When Aysla awakens, she stretches her long, knuckle-y fingers over Astarion's larger, smoother, colder ones. Her palms are hot and her fingertips are freezing, while Astarion's hands are so evenly cold, like a balm.
She had no dreams the previous night, for once - a reprieve, after the strange visions she had whilst floating, suspended in between life and death, before Withers revived her.
He's already awake, she knows, still as a stone behind her. She gives his hand one more squeeze, before turning over to face him, and putting a hand softly on his cheek.
Sitting in his cool arms in the morning, she recalls that they never really set any clear boundaries. Not eager to broach any hot-button topics with him for a while after the rollercoaster they'd just been on, Aysla decides against requesting clarification, and to simply err on the side of chaste, wholesome touches, only. Nothing that could be considered a breach of the limits he had just set on their sex life.
Their sex life.
Despite it being on a sabbatical of undetermined length, it feels, knowing it is theirs all the same. Our relationship, she thinks. Us.
Aysla is a little nervous at the thought that these moments, sweet and chaste, were all she would have to build on - to make him want to stay. How could that be enough, for him?
So she strokes her thumb delicately across his cheek and rakes her eyes over his face. If she can't earn her lover's affection with sex, she's motivated to find other ways to dote upon him.
She notices with a pang that his eyes look pained. Perhaps he's regretting this after all? Perhaps he regrets saying those three little words. She had been holding them back for ages, but maybe he had felt pressured. She had just woken up from being dead, was crying, and had said it to him first - perhaps it was the heat of the moment.
"How'd you sleep?" he says, his voice sounding strained.
"Alright," she says softly. "And you?"
"Oh, I didn't trance long," he says, eyes still far away.
Aysla wonders if it's better to say nothing to avoid poking the tender spot, or to risk asking him what's wrong. "Are you... mad at me?" she asks, feeling dumb as the words leave her mouth. "I just mean - sorry. That we had a fight and I misread it, and then died, or whatever."
"Has anyone ever told you that you have a way with words?" Astarion teases, a hint of amusement finally warming his expression. "It's alright, my love. Your sister did warn me, - something about mommy issues."
"Mommy issues? It'd be more accurate to say that she has me issues," she scoffs.
"Is that why you're...like this?" he says, waving a hand, still teasing. "My 'broken toy'? I had centuries to become this jaded, and you've had - what, two or three decades? Doesn't stop you from having all the optimism of a rock."
"Well, if we're going to start psycho-analyzing each other-" she begins to retort.
"You've already analyzed me," he recalls. "Don't be miffed because I have you pegged, now, too."
"So - mommy issues? Is that all you have? I think you could do far worse," she goads.
"And I've seen you when you think no one is watching, with your little 'chicken.' Cooing to him like he's your own wee, feathered babe," he continues, wearing a shit-eating grin, "playing mother hen."
Aysla didn't know anyone had been watching. In fact, she often looks around, double-checking for watching eyes, before picking up the owl bear, whom she had dubbed "Little Man," and rocking him like he's her oversized, beaked toddler.
"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;
A palace, on fire, crumbling as smoke billows;
And finally, a pretty child with silver hair and piercing eyes, holding a mirror - Astarion when he was young, perhaps?
Wordlessly, she tried to project her thoughts to the entity.
"I don't know what this means. But you if you can see my life, as you're showing it to me now - you know that everything has been so painful," she thought. "I would like for it to end."
She had never before gotten a response from the mysterious deva that watched silently over her bloodline, the same one she had supposedly been distantly descended from. But here, in this space of neither life nor death, she finally heard an answer in her head.
"You will see," is all it said. "There has always been a plan."
And then, she awoke, to see Withers looking down at her, eyes full of chastisement.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Aysla?" Shadowheart says, waking her from her reverie.
"Oh! I was just going to try to go talk to you - "
"I'm so, so, sorry..." Shadowheart says, staring at the ground. Her face is burdened, her eyes glossy. Aysla didn't expect that.
"Oh!" she says, raising her hands as if to comfort her, and then deciding against it. "Shadowheart I'm sorry – I beefed up your whole justiciar thing, without even talking to you about it first, and I swear I had good intentions, but I did feel I owed you an apology," she replies. She tries to keep her tone light and casual, but Shadowheart seems to shirk the attempt at levity.
"Aysla, I killed you," she says emphatically. "You weren't there to see, obviously, but killed dead, as in life gone from your eyes – it was awful. All for my hopeless attempt to please my cruel goddess. But after meeting Aylin, and, well you – I don't know if I can even hold fast to my belief in that being the answer, anymore. You did Aylin and myself a great favor, you know. You - you're truly..."
Shadowheart begins to choke up, trying to convey her gratitude. Aysla simply watches, looking horrified.
"You're a good friend to me, Aysla. Sometimes I get the feeling you don't think of yourself, that way – but you are," Shadowheart says, still looking fretful.
"Oh, Shadowheart, no – not no to, I mean, well..." she stumbles, extremely uncomfortable by the serious tone of the conversation and at being called a true friend by a teary-eyed Shadowheart. She searches for the words to ease the heaviness. "I'm a terrible friend, but I'll be happy to be called your friend all the same, if you'll have me."
"Gods, Aysla, you're sort of terrible, do you know that?" Shadowheart says, looking a bit amused now. "We've been traveling together for months now - are you surprised that I think of you as a friend? Did you think that I would somehow be mad at you, for dying by my hand?"
Aysla throws up her hands. "Nono! I... Well I thought you thought of me as sort of a tolerable and sometimes useful annoyance, so I'm flattered, is all."
Shadowheart just laughs. "It's fine. Your ineptitude for social cues has left others in its wake, though, as I assume you know. I take it you patched things up with Astarion? Or did he avoid you for the rest of the night?"
Aysla cocks her head. He had seemed peeved at her when she was revived. Not exactly the picture of mourning. "We did! Or, we talked it out I guess. He's in my tent now, so yes, we're all gravy."
"He was... distraught, to say the least. He may seem like the carefree hedonist, but there's something fragile beneath the facade," she says. "I'm sure he played it off when you spoke to him. But we were worried he was going to fling himself off the nearest cliff. He carried you all the way back here, you know."
Aysla's mouth pulls into a frown. "He... he did? All I got was a scolding when I woke up."
"I'm sure - I think you underestimate the hold you have on him. I'm glad you grant him the solace that I'm convinced he so desperately needs. It's... sort of nice, to bear witness to – when it's not nauseating," she says, smiling. "Just don't forget to invite me to the wedding."
"Well I'm ever so glad you're enjoying the show," Aysla says, rolling her eyes. "You're sure you don't hate me? I know that you had seemed... quite set on the whole justiciar thing."
"You're far too pretty to hate, my friend. So, no - but I'll have to do some reflecting on what it is I do believe in now. But I appreciate you, saving me from a decision I would have come to regret," she finishes.
Suddenly, in a burst of red, hellish light, Raphael stands before them. Astarion, hearing the commotion, bursts out the front of the tent.
Raphael strides towards them.
"Do you know what happens when a devil is struck down on this charming plane of existence? It returns to the hells - to the very point where it last stood before venturing to whichever devil-forsaken plane it died on," he says. "In the case of our friend Yurgir, the orthon you so handily dispatched in the temple of Shar, he manifested in my House of Hope. Now, I have the opportunity to reeducate him."
Aysla begins to drift forward towards Raphael. She stands before him next to Astarion, angling herself ever so slightly ahead of him - protective, shielding.
"We delivered the devil," says Astarion, a bit impatiently. "Now I want what I'm owed - we had a deal."
"Indeed we did," Raphael replies. "I discovered all there is to know about those scars of yours - it's a rather grim tale, even for my tastes." He chuckles darkly.
"Can you get to the point?" Aysla huffs.
"As you wish. Brace yourself, Astarion - we're about to unveil your destiny. Carved into that ivory skin of yours is one part of an infernal contract between the archdevil Mephistophales and your former master, Cazador Szarr," he says, looking amused. "In full, the contract states that Cazador will be granted knowledge of an infernal ritual so vile it has never been performed; the Rite of Profane Ascension."
Aysla chances a glance in his direction, but Astarion's face is unreadable.
"It promises to be a marvelous ceremony. Very elaborate, incredibly ancient, and entirely diabolical.If he completes the rite, he will become a new kind of being - the Vampire Ascendant. All the strengths of his vampiric form will be amplified, and alongside them he will enjoy the luxuries of the living," he continues.
"The arousals and appetites of man will return to him. And unlike Astarion, he will have no need of a parasite to protect him from the sun. But the ritual has a price - Lord Cazador will have to sacrifice a number of souls, including all of his vampiric spawn, if he wishes to ascend. Imagine how he felt, then, when one of those precious spawn simply disappeared into thin air," Raphael muses. "The only missing ingredient is Astarion. You are the final piece he requires to complete the ritual - your scars bind you to it. Your soul will set off a very wave of death, bringing Cazador his twisted life. And that, my tragic and toothsome friend, is that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business elsewhere."
He disappears the way he came, in a puff of black and red sparks.
Astarion turns to Aysla, his face carefully arranged.
"Hmm," he says, twisting his mouth and looking at her like he's trying to read her.
Aysla wonders why he's reading her in this scenario - when it ought to be the other way around.
"Hmm?" she mimics back.
"I'm... contemplating. It's a lot to take in," he says, still revealing nothing. "What do you think I should do?"
Aysla looks puzzled, and steps closer to him, placing a hand on his bicep.
"Love, why are you asking me?" she says, her voice lowered. Though their campmates watch them from a few yards distance, she wants him to feel he can speak freely, to her, at least. She mutters just loud enough for him to hear, "Tell me what you think we need to do, and we shall."
He looks briefly confused, then hopeful. "If - if I'm the key to this power he craves, he'll hunt me to the ends of Faerun. I need to take the fight to him. And I need you to help me," he says, looking slightly wary.
"Of course," she says. As if there was ever a world where she would say no. "Of course," she repeats.
She thinks of how Davidus waits in Baldur's Gate, too, and wonders briefly if anyone here would be willing to dispatch him, for her. Then she pushes it out of her mind. She would prefer to run and hide forever, she thinks, then to face him again. She'd rather pretend he doesn't exist.
Maybe fighting Astarion's battle will relieve her, for a while, from her own.
He takes a hold of one of her hands. "Thank you," he says, with a nod.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The day moves at a slow pace. The group had decided to take it easy for the day - graciously giving Aysla a short break before they face the battle at Moonrise in the morning. Her companions give her some space, but they all cast wary, careful smiles in her direction. She didn't think anyone had cared whether she lived or died, but there's a solemn air hanging in the camp.
Finally retreating to her tent, Aysla shuts her eyes tightly. She feels awful; this group of people that she holds at an arm's distance, is treating her with what she thought she had been successfully avoiding - friendship.
She had spent so much time brooding, and now this group of people had her feeling an overwhelming sense of responsibility, care, and duty. She had not had one true friend since she could remember. She wonders if Astarion had hit it on the nose earlier, in regard to his accusation of her having a complex of some kind.
He appears, as though telepathically, and Aysla immediately feels relief wash over her.
She scooches over in the bed, hoping he'll crawl in next to her. But he stands in the entrance of the tent, unmoving.
Aysla's stomach drops. "What's wrong?"
He looks around, searching for the words for several seconds before speaking.
"What do you get out of this?" he says, looking overstrung.
Aysla opens her mouth, then shuts it. What a ridiculous question.
"What do I get out of this?" she repeats. He simply nods.
"Astarion - I'm sorry, I just blurted it out yesterday, you don't have to say it back," she sighs.
His face falls. "So you didn't mean it then?"
"No - I mean, yes, I did - I do ," she says.
"Then why are you apologizing for it?" he says, still looking wounded.
"Because it sucks, for you," she says. "You get to be loved by..." she waves her hands around, gesturing at herself, "the most annoying person on this side of the Chionthar. And I've already done something to piss you off, it seems, and it hasn't even been a full twenty four hours."
He looks searching again. "Aysla, I know that I'm riddled with... complications. If you wanted to cut and run, I could hardly blame you."
She just glares at him blankly. "Well, that's stupid."
He shifts his weight and places a hand on his hip, waiting for her to elaborate. Unsure what to say, he just replies petulantly, "It is not."
"Can you please come here and explain your dramatic entrance?" she huffs, patting the place next to her, seated cross-legged on the bedroll.
He sits beside her, still guarded. "I'm... appreciative, you know, of your willingness to help me. But does some part of you feel that you'e obligated to? What's the catch?"
"Well I am," she replies. "Obligated to you, I mean. And not as a favor - to fulfill my pathetic urge to give you the world."
He still looks rueful. "Then don't fucking die, Aysla," he says, anger and hurt in his voice. "All this talk of love - I'm no expert on healthy relationships, but how can you say you love me and then throw yourself in front of a spear? You'll sacrifice yourself on a whim, you offer to help me fight my battles, and yet - I don't know what's going to happen when this is all over. Are you going to go back to drinking yourself to death? Does the extent of your care end at martyring yourself?"
Aysla, for once, is lost for words. She spent all her energy thinking of the ways she could be chivalrous, never stopping to think of how he might feel about her self-destruction. That he might love her enough, back, to care.
"I'm sorry," is all she manages.
"Don't apologize," he says, pulling her back in, resting his head on her shoulder. "Just stop... that. For me, if that means anything."
"I - of course it does," she replies. Not knowing what else to say, she tugs him into a tight hug.
"I didn't just say it because you said it first," he mutters into her hair. "I love you, you fool."
Aysla, looking for any way to break up the saccharine sweetness of the moment, gasps fakely, feigning shock. "Oh - love me? Awfully soon, don't you think?"
"Fucking hells, you said it first!" he scoffs, releasing her from his embrace and lightly shoving her away.
"Well then I heard it through your tadpole ages ago. I just said it aloud to be kind," she replies, flipping her hair and falling back into the bedroll.
"Well, what's it saying now?" he asks, moving to lay down next to her.
He projects 'I fucking hate you' as loudly as he can in his mind, grinning widely.