Recovery (Astarion BG3 Fan Fiction)

12: Sowing

"Well you, of all people, should hardly be surprised, that I have a soft spot for wounded strays," she quips.

"Furthering my point," he says. "Ever the white knight, despite your best attempt to hide it."

"Only for you," she swoons fakely. "I'll fall on my sword for you, any day."

Aysla's smiling and laughing along, but sincerely, it is what she so desperately craves – to do something for him, to be useful. Giving him blood was one thing, but it's somehow not enough. She wants to be indispensable.

That reminds her, though.

"Breakfast in bed, my sweet?" she asks, flicking her hair away from her neck. "Since we're on the subject of my selfless charity."

"I wouldn't call it charity, darling," he says as he sits up to better access her throat. "I'd call it a complex."

He's grinning to himself when she turns around to look at him harshly, just as his teeth are going into her neck. Realizing how stupid it was to move then, she freezes, and he readjusts his balance in order to avoid stumbling whilst his teeth are so close to her jugular.

They land in an entangled position, with his legs astride her, and his pelvis pinning her down by her hip.

How she'd love to fall on his proverbial sword, now. But she recalls their conversation, and remains perfectly motionless.

As he laps the last few sips from her, before moving on to gently wipe the remaining droplets from the wound with his hand, she doesn't move a muscle. As soon as he's finished, she extricates herself from the compromising position.

"I should, er, go talk to Shadowheart about last night, I suppose," she says. She places her hand on his cheek again, and presses a soft kiss to the side of his mouth, before whispering, tentatively, "Love you."

She darts out of the tent before he has a chance to reply.

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

Aysla seems to have gotten too early of a start - none of their companions have risen to greet the day yet. She takes the opportunity to go wash up, and stoke the fire.

She feels slight tugs of nervousness, knowing she will be faced with an uncomfortable conversation with her travel mate soon. But it doesn't spoil her mood, entirely. Aysla's lease on life, while not officially renewed, has been, at least, tentatively extended. Her making up with Astarion lent a huge help to her attitude, but it was her run-in with death that had the most significant impact on her outlook.

She had felt the familiar presence when she had died – the one that she remembers being present in all of her dreams when she was young. It would hang back, just in her periphery, sending her vague images, never words.

As she drifted off into the blackness of death, thinking it to be the final, true time – it had spoken to her clearly, for once.

Drifting through the darkness, she saw flashes of her past – her own small knees, scraped from rough-housing, and her mother's disapproving scowl; meeting Davidus, and falling for him rushedly, stupidly; her arms and legs, covered in bruises, before she escaped; her small, cheap flat in Baldur's Gate, filled with naught but her cats and endless, endless bottles; then, more recently, images of Astarion, laughing, holding her hand; Little Man, the owlbear, nuzzling her; herself, flying towards the orthon, eyes blackened.

And then, they seamlessly transitioned into images she did not recognize –

Her hands, drenched in blood - red light reflecting in their glistening, and a dark, red-black powder sticking to the wetness;