astarion BG3 Fan Fiction)

8: Bitter Spirits

Each night, Astarion bites her, he beds her, and then she lies awake for as long as she can, until sleep finally takes her.

Then, the serial nightmares play. Each morning, she wakes in a cold sweat.

The days pass in a blur as Aysla faces the full force of the side effects of dabbling with her aasimar 'gifts,' without the counteraction of drinking herself so blind at night that the visions can't find footing.

One night, it's an image of the three men, laying dead on the ground. There's the arm around her neck, the hand over her mouth, then the crunch, the taste of blood, and a digit on the ground. She looks again at the corpses, and they all have Astarion's face.

Another night, she's in a palace she doesn't recognize filled with endless, neat rows of bottles. They're all empty. She looks down at her hand, and it's shaking. She's so thirsty, she needs a drink, and there are so many empty bottles. Not a drop left. She looks down again, and she is missing her thumbs.

Sometimes her dream is just a memory: City guards at her door, asking her questions. 'A big misunderstanding,' she tells them. 'An accident.' Why was she lying for him? She still feels scared, even though she's away from him - so scared that she's shaking. They look at her, a mess of bruises, with pity in their eyes. Bruises everywhere - on her thighs, arms, and neck - bruises in the shape of hands. They take her word, reluctantly. She should've been angry, but she can't stop feeling afraid. Why did she lie?

As each day passes, her eyes begin to drift for and more to the chest where their collective loot is stowed. Trinkets, snacks, and bottles. She can see them so clearly in her minds eye, glittering jewels filled with something more potent than a healing potion - she can almost taste them, feeling the blessed burning in her throat and her stomach when the spirits fill her stomach, fill her soul. It would only take a little, she thinks, to simply ease her racing mind. Just a sip, or a gulp, or two, or ten - and she would find sanctuary from the ceaseless visions.

Astarion notices her restlessness, but he doesn't say anything. He has his own demons to fight.

When he sees her shake in the night, he reminds himself that it is a relationship of convenience. When she gets up wordlessly every morning, hours before the rest of their group, he doesn't ask what troubles her. He doesn't mention the hollow darkness under her eyes, growing deeper every day.

He starts to wonder if this was a mistake; if she's too preoccupied with her own troubles to be worthwhile to recruit to his own. At the end of the day, there is but one true goal, the tadpoles and the world be damned, and that is to return to Baldur's Gate for the only thing that matters; revenge.

If Aysla notices the chasm growing, she doesn't show it, nor does she do anything to bridge the gap. As the days wear on, her face grows more gaunt, her eyes bloodshot. Her humor wanes, and her patience thins. She has no energy for being charming.

On their last day in the Underdark, her eyes are out of focus as she hacks off Nere's head. She wishes she had used her rapier to slice it cleanly. The sawing makes her stomach churn - the smell of blood, the crunch of bones - she wonders if her dreams are beginning to seep into reality, as she looks into the brutally incarnadined neck, and she swears she can hear the laughing and screaming from her dreams; she can almost taste the blood in her mouth.

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

"Finally, the sun!" says Astarion.

Aysla doesn't crack a smile.

The party descends the elevator to the creche - finally - to Lae'zel's satisfaction. The entire way into the heart of the creche, the dream visitor shouts into their minds.