Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“They are like siblings,” Jaheira grumbles, watching Gale and Astarion snipe at each other over dinner. There hadn’t been enough beds for them at Last Light, so they’ve set up camp a little way down from it, though still well within the safety of Isobel’s spell. The camp is fuller and merrier than it has been in some time, despite the gloom around them. 

“Siblings?” Shadowheart barely looks up from her bread and stew. “They’re both egotistical flirts, but I’d hardly call that a family resemblance.”

Jaheira laughs her short sharp bark of a laugh, dropping bits of sausage off the side of her plate for the owlbear to snaffle. 

“Believe me, I’ve spent more than enough time around brothers and sisters to see the similarities that they don’t want to. If they saw more than their worst faults in each other, perhaps they would get along. But rather than face their failures, they fight, and irritate everybody else with their lack of self-awareness.” 

The owlbear rears up on its hind legs, as if to beg for more. 

“Ah!” She snaps. “No! Down.”

The owlbear drops back to four paws, looking as contrite as a small lump of feathers and fur can manage. 

“That Scratch has been a bad influence on you,” Jaheira tells it, but then feeds it more of her sausage anyway. When she looks up, it’s to several sets of astonished expressions. “What?” She demands, frowning. “You think I am letting him learn bad habits now, when he will grow up to be the size of a small house?” 

“Jaheira’s right,” Halsin puts in. “I’ve often seen siblings begin to shape themselves around what the others are not.” 

“Hang on,” Gale sits up. “Halsin, you and Jaheira aren’t siblings, are you?” 

“I am a half-elf,” Jaheira points out. 

“And us both being druids would make my previous statement somewhat flawed,” Halsin agrees. 

“Ah, you make an exceptionally good point,” Gale agrees, cheerfully. “Who are we talking about then? I wasn’t aware any of us were related.” 

“They’re talking about us, Gale dear. You do take things so literally.” Astarion drawls, apparently thoroughly unbothered about any of it. 

“Us?” Gale frowns. “I fail to see how we might be misconstrued as siblings.” 

“You’re an only child, aren’t you?” Jaheira says, with some amusement. “I know brothers like you. Not a moment’s peace, all the jabbing and joking and poking at each other.” 

Astarion snaps the spine of his book closed. 

“I don’t dislike Gale any more than anyone else in this ragtag bunch of tadpole-inflicted idiots. It’s not my fault he’s just so much more fun to tease.”

Gale rolls his eyes. 

“Ha. I did always want siblings. My mother said I’d regret it if they ever came along. If they had been like Astarion, I can see her point.” 

“Gale, I’m hurt!” Astarion mock swoons, hand on heart. “Trust me, if I really disliked you, you’d know. Or you’d be dead. Honestly, you should take your continued existence as a compliment.” 

“Ah, but if you liked me, you’d let me look at that Thayan text of yours.” 

“I said no, Gale! I thought you respected books too much to eat them.” 

Gale frowns. 

“Have you not been paying attention these last few days? Elminster bestowed a charm that rendered the orb in a state of suspension-” 

“Yes, yes, please, spare me the lecture. And no, I don’t waste any of my attention on you if I can help it. As long as you’re not going to blow me up, I frankly don’t care how it came about.” 

“Really, Astarion?” Shadowheart raises an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t notice that random pieces of treasure had stopped going missing? I find that hard to believe.” 

“You know, I don’t have to sit with you at meals,” Astarion snipes, getting to his feet. “In fact, I rather think I won’t tonight. Perhaps by depriving you of the pleasure of my company you may come to value it more.” 

He stalks back towards his tent. 

“And a tendency towards the dramatic,” Shadowheart comments to Jaheira. “You know, I’m beginning to see it.”

Gale excuses himself a little earlier than he usually would, returning to the company of his own book. After reading the same paragraph three times, he gives up, and lets his mind wander. The little light cantrip he’d been using to read only has the barest edge of the weave in it, but it’s enough. As always, there’s an echo of Mystra in it. 

One day, perhaps, that might not sting so much. He had hoped that eventually using magic would become joyous again. It seems unlikely that he’ll have the time for that, now. Even so, he’ll work with it. The alternative is no magic, which isn’t really an alternative at all. Gale focuses, pulling the spell apart, scattering the light to the underside of the canvas so the spots of light twinkle like stars. His own little universe. A trick he hasn’t done since he was a boy.

“Gale?” 

Wyll’s footsteps had been nearly silent - or Gale had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he’d missed them entirely. 

“Sorry, do you need me to put the light out?”

As the lights wink out, the weave fades with them. A loss, every time, and yet a relief too. One that he hates admitting to himself. What kind of wizard hates the feel of the weave? 

“No no, I just wanted to see if you were okay. Can I come in?” 

“Of course,” With a flick of his wrist, Gale brings the lights back, and peels back the tent curtain to let Wyll in. “I assure you, I’m quite comfortable. After Mizora’s little threat earlier, I should be the one asking you that.” 

“Well, I had wondered if you might want to share some wine,” Wyll grins, settling himself and admiring the little constellation spinning above his head. “That’s a neat trick.” 

“I can teach you, if you’re interested,” Gale offers.

It’s a more pleasant way to spend the evening than moping. Wyll picks it up quickly, and is pleasantly creative with it, shooting little fireworks from his fingertips. 

“We’ll make a wizard of you yet,” Gale grins. 

“I never had the knack for true study,” Wyll refutes. “Besides, not everyone wants to be a wizard.” 

“No,” Gale mocks disbelief. “Really? You’d never given me the impression that you thought wizarding was only for stuck-up nerds at all.” 

Wyll laughs. 

For a moment, they simply sit quietly, watching Wyll’s constellations turning through the air above them. 

“You know, if it weren’t for this situation, I think you and I might have been the only ones in this group who would have been friends,” Wyll says, eventually. “If you’d ever come to Baldur’s Gate, of course.” 

“Really?” Gale considers this a moment. “I don’t know, I’m sure I would have thought you frightfully ordinary. Now, though - well, look at you. Quite the man of intrigue, aren’t you?” 

Wyll smiles at that. 

“You don’t have to keep trying to make me feel better about the horns, you know. I’m getting used to it.” He sits back, his gaze fading off into the middle distance. “If I’ve learned anything on this journey, it’s that I might have missed some very good friends, over the years, just because I didn’t look closely enough. There’s Karlach, of course, but the others, too. Once, I wouldn’t have given Astarion the chance to explain himself, if we met in a dark alley. He probably would have tried to lure me back to his master, for his part. But now - well. He saw Mizora had shown her hand and tried to navigate me a way out of the pact, even though there’s nothing in it for him. There’s more to all of us than meets the eye. Wouldn’t you say so?” 

“Ha. bold of you to assume I had friends at all before this,” Gale quips. Instead of his easy smile, however, Wyll frowns. 

“But you’re… well, an open book. You’re so easy to get to know.” 

He seems genuinely surprised, but all Gale can offer him is a shrug. 

“I suppose that there was only Mystra. Not that I didn’t have other friends and even lovers before her, I hasten to add, but - well. Being a wizarding prodigy didn’t exactly win me many friends. I suppose that once she started teaching me about the weave, I always knew, eventually, it would be her. Nothing else was ever really serious. How could it be?” 

Despite the careful levity in Gale’s tone, Wyll is frowning more seriously now. 

“How did you know?” He asks, in his soft, thoughtful way. There’s no judgement in it. Yet Gale turns to look at the dregs of his wine instead of his friend’s face. 

“I- just knew.” 

Even to another magic user, he doesn’t know how to explain it. The way Wyll wields his power is fascinating and a subject that has kept them both occupied for many hours on the road. But it is nothing like the weave. Even though it is granted by Mizora, it is nowhere near as personal. Or, if it is, Wyll hasn’t let on. Which considering he still hasn’t told Gale that his eye is a sending stone is not entirely inconceivable. 

But it doesn’t fit. Wyll isn’t a liar. At most, he omits the details he doesn’t wish to share. Everything he has explained about his magic rings true; he likely feels no influence of its bearer in it. For Wyll’s sake, Gale is glad of it. 

“I don’t think Jaheira meant any offence, earlier,” Wyll says, eventually. 

“Hm?” Gale pretends to cast his mind back to dinner. “Oh, comparing me to Astarion?” He waves a hand, attempting to be charmingly dismissive and, he is aware, likely failing. “I’d be a fool to miss the parallels. There’s far more nuance to it, of course, but Jaheira hasn’t even known us a full day. She can hardly be expected to see more than the broadest strokes of our situations.” 

Wyll nods, genially, either taken in or happy to let Gale pretend that he is. 

“She’ll come to see the measure of the man Astarion is behind all of his defences in time, just like we all have.” 

“Indeed,” Gale agrees. “He’s quite determined to kill Cazador, whereas it seems Mystra will be the death of me.”  

Chapter Text

Gale dreams. Not of the strange guardian. Of the orb. 

That shattering moment where he and it had been intertwined. The weave, once his to command, seeming to dim and fade away from his very presence. Once a roaring tide of fire, become but an ember in his palm. 

Dawn does not wake him. Wyll does. 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he sticks his head through the entrance. “Come now, we didn’t drink so much last night that you can be hungover, surely.” 

“Blasted Shadowlands. It’s no brighter here at dawn than it is in the middle of the night.” 

“There’s no rush - Jaheira has insisted on feeding us all up at the Inn this morning. To thank us for dinner and apologise for there not being enough beds for us, I think.” 

“My stomach will thank her, even if my back does not.” Gale struggles free of the blanket he has managed to wrap around himself like a cocoon. 

They walk up to the Inn together, Wyll still gently teasing Gale about not being old enough to have a bad back. The smell of cooking wafts down towards them, hurrying their feet. They join the end of the table, Wyll sliding neatly in next to Karlach, who immediately greets him by putting her arm around him, to both of their continued joy. Mystra’s blessings on Dammon. And Astarion, he supposes, for insisting on lockpicking every chest they came across in the hopes of finding infernal iron. 

Gale settles in beside Halsin and his small mountain of food. 

“I owe you my apologies for last night,” Halsin says, immediately. As always, he turns the full force of his attention on his subject. Gale smiles up at him, trying not to strain his neck in doing so. The benches remind him of the school dining halls, both in the forced proximity of one’s companions and the discomfort they provide. 

“Not at all! I can barely remember what was said,” he lies, helping himself to sausages. 

“Even so,” Halsin remains solemn. “Though it came from concern for your wellbeing and happiness, I overstepped.” 

“Much as I appreciate the apology, it’s really not necessary, Halsin.” 

“Perhaps. But you are just as capable of bringing the best out in each other as you do the worst.” 

Gale pauses, sausage halfway to his mouth, and lowers his fork. 

“Astarion flirts with everybody, Halsin, and he flirts like he’s fighting - all sharp edges and winning advantages. I assure you, I have not been encouraging him.” 

Halsin considers him, brow furrowed. Gale takes a bite of his breakfast. 

“Perhaps you should,” Halsin says. 

Gale chokes. 

It takes Halsin a few solid smacks on the back before he can breathe again; an escapade that will have done his already sore back no good at all. 

“Timing, Halsin,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. 

The door to the Inn slams open. 

“Darlings!” Astarion trills, “How dare you start without me.” 

“There’s garlic in the sausages,” Karlach yells back. 

“Devastating,” Astarion declares, claiming the tiniest bit of the bench left next to Gale with irritatingly languid grace. “Now why would you go and do that to me?” 

Pinned against Halsin’s shoulder, it takes Gale a moment to realise that the comment is aimed at him. 

“I didn’t cook this morning.” 

“Oh,” Surprised, Astarion recovers quickly. “And here I was thinking you were about to start something juicy.” 

“I don’t have the energy for petty dramatics,” Gale says, and as if to prove his point, yawns. 

“How boring,” Astarion sighs. 

“And even if I did, I wouldn’t waste them on you.” 

“That’s better!” Astarion crows. “You never disappoint, you know.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Gale deadpans, and goes back to his sausages. 

Alfira wanders past with a carafe of coffee, and Gale spends a pleasant few moments trying to convince her that he can take the whole thing, mugs not necessary. She’s a good sport about it, and fetches him a mug to boot. She seems less maudlin this morning, and Gale is glad to see it. 

“Any luck on the hunt?” Wyll asks, pleasantly. 

“Ugh, no,” Astarion sours. “Everything here is bloody cursed, even the rats. Never thought I’d wish I could go back to rats.” 

“I could do you some black pudding,” Gale offers. “I’d been planning it this morning anyway, before Jaheira offered, if that would do for you.”

“I- yes, I suppose it would,” Astarion gives him a curious look. “It’s not the same, of course, but when one hasn’t eaten in days…”

“Coffee first,” Gale nods. “Then I’m all yours.” 

-

After coffee and breakfast, Gale is feeling considerably more himself. 

“Thank you,” Astarion says, sitting across the fire from him as Gale tosses the fat in the pan. 

“I may not know your hunger exactly, but if it’s anything like mine then I’d rather you didn’t suffer needlessly,” he pats his chest, where the orb sits, dormant.
He can feel Astarion’s eyes on him as he potters around.

“Perhaps Jaheira was more right than I thought,” he says. 

“Hah.” Gale smiles. “Personally, I always thought Karlach and I had more in common.” 

“You’re joking. You couldn’t lift a kobold, let alone throw one, and Karlach hasn’t read a book in a decade.” 

“True, admittedly, but I was more referring to the similarities in our somewhat volatile conditions.” 

“Oh but that’s all?” Astarion laughs. “In which case, I also have the most in common with Karlach. We’re both devastatingly beautiful after all.” 

“Also true, although I resent not even being considered in the running.” 

“Gale, dear, you are handsome, in a neat and irritatingly scholarly sort of way. Handsome and beautiful are two entirely different concepts.” 

“I am electing to take that in the spirit of the compliment it was intended as, given I think it’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

“Well, you are making me breakfast,” Astarion flashes him a winning smile. 

That gives Gale pause. Why, he’s not exactly sure. But there had been something loose and almost honest to Astarion’s charm a moment ago, and now it’s gone. Buried back under the sharp edge. 

Gale hands him the bowl. Astarion takes it carefully, their fingers brushing. His skin is cold. 

“I wouldn’t let you starve,” Gale frowns. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered offering my blood, if it wouldn’t be potentially dangerous for you to consume. If the shadow curse continues to be so unforgiving, however, perhaps we should consider it.” 

Astarion stares at him, slack-jawed. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, Gale, but what caused you to change your mind? What happened to ‘not being for biting’?” 

“Nobody deserves to eat rats and be grateful for it,” Gale turns away, starting to tidy up. “You could be a far worse man than you are, Astarion, and you still wouldn’t deserve that.” 

There’s a quiet moment, and then Astarion says;

“Oh but now you’ve made me curious. What does netherese magic taste like, I wonder?” 

“Let’s hope for both our sakes that you never have to find out.” 

“You tease.” 

Gale finishes tidying up just as the others begin to return to dress and begin the day. Lae’zel, as always, the first among them. The noise and bustle of camp picks up around them. 

“Be careful,” Astarion says, finally, as he hands a gratifyingly empty bowl back. 

“Oh, always,” Gale says, cheerily. But the pads of Astarion’s fingers come to rest on his wrist, and he stops. Looks up. 

“Mystra threw everything you gave her back at you,” Astarion says, so quietly that Gale can barely hear him. “Yet still, you give the pieces of yourself left away so easily. If you keep at it, there will be nothing left to give.” 

Gale can only blink at him. Then Astarion smiles. 

“You’re too intelligent to be this stupid,” he winks, and is gone. 

Personally, Gale wouldn't consider taking the time to make someone breakfast giving part of himself away. It's a simple kindness, and not an onerous one. 

But he supposes that kindness looks different, when you've spent centuries as a slave.

Chapter Text

Despite it being somewhat dangerous to do so permanently, they’ve split into slightly smaller groups to explore a small area for the time being. The ruptured earth and encroaching darkness makes it incredibly difficult to parse a course through the shadowlands. Somehow, Gale has ended up with Astarion and Shadowheart. They’re picking their way across an ancient battlefield towards a bridge when Shadowheart suddenly stops, dropping into a crouch. 

“Do you hear that?” She says. 

They all pause, just for a moment. Gale happens to be looking in the right direction to see a tell-tale flash of light, and the beginning of a verbal component. Something that begins with an ‘ah’, but is swallowed by the sound of someone - or something - screeching in pain. 

Something about the voice is familiar, but Gale doesn’t think much of it. The note of panic had been much more worrying. 

In two strides he’s down the side of the path and running towards the skirmish, torch held high. 

“Gale!” Shadowheart yells after him. 

Gale skids around a corner.

The shadows have someone cornered. There are the strange orbs the dead ones leave, scattered about his feet, but the wizard who had done the damage is looking far worse for wear. 

It’s the tiefling from the bar; the one who had been drinking so deep Gale is surprised to see him upright at all, let alone casting. He drops his torch and twists his hands together to cast. 

“Tormento!” 

The missiles burst from his fingers. In hindsight, it would have been better to cast something fire-based in the hopes that something in the vicinity would catch fire and cast some light, but it only usually takes a trainee wizard one instance of doing that by accident to make their default cast something less incendiary, and Gale has long since passed the point of being able to re-learn the instinct. 

The shadows drop. Their screams shatter the air. 

“Behind you!” The tiefling yells. 

The creature’s claws slam straight through Gale’s shoulder, the burn of the necrotic seeping into the wound. He swallows the cry of pain, hurriedly misty stepping across to where the tiefling is standing and casting dancing lights above them. 

He turns, one hand raised and one in his component pouch, braced for the damn thing to come after him. An arrow from above slices through it, sending the shadow screaming into the void. In its wake, Shadowheart charges through the dark towards them, spirit guardians barrelling through what had been left of the attackers. 

“Was that all of them?” She demands, skidding to a stop at Gale’s elbow. 

“That was it,” the tiefling pants, brushing himself off. “Gods damn it! I can’t do anything right!”

“Damn right you can’t!” Astarion vaults neatly from the ledge above them and lands by the tiefling’s side, his torch raised high as he tucks his crossbow away. “Didn’t do enough damage to your liver last night to kill yourself then? Decided to let the shadows finish the job?” 

“Astarion,” Gale protests. “What was your name? Rolan, right?” 

“I wouldn’t bother remembering it, if I were you,” Rolan growls. “It’s never going to mean anything to Gale of Waterdeep. Especially if I keep having to be rescued.” 

“I don’t know,” Gale holds himself a little taller, taking a look around him. “You did a good bit of damage before we got here. What are you actually doing out here, anyway?” 

“Looking for Cal and Lia,” Rolan says, miserably. “My siblings. They were taken by the cultists. I was trying to get to Moonrise.” 

Gale pats his shoulder. 

“Well, we’re going there anyway. How about you get back to the Inn and rest up, and we’ll see what we can do for the others.” 

“Oh for the love of - we’re not doing another rescue mission, Gale!” Astarion rolls his eyes. 

“Of course we are.” Gale attempts to cross his arms, and immediately regrets it. “Ah, ow.” 

With a sigh, Shadowheart raises her hand, and the worst of the pain eases. 

“Thank you,” Gale brushes his robe clean, hoping it won’t be too badly damaged. “Rolan - go home. And don’t listen to Astarion, he has all the moral fibre of the carpets in Last Light.”

Rolan blinks at him.

“There are carpets in Last Light?”

"No,” Gale sighs, turns, and picks his torch up off the floor, using Astarion’s to relight it. “We’ll do everything we can for your siblings.” He hands it to Rolan. “Go on. We’ll catch up with you tonight and let you know if we’ve made any progress.” 

With a few more stumbling and somewhat petulant expressions of thanks, Rolan goes. 

“I don’t resent the comment about lacking morals,” Astarion drawls, watching his little globe of yellow light fade back into the shadows. “But I don’t relish being compared to carpets.” 

“I’m sure,” Gale waves his hands and imbues his staff with daylight. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do. 

“You need to stop wasting resources rescuing strangers,” Astarion complains as they pick their way back towards the main path. “We’re making hardly any progress as it is.” 

“And yet you shot that shadow that was going for me,” Gale ponders. 

“Since when are we strangers?” Astarion protests. 

Gale turns to him, gleefully. 

“Astarion, do you consider us friends?” 

“There is a lot of space between 'strangers' and 'friends', Gale. But you’re a damn sight more useful alive than that idiot back there. It would have been stupid to let you die for him.” 

“Aww, you are capable of caring about people!” Shadowheart teases. 

“Yes, thank you, I’m a vampire, not a zombie!” Astarion snarls. “I’m just as capable of thinking and feeling as the rest of you. Unlike sparkle-fingers here, who keeps throwing himself into danger despite the fact he doesn’t wear armour because it ‘gets in the way of his magic tricks’.” 

“You have such unique ways of showing affection,” Gale grins. “It’s very sweet, really.” 

Astarion casts his eyes to the sky as if pleading for deliverance.

Chapter Text

The shadow curse is beginning to get to all of them. They’d made little more progress after finding Rolan. Having taken some rather sharp needles to some uncomfortable places facing down strange shadow-cursed tree-like creatures, even Halsin agrees to call it a day. They limp back to Last Light, morale much lower than it had been setting out. 

It’s Astarion, however, that really worries Gale. He had seemed to grow sallower by the hour. It’s almost as if the shadow curse is draining him, despite all their protections. He loses the humour in the edge of his sharpness. The near-silent walk back to the Inn is unnervingly quiet. 

Nobody is much in the mood to socialise, but the rest of them sit around the fire as they eat dinner and make idle chit-chat in a vain attempt to bolster each other’s spirits. 

Astarion doesn’t join them. 

Once the others have made their way to bed, Gale goes to see him. 

“Astarion?” He calls, softly. “Are you awake?” 

Receiving no response, he sticks his head round the tent flap. 

Astarion isn’t trancing. He is curled up in the farthest corner of his bedroll, his back to Gale, with the owlbear tucked up against his side and Scratch lying happily against his chest. The dog looks up and wags his tail as Gale enters, but Astarion doesn’t respond. 

“Apologies for the intrusion,” Gale keeps his voice soft. “I did wonder where the animals had gone.” 

“They’re warm,” Astarion says, from somewhere in amongst the feathers and the fur. 

“Are you cold?” 

“Stupid question.” 

Gale sighs. 

“Are you colder than usual?” 

“No, I just thought the owlbear would make a good pillow,” Astarion snaps. 

“I’m going to blame the shadow-weave for the discourteous tone.” 

Gale scratches the owlbear under the chin. It makes a contented little noise and snuggles in closer to Astarion. For all Gale’s initial reservations, it is a very sweet creature. 

“What do you want, Gale?” 

“One of my old colleagues specialised in necromancy. It was an accident, really, she was mostly just fascinated by the many ways the line is blurred between the living and the dead. We used to have hours-long discussions about the inaccuracies of the term ‘undead’ and what might be a more suitable replacement. Vampires were of particular interest to her - she theorised that vampirism isn’t a true state of undeath so much as an unnatural suspension of life.” 

At last, Astarion rolls over and eyes him over the owlbear’s paws. 

“Gale, did you come and interrupt my perfectly good brooding time to lecture me on my own condition?” 

“Uh, no, actually. I was working my way towards a question. A thesis, if you will.” 

“I have neither the time nor the patience to be a test subject.” 

“Then you’ll be pleased to know that I have very limited interest in running tests on you. Actually, I haven’t even read her notes. She rather ended up going off the rails. Started a cult, became a lich. In the end, Mystra had to order me to hunt her down and kill her. Very unpleasant business, all round, and more than enough reason to leave the bulk of her research unperused.” 

Astarion is properly paying attention now, his piercing eyes fixed on Gale. 

“And to think, you were worried about travelling with me. How often do you end up murdering your undead associates, on average? I’d like to know what I’m working with.” 

“Very rarely,” Gale says, somewhat grimly. “In fact, what I had intended to suggest is, I hope, quite the opposite. You see, it was Susan’s belief that-”

“Susan?” Astarion interrupts, disbelieving. “The necromancer who became a lich whose murder was ordered by the Goddess of magic was called Susan?” 

“I wouldn’t call it murder,” Gale protests. “If you’ve never met a lich then I hope you’ll never have reason to, but suffice it to say that the creature I met was no longer Susan. There was almost nothing left of the great scholar I had once known. I suspect she probably went by a different name by then, but I never learned what it was. Knowing it would have made an already difficult task even harder than it might otherwise have been.” 

“Right,” Astarion agrees. “Gods forbid you feel bad about murdering people.” 

“You never seem to bother,” Gale says, snippily. “Anyway. Susan believed that it was the consumption of the sanguine that maintained the balance between the living and the undead aspects of a vampire’s being. It’s widely accepted that blood is, in essence, the purveyor of life. Her thesis explained several phenomena that were exclusive to the vampiric class of undead. The ability to reproduce, for example, when exceptionally well-fed.” 

“What?” Astarion frowns. “Gods, that’s a horrifying thought.” 

“Well, Susan found more than one example of it happening. Not enough to prove anything definitively, but it did challenge some long-held schools of thought. As it had long been known that the nature of vampirism means that even a full transfusion of the blood of a living creature wouldn’t be enough to change a vampire back into their pre-undead form, the fact that it could make the vampire appear to be more alike to the living then the undead in physiology in other ways went unnoticed and unstudied. I would theorise, for example, that having eaten well you wouldn’t just find yourself reinvigorated in terms of energy, but also find your heartbeat easier to perceive.” 

“Fascinating as this is, Gale, for the love of any and all gods that are listening, would you please get to the point.” 

“Right,” Gale coughs. “Well, in short, if your current state is because you haven’t been able to eat, I want to help. I know I probably taste terrible, but it may be a lesser suffering than-” 

Astarion sits bolt upright. 

“You couldn’t have led with that?” 

Gale gestures to the bowl, knife and bandage by his knee. 

“I was endeavouring to convey the fact that I understood that this is a situation of physiology rather than choice. I- suppose I didn’t want you to think that I thought any less of you. If anything, I feel bad about it. I’ve made it my duty to keep everyone in our merry little band of vagabonds well-fed and well-fuelled, and instead you are going hungry. And an inconvenient hunger is an affliction I understand all too well.” 

He goes to pick up the blade. Astarion leans forward, placing his hand on Gale’s wrist. His fingers are cold as ice. 

“You don’t have to do this,” his lip curls, “Especially not out of pity.” 

“Pity?” Gale frowns. Putting the knife down, he puts his fingers to the inside of Astarion’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. If there is one, it’s so faint he cannot hear it. Worse than that, Astarion is shaking. It’s not a shiver; the tremor is from something other than the cold. 

“It won’t kill me,” Astarion says. “Trust me. I’ve often wished it would. Cazador once locked me in a dungeon for a year. No food, no water. Months and months of nothing but misery, and hoping for death.”

“He grows more delightful the more I hear about him,” Gale drops his wrist. “Promise you’ll aim a fireball at his nether regions for me when you get to Baldur’s Gate.” 

“Ha.” 

Astarion complains no further. He simply watches, eyes haunted and hungry, as Gale takes the knife to his skin and allows a thin dribble of blood into the bowl. 

“Taste it first. Just in case.” 

He presses the bandage to the scratch as Astarion picks up the bowl. He sniffs it, warily, then tips the tiny little bit of liquid onto his tongue. 

“Ugh,” he grimaces. “There’s definitely something… off about you, isn’t there?”

“Oh, many things,” Gale says, quite cheerfully. “But is it better than going hungry?” 

Astarion seems to consider this for a moment, then, with just a sliver of hope, confesses;

“It doesn’t seem to be doing me any harm.” 

“Excellent,” Gale takes the bandage away from his arm and picks up the blade again. “Let’s see how much I can comfortably give you.” 

The answer, it turns out, is most of the bowl. Astarion drinks as Gale casts a healing word over the wound and uses the bandage to wipe the knife clean. 

“Well,” Astarion says, eventually. “This has been an unexpectedly pleasant evening.” 

Gale wraps the bandage around the knife and sits back on his heels. 

“Good. I won’t have much use of it soon, after all. Better make it count.” 

“And there you go, ruining it,” Astarion sighs, flopping back onto his bedroll. 

“My apologies. I tend to find myself disinclined to talk about anything other than whatever it is that’s imminently occupying my mind, and my mortality seems to be taking up the larger portion of my cognition as of late.” 

“Your vocabulary gets wilder the more upset you are, did you know that?” Astarion lounges, little more than an outline and the gleam of his eyes in the dark. “It’s an unusual tell. I assume it means you haven’t had any luck coming up with an alternative plan to blowing yourself up.” 

“I haven’t been trying to.” Gale is genuinely surprised. “Mystra has offered a suitable conclusion, has she not?” 

Astarion sits up, leaning on his arm to turn his full attention to Gale. 

“She’s asking you to kill yourself! You can’t seriously be considering it?” 

“I don’t have much choice, Astarion. In truth, I was already living on borrowed time. I’ve found some peace, in knowing that I might actually make something useful of my death. I’d rather that than a forgotten blot on the pages of history.” 

Astarion glowers at him. 

“You know, I know what it is that irritates me so much about you. It’s that you remind me of my ‘siblings’.” He says the word like it tastes foul in his mouth. “We had two dormitories among the seven of us at Cazador’s palace, you know. Six of us in one that was half the size of the other. Six of us in bunk beds, sharing a single bath. But the favoured spawn - their room was twice the size of ours. It had a canopy bed, and a bath of its own. 

“Or so I heard, anyway. I never saw it myself. It always seemed to me such a pathetically shallow trick, that manipulation. To turn us against each other. I never even tried to compete. I just tried to stay alive. But the others - gods, what they would do for his favour. 

“But you - with your eagerness to go to your death for your Goddess - you make me wonder, if Cazador hadn’t been so cruel to me from the start, whether I would have seen it. Or whether if he had played nice, like Mystra did with you, whether I would have been just like them. Just like you.” 

Gale stands very suddenly. 

“You cannot compare Mystra and Cazador. Mystra isn’t cruel. She’s a Goddess. She simply doesn’t understand what it means to be mortal.” 

“She used you,” Astarion says. “Just as Cazdor used me. The only difference is that I can see it.” 

Utterly stunned by the foundless accusation, Gale can’t find a response to it. Instead, he stumbles from Astarion’s tent, fuming. 

When at last he sleeps, it’s in a confusion of indignation and a deep, gnawing unease that he cannot quell.

Chapter Text

Gale wakes to Halsin making porridge. It’s warm and sweet and thick, with a healthy dollop of honey and something suspiciously herby and medicinal in the aftertaste. Physically, it does him a world of good. Mentally, not so much. He can’t even be bothered to bring himself to be annoyed about the fact that Halsin didn’t even ask if he'd had a plan for breakfast already. 

Instead of chatting with the others over breakfast, he pulls his book out and determinedly digs into it without talking to anyone. 

Wyll, of course, is having none of it. 

“I can’t even tell what the title of that book is supposed to be,” he says, bringing Gale a cup of coffee and instantly melting at least half of Gale’s determination to sulk. “Has it ever occurred to you to read for fun?” 

“This is fun!” Gale protests. 

“What could be more fun than the betterment of the mind?” Astarion joins them, hopping up to sit on the table and ignoring Gale’s sigh of irritation. “Why do you think I’ve spent so many happy hours interrogating that strange little tome we found under the village?” He imitates Gale’s tone; “Every page is a puzzle! So wonderfully diverting, when the alternative is considering one’s own mortal peril.” 

Gale allows himself one moment to regret helping Astarion last night, then swallows it. More than anything, it’s good for group morale to have his constant patter of glib little jokes and sly comments back again. 

“Why are you so interested in that book?” Wyll wonders.

“Oh my dear, because it doesn’t want to be read! There is no stronger temptation than the allure of forbidden knowledge. Besides, it’s a book about necromancy, about controlling the dead, bringing the dead back to life, and who knows what else.” He hesitates, just a moment too long. Gale looks up from his coffee, but if the mask had slipped for a moment, Astarion has it back in place before he sees. “Maybe there’ll be something in it that will help me kill Cazador. And if not, at least I can beat him to death with it.” 

Wyll laughs. 

As they begin collecting their packs and getting ready to set off for the day, Gale wanders over, almost aimlessly, to Astarion’s side. 

“You know,” he says, as neither of them look at each other, “I have a few books that may be of use to you in my tower. I’ll tell Tara, and she can let you have a look before they sell everything off.” 

Before Astarion can do anything, Karlach appears at Gale’s shoulder and gives him an affectionate but slightly-too-strong punch on the arm. 

“Stop that! We are not letting you die, Gale.” 

“Quite right,” Wyll agrees, following in her wake. “Mystra might be a Goddess, but we’ve made it this far. We’ve survived mind flayers. We’ve survived hell. If she thinks we’re letting you go without a fight, she’s got another think coming.” 

-

Despite his best efforts to remain present, Gale’s mind wanders. 

At first, he’d been on edge in the shadowlands, expecting things to jump out at him from every angle. Having watched Astarion talk the tollmaster into exploding itself, however, and then having tracked and backtracked the same route multiple times, he begins to lose focus. 

“Gale!” 

An aged plank cracks below him. 

A hand grips his shoulder, pulling him back. The floorboard disintegrates, the splinters clattering down into gods only knows what in the darkness below. 

“Careful,” Astarion growls, abruptly letting go of him. 

Gale takes two more steps backwards.

“Right.” He shakes his head, as if that will clear some of the fog. “Thank you.” 

He’s nearly worn through the tips of his gloves, rubbing his fingers together. The handle of his staff has already been worn smooth from years of being twisted in his hands. 

Gale manages to be mostly present as they work their way cautiously into what used to be a town. Halsin goes looking for a signpost, the shadow curse having changed the surroundings so drastically, and instead finds more shadows. 

Afterwards, Astarion sits next to him on the steps of the town square as they all catch their breath. 

“Ugh,” he says, “How do people do this all day? I’m exhausted.” 

“You have blood in your hair,” Gale observes, disbelievingly. It hadn’t seemed like the shadow-cursed Harpers had even had that much blood left in them. 

“What a waste,” Astarion sighs, though he can hardly mean it. His eyes are alight, lively. The way they hadn’t been, those first few days in the shadow curse. Something tense loosens in Gale’s chest. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate you staring at me,” Astarion raises an eyebrow at Gale, “But can I help you?” 

He runs his hand through his hair and licks the blood from his fingers. It’s a performance - there is absolutely no reason to be quite that thorough or dexterous about it otherwise. 

“I can’t believe you had to tell us you’re a vampire. How we didn’t see it, I have no idea.” 

Astarion laughs, then. 

“Bad luck on that front. I’m actually a nymph in disguise.” 

“Very funny. But we all know nymphs are sticklers when it comes to their bathing routines. Spending two hours in the bath when we got to Last Light won’t fool me. You didn’t have a proper bath a single time before then, in the entirety of our acquaintance.” 

Astarion stretches his legs out, cat-like, leaning back against the steps. 

“Fresh running water is still a novelty to me. Besides, if it bothered you so much, you never mentioned it.” 

“Well, it’s not that I don’t appreciate your musk,” Gale admits. “I actually quite like it. Rosemary, I think, and something else.” 

“Bergamot, and fine aged Brandy,” Astarion is staring at him now, almost appraisingly. “I didn’t realise you were paying such close attention to me.” 

“It’s perfectly natural,” Gale shrugs. “I once read a book that explained in some detail the effect that a brush with danger has on one’s desire for… other forms of stimulation. We spend a lot of time in danger together, and I have an eye - or a nose in this case - for details. Ergo, I have begun to associate your unique scent with the frission of excitement one has, standing on the edge between life and death.” 

Astarion seems utterly at a loss for words. 

“I didn’t realise it would take so little to silence you,” Gale teases. “Surely this isn’t new information to you, of all people, Astarion?” 

“Well of course not.” Astarion, to Gale’s absolute delight, seems to be actually flustered. “I don’t need to read your damn book. I could have written the thing.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Gale stands, brushing his robe off, and makes to return to the others. “Perhaps one day we should pool our knowledge.” 

For the remainder of the day, Astarion keeps looking at him. Gale pretends not to notice. That had rather been the point, of course, but it’s still gratifying to know that his self-imposed isolation hasn’t robbed him of all of his charms. 

They don’t make it much further, though. Astarion finds the child from the Druid’s Grove; the little thief who had tried to steal the idol. Despite his loud complaints, Astarion point-blank refuses to let her go anywhere unaccompanied, and so Arabella gets a full escort back to Last Light, and they call it a day.

Chapter Text

Of all people, Withers seems to take the most interest in the girl, and despite his strangeness, Arabella seems to take to him. Not having much experience with children, Gale leaves them to it. The extra time means he can make something a little more interesting that evening. To his surprise, however, Arabella eventually wanders over to him. 

“Hello, wizard.” 

“Hello, small tiefling.” 

She grins, not at all chastised. 

“Why are you cooking? Couldn’t you just wave your hands and-” she makes a gesture that Gale surmises is supposed to indicate conjuring dinner into being. 

“I could, technically. But you know, cooking isn’t so different from spellcasting anyway. You need a recipe, the right ingredients-”

“ I don’t,” Arabella declares, proudly, hands on hips. “I just go whoosh and it happens.” 

Gale finds himself smiling, indulgently. She’s sweet, really. He’s probably forgiving her more than he should, just remembering how close she came to not making it this far. Even so, he’s already very fond of her. 

“Well, I’m a wizard, not a sorcerer. Perhaps you could conjure us dinner,” he suggests.

Arabella puffs out her chest. 

“I bet I could, if I knew how. You could show me.” 

“I could,” agrees Gale, genially. “But I only have so much energy left today. How about, rather than waste these ingredients, you help me finish cooking and we can do some smaller spells after we’ve eaten.” 

“Oh fine,” Arabella flops down next to him. 

She isn’t much of an assistant. Instead she just talks at him. 

"You put your hair up to cook, but not when you're casting spells," She says. "Why?" 

"I'm an evocation specialist. I can shape my spells more accurately. Generally it's so that I don't explode people I'm not aiming for, but it also means I don't singe my eyebrows off about once a week."

“You could do something nicer with it.” 

“I quite like it like this,” Gale protests. “I only need it to stop falling in my face.” 

“I could braid it for you!”

It’s not exactly a request. Besides, Arabella seems more excited about it than she has all day, and Gale just doesn’t have the heart to refuse her. 

It keeps her happily occupied until it’s time for them to eat, at which point she switches to pestering him about what spells they’re going to learn. 

“What spells do you want to learn?” 

“Fireball!” She elbows her plate in excitement. On her other side, Karlach grabs her dinner before it can land on the floor. “Whoops. Sorry!” 

“Do you want to start from firebolt or from burning hands?” Gale asks. 

“I want to start from fireball,” Arabella declares, quite stubbornly. Gale smiles at her. 

“A scholar after my own heart. Well, we can certainly try.” 

Halsin sighs. 

“I shall prepare some healing potions.” 

Gale mouths his thanks over the table at him while Arabella continues to talk excitedly. 

“I’m going to terrify my parents when we find them,” she grins, kicking her feet. “Do you want ribbons, beads or flowers in your hair?”

“Oh, flowers, definitely.” 

"Yesss!"

She spends the remainder of the meal conjuring flowers of various types and colours, and poking them into his increasingly elaborate hairstyle. 

The moment he’s finished eating, she drags him away from the table, demanding he explains spell components. He gives her the basic run-down, though she knows most of it already, just through osmosis; the verbal, somatic and material components are no mystery to her. 

“The way casting works for me isn’t necessarily going to work for you,” he warns. “Spellcasting is unique to the caster. Actually-” he raises his voice. “Does anyone else know firebolt?” 

Halsin heads over. 

“I do, plus I suspect that my presence may be required to limit the chaos you two have planned.” 

“Oh but chaos is fun,” Astarion joins them. “What are we incinerating this evening?” 

Gale points at the log he’s set up on an area of ground he’s swept clean of all but rocks and soil, in the hopes of containing any accidents. 

“I was just explaining to Arabella how much casting can vary from person to person. I thought it might be useful to show her the differences in our casting styles so she can find what works for her. For example-” he folds his hands together, pulling on the weave; “Ignis!” 

The log bursts into flame. Gale waves it out before it can do much more than begin to smoke. 

“My casting style is very specific,” he tells Arabella. “I suspect that you will find Halsin or Astarion’s style better suited to your magic.” 

“How did you learn this cantrip?” Halsin asks, curiously. 

“I memorised it from a spell tome when I was a boy. Kept trying until it worked, and then kept practicing until it was perfect.” He steps back, allowing Halsin to take his place. 

“Yes,” Halsin considers this. “It is a textbook example, your cast.” He turns to Arabella. “It’s unusual for druids or wood elves to learn fire spells, but I had a tutor who believed you had to understand all aspects of magic to truly excel. The weave demands precise control of the somatic component - the movement of the hands commands the way the weave responds. My magic is granted by nature herself, through the Oak Father. Although they can be equally demanding in their own ways, they are less concerned with precision than the weave. Nature is wilder with her gifts. Like so - Ignis!” 

He makes perhaps only half the movements that Gale had, but the spell is just as effective. Only a little slower, perhaps; there’s a moment where Gale can see the path the mote of fire carves through the air before it explodes on contact with the log. 

And, as Gale had suspected, Arabella’s face lights up. 

“Yes! That’s what my magic feels like!” 

“Silvanus’ blessing,” Halsin agrees. “Shall I show you step by step?” 

“Well, it seems I won’t be needed,” Astarion hops up from the tree stump he’d settled on.

“No, no! I want to see yours too!” Arabella bounces on the balls of her feet. “Please! Just once, at least!” 

With a grin, Astarion turns. His voice drops, his whole body leaning into the spell.

“Ignis!” 

It echoes through the air around them. 

“Ah, high elves and the showmanship of spellcraft,” Halsin says, appreciatively. Astarion bows. 

They watch for a little while as Halsin gently corrects the position of Arabella’s hands, walking her through the motions and their flow. He’s far more patient than Gale would have been, though Arabella picks it up quickly. An impressively short time later, a lick of flame bursts forth from her palms. 

She yelps with surprise, at the same moment that Gale leaps to his feet with a cry of success. 

“You did it!” 

Arabella grins at him, her eyes wide and bright. 

“Well of course I did. It’s only a cantrip.” 

“Alright,” Gale laughs. “You and Halsin work on that. I’m going to transcribe a few spells for you to work on once you’ve mastered this one.” 

“Fireball included, right?”

“Oh but of course.” 

“Yes!” Arabella wraps her little arms around his waist. “Thank you thank you thank you!” 

Gale pats her head, awkwardly, and smiles at Halsin over her. 

In truth, Halsin makes her go to bed not long after. After much complaining and wheedling and making him promise not to do anything else without her, Arabella agrees. Jaheira has made sure there’s space for her amongst the other kids at the Inn, and she runs off to boast to them about her new spell. 

Astarion decides that Gale needs his input on what spells might be most useful and interesting to her, so they both sit with the scroll between them, arguing over it. 

Eventually, Wyll wanders over to join them, and Gale rolls up the scroll before Astarion can add anything else too willfully dangerous to it. Fire spells are one thing, but Toll the Dead is quite another. 

“My turn to have lessons with our resident magic man?” Wyll teases. 

“Oh very funny,” Gale shuffles aside, making space for him to join them. “Unless you want to try that illusion again.” 

Wyll groans good-naturedly, but acquiesces, and goes to fetch some fleece. 

"Your flowers are wilting," Astarion says, as Wyll rummages in his chest. 

"Hmmm?" Gale hadn't thought he'd had any left - a considerable number of them had fallen onto the scroll as they'd been working on it. He reaches up to pat his hair, looking for the remaining ones, but Astarion bats his hand away. 

"Stop that, you're ruining the braids." 

He picks out the last few blooms with care. Gale can hardly feel his touch; the tiniest movements of his own hair against his scalp is the only way he can tell Astarion is there. 

"Party time's over?" Wyll says, dropping back down next to them. 

"Mmm.”  

Wyll gives him a look. 

“Forgive my asking, but you have seemed to be entirely elsewhere today, my friend.” 

It’s said kindly. Astarion glances at Wyll with some surprise, which Gale ignores. 

“I know,” He grimaces. “You know you said before that you were stronger before your tadpole. Are you finding the experience of re-learning anew what once felt as easy as breathing as onerous as I am?” 

“Ah,” Wyll nods, focusing on the fleece in his fingers. “I doubt it. You’re bearing it with grace.” 

The illusion begins to take shape before them. A second Wyll, currently slightly see-through and lacking in detail. With a moment’s focus, it loses its transience. 

“Ha. Your patience and forbearance puts mine to shame. But it’s not the first time I’ve had to begin anew. The first time was both more and less irritating.” 

“Is that where your mind was, today?” 

Gale stands instead of answering, leaving the two of them sat with a gap between them. The illusion of Wyll stares straight forward, his expression gently recriminating. 

“You have resting bitch face,” Astarion observes, with some amusement. 

“I do not!” In response, the illusion smiles, and waves at Astarion. 

“Excellent!” Gale declares, turning back to the real Wyll. “Time for a dance, I think!” 

“A dance?” Wyll looks surprised. 

“Of course! Is not the great Wyll Ravenguard famed for his love of a good dance? And what better way to practise the movement of an illusion?” 

“I like the idea,” Wyll grins, “But my illusory self can hardly dance on his own, and I can hardly concentrate on maintaining the illusion whilst also attempting to dance. I suspect you’ll have to dance with him, Gale.” The warmth in his tone is unmistakable; Wyll is teasing him. 

“Aha, I see your knavery for what it is!” Gale wags a finger at him. “But alas, how can I refuse? After all, I've even had my hair done." He bows to Wyll’s illusion with as much pomp and grandeur as he can manage. “If I may have this dance, sir?” 

Wyll is already laughing even before Gale starts to dance. It’s been a sound sorely lacking since they arrived in the realm of the shadow weave. Gale dances with perhaps a little more fervent zeal than he might have otherwise, more exuberance than grace. 

“Your hands are losing definition!” He yells, letting the illusion twirl him wildly. 

“You’re lucky he doesn’t mind his toes being stepped on!” Wyll laughs back. 

“I’ll have you know people were falling over themselves to dance with me, the last time I graced such an occasion with my presence, and not one of them suffered even a bruise!” 

With a snap of his fingers, Gale fills the air with music, the shades of other dancers moving around them like ghosts. He feels light-headed with the ease it all comes to him. It has been a long, long time since any of this was so thoughtless. 

He leaves an illusion of himself behind, still dancing with Wyll’s, and holds his hand out to his friend. 

“Come on - you’re doing this too easily. The balance is the hardest part - giving the illusion enough attention to maintain it while your actual self does something else.” 

Wyll sighs, still smiling. 

“Fine - but only if you promise not to step on my toes.” 

Gale, having expended more of both his energy and dignity than he had anticipated on his cavorting, agrees very easily. 

“A genteel dance.” The music changes, slowing to a respectable promenade. “So we might discuss the current political situation. Speaking of, have you heard the most recent scandal Loroakan has got himself into?” 

“Again?” Wyll plays along. "You'd think he'd have learned his lesson after last time!" 

"A wizard never learns his lesson," Astarion says, as Gale offers Wyll his elbow. 

"Oh, and I see someone doesn't like being left out! Do you dance, Astarion?” Gale calls over his shoulder as they move around each other. 

“I could put all of you to shame!” Astarion says, haughtily. So Gale splits another illusion off to go and offer Astarion a hand. 

“Oh no, not six to keep track of,” Wyll moans. “This isn’t a lesson, Gale, this is torture!” 

“You’re doing just fine!” Gale argues, and indeed he is. The three of them and the three illusions weave the dance together like they’re at a real ball in a real city, not mucking around with magic in a field in the back end of beyond in a cursed land. He’d started it mostly as a way to distract them, to cheer Wyll up. But in its way, it’s rather beautiful. 

It is Lae’zel who interrupts, her frown too familiar now to be frightening. 

“If you three have the energy for this foolishness then you have not been expending enough energy on our search for Moonrise.” 

“Oh live a little, Lae’zel,” Astarion groans. 

Gale moves an illusion to bow at her, offering her a hand. 

“Esteemed Lady Lae’zel,” it says, “I assure you, there is more than enough of me to go around.” 

“I have no wish to dance with you or any of your fake selves,” she growls. “Can’t you set these illusions to do something useful? Why not use them to practise a duel?” 

“That would unfortunately require me to be able to duel,” He reflects, thoughtfully, and pulls the music to a close. “My apologies for interrupting your evening, Lae’zel.” 

With a growl, she stalks back to her tent. 

“Not bad at all,” Gale bows to Wyll again. “I’d have been delighted to have someone as talented as you among my students.” 

“You keep saying that like it’s a compliment,” Wyll grins, letting his illusion fade. “Gods, but that took it out of me. I might have to call it a night.” 

“Excellent,” Astarion claps his hands. "I was hoping to steal Gale’s attention for something other than dancing.” 

He winks at Gale - the real one, even though one of the illusions is standing much closer. 

“How can you tell which one is me?” Gale wonders. 

“My dear, your blood reeks. No matter how good an illusion is, it never smells like a living being up close.” 

“And on that worrying note, I will leave you both to it,” Wyll waves. “See you tomorrow - don’t stay up too late.” 

“Ha ha,” Gale deadpans at his retreating back. 

He turns back to Astarion. He’s looking much better, to Gale’s gratification. The exercise has put a flush in his cheeks that wouldn’t have been there yesterday. His expression, however, is all seriousness. 

“I want to ask about your advice on something.” 

“Oh,” Gale tries to cover his surprise. “Of course.” 

They settle in Astarion’s multitude of pillows in his tent and Astarion produces, to Gale’s great surprise, the Necromancy of Thay. 

Astarion, it turns out, can be a dedicated study when he wants to be. It takes him some time to work through an explanation of what he has been able to gather from the tome, although it’s obvious that it’s far from as much as he would like. 

“Fascinating as this is,” Gale says, eventually, “It might help to know what you’re hoping to get out of this. It’ll help me direct my research.” 

Astarion pauses, his brow furrowing. 

“I… don’t know, exactly. We’ve been in this shadow realm, what, three days now?” 

Gale nods. He has a thousand more questions, but they can wait; he knows all too well the moment when a new idea is forming, where it needs space to find itself. 

“Even if I kill Cazador and we survive this whole tadpole situation, I might never walk in the sun again. And I don’t think I can face that. Not anymore.” 

Gale sits back on his heels. 

It’s a big question. 

“Hmmm. Alright. I don’t think I have anything with me that will help with that. But-” Astarion slams the tome shut, silencing the whispering voices. “ But ,” Gale repeats. “It’s not our only option. Let me think about this.” 

Astarion gets to his feet, throwing the book back into his trunk. 

“Fine. It’s more than I’ve managed on my own.” 

His annoyance is not at Gale, of course, it’s at the situation. Somehow, it still rankles at him, an uncomfortable sensation he really doesn’t want to probe too much. 

“Astarion,” he says, firmly. “Don’t lose hope. I swear, if there’s an answer, I will find it.” 

“I know. You’re like a hunting dog with a scent,” Astarion says. “Although - I do appreciate it, you know. Your… kindness. However stupid it may be of you to continue offering it.” 

Gale smiles. 

“Thank you. I appreciate you trusting me with this.” 

Astarion rolls his eyes. 

“Alright, enough! Get out of my tent and get some sleep, I don’t want to spend tomorrow pulling you out of traps.” 

Gale is halfway out when he says;

“And Gale?” 

“Hmm?” 

Gale looks over his shoulder. Astarion is lying back on his bedroll, his eyes already closed, preparing to trance. 

“Thank you for the dance,” he says, without opening his eyes. 

Gale drops the tent flap closed, and walks back to his own tent. 

In the solitude of the dark, it hardly matters if he blushes. Who can see? 

But really, it should have occurred to him that Astarion would know which versions of him were illusions and which were not. So what if he had taken the chance to dance at Astarion’s side when he could? 

If Mystra had been listening, she would be laughing at him. And he would deserve it.

Chapter Text

Gale’s internal clock seems to have re-asserted itself, regardless of the lack of sunrise. He wakes before any of the others. 

They’re beginning to run low on fresh ingredients. Not worryingly low - not yet, anyway. Still, his best efforts at breakfast aren’t going to be anywhere near as good as they had been in the Grove. Never a man to back down from a challenge, he puts his hair up and sets to work. 

Not long after, Halsin appears. Not from the Inn, but from the curse. He shakes off the bear form before coming into the light. 

“Morning Halsin!” 

“Ah, just the person I was looking for,” he smiles. “How are you feeling, Gale?” 

“Rather well, considering the circumstances. I would apologise for volunteering you to help Arabella yesterday, but you seemed quite content.” 

“I’m fond of children, I admit,” Halsin settles himself at Gale’s side. “I hope we find her parents today. I don’t have high hopes.” 

“Was that what you were doing out and about?” 

“No, no. Just trying to reacquaint myself with this land.” He peers at Gale, who tries very hard not to feel like a guilty schoolboy under his scrutiny. He cracks an egg into the sizzling pan. “You are looking especially well, for someone who has lost a lot of blood two nights running.” 

Gale blinks. 

“Oh - ah, no, Astarion and I were just reading last night. I believe my blood has a rather… unappealing flavour at the moment. Netherese influence, you see.” 

“Hmmm.” Halsin ponders this for a moment, watching Gale add more eggs to the pan. “I suppose, given my earlier comments, I shouldn't be surprised to find you are getting along better. Yet I cannot say I’m not concerned about the direction it has taken.” 

“It’s really not a problem,” Gale reassures him. “I appreciate your concern, Halsin, I do, but I am perhaps even more aware of my limits than most, and I have very good reason to be wary of pushing them. Believe me, we discussed it quite thoroughly.” 

The elf sighs. 

“I trust your judgement, Gale. But next time, he is welcome to ask me instead.” 

Gale nearly drops his spatula. 

“I, um… think that’s a conversation you should have with him, not me.” 

“Very well,” Halsin agrees. “May I assist you with breakfast?” 

"Actually, yes - could you run this up to Isobel?" 

Before long, the camp is full of the usual noise and clamour of morning. Gale listens only with one ear as he works; to Karlach quizzing Lae’zel about her fighting form; to Jaheira and Wyll bonding over what they love and hate about Baldur’s Gate; to snippets of conversations that make no sense without context, but nonetheless make him smile. There are far worse ways to spend his final days than surrounded by these people. 

The voice comes from his ankles;

“Why, Mr Dekarios, it is you!” 

Gale startles. The pan tilts. He catches it - too late. Hot butter spits out at him. He jumps back - not quickly enough. 

The moment it hits his skin, Gale lets out a string of infernal curses that his mother would quite rightly disown him for. With a yelp, Tara leaps up onto his shoulder. Her claws are exactly as sharp as they’ve always been. Her wing slams him over the head with enough force to make him dizzy. 

“Tara!” 

The edge of his robe takes to the flame like dried tinder. Water springs into his fingertips, but before he can cast it, several other splashes of liquid beat him to it. Bless Karlach and her reflexes, but coffee is a lot harder to get out than water. 

Halsin grabs his elbow, knife already in hand, and deftly cuts the sleeve away from Gale’s burned forearm. He mutters a healing charm, and the sting fades immediately. Gale looks sadly at his burned, wet, sleeveless robe, and sighs. 

“I would say it’s a pleasure to see you again, but given the circumstances-” 

Tara retracts her claws and hops neatly down onto the table, tucking her wings away to lick her paws. 

“Indeed,” she says, and despite the haughtiness of her tone the familiarity of her in this awful place warms Gale’s heart more than he would have thought was possible. “Really, Mister Dekarios, how you’ve survived this long without having your wits about you I do not know.” 

“A tressym,” Halsin says, duly impressed. “A marvellous example, too. You must be the famous Tara.” 

She preens. 

“I’m glad to see at least some of your companions have some manners. And you are?” 

“Halsin,” the archdruid inclines his head in what might almost be a bow. “At your service, my lady.” 

“Oh I like him,” Tara crows, and Gale laughs. 

“What are you doing here, Tara? I thought I left the care of my tower in your capable paws, and yet here you are, on quite the wrong side of Faerun.” 

“I could say the same for you, my dear. Your mother and I were quite worried, you know.” She lashes her tail. “Besides, look what happened the last time I took my eyes off you for five minutes. You’re lucky I found you when I did. This shadow weave here is detestable. You really should do something about it.” 

“Believe it or not, we’re trying to.” Gale rescues the errant pan and resigns himself to discarding the contents. Thankfully nearly everything else is safely dished up and out of the way. He grabs a small plate and some sausage, and sets it down for her. 

“Good good. Nothing should ever be done on an empty stomach. You are looking worse for wear though, I hope you don’t mind me saying so. Are you eating?” 

Trust Tara to keep his ego in check. 

“Goodness, I’d forgotten. Thank the gods you reminded me before I starved to death.” 

“I won’t be teased, heckled, pestered or vexed, Mr Dekarios. Not before I’ve had my due.”

Gale happily stops to tickle her under the chin. She purrs. 

“I met our good friend Elminster,” Gale says. “He stabilised the orb for me.” 

“About time that old bookabone showed his face! No more pricey artefacts for you then is it? Excellent! You were quickly becoming the most expensive pet in the realms.” 

Halsin tries to cover his laugh with a cough, and fails. Gale, as he is wont to do, ignores the comment. 

“Let me find something else to wear, and then we can do proper introductions.” 

There are a few sets of clothes they’ve picked up along the way, some of which are even fairly clean. With a quick spell, he manages to make one trouser and shirt set at least somewhat comfortable. How it looks, he has no idea, but given that most of the others have seen him bleeding out on more than one occasion now, he can’t justify spending too long trying to make himself presentable. 

When he comes back, it seems that Halsin has already done the honours. 

“No no, I am quite determined,” Tara is saying. “I shall be coming with you from now on.” She catches sight of Gale. “Will I not, Mr Dekarios? Ah - oh, goodness, that thing on your face is even worse than I remember.”

"What's wrong with my beard?" 

"If you have to ask, there's no hope for you."

Gale glances at Halsin’s expression and surmises that he has also come up short against the brick wall that is Tara’s resolve. 

“I’m not sure that your accompanying us is the best use of your time, Tara. How did you manage to find us, anyway?” 

“A lady never tells,” she says, primly. “But it was not easy. Nothing a good fireball couldn’t manage though.” 

“You know, there’s a young mage here who is desperate to learn that spell,” Gale suggests, slyly. “She could benefit from a teacher like you.” 

“And she’ll pull my wings and singe my whiskers too, I suppose,” Tara sniffs. “Absolutely not.” 

So Gale relents, and finally sits down with his breakfast. Slotting in between Wyll and Astarion, as is becoming his usual spot. 

Within moments, Tara has resumed her usual napping place on his lap, and is curled up, purring contentedly. Gale tickles her behind the ears as he drinks his coffee. 

“She is gorgeous,” Karlach says, appreciatively, trying to lean over the table to get a better look. “Where on earth did you find her?” 

“Ah - my mother wouldn’t let me have a kitten when I was a boy. I didn’t have any books that detailed how to summon a cat, only a tressym - and that tressym was Tara. I still don’t entirely know what she saw in me that made her want to stick around, but her company is always welcome.”

Tara purrs harder. 

“Did you teach yourself Infernal too?” Karlach grins, her tone warm with amusement. “I don’t know how you’d have learned that from a book, though.” 

“Oh? Why?” Astarion brightens. “What did he say? Gale, what did you say?” 

“Nothing I’m proud of,” Gale glares at Karlach, who raises her hands, conceding. “Besides, I don’t really speak Infernal. I haven’t used it since I was a student - well, other than reading it, anyway. You wouldn’t believe what people will write in the language of the hells instead of just using Common.” 

“Oh, I would,” Wyll disagrees. “You’re lucky Dammon didn’t hear you, or I think he’d ban you from trading with him.” 

Gale clicks his tongue, irritated. 

“It really wasn’t that rude. Infernal just happens to have more satisfying ways of expressing oneself than most of the other languages at my disposal.” 

He catches the glance between Astarion and Karlach, and resigns himself to Astarion getting it translated for him later anyway.

Chapter Text

If the others thought he was slightly unhinged before, not being able to parse what Tara is saying to him probably doesn’t help. As they make their way out into the shadowlands, his side of the conversation ends up going something like this;

“That ‘thing’ is my beard, Tara.”

“Meow.”

“The more you complain the less likely I am to get rid of it.” 

“Meow!” 

“I am not spiteful, Tara, that is a hurtful thing to say.” 

“Meow.” 

“Yes, I know, I love you too. Regardless of how much hair you have, thank you very much.” 

“Meow.” 

“You’ve been visiting my mother?” 

“Mew.”

“I did not abandon her, I was kidnapped! But… is she well?” 

She hovers around his head for most of the morning, chatting incessantly about how exciting it all is and telling Halsin embarrassing stories from Gale’s youth that he has no delusions about becoming common knowledge by the end of the day. 

She’s a delightful nuisance, and Gale is happier with her by his side than he has been in days. 

But then, at last, they find Moonrise. 

Gale has never been a good liar. So he hangs back, keeping quiet while Astarion does his ‘true soul’ performance. Halsin hangs back by him, for an entirely different reason; the guards are looking for a resonance that he does not have. 

“I assume this place used to be less… grim?” Gale mutters to him as they make their way indoors. 

“Indeed,” Halsin’s expression is blank, though carefully so. “I would regale you with the stories, if it wouldn’t be both suspicious and disheartening.” 

“Meow,” Tara says, entirely unconvincingly, as one of the guards gives her a suspicious look. 

Gale nods, and they lapse back into silence. Astarion’s silver tongue lets him talk his way through a series of unfortunate situations; watching him playing coy with Z’rell is almost as unpleasant as watching Ketheric pulling the axe from his neck. The most unpleasant experience by far, however, is going to fetch the moon lantern from Balthazar’s room. 

“Gods above ,” Gale covers his nose as the door swings open. 

“This is a lot, even for me,” Astarion agrees. 

“I was going to suggest we have a thorough look around, but I don’t know if I can .” 

The place has all the trappings of a standard wizard’s study; the well-stocked bookshelves, the astrolabe, the telescope, the desk and scrolls. But the sheer volume of viscera makes it almost impossible to pay attention to anything else. The tang of blood and decaying flesh hangs heavy in the air. In the background, flies buzz incessantly. They swarm around the newcomers, and Gale swats them away ineffectually. 

Despite the state of the place, the chance of finding something useful proves too tempting. 

Tara stays outside, ostensibly on guard duty, but mostly to protect her sensitive nose. The rest of them pick their way carefully through the pools of blood and severed limbs. 

“Astarion,” Gale calls, quietly, having made his way to the far bookshelves. “Will you come here a moment?” 

“Hmm?” Astarion comes to stand next to him, studying the bookshelves. 

“This is some kind of trap, isn’t it?” 

“Oh, yes, I should think so.” He steps forward, studying the few protruding books. Wiping a finger along the inner corner of one of them, he inspects the dust on it, then compares it to the others. After a couple of moments, he gives one of the books a sharp tug. Something slides to the side, and an altar rises up from the floor. 

“Oh gods, do we even want to know what that’s for?” 

There’s an aura of magic around it - some kind of warding spell. 

“It’s going to be something predictably gauche.” Astarion turns, casting his eyes about the room, and then goes back to one of the tables covered in viscera. He comes back with a humanoid heart, holding it at arm's length, and dumps it on the altar with minimal ceremony. There’s a sharp click, and the bookshelves slide apart, revealing a door. “Bloody necromancers.” 

“Well, if he’s going to have left any incriminating details lying around, a secret room seems as good a bet as any.” 

They poke their noses into the tiny little study carefully. It’s not trapped, thankfully. Although there is a torture-chair, complete with hard-worn restraints and old bloodstains, and the smell is not at all improved. Gale stops to study Balthazar’s anatomical drawings, but turns when Astarion says his name. 

On one of the desks there’s a ritual circle and a dead pixie. Astarion is studying it like it might explode on him. 

“A ritual circle, and a complex one at that,” Gale comes to stand beside him. The thing is thick with shadow-weave, even though it’s been mostly drained. Going by the sigils, it’s what Balthazar used to create the moon lanterns. “I’ve seen such a construction before, in the writing of the Weavepasha of Almraiven, though his vision was not so tainted.” 

Astarion looks intrigued. 

“Can we use it?” 

“The discarded pixie corpses might still contain enough essence, and with one of the broken lantern casements- yes. I think I’d be able to craft one more lantern. And with a slight modification of the casting gesture, it might be able to wield the shadows instead of repelling them.”

Astarion picks up one of the broken casings, and hands it to him, as if this answers the question. Gale takes it, but then pauses. 

“Although - Mystra’s eyes may be upon me. She’d forbid me dabbling with such magic. She’d want it destroyed. Wasted, arguably.” 

For a moment, Astarion looks like he’s going to argue, then he sighs, and holds his hand out for the lantern. 

“I can deal with it instead, then.” 

“Deal with it, how? I hate to pull rank, but I was once Mystra’s Chosen. Destroying magic like this was my bread and butter.” 

“Well I can hardly make one, can I?” Astarion snaps. “Look, you do whatever it is you do, but for heaven’s sake choose quickly, or Z’rell is going to start getting suspicious.” 

“Alright then. A little space, if you please.” 

It really doesn’t take much. The shadow weave is alike to the weave in almost every way. It bends to him easily, and soon he is holding a lantern with an extremely unusual summon. He hands it to Astarion, partially out of habit, and partially because he isn’t sure he wants to be holding it anymore. 

“If Mystra were here, I don’t think she’d be best pleased with me for doing that. She was always rather fond of pixies. Still, I’m sensing no signs of any divine retribution incoming. I’m not quite sure what to make of that.” 

Astarion has taken the lantern and is inspecting it with glee. 

“Well, why would she bother? Doesn’t want you to get cold feet and change your mind about your mission, does she?” 

“A valid and most astutely observed point. Well, whatever advantage I can gain for us, I will. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty if it gives us a better chance of surviving. And I refuse to feel guilty about it.” 

“Well, look at you all grown up.” Astarion gives him a sly look. “And don’t worry, I’ll tell Tara we just found it.” 

Gale listens out for anything unusual, all the same. If it were up to him he'd just shake it off and not hear Mystra’s recriminations echoing around his skull, but unfortunately it has never quite been that easy. So he keeps quiet and out of the way. 

That is, until they find the prison. Until they find the Tieflings, and that deep gnome’s friend, and of course they’re going to help them escape. They don’t even stop to have a conversation about whether or not they’re going to - only how to go about it. 

Except none of them had seen the second scrying eye. 

Gale, having carefully positioned himself to provide covering fire, finds himself facing down the reinforcements almost entirely alone. 

In the chaos that follows, there is none of the ease in the weave that there had been the night before. It almost seems to fight him. Whether it is Mystra’s doing or his own, he isn’t sure, but it leaves him almost nothing left to draw on. Of the four he manages to take three down, but he’s running dangerously low. There’s perhaps only one really good spell left in him when Tara launches herself over his shoulder at one of the guards. 

“Go for the eyes!” Someone shouts. 

Before she can, though, the guard swings. The greatsword hits her mid-air. Her tiny body crumples on contact. Like a ball struck by a bat, she bounces off it, and lands against Gale’s chest. 

Gale doesn’t stop to think. He teleports her - back to camp. Back to the Inn, where one of the healers will find her, if she has the good sense to yowl. The last of his deep sway over the weave goes with her. 

There’s not much a few cantrips can do against a fully armoured guard, but Gale tries anyway. Well-aimed firebolts to the face buy him a few moments, and a few metres closer to being within range of Shadowheart or Halsin or anyone with a good heal to hand. 

It’s not enough. The guard swings like he’s expecting to hit mail. Instead, there’s only Gale’s robe and flesh. He hits the ground with the desperate certainty that he will not be getting up again. 

“Gods damn it Gale!” 

Astarion leaps over him. The guard, poised to land an entirely excessive final blow to Gale’s skull, topples backwards with a knife in his gut. The second pierces his neck, sending him crashing to the ground. Astarion yanks his blades back, and drops to his knees beside Gale. 

“Oh no no no, you are not dying on me now.” 

Gale attempts to express something, but it comes out as a gurgle of bloody bubbles. The world swings to the side, black and spinning. 

“I swear, if it turns out I did just watch you spend the last of your magic sending your cat back to safety instead of saving your own damn skin-” 

The threat remains unfinished. A healing potion trickles between Gale’s lips. He catches his breath as his mouth and lungs clear of blood. 

“Tressym,” Gale says, when he can finally trust his voice. 

Astarion is still crouched over him, cheeks flushed, sweat running down his brow and someone else’s blood smeared across his cheek. Gale has the sudden urge to kiss him. 

“What?” 

“She’s a tressym. Not a cat.” 

Astarion makes a noise of such furious, pained exasperation that Gale half expects the dagger to end up in his neck next. Instead, Astarion gets to his feet, pulls Gale to his, and they stagger back to the others. 

“Gods, Gale, what happened?” Wyll darts over to join them, helping Astarion take his weight. 

“Greatsword to the face,” Gale grimaces. One health potion does not a happy, healthy wizard make. “Is everyone…” 

“They’re all out, and waiting by the boat,” Karlach reassures him. “Come on, let’s get out of here before anyone upstairs gets suspicious.” 

She ducks to get an arm under his legs and lifts him with thoughtless ease. 

The sail back to the inn is slow and painful. Gale’s body apparently decides that the best way to deal with it is to simply not; he slips in and out of consciousness, aware of little else than the pain, and the movement of the boat. 

When they do finally make dock, however, he’s awake enough to see Tara come running; hale and whole and hearty. She tries to start fussing over him immediately. 

“Stop that,” Astarion snaps. “He nearly died, getting you to safety. Next time when he tells you to stay at camp you can bloody well listen.” 

“Astarion!” It’s not much of a protest, but it’s about all Gale can manage. 

Tara, however, turns on her back feet and darts off into the buildings. Seemingly moments later, she’s back, Jaheira hot on her heels. 

He doesn’t fully come back to himself until much later. Until Jaheira has seen to the worst of the damage, and ensured that a good night’s sleep will see to the rest. Then she leaves them to it; the man still mumbling his strange song in the bed next to him, Astarion sitting on the bed on the other side, and Tara curled up tight against his side, purring as if doing so will heal him faster. 

He scratches her between the ears. 

“Well. What a day.” 

“Would it kill you to be angry, just once?” Astarion snaps. “Does any kind of emotion destabilise the orb or something?” 

Gale blinks at him. 

“I… sorry?” 

“You will be.” 

He jumps to his feet and walks away. It occurs to Gale that Astarion must have been by his side this whole time. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Astarion walks around the room more times that Gale can count before he finally comes back, sits on the end of Gale’s bed, and fixes him with a stare so intense that Gale wonders if Astarion is trying to burn through his skull. 

“You took down as many of those guards by yourself as the rest of us did all together. And yet you nearly died for your damn tressym.”

“She’s my best friend!” Gale argues, hotly. 

“There!” Astarion is triumphant. “You do get angry!” 

“Well of course I do! But there’s no point in getting angry at a goddess, is there? What would that achieve, exactly?” 

“Self-respect!” Astarion throws his hands in the air. “Your lack of self-esteem and your arrogance is infuriatingly oxymoronic - emphasis on the moronic. You need to stop throwing yourself at her feet, Gale. You’re better than this.” 

“Better than a Goddess?!” 

“A Goddess who uses you for what you are, nevermind who.” 

Gale stares at him, honestly nonplussed. 

“But you’re more than a vampire, Astarion. I’m not. I’m nothing without my magic.” 

There’s a moment of silence. 

“Who told you that?” Astarion’s voice is low, dangerous. “Tell me. I’ll rip them limb from limb.” When Gale says nothing, he subsides. “Fine. Rest. But if I catch you trying to make breakfast tomorrow I will chain you to the floor.” He pauses. “And not in the fun way.” 

“There’s a fun way?” 

“No,” Astarion snaps, and leaves. 

A little while later, as Gale’s mind begins to settle at last into sleep, Tara says, very quietly; 

“I like your new friends, Gale.” 

Gale opens his mouth to deny that he and Astarion are friends. Then he closes it. 

Before the shadowlands, that would have been true. Despite Astarion’s initial attempt to seduce him - which seemed to be a rite of passage rather than anything - they hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye. 

But that was before Gale had trusted them enough to tell them about his condition. And before Astarion, however begrudgingly, came clean about his. 

It would be different now. 

Not that Astarion would ask again, obviously. But they’re not strangers anymore either. Strangers do not threaten you into looking after yourself. Nor, on reflection, do strangers offer each other their blood. 

Friends, Gale ruminates. 

Of course he’s friends with Wyll, and to some extent Karlach. But being friends with Astarion is new. It’s… nice. Unexpected. 

Gale buries his head in his pillow, and falls into exactly the kind of deep and dreamless sleep the doctor ordered.

Chapter Text

He wakes feeling like a new man. Even so, Tara sits on his chest until he agrees to let someone else cook. And then, as if she doesn’t trust him, she wraps herself around his shoulders so that he can do nothing but sit at the table and drink his coffee as the others trickle up from camp. Every single one of them greets him with obvious cheer to see him up and about. 

“It’s different when we’re all fucked up,” Karlach says, sitting down next to him. “But when you’re not focusing on keeping yourself alive, and you’re watching your friends hanging on by a thread-” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you’re alright now. And I saw those guards after you’d finished with them - damn, Gale. Really. Damn.” 

“You fought with exceptional skill, for a wizard,” Lae’zel agrees. 

“Lae’zel, that was almost a compliment!” 

Gale had missed the Tiefling’s tearful reunions, the bright little moments in their dark days - but separately, both Alfira and Rolan come to thank him for his part in it. 

Gale holds onto his coffee like it’s a lifeline and smiles and thanks them and tries to fight the feeling that it’s all woefully insufficient. He can’t find the words to explain to them that he didn’t think he mattered enough to be worried about, really. Of course they didn’t want him to die, but this is more than that. This is more than them being worried about his orb being unleashed. It leaves him feeling strange; like the world has shifted on its axis, ever so slightly. 

“So,” Astarion says, in a lull. “What next?” 

“If Ketheric is immune as long as he has the Nightsong, we start by finding Balthazar,” Halsin says. “If I remember correctly, the mausoleum is on the far side of the town from Moonrise.” 

“Past the Mason’s Guild and the House of Healing,” Jaheira agrees. 

“A hospital? Here?” Astarion’s disbelief is palpable. 

“I doubt it’ll be in use,” Shadowheart puts in. “But it’s worth investigating. If there are any supplies left behind, the locals can hardly make use of them anymore.” 

-

Of course, like all the simplest of plans, it doesn’t work out that way. 

They had been poised to just walk in the front door of the House of Healing when Astarion stops. 

“Hold on,” he whispers. The rest of them all instinctively drop to a crouch; and Gale, looking around, sees what he hadn’t before. Freshly disturbed ground. Footsteps in the dust. Something moving behind the windows clouded with age. 

“Undead,” Astarion’s lip curls. “I can smell them. Ugh, somebody has not been bathing.” 

The nurse, however, doesn't appear to be entirely aware that she's dead. She's standing behind the counter as if she's a receptionist. 

In fact, as Astarion approaches, she doesn't move to attack. She talks to him like he's a patient. 

"This is all kinds of wrong," Karlach whispers. 

Gale is inclined to agree, but keeps his mouth shut. It's still better than being outright attacked. 

“I can't possibly wait," Astarion is saying, in exactly the kind of noble and excessively over-the-top 'I am dying have pity on me' tone that Tara uses when she has a runny nose. "Look at me - I'm practically at death's door." 

It should not be funny, but Gale catches Karlach's eye, and they both have to look away quickly. 

"Oh! As pale as a ghost!" The nurse agrees. 

"Not quite," Gale mutters, and Karlach smothers a snort. "She's nearly got it, give her a minute." 

Astarion glances over his shoulder at them and makes a very rude gesture at Gale. 

"The doctor must see you immediately. Straight ahead then. Be hasty. Be healed." 

The beds around them are littered with corpses in varying states of decay. Most of them have been there a long, long time. 

"Well, you do seem to be doing better than the majority of her other patients, Astarion." Gale says, as they pick their way through the horrifyingly macabre detritus. 

"She literally doesn't have eyes. You lot all do, and I still had to tell you." 

"In our defence, you were walking in the sun," Karlach points out. 

"Although the boar was a dead giveaway." Gale adds. 

"I'm going to let the doctor examine you first," Astarion tells him. "I can't wait to see what diagnosis he comes up with." 

Before Gale can start coming up with ideas for medical names for being talented, flawless, powerful and so on, Astarion pushes open the door to the operating theatre. 

The words die on Gale's tongue. 

It's one thing to make morbid jokes when surrounded by long-dead bodies. The man strapped to the table, however, is very much alive. For now, anyway. He doesn't seem too happy about it. 

The half-man, half-machine creature leaning over him appears to be conducting a lecture. The longer he speaks, however, the clearer it becomes that he's an absolute raving madman. 

"This is a perversion of Lady Shar's doctrine," Shadowheart says, quietly. "This must be a test." 

"Oh don't worry, I have every intention of killing him," Astarion whispers. "Just give me a moment to see if I can get anything useful out of him first." 

As they move further into the room, the doctor notices them. 

"Aha!" He says. "We have visitors. Patients, is it? Or- new students, perhaps?" 

"Students," Astarion says, quickly, with a glance at Shadowheart. "We are familiar with Lady Shar's teachings." 

"We shall welcome you to her embrace," the doctor says. 

Astarion manages to talk him into getting the nurses to kill each other, in a truly horrifying display; the doctor, however, isn't convinced so easily. 

"I am the teacher, am I not?" The doctor says, his head tilting like a ticking clock, or a metronome. "And you are the student. Yet you question my methods. I will have to bring you into Lady Shar's embrace myself, it seems, as you will not come willingly." 

"Shit," Astarion draws his blades. "This is going to be interesting." 

That turns out to be the understatement of the century. It takes them a long, long time to wear him down. When at last he finally dies, Gale doesn't so much sit as fall down, and leans against a wall. 

Blunt blades are bad enough, but rusted ones especially so. They won't be going much further today. 

Halsin, as has become his habit, stops to make them all some tea. It's odd surroundings to be taking a short break, but given that Gale isn't entirely sure he can walk much further, he's in no position to complain. 

"Need a hand there?" Astarion says, bringing him a cup. It smells grassy, like Halsin's tea has a tendency to. Gale looks up. 

"How did you manage to get through that unscathed?" He says, disbelievingly. 

"Mostly unscathed," Astarion corrects. "What can I say, I'm light on my feet. Now are you getting up by yourself or am I going to have to pick you up?" 

Gale grins at him, still riding the high of the adrenalin rush. 

"I was going to say you should at least buy me a drink first, but it seems you're one step ahead of me." 

"Oh very funny," Astarion rolls his eyes. "Leaving you sitting in a puddle of your own blood it is then." 

He puts the cup down on the ledge above Gale's head. 

"Actually, that is an interesting question," Gale wonders aloud. "Did I do the vampire equivalent of buying you a drink by giving you my blood?" 

"Only the most boring version," Astarion sighs, and helps to pull Gale to his feet. "If we're going to abuse this metaphor, then you got me a glass of water and told me to go home. I didn't even get to bite you." 

"Well you only have to ask," Gale says, brushing himself down. "Although you seem to be doing well enough now we keep finding mostly-living things that want to kill us." 

He picks up his tea, sniffs it, and gives it a tentative taste. 

"Maybe biting can be for fun as well as food," Astarion drawls. "I don't suppose that had ever occurred to you, pragmatist that you are." 

"Oh it had occurred to me, Astarion. What also occurred to me is that we have very different ideas of fun. You might enjoy it, but I'm not convinced I would." 

"Maybe if you still needed magic items I might have offered you a trade," Astarion suggests. "But I don't suppose I have anything I can bribe you with, now." 

"You really don't think so?" Gale raises his eyebrows. 

Astarion's expression changes. 

"Much as I joke about it, I don't actually want to use my body as a bartering chip." 

Gale stops. He puts his cup down. 

Everything about Astarion's body language has changed, too. He is standing back, now, chin held high. On the defensive.

The others had been mostly ignoring the two of them slinging their usual half-insults, half-compliments at each other. Now they've stopped, though, Gale catches Karlach watching him out of the corner of his eye. 

She probably can't quite hear what they're saying, but Gale drops his voice anyway. 

"You're right. I'm sorry, Astarion. That might not have been my intention, but it was implied. What you do and do not do with your body is none of my business. And despite all appearances to the contrary, I can shut up when necessary. You're my friend, and I value that. I've mostly been thinking of this repartee between us as harmless, but if I'm wrong, or if I overstep the mark, like I did just now - just say the word. I'll leave you be." 

Astarion doesn't seem to quite know what to make of that. 

"I- alright." He pauses, for a beat. "I don't want you to. Leave me be, that is. It's a strange little friendship, this, but I've come to quite enjoy it." 

Gale grins.

"Aha! You do consider us friends!" 

"And now I regret admitting to it," Astarion sighs. 

Gale pats his shoulder, which had seemed like a sensible thing to do until he attempted it. Instead it's just slightly awkward.  

"Astarion - just in case it wasn't clear, you can ask for my help. To bite me, I mean. If you need it, you need it, and I don't need anything in return. Your health and happiness isn't something I would ever force you to trade for." 

"Thank you," Astarion says, softly, almost surprised. "I appreciate that." 

Gale hasn't bothered to spend much of his life feeling guilty, but he does now. 

It's a wholly unpleasant sensation. 

"Hey, I found something!" Karlach says, suddenly. She's holding, of all things, a lute. There's something strange about it. Something that makes Gale think of the man back at the Last Light, who seems stuck between dreaming and waking, his mind lost in song. 

They pick their way slowly through the rest of the house of healing. The nurses seem wholly unbothered about the departure of their lead surgeon, or how he met Shar's embrace. Instead they carry on much as they had before; as if the hospital is still functioning around them. Something about it is more than a little disquieting. 

The worst, however, is the children's wing. 

"Is that… Arabella's parents?" 

"Our little idol thief has terrible luck," Astarion sighs. 

Despite the nurse's insistence that they're just sleeping, it's clear that they're both far beyond any kind of help. 

They'd been intending to head back anyway, but that discovery seals the deal.

Astarion does his usual sweep, picking through drawers for information and valuables. Interestingly, he picks up a violin. It's been gathering dust in the corner for a while, by the looks of things. 

"That's both heavy and delicate," Gale frowns. "And I'm not sure it's in good enough condition to be worth rescuing." 

"I thought you liked music, you heathen. Besides, it's got good bones," Astarion says, "See the maker's mark? I'll clean it up a bit and it'll be worth the effort. We're already carrying a lute, so I might as well." 

With a shrug, Gale leaves him to it. 

-

The first thing they do when they get back is find Alfira. 

She's sitting by the bar, in her usual spot, chatting to her friend. The one whose name Gale really should remember and absolutely does not. She smiles at Gale as he approaches. 

"My musically inclined friend! What can I do for you?" 

"Funny you should say that," Gale says. "We found a lute, and we think it belongs to the man who's stuck in the song in his head. I was wondering if you'd be able to play it for him? Perhaps the sound of it will help." 

Alfira glances at her friend. 

"Well, it seems like a long shot, but I suppose we've tried everything else." 

"I think I've figured out some of the pattern of his song," Gale says, as they make their way across the Inn. "Although it's more of a rhyme, really." 

"Oh you want me to try and play his song?" Alfira brightens up. "Now there's a fun challenge." 

In the end, though, it really doesn't take that much. A couple of chords in, Art sits straight upright. 

He's more than a little confused, but he seems to be pretty sane, for someone who's spent a hundred years trapped in a curse. Gale is disappointed that all he has to give them is lavender, but Halsin doesn't seem to be at all. Perhaps to a druid it means a lot more than to a wizard. 

"Alright," Halsin says, "We'd better let you rest. And I think I ought to speak to Arabella." 

Arabella does not take the news well. She was never going to - but Gale hadn’t quite been prepared for the screaming. 

Halsin, evidently, had. He lets Arabella beat her tiny fists against his chest until she’s worn herself out. Then he picks her up, tucks her under his chin, and takes her back to her room. 

“It’s criminal that that man doesn’t have children of his own,” Karlach says, quietly, when they’ve all just about recovered from the raw wrench of the little girl's grief. “He’ll stay with her as long as she needs him, you can bet on it.” 

“Maybe when this is all over he’ll get the chance,” Gale says. "Or maybe he'll look after Arabella now." 

It’s a nice thought. Earlier, Halsin had been telling him what this place had been like before the Shadowcurse. Though he might not ever get to see it himself, Gale is holding onto the image anyway. 

“You ever thought about kids?” Karlach says, eventually. 

“Trying not to think too much about any kind of future at the moment.” 

“Right. Yeah. Same, I guess.” After a pause, she adds; “Sorry.” 

“Want a drink?” 

“Gods, yes.” 

When Gale comes back, Wyll has joined them. 

"By the way, what did you say to Astarion earlier?" Karlach asks as he sits down. 

Gale cringes. 

"I just didn't think before opening my mouth, and he quite rightly called me out on it." 

"Oh no, he told me about that," Karlach shrugs. "I mean when you apologised. He's been a bit… spaced out, ever since. I was wondering what you said." 

"Oh," Gale frowns. "I can't quite remember. That he was my friend, and friendship isn't transactional." He pauses. "Oh, and also that he could just ask if he wanted to bite me." 

"Ah," Karlach grins. "It might have been that." 

"Probably," Gale agrees, hoping he hasn't accidentally made the whole situation worse. Why the idea of having upset Astarion is quite so bothersome, he has no idea. They spend most of their time getting on each other's nerves. But this afternoon had been different. 

He turns the conversation instead to the trials and tribulations of learning infernal. Karlach, having grown up speaking it alongside Common, thinks that Gale and Wyll’s complaints are hilarious. They’re still at it when Alfira approaches. 

“Gale! Sorry to interrupt. I was just thinking about how music helped Art wake up. And how you helped me finish my song, in the Grove. I wondered - I think the kids could do with some cheering up. Actually, maybe we all could. I was hoping, perhaps, that you might be willing to play with me tonight. Just for a little while.” 

She stumbles to a halt. 

“Of course! A capital idea. I might even remember some of the lyrics for the travelling songs my tutor shared - a most proficient tiefling bard, just like your good self. I shall fetch my lyre.” 

“Whoah now, hang on!” Karlach interrupts. “You mean you can read infernal, even sing in infernal, but you still can’t speak it?” 

“I can’t speak it well,” Gale corrects. “Unless you happen to wish to know my favourite colour or my mother’s birthday.” 

“Or what you would be inclined to do with my mother, if I remember correctly.” Karlach takes a sip of beer. 

“Having never met your mother, I’m sure I have nothing to say on the subject,” Gale says, primly, and leaves them laughing in his wake. 

By the time Gale returns with his lyre, tressym in tow, Alfira has cleared them space by what is usually Jaheira’s desk and recruited a drummer. Art won't be joining them, but someone has jammed the door to the room open so he can hear the music more clearly. 

“Your mother will be so pleased to know you aren’t neglecting the finer arts,” Tara says, hopping into the chair that is probably supposed to be for Gale and making herself comfortable. Gale leans against the pillar instead, warming his fingers up on the scales. He’s not as comfortable with it as he used to be, but there’s something familiar about it that he wants to chase. 

However, Tara decides to start berating him about being out of practice at that point, so while they warm up, Gale keeps up an argument which he’s aware is completely one-sided to Alfira.

“I was not wallowing, Tara. I just haven’t had much time to play. Besides, when one’s ex-lover is both omniscient and omnipotent, keeping your head down and staying out of trouble is just good sense.” 

“Meow!” 

“Alright, staying out of most trouble.” 

“Meow!” 

“I don’t go looking for it! It just seems to happen to me.” 

“Mrow.” 

“No, the orb absorbed my power. I am not going to be the wizard I was ever again, Tara, you know that. No amount of time or practice will change it.” 

"Meow." 

"I appreciate your faith in me, but there's wisdom in knowing what you can and cannot change. We may yet be able to cure the tadpoles. I may even be able to do something about the orb. But that power is gone, and there's nothing I or anyone else can do to bring it back." 

There’s an older version of himself he hasn’t been thinking about. Or at least, has been trying not to. When he has, he’s only thought about the wizard he used to be; the power and the prowess he lost. His own stupidity in losing it. He had turned away from the deep, sick unpleasantness of those memories, and thought no further. 

He hadn’t thought about this; the quieter moments. The other things he took pleasure in. Playing with his mother after he'd been away for too long. Playing the lyre when he needed to clear his head of too much spellwork or too long on the road, or from something Mystra had asked of him that tasted sour in his memory, that he didn’t want to dwell on. That he couldn’t afford to. When he needed to be Gale Dekarios, not Gale of Waterdeep. 

Without quite meaning to, he’s playing the opening of Alfira’s song. His memory for this, for finding the music, seems to be as good as it ever was. It's a comfort. Not everything is gone, after all. 

“Oh that’s lovely,” Tara purrs, appreciatively. “What is it called?” 

“The Weeping Dawn,” Gale says, “Alfira wrote it.” 

“You helped,” Alfira says, smiling. “Does she like it?” 

Tara stands, and pushes her head against Alfira’s hand, purring. 

“Very much,” Gale says, just in case that hadn’t been enough on its own. “And Tara has exceptionally fine taste. You should be proud.” 

“Quite so,” Tara agrees. 

Alfira smiles, pleased but shyly so. 

“If only we had a violinist,” she says. “Then we’d be quite a merry company!” 

Astarion chooses that exact moment to come down the stairs, towel still slung around his shoulders. 

"Oh, excuse me," he stops halfway down, preparing to turn around again. "I see I'm early for my grand entrance. Let me give you a cue." 

"Don't you dare!" Shadowheart launches herself across the room. "You have been hogging the bathroom for hours!" 

Astarion ducks as she swings her towel at his head going past him, taking the stairs two at a time. 

"Looking this good takes time, darling!" He tells after her. "Not that you would know!" 

Shadowheart flips him off and is gone. Astarion hops down the last few stairs, light and playful. 

"We're having the finest entertainment tonight then?" 

"You actually still have blood in your hair," Gale says. 

"Oh for- where?" 

Gale is already putting his lyre down, kicking away from the pillar. 

"Come here." 

In the space of a split second, Gale realises what he's done. He's raised his hand to Astarion's face, magic curled in his palm. 

The flinch was almost imperceptible; almost. 

Gale's gut response would be to pull away. To apologise. But there's a room full of people, and he knows Astarion would hate that. 

"Just water," Gale murmurs, instead, firmly avoiding Astarion's wide-eyed stare. It is not a vulnerability he has earned.

Very, very slowly, he runs droplets through the strands of white hair still brown with crusted blood. When the water runs clean, he waves it away, and brings warmth to his palm instead. 

Astarion's hair is light, and incredibly fine. Gale positions the curl in keeping with the others. 

"There," he says, stepping back to admire his work. "Much better." 

Astarion sighs, irritated. 

"An illusion spell would have done just as well. Although now I know how you get your hair perfect every day." 

"Thank you for noticing," Gale winks, and watches Astarion relax back into this more familiar pattern. 

"Astarion's a musician too," Tara says, suddenly appearing between Gale's legs and nudging affectionately at Astarion's ankles. "Violinist, would be my guess. Though he takes exceptionally good care of his hands, and it would take someone as observant as me to spot it." 

"A pleasure to see you too," Astarion says, oblivious to Tara's little revelation. He leans down to tickle her under the chin. Before Gale can warn him, however, Tara is submitting to it - even purring, tilting her head up for Astarion to reach behind her ears. 

"Well," Gale says, impressed. The only other person he's seen gain Tara's approval quite so quickly was his mother. She hasn't even let Halsin pet her yet. "Do you play the violin, Astarion?"

"Did she tell you that?" He looks up at Gale, with some surprise. Then to Tara; "Clever little thing when you want to be, aren't you?"

"I suppose that explains why you recognised the quality of the instrument we found earlier. I think Alfira would love it if you joined us. Only if you want to, of course. Don't feel like you have to just because Tara outed you." 

Astarion's eyes flash with humour. 

"You mean give Wyll a chance to use all those dance moves he's been practising so diligently on our lovely Karlach? I think I'd enjoy that very much."

Gale grins, happy to be a co-conspirator. 

If there was ever a night where they proved Halsin more right about bringing out the best and worst in each other, it is this one. 

Astarion plays beautifully, of course. It is, like everything he does, an immaculate performance. Not to be overshadowed, Gale finds himself playing with more panache than he has in the longest of years. They swirl themelessly from the most lurid of tavern brawlers to the upper echelons of high society's finest composers and everywhere in-between, to the confusion and delight of their audience. How Alfira manages to keep up with them, he has no idea, but if anything she seems to be thoroughly enjoying herself. 

As, thankfully, do their audience. At some point, Halsin comes back down from the kids' room and joins them, apparently determined to bring a good mood. It's a joyous kind of chaos, and much needed. Like a tonic for the soul. 

Eventually, Astarion even manages to goad him into singing. Usually Gale would need to be several glasses deeper into the bottle to even consider it, but Astarion has managed it before he's even reached the end of the first. 

"I only know the words to a few, and hardly any of them are party material," he protests, weakly. "Unless you want an infernal lament." 

"Wait-" Alfira looks up, suddenly. "Which one? It's not-" 

"The Fall," Gale says. 

Something in Alfira's expression changes.  

"We can, if you want to." 

Alfira nods, wordlessly. 

It is later by then, at least. Nobody's been dancing for a good few songs. The children are pretending not to be falling asleep on one another. The chatter has mellowed out, low and quiet as they pause between songs. 

"Alright," Gale nods. He's been humming along to some of them, at least, so his voice won't be completely cold. That's what Astarion had picked up on in the first place. "The note, if you would." 

A hush falls, as he begins to hum. It's a slow building kind of song, the kind that starts low and quiet and in the throat. But it's well-known.

As the words begin to play their sorry tale across his tongue, as deep and rich and reverent as he can make them, some of the tieflings come in closer from the farthest reaches of the room. He spots Dammon and Rolan among them, and more familiar faces whose names he doesn't know. It makes him feel the absence of the others even more strongly; the ones whose bodies they’d found strewn out in the shadow curse. Spared that fate, at least. But to have come so far, and to have fallen so close to freedom. 

The keening of the violin is a cry of grief to a tale that feels, all at once, a little too close to home. 

Gale closes his eyes, focuses on the feeling in his chest, and sings of a world that is no more. A lament to a world lost to the folly of mortals. Of Elturel, and its people.

When he finally opens his eyes, after the final note, Alfira is wiping tears away. 

"Thank you," she whispers. 

Gale nods. 

Above them, watching through the bannisters, is Arabella. Her legs folded, her hands curled around the wooden struts. 

For her sake, Gale pretends not to have seen. 

"Shall we finish with the Weeping Dawn?" He asks Alfira. 

It feels like a better note to end on. It might be a eulogy, but Alfira had written love and hope into its grieving. He thinks, after today, they all need that. 

-

Later - much later, when they've moved from counting glasses to bottles, it's just he and Astarion left out by the campfire. How they’ve got onto the subject of how they’d want to die, Gale isn’t entirely certain, but he’s not wholly enjoying it.

"I'm not exactly going to get a choice," he says. 

"It's a hypothetical question," Astarion sighs. "I'm probably going to end up getting staked eventually, but given the choice I'd still choose stabbing. Surely you have a preference?" 

“I can’t say I’ve ever considered it." 

“Really? I thought you’d be the type of person to have thought it all through in-depth. Compiled a ranking, even. Poison at number 3, etc. That's why I haven’t asked you about your books.” 

“I don’t have a favourite book either,” Gale frowns. “I don’t think I could. It would be like choosing a favourite child.” 

“Arabella,” Astarion says. 

“Hmm?” 

“My favourite child. Arabella.” 

“I meant - never mind.” 

“Why should I not like her? Most children are irritating at the very least and needy to a fault. She’s a sneaky little thing with a sense of humour, and she’s going to do just fine on her own.” 

“I thought you liked Mol well enough.” 

“Oh, she was fun,” Astarion grins. “Wasn’t going to be fond of us unless we needed protecting though, and if we didn’t, then like as not she’d be perfectly happy to be rid of us if we got in her way. Besides, Raphael set his sights on her even before she went missing.” 

Gale stares at the sky, processing this. It seems callous, at first, but then so does a lot of Astarion’s attitude. Knowing him now, it’s more sad than anything. Astarion seems to spend a lot of time pretending that he’s a worse man than he is; either to himself, or to the world. Rather like Gale spends a lot of his time pretending to be a better one. 

It brings a poem to mind, one that it takes him a moment to remember the words of; 

“I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage
The linnet born within the cage
That never knew the summer woods…" 

He pauses, still dwelling in the verses. Still thinking of the caged bird's song. 

Astarion, to his great surprise, continues it;

"I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;"

He stops. Gale, not able to leave the stanza hanging, finishes for him.

"‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all. ” 

Astarion puts his glass down. His brow is furrowed, as if deep in thought, his mouth twisted as if it's a distasteful thought to be following. 

It's not the kind of thing Gale imagines he agrees with much. 

To him, though, it is almost comforting. There may not be much brightness ahead, but he would rather feel all of it, the misery as well as the happiness, than feel nothing at all. Than have his final days be empty. 

They sit, for a while, each in his own thoughts. Gale's mind returns to Alfira's song; to the poet whose rhythm still sits in his mouth and his mind. He is glad, to be surrounded by people who know to make art in the face of grief; to make it mean something. To find sense in something otherwise utterly senseless.  

Eventually, Astarion breaks the silence. 

“I can't believe I didn't know you could sing. You're not usually so quiet about your talents." 

"I didn't know you could play," Gale rebuffs. "And as neither of us suffer too harshly from the social chains of modesty, you can hardly claim that that's less unusual."

Astarion snorts. 

"I can hardly claim I play. I don't even remember where I learned, and I certainly don't put the effort into practising." 

Gale looks up at him, genuinely surprised. It's not unusual for Astarion to tell such bold-faced lies, of course, but somehow he'd thought Astarion wouldn't do it to him anymore. 

"In which case you have a rare talent," he says, sitting back. The world sways, ever so slightly. 

"Surely it comes as no surprise that I have skilled fingers." Astarion is looking at him in a particular way. It takes Gale a second to realise it's because he's not making eye contact. He's eyeing the neckline of Gale's shirt. 

"Indeed, it does not," he says, looking away. "You had implied as much." 

"And yet," Astarion ponders. He's twisting the wine bottle between two fingers, resting the bottom at an angle on the table, playing with the lip. "You turned me down, when we first met. I can't help but wonder why. It obviously wasn't that you don't find me attractive." 

"Hah!" Gale laughs. "No, it wasn't that." 

"Then what was it?" Astarion presses. "Or do I not want to know?" 

Very carefully, Gale gets to his feet. He's not as drunk as he might have been, but more so than he'd set out to be. Astarion is watching him, curiously, almost hungrily. 

"I've never been interested in sleeping with people I barely know. No matter how beautiful. For you, I think, intimacy is a tool. For me, it's something to treasure. We were badly matched." Gale drinks what remains of his wine, tips the glass upside down, and puts it on top of the bottle. "I didn't want to sleep with you and for it to mean nothing. That's not how I love." 

Then he leaves Astarion sitting by the glow of the embering fire, and goes to bed.

Chapter Text

They rise and dress with more purpose than they have in some time, that morning. It's been a long time since they had such a clear goal for the day ahead. 

Gale runs some breakfast up to Isobel, as he usually does. She's evidently feeling the lack of company this morning, likely due to the fact she had been able to hear them but not join them last night. Feeling at least partially responsible, he stops to talk for a while. When he comes back, the others are still discussing strategy. Halsin doesn't know how long it will take him to find and retrieve Thaniel, if he's able to. Equally, they don't know how intensely the shadows will react to their attempt to break the curse. The number of variables makes the conversation a fraught one. 

Halsin chooses the best spot for it that he can; the most easily defensible position, just outside the range of Isobel's spell. The rest of them gather themselves, blades drawn, spells prepared, and prepare as best they can for what the shadows will throw at them. 

"Ready?" Astarion calls. 

He gets a series of ragged responses; 

"Ready."

"As I'll ever be." 

"Standing by." 

Halsin nods, and opens the portal. 

The shadows, it turns out, have a hell of a lot to throw at them. It takes almost everything they've got to beat them back. 

Gale draws flame around their little peninsula, keeping the shadow-cursed creatures and their blades at bay, as Astarion stands above him and picks off the archers aiming for the portal and tries to keep them from bringing down Gale's spell. 

Behind them he hears the sounds of battle; swords clashing, spells slung through the air, the crackle of lightning and the shrieks of the shadows as they fall. 

Something catches him across the back. He cries out, but the spell holds.

"Sorry!" Shadowheart is suddenly beside him, containing him within range of her glow. One of the little dragon-shaped guardians runs over Gale's shoulders and spits radiant fire at a shadow-cursed gith who's somehow made it through the wall of fire. 

Beside him, Astarion grunts in pain as a crossbow bolt appears through the flames and strikes him in the shoulder. 

"You alright?" Gale calls up to him. 

"They'll have to try harder than that!" 

Astarion yanks the bolt out with his bare hands with barely a wince, slots it into his own crossbow and sends it back the way it came. "Let's see how you like it!" He shouts. 

The crossbow's recoil hits the shoulder he was just shot in. 

"I don't think you're alright!" Gale shouts. "Nothing about that was a sensible decision!" 

"Stop judging me and incinerate these bastards - and stop bleeding, it's distracting!" Astarion yells back. 

"I think he's finally lost it," Shadowheart pants. "Guess it was only a matter of time." 

She pulls a bottle of grease out of her bag and launches it over the flames. It shatters mid-air, splattering a much wider area and sending a pack of shadow-cursed creatures screaming into the next life. 

With a moment to breathe, Gale turns his attention to the others. 

"How are you doing down there?" He yells, trying to squint through the glow of Shadowheart's spell into the darkness and chaos beyond.  

"We just need the damn druid to hurry up!" Astarion yells, apparently able to make out a good bit more with his darkvision. "Even Karlach and Lae'zel can't hold the wraiths back much longer if they keep coming this fast!" 

One of them lunges for Shadowheart, and her little spirit-creatures send it screaming back into the dark. 

Gale sends a lightning bolt hurling down the line towards them, searing under their feet to barrel into the oncoming storm. Behind him, Shadowheart is casting a heal as Astarion grunts in pain. 

"The portal!" Wyll shouts. A blast of eldritch power shoots across them, throwing another humanoid thing with a bow back into the fire, where it howls a bloodcurdling final scream. 

There's blood running down Wyll's forehead and from his lip, but he's grinning in triumph. 

The portal shudders one more time, and Halsin steps through, the child in his arms. 

The moment he does so, the wraiths vanish. The chaos subsides. 

Even if Gale hadn't seen it happen, he would have felt it. Something in the air shifts; a change that shudders through the place itself. 

Halsin kneels, and Gale gets a good look at Thaniel for the first time. 

Something is very, very wrong. 

-

Astarion is in no mood for 'pussy-footing it around' today, apparently. To be fair to him, neither is Halsin, but he's less irritable about it. Between the two of them, it's all the rest of them can do but nod and agree and get on with it. After a short break at the Inn, they're back out in the curse. 

Astarion apparently also has no time for games. He refuses to play hide and seek with the strange child hiding amongst the flowers. Gale would usually agree that they don't really have time for that, but he would also probably have been a little gentler about it. 

The child seemingly feels the same, given that he vanishes through another portal the moment he realises Astarion isn't as sympathetic as he'd hoped. 

"Gods damn it," Astarion sighs. "Alright, here we go then." 

Gale leans over to Karlach as they prepare to step through the portal. 

"Is it just me or is he a bit off today?" 

"Oh sure, just a little bit," Karlach says. "Maybe don't get too close, he's already bitten my head off once this morning for daring to ask how he was." 

Gale winces, but doesn't have a chance to do much more than wonder if Astarion's still upset at him for yesterday. They step through the portal, and discover that Oliver had also been more upset than they'd anticipated. 

It's not the best way they could have gone into it. Having all come through the portal at the same point, they're clumped up together - a prime target. Gale recognises this area though, at least. They're back in the central square of the town. 

He grabs a dimension door scroll out of his pocket. 

"Astarion, I'm going to teleport you," he warns, and pulls them both through it to the far side of the courtyard. 

"A better position," Astarion agrees, without so much as looking at him. "Watch your back, this time." 

"Oh I suppose I'll just grow eyes in the back of my skull," Gale bites back. 

"If it means I can stop worrying about you dying from a paper cut, then fine," Astarion growls. With that, he's gone, running up towards the child and the shadows protecting him. 

"Don't kill him, remember! We need him!" Gale yells after him. 

"Yes, thank you, Mr Genius, when I want your advice I will ask for it!" 

Definitely still pissed off at him then. 

He leaves Astarion to take on the shades, sending a lightning bolt burning through the row of little ghost-children. The shield around Oliver shimmers, weakening. As soon as it does, though, the child just summons more. The others have managed to spread out somewhat, at least, and between them Karlach and Lae'zel take down two more. 

Which is, unfortunately, around about the time that the kid decides to summon, of all things, a gods damned Owlbear. Which decides not to aim for the little clump where Shadowheart, Wyll and Halsin are still standing, but instead for Astarion. Probably because he's the closest to Oliver. 

Astarion manages to hold his ground the first time it strikes. With the second, however, it sends him skidding down the steps. 

"Astarion!" Gale yells. 

He does not get a response. Astarion tries to stand, and fails. 

In the meantime, Halsin has wild shaped into an owlbear of his own. Letting him draw the creature's attention, Gale drops to his knees at Astarion's side, pulls his sleeve back and offers his arm. 

"Bite." 

Astarion glares at him, breathing heavily, his hands pressed to his side where the owlbear's claws have torn his torso open through his armour. 

"What?" 

"I'm out of healing potions." 

"You're sure?" 

"I mean if you'd rather die, be my guest." 

Gale doesn't watch. He feels the sharp little stab, winces at the pain, but his attention is mostly on the two shades who are now barrelling towards them, claws outstretched. 

One-handed spellcasting is not his favourite, but he can do pretty much anything in a pinch - and this very much qualifies. The missiles take out the one closest, and do a good bit of damage to the second. 

"Thank you," Astarion says. While he's getting to his feet, Gale grabs one of his dropped daggers and shoves it at the other shadow with all the strength he can muster. How a dagger can even injure them, he has no idea, but as he twists it the thing collapses with a horrifying scream. 

Above them, the owlbear disintegrates with a final, furious shriek. 

And behind them, at last, Oliver's shield falls. 

"I'm not going back!" He screams, all childish anguish despite the fact he just tried to kill them all. "You can't make me." 

Silence reigns for several long moments. Astarion, holding himself very carefully, walks up the steps and squats in front of the kid, studying him. 

"You're strong," he says, with a new note of respect in his voice. "Thaniel could do with someone like you to help him, you know." 

"Maybe I don't want to help him." 

"I suppose that's fair enough. But what will you do instead? Stay here by yourself? Sounds lonely to me." 

"But what if he doesn't want me back? I'm different now." 

Astarion tilts his head.

"Yes," he says, thoughtfully. "And so is Thaniel. That's what growing up is, really. Changing. Yet some people remain friends for their long, long lives. Through all those changes. Sometimes they make us worse - but sometimes they make us better, too. Most of them, I think, are a bit of both. I think that if you'll take him as he is, and learn to be his friend again, he'd be more than happy to do the same for you. And I think that if you work together, you'll be able to do extraordinary things." 

"You really think so?" 

"I do," Astarion says. 

Oliver smiles. 

"Alright. I'll go." Then he looks at Halsin. "Are you crying? I didn't think adults could cry. Don't worry - I won't tell anyone." 

And with that, he's gone. 

"Right," Astarion stands up, with a groan. "Fuck me. I don't know about you lot, but I need a long, long rest." He looks up, and catches them all looking at him. "What? I said what the kid needed to hear, didn't I?" 

"Thank you, Astarion," Halsin says, sincerely.  

Astarion sighs. 

"Thank me by shutting up and getting those feet moving. We're a damn sight further from last light than we were this morning."

Gale hands Astarion's dagger back as he passes. Astarion nods at him. It's not thanks, but it's more acknowledgement than he'd have given him earlier. 

It's not a pleasant walk. Even with Shadowheart's help, Astarion is in a lot of pain. Owlbear claws will do that to a man. 

About halfway, Karlach finally gets fed up of his whining. 

"Alright, fine! Hand me your pack." 

"Really darling?" Astarion perks up. When Karlach holds her hand out for it, he hands it over. And she, unceremoniously, dumps it on the ground and hoists him into a bridal carry. He yelps. 

"Oh come on!" He protests. "My legs work just fine!" 

"Yup, and you're being an asshole about it," Karlach agrees. "Unfortunately for you, I know for a fact that when you're being a little shit, it's because there's something wrong, and it doesn't take a genius to spot the hole an owlbear tore in you either. Whatever else has you riled up today I have no idea, but this at least I can do something about. Gale, can you grab that?" 

"Already on it." Gale stoops to pick up Astarion's stuff. "For the love of all the hells Astarion, what have you got in this thing?" 

"Useful things!" Astarion protests. "Put me down, Karlach, I am fine." 

"Hah!" Karlach ignores him, marching on and leaving Gale to struggle with Astarion's pack. "You were begging me to carry you yesterday." 

"Well it's different now," Astarion says, sniffily. 

"I'll let you walk if you really want to. I suspect that on the whole this is less painful." 

Shadowheart stops to give Gale a hand. 

"Here, let me- dark lady's blessings, what happened to your arm?" 

"Hmm?”

Gale looks down at the bite-mark on his forearm. It stings a little, but not too badly. It had scabbed over quickly too, but unfortunately, he's just pulled it open again straining to carry two bags. The blood is running down his arm and pooling in his elbow, sticky and irritating. 

“Oh, I was out of healing potions." 

With a sigh, Shadowheart casts a healing word over it, and asks no more questions. 

“Sometimes I’m just having a bad day!” Astarion is saying. “Don’t you have days where everything pisses you off for no real reason?” 

“Nope,” Karlach says, cheerfully. “Not up here, anyway. Even the shadowlands are paradise compared to the hells.” 

“My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a water’d shoot; ”

Gale quotes, and Astarion throws his head back and groans like he’s been stabbed. 

“Oh gods, somebody stop him.” 

Thoroughly encouraged, Gale only continues:

“My heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; ” 

“If I wanted this day to get any worse I would have asked for you to quote poetry at me while I was dying, Gale!” Astarion yells. 

Gale and Shadowheart both laugh at that. If he’s being over-dramatic then he’s definitely feeling better, and Gale will take that as a win. 

“I think it’s lovely,” Karlach scolds him. “That is exactly how walking on the surface makes me feel again, after all this time.” 

“Really, Karlach? You’re encouraging him?” 

Triumphant, Gale pulls another one out of his memory; 

“Let baser things devise

To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:

My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,

And in the heavens write your glorious name,” 

“Do you know anything other than incredibly cliche love poetry?” Astarion pleads at the sky. 

“No,” Gale says, cheerfully. “I have a reputation to uphold, I’ll have you know!” 

“As a hopeless romantic?” Shadowheart suggests. 

“You jest, but you jest too close to the truth,” Gale puts his hand on his heart. “She walks in beauty, like the night…” 

“Someone make him shut up, I am begging you!” 

Gale is laughing too hard to finish then. 

When they do finally make it back to camp, Jaheira is waiting for them, hot broth and bread set out. For once, none of them do anything other than eat something and go straight to bed. 

There will be time and energy for celebrations another day.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, having reunited Thaniel with Oliver isn’t enough to remove the shadow curse on its own. If Ketheric is its lynchpin, Ketheric has to go. So they return to trying to track down the graveyard. 

And when they find it, Raphael is waiting for them.

“Our hero thought but of treasure ahead,
Did not consider the peace of the dead,
Through the dark he went creeping
And awoke what was sleeping…
A new grave they dug, which he himself fed. ” 

Gale can only be relieved that Tara isn't with them; she'd have tried to claw his eyes out, or worse. Not that Raphael wouldn't deserve it, of course, but it seems for now that they’re better off in his good graces. 

Gale leans over to Wyll and whispers; 

"Imagine living for centuries and still never moving beyond a rudimentary understanding of the poetic form." 

"Rhyming is the peak achievement of poetry," Wyll manages to convey heavy sarcasm even through a whisper, but before he can mock Raphael any further, Karlach makes a 'zip it' motion at them. Feeling distinctly like a scolded schoolchild, Gale duly zips it. 

"What kind of infernal beast are we talking about here?" Karlach asks the devil. 

"Oh but that would be telling!" 

Raphael is exactly the kind of smarmy bastard that Gale would expect a devil to be, but it makes dealing with him no less irritating. From anyone else, Gale would probably have appreciated the warning, but from a devil it’s just irritating. 

"Wait-" Astarion says. "Before you go, I have a proposal of my own." 

"A proposal? If you're hoping to taste my blood, little vampling, think again. It burns hotter than wyvern whiskey." 

"This is serious business, devil. My old- well, a long time ago, someone carved some runes into my back. I'd rather like to know what they are." 

Gale had been right, thinking there had been something almost anxious in Astarion's question. 

"What are you talking about, Astarion? What scars?" 

Raphael's attention snaps to Gale. Unwavering and unwelcome. 

"You haven't told them?" He grins at Astarion. "And you've kept your clothes on this whole time? How unlike you." 

Gale adds him to the list of people he's bequeathing a fireball to the nethers in his will. Tara will be only too happy to oblige. 

But Raphael isn't done being a prick yet. 

"Why not let them see? Don't be shy." 

With a wave of his hand, Astarion's clothes vanish. 

Flame surges to Gale's fingertips, the furious response to such a blatant show of disrespect. Astarion, however, only makes a noise of mild annoyance. 

"Gods damn it." 

It doesn't matter that Gale is trying not to look. There's no hiding it; the whole of Astarion's back is scarred. The lines are deep, brutally so, and terrifyingly extensive. Infernal; words that radiate out around a central point. It's like a stamp; like a brand. A mark of ownership. It's fucking horrifying, and Gale knew that Cazador was a bastard but this is a whole new level of insanity. 

No wonder Astarion hadn't shown them. 

No wonder he'd been interested in Gale's familiarity with Infernal. 

"Don't pout, spawn. Just destroy the beast and I'll happily reveal your secrets instead of your skin." 

Gale slips the cloak from his shoulders, steps forward, and places it around Astarion's shoulders instead. 

Astarion turns his head. He takes the cloak from Gale, fingers brushing. 

"Thank you," he says, just over his shoulder, so quietly it is almost a whisper. Then, to Raphael; "Yes, fine, we'll kill this damn creature of yours." 

"How sweet," Raphael winks at Gale, who glowers back with every furious fibre of his being. "Then we have an understanding. I look forward to our next meeting." 

Astarion's lip curls as the demon disappears. 

"Well. Now you know."  

-

They descend into the Mausoleum in a hush that is more subdued than respectful. Which, it turns out, is more appropriate anyway. The way the place has been treated is many things, but respectful is not one of them. 

It's a sorry sight, a once-revered and peaceful resting place upended into chaos. 

Between the talking skull, the map left out on the table and the multitude of disarmed traps, it's not exactly hard to find their way down into the temple beyond. 

It seems that they've not had their due of bastards that day though, because apparently upset at having her sanctum disturbed, Shar sends them a very unwelcome present. 

Having awoken and then beaten off not one but two waves of shadow justiciars, only for it to turn out that Balthazar had been perfectly capable of helping them and just hadn't fucking bothered, Astarion finally gives up on sweet talking and tells Balthazar that he won't be doing any of his chores list until they've had a chance to rest. He's still a damn sight politer about it than Gale would have been, given the bruising in his ribs that is making breathing hurt more than he ever thought it could, but that's why he's doing the talking. 

"Loathe as I am to suggest it," Gale says, as Shadowheart tries to help him feel less like he's been kicked by a particularly angry horse. "It might be better to move the camp down here for the time being. This place is huge, and Shar's Gauntlet is hardly going to be a walk in the park." 

"There's no shadow curse down here," Halsin observes. 

"I don't relish the idea of trekking to and from the Inn every day," Lae'zel puts in. "We will need our strength." 

Astarion shrugs. 

"Sure. Whatever this hellbeast is, it's not near. I would be able to smell it. Seems we may be down here for some time." 

They end up leaving the animals behind at Last Light. Partially because Karlach refuses to let them anywhere near this unidentified infernal, no matter how safe Astarion thinks they are, and partially because the only protest that Jaheira has against them moving the camp is that the owlbear has taken to sleeping at the bottom of her bed and her feet will be cold without him. Apparently, having her quiet evenings back doesn't bother her. 

Tara is harder to convince, but Gale knows the ways around her stubbornness by now. Overt bribery is out, but they're taking Halsin, which leaves Arabella without anyone to keep her company. And as much as Tara pretends otherwise, she has a soft spot for children. Having forced Gale to make multiple promises to avoid any and all kinds of unnecessary danger, she finally concedes. 

Gale, who has yet to tell her what Mystra has asked him to do, promises her that he'll meet her back at Last Light with a heavy heart and a heavier conscience. 

Sorting through the camp supplies as they set up their new spot, Gale begins to grow concerned. 

"Is there truly so little left?" Halsin is helping him, organising the food into chests and padlocking them to prevent the numerous resident rats getting in. 

"We might have to try and get back up towards the mountain pass," Gale suggests, somewhat reluctantly. Halsin, equally unenthused, frowns.

"It's a long way." 

"Well I presume they eat something other than tadpoles at Moonrise," Astarion protests. "Just because we didn't find the kitchens doesn't mean there aren't any." 

"The last time we were at Moonrise we staged a prison break," Gale reminds him. "If we go back we'll be met with intense suspicion, if not outright violence." 

Astarion shrugs, like this is only the tiniest of hiccups. 

"So we sneak in. Look, all these trials are supposed to be for one person to complete. If we don't let Shadowheart do it, I think she might finally snap and kill us all in our sleep. So how about we leave her to it and the two of us go to Moonrise. I can pick locks and pockets and do all the talking, and you can cast invisibility. It'll be the perfect heist." 

Gale grimaces. 

"I'm not exactly heist material." 

"Yes, we know," Astarion sighs. "You don't like it when your robe gets dirty and crouching makes your knees hurt because you're an old man." 

"I'm less than a quarter of your age!"

"Technically I died when I was younger than you," Astarion blows him a kiss. "Forever young, darling. Now stop being a stick in the mud. It'll be fun."

Chapter Text

Gale had conceded much more easily than he should have. Mostly because they won't get much further on dried rations and a few apples, but also because he knows Astarion would have gone without him anyway, and at least if something happens to one of them now the other can try and get them out of it.

Which is how he finds himself trailing after Astarion on their way back to Moonrise towers. 

The shadow-weave seems more oppressive when there's just the two of them out in it. The town's empty streets echo with their footsteps. 

"So what's the plan?" Gale asks. 

"Oh, we'll just walk in, see if the guards try to stop us," Astarion hops over a crack in the cobblestone. "If they do, we'll kill them. If not, it saves us the bother of trying to sneak around." 

"I assume you have some kind of story lined up?" 

"Several," Astarion turns back to grin at him. "Now hurry up, slowpoke, we've got things to steal. Chaos to sow." 

Gale catches up, and they walk side by side. A little while later, he says;

"Astarion, about your scars…" 

Astarion makes an irritated little sound and stops to glare at him. 

"Don’t try to talk me out of this, Gale. No, I don’t trust Raphael, and nor does he trust me. We’re using each other for our mutual benefit. We kill this beastie for Raphael and I find out what Cazador was doing. It's a win-win for everybody. Well, except for the beastie." 

"We don't have to talk about it. It's your business, and I don't want to pry. But if you want me to read them, I can." 

"Karlach already has." Astarion turns and continues. He doesn't look at Gale as he walks. He keeps his gaze trained straight ahead. "It's only a small part of something bigger. We couldn't figure out what of." 

"Sounds like we'd better find Raphael's hellbeast and kill it then," Gale says. "Although I can still cast an illusion, if you want to see it for yourself." 

"I-" Astarion turns to him. "I might. I haven't even seen this face since Cazador turned me. Since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red." 

"What colour were they before?" 

"I- don't know. Just another thing I've lost." 

He turns, picking up the pace, clearly done with the subject. 

"You know, I think you've been a bad influence on me," Gale says, ponderously. 

"Oh? And why is that?"

"I used to consider myself quite a reasonable man. I don't think reasonable men take great pleasure in imagining you gutting Cazador and strangling him with his own intestines." 

Astarion's laugh is sudden and sharp. 

"I didn't know you had it in you, Gale. I suppose there's hope for you yet." 

"Well, one can't always be a gentleman." 

Moonrise looms out of the curse at them suddenly, as much a building that size is capable of lurking. Despite Gale’s continued reservations, Astarion walks right up to the front door. The guards don’t even look at them twice. 

“Well, this may be easier than I anticipated.” 

“Don’t jinx it,” Astarion hisses at him. “Follow me and keep quiet.” 

To Gale’s surprise, he makes a beeline for the prison. 

Very little of the carnage has been cleared. Long, dark stains mark where the bodies had been dragged through, but other than that the whole area is exactly as they’d left it. 

There’s nobody around. Not much point, Gale supposes, with all the prisoners gone. Still, he follows Astarion cautiously, wary of the dark corners. 

He follows the stains into the guards’ office. 

The blood trail vanishes beneath a door in the far side of the office. As Astarion kneels to pick the lock, Gale presses his hand to his chest. The spot where the orb sits is aching, for the first time since Elminster bestowed Mystra’s charm.

“What are we doing down here?” Gale whispers. 

“I knew there was something wrong about this place. I can smell it.” 

“Why didn’t you look into it before?” 

“I was somewhat preoccupied with saving your damn life,” Astarion snips. 

The moment the door clicks open, Gale forgets the pain. 

“What the-” 

They walk to the edge of the pit together, carefully. 

“Well,” Gale turns his head away. “No wonder you could smell that. Mystra’s elbow, that is pungent.” 

“It’s not pleasant-” Astarion stops, staring at him. “Gale?” 

“Hmm?” 

“You’re glowing.” 

Gale looks down at his chest. The white light is so strong it’s almost shining through his robes. 

“So I am. This must be it. This must be where the heart of the Absolute is hiding.” He grimaces, as the magic pulses under his skin. “We should investigate.” 

“Not now ,” Astarion grabs his wrist, dragging him back from the edge. “We have to talk to the others first.” 

“And find the Nightsong,” Gale agrees. The further they get from the edge, the less the orb aches. The glow begins to abate when they get back into the office. Astarion’s grip loosens. 

“Good. Right, let’s find a kitchen.” 

They walk back to the entrance of the prison in silence, the realisation of what they’ve found hanging heavy in the air between them. 

And, in the silence, Gale hears something that he hadn’t before; someone’s scream. It echoes off the stone walls. 

“Shit,” Astarion stops, his back to the wall. “We might have missed someone.” 

The cries are coming from one of the rooms to the side. 

“What’s the plan?” Gale hisses. 

“I'm not really a details person - just go with it,” Astarion whispers back. 

Then he stands, holds his head high, and flings the door open as if he has every right to be in there. 

The room isn’t big, but its purpose is immediately clear. Even so, none of the torture instruments are in use. It seems they aren’t needed. Even without them, the two duergar have a drow kneeling on the floor. Her hands are clasped to her white hair as she grunts in pain. 

“Z’rell sent me,” Astarion says, sharply. “You’re taking too long. It’s my turn.” 

The two duergar turn to him immediately. The drow, released from whatever they were doing to her, drops to the floor with a whimper. 

“True Soul!” One of the duergar recognises. 

“But she is ours,” the other protests. 

“Would you defy the orders of the Absolute?” Astarion’s voice is dangerous. “I said, she’s mine.” 

“Peace, peace, True Soul,” the first ducks her head, gesturing to her colleague to do the same. “She’s all yours. If you will permit us to watch, perhaps we may learn how to perfect our technique.” 

Astarion steps forward. What he does, exactly, Gale isn’t sure. The room echoes with the strange psionic resonance of the tadpoles. In a matter of moments, the drow’s face goes from twisted in pain and fury to utterly and completely blank. She stands, slowly, and stares ahead as if unseeing. 

In that moment, Gale finally recognises her. He thought they’d killed her, at the goblin camp. 

“There,” Astarion says. “Placid as a puppy.” 

“I… did not feel her mind break,” the second duergar says. Astarion rounds on her immediately. 

“Don’t be stupid. Can’t you tell she’s all but hollow? Perhaps my methods were too subtle for you.” 

“I live to serve,” the drow says. 

“Excellent,” Astarion purrs, “You shall make a most satisfactory slave, I think.” He turns to the would-be torturers. “Much more useful to the Absolute like this, isn’t she? Destroying her would have been such a waste.” 

Neither his tone nor his expression broker any argument. Even the duergar with no survival instincts shuts her mouth. 

“That’s what I thought,” Astarion smiles, that terrifying little smile of his that reveals just the one sharp tooth. If he was capable of seeing his reflection, Gale would swear he’d practised it. “Now, if you don’t mind-” 

The moment the duergar turns away, there’s the flash of a blade. She collapses, with nothing more than a gasp. Beside her, the other’s scream is cut off by a lightning bolt. The drow flinches, but it curves around she and Astarion. 

“Hm,” Astarion eyes her singed and smoking body. “That might have been slightly more dramatic than necessary, darling.” 

“Well you hardly gave me time to prepare!” Gale protests, shaking sparks from his fingers. “Now, why are we rescuing the drow we tried to kill once already?” 

“My name is Minthara,” the drow in question says, haughtily. “And I can’t tell you why your friend saw fit to rescue me, but I shall not complain.” 

“You complained plenty,” Astarion says, cheerlessly, rifling through the dead deurgar’s pockets. “But unless you have a better idea than pretending to be a mindless slave, you’re not getting out of here alive.” 

Minthara grimaces, and crosses her arms. 

“Fortunately for you, the Absolute has ensured I have had plenty of practice at playing a mindless fool.” 

“Ah,” Gale is suddenly very pleased. “I see. Another defective tadpole. Well, in that case, I don’t suppose you happen to know the way to the kitchen? As we have another mouth to feed.” 

It turns out that Minthara knows the layout of the tower quite well indeed. She takes them through the dormitories to the kitchen, locks the door behind them, and helps to dispatch the chef and her supposedly tame gnolls. 

“Efficient,” she says, almost admiringly, as Astarion sheathes his daggers. “This way.” 

The pantries aren’t as well-stocked as Gale had been hoping for, but they’re pretty good. There’s some basic supplies, like bread and garlic and meat, and even a few bits and pieces that he can make into something more interesting. Carrots and apples too, which while lacking in excitement, will keep for longer. 

“Gale,” Astarion waves him over. “I think this might be a crate full of-” 

“Spices!” Gale exclaims, delighted. 

Astarion shakes his head at him, smiling. When they’ve stuffed what they can into their satchels, Minthara leads them on through the side rooms. 

The next room contains another drow who appears to be working at an alchemy bench. She mutters to herself as they approach. 

“Oh!” her eyes skim over Astarion, and then Minthara, and finally land on Gale. She nods at him, though there’s no resonance. She has no parasite. “Araj Oblodra, trader in blood and the sanguineous arts. It’s a pleasure to stand before a True Soul, and your pale companion. I’d like to offer my services if you’re willing?” 

“In return for my blood, I assume?” Gale hazards. “I’m not usually in the habit of giving it away.” 

Astarion coughs pointedly into his hand, which Gale, equally pointedly, ignores. 

“I would make it worth your while. With one drop, I can brew a rather potent potion for you. Or perhaps we could discuss something else: your friend. He’s a vampire, no? Or one of their spawn, at least.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Astarion says. “We’re all friends under the absolute. I won’t bite.” 

“Oh I’d prefer if you did.” She turns back to Gale. “I assume he belongs to you?” 

“Belongs?” Gale splutters. “Excuse me? He’s his own person!” 

“Oh, how utterly adorable. And I’m sure he believes it too. Now spawn, do you have a name?” 

“Astarion, but hold on-” 

“Good. Now, Astarion, I’ve dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl.” 

“Aha- I will have to decline,” Astarion says. 

“I’ll compensate you,” the drow frowns. “A potion of legendary power. It’s not for sale, but it’s yours, if you bite me.” 

Gale grabs his arm before he can answer and pulls him back. 

“One moment, please,” he says to the drow. Then, to Astarion; “There’s something wrong with her, isn’t there?” 

“Well obviously,” Astarion hisses. “Her blood stinks.” 

“House Oblodra,” Minthara says, either unaware or entirely unbothered that she hadn’t been invited to this little parley. “Known for experimenting with illithid blood.” 

“That would be it,” Astarion agrees, grimacing. 

“That's not what I meant, but fine,” Gale agrees. “Functionally, the point is the same. Astarion, if she kicks up a fuss, I’ll have one hand in my component pouch.” 

Astarion blinks. 

“You’re not going to ask me to go through with it?” 

“What? No, why would I?”

“For a potion of legendary power! Were you not listening?” 

“You don’t need a potion of legendary power, you’ve got a wizard of legendary power,” Gale frowns. “I mean if you want to, then by all means go ahead, but you didn’t seem keen.” 

“I’m not. Uh - thank you.” Astarion steps back, and turns back to the drow. “It’s still a no, I’m afraid.” 

“Ugh! Can’t you talk some sense into him?” She demands, turning to Gale. 

“He said no,” Gale growls. The flames flicker into his palm before he really thinks about conjuring it. The drow steps back, anger swallowed whole by fear, though she masks it quickly. 

“I think we’re done here,” Astarion says, smoothly. 

“For now,” Gale agrees testily, though he lets Astarion drag him away. 

“Alright, time to go,” Astarion says, when they’re back in the kitchens. “I think we’re going to have to go out the front door. Gale, dear, could you swap that budding fireball out for invisibility please?” 

“Right, yes, of course,” Gale pats out the flames. 

“Good boy,” Minthara says. 

There’s a moment of silence. 

Then Astarion bursts out laughing. 

“Excuse me?” Gale demands, furious, then to Astarion. “What did you tell her?” 

“Have I misunderstood?” Minthara frowns. “This is not your bodyguard? Your pet wizard?” 

“No!” Gale protests. 

“Neither of us owns the other,” Astarion is still laughing. “We’re working together. As equals.” He sobers, slightly, though he’s still grinning. “We’re just like you, really. The world is trying very hard to make us into monsters, and we’re refusing.” 

After studying them both suspiciously, Minthara gives in. 

“I don’t have much choice but to trust you, it seems.” 

“Gale?” Astarion prompts. 

With a sigh, Gale complies. 

And so they walk out of Moonrise Towers entirely unchallenged. Minthara’s invisibility wears off just as they reach the edge of the shadow, and disappear from the Guard’s sight. Astarion pulls the modified Moon Lantern out of his pack, and they pick their way back through the remnants of the town. 

“So,” Minthara says. “Now that you’ve saved my life, you’d better explain who you are and why you bothered.” 

“Oh, it’s a long story,” Astarion sighs. “Go on, Gale, you like the sound of your own voice.”

“Very funny,” Gale says, but he complies anyway. As they make their way back to camp, he explains everything to Minthara; about them all being infected with tadpoles held in some kind of magical stasis, and their adventures so far, from the nautiloid all the way up to looking for Balthazar and the Nightsong in the Gauntlet of Shar. It’s not a particularly in-depth version, but it does all the basics. 

In her turn, she tells them how she was recruited to the Absolute.

“And I am never going back,” she declares, like it's a threat. 

“Of course not,” Astarion agrees. “You’re more likely to get blown up with us, but at least it’ll be on your own terms.” 

“Are you planning to blow up the Absolute?” Minthara asks. 

“Actually, yes-” Gale starts, in the same moment that Astarion says;

“We are not- ” 

So then they have to tell her about the Orb, and Mystra’s demands of him.

“I would prefer not to explode,” she says, eventually, after they’ve bickered their way through the explanation. 

“Nobody else is going to explode!” Gale protests. “I’m a wizard! You think I can’t teleport you to a safe distance before I let go?” 

“Oh, well,” Minthara capitulates. “In which case, that seems like a very tidy solution.” 

Astarion rolls his eyes. 

“Gods, not you as well.” He points at Gale as the platform descends into the Gauntlet; “This is not over.” 

But they shelve the argument, at least while they pack their stolen supplies away and help Minthara get settled. Despite her suspicions about them murdering her in her sleep, Minthara retires to her bedroll. Evidently she’d seen sense in Gale’s protests that there’d hardly be any point in going to all the trouble of smuggling her out alive just to murder her anyway. Either that, or Astarion giving her some of the trinkets they’d picked up from the underdark to make her tent feel more homely had won her over. 

“Well,” Gale says, at last, rolling his sleeves back down now everything is re-organised. “Maybe I’m not so bad at heists after all.” 

“Gale,” Astarion says, and something in his tone makes Gale turn immediately. “I… wanted to thank you.” 

“Thank me?” 

“For what you said, to that vile merchant. For lending me your cloak, in front of Raphael. For apologising, when you said something that made me uncomfortable. For… caring, I suppose. I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my master. How I felt about it, what I wanted, it never mattered. You could have asked me to do the same. But you didn’t. And I’m grateful.” 

Gale takes his hand. It seems like an obvious thing to do, until Astarion looks at him like he’s pulled a rabbit out of his hat. 

“You deserve better than that, Astarion.” 

“It’s… a novel concept, I admit.”

As he says so, he curls his fingers through Gale’s. 

“Is it? I think you said the same to me just days ago.” 

“I did, didn’t I?” He looks surprised. 

Gale squeezes his fingers.

“Did you want me to cast that illusion?” 

The offer is made carefully. Astarion glances over to the sleeping drow, evidently making the same assessment that Gale had. 

“The others could be back any minute.” 

“We’ll hear them coming. Astarion, I want to show you what I see when I look at you.” 

And Astarion, his palm still cool and comforting in Gale’s, nods. 

As he turns to find the components, Astarion pulls his shirt off. Gale tries not to stare. Instead, he stands and holds his hands out, holding the spell ready and waiting, until Astarion comes back and places his fingertips in his palms. 

"Ready?" 

Astarion nods. 

Gale steps back into it, slowly, the illusion wrapping itself around Astarion, finding his form. When he opens his eyes, there are two Astarions looking at him. 

The illusion stands perfectly and completely still as Astarion edges towards it. His footsteps are the only sound in the silence of the empty temple. They echo. For a long time, he stares at the illusion’s back. His fingers trace the circle of infernal across his shoulder blades, perhaps piecing together what it looks like in comparison to what it feels like. Then, almost tentatively, he moves around. 

What it must be like, seeing his own face for the first time in centuries, Gale can only imagine. Thankfully, it's an easy spell to maintain, like this; however long he needs, Gale can hold it there for him. 

“This is what they saw,” he says, eventually. Soft, almost frightened. “All those people. This face. This… body. I was the last thing so many people saw- apart from Cazador.” 

Gale cannot deny this. But nor can he let it stand. The illusion has the same kind of resting irritation that Wyll’s had had; likely a hangover from the moment of concentration of casting. Gale concentrates, and the illusory Astarion’s frown fades. 

“It’s also the face that Minthara saw, saving her from those duergar,” he says. “The rest of us wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving her to her fate. We’d already left her to die once. But you saw more than the monster they wanted to make her into.” 

“Don’t,” Astarion’s sharp little intake of breath is like a curse. “Don’t make me sound like a hero. I’m not.” 

“No,” Gale agrees. “Nothing so ordinary.” 

Astarion says nothing to that. There's a tenseness in the line of his shoulders though, his hands clenched into fists. Slowly, Gale moves to stand beside him, and they watch the illusion together. 

“I’m no hero either, Astarion. None of us are. We’re just people. We’re just trying our best. But you - you are more than what he made you. That’s what makes you so incredible. Everything that he took from you, and you’re still you .” 

Astarion looks at him; just for the barest of moments, just a glance. But in that moment, his expression had been so vulnerable it almost hurts. 

“Perhaps not yet,” he says. “But- I can be. I will be.” When he turns back, it’s with a smile, and a twinkle of mischief. “You know, he never wanted us to use magic. It must seem mad to you that I’ve lived for centuries and never learned more than a few cantrips until these last few weeks. But I can feel the weave. If you showed me this, I could probably cast it." 

Gale goes to make a joke about Astarion being able to check his own hair, and then stops. It occurs to him what actually just happened. 

“Astarion, are you asking me to teach you a spell?” Gale is aware he sounds disbelieving. “Please tell me you’re not joking at my expense. That might be too cruel, even for you.” 

“For once, I am not,” Astarion grins, sounding almost surprised. “I would like that.” 

“Me too,” Gale is smiling, and he doesn’t try to hide it. He's fucking delighted. “Magic is everything. It’s my life. It’s like music and poetry and physical beauty, all rolled into one and given expression through the senses. It would be an honour to share that with you.” He pauses. “Although maybe you should put your shirt back on first.” 

“Not that kind of magic?” Astarion teases. 

“I would like to be able to concentrate. You know what you look like, now. Take pity on me.” 

"Only when you stop being so much fun to tease." 

"I was hoping you'd miss my sparkling personality, but I suppose I shall make my peace with 'fun to annoy'." 

He waves the illusion away, and Astarion retrieves his shirt. 

“Before we do this,” Gale suggests, thoughtfully. “Do you want to channel the weave?” 

“Channel it?” 

“It’s an entirely different experience to wielding it. But if you've never done it before - it's extraordinary. There's nothing like it. And having a deeper understanding of the weave is never a bad idea if you intend to improve your casting."  

Astarion nods. 

“Alright. Show me.” 

It’s no surprise, of course, that he's a natural. His movements are fluid and precise, his pronunciation perfect. And his presence in the weave is welcome. 

Astarion holds his hands out, flexing his elegant fingers. Gale knows what he’s feeling; the brush of the weave against his skin. Deeper and more present than the actual world is to him, sometimes. 

Then Astarion looks at him, and smiles. His elation soars through both of them, intimately connected in the moment. Like music, Astarion thinks, remembering the way it had made him feel, once. Before nothing could touch him anymore. Before the violin had just been another tool he used to seduce. A long, long time before that, it had been something he loved. He’d forgotten that; until Gale had asked him if he wanted to play.  

That's what Astarion hadn’t told him then; but it is Astarion showing him now. Opening his mind to Gale and his heart to the weave, allowing it to move him again, the way music once had. Relishing the feeling, even. 

With a wave of Gale’s hand, the high beams above them become stars. Astarion shivers as the weave moves around him. He hums - a small, quiet note that seems to be swallowed by the dark. But Gale knows it. It tastes of the memory of the Inn. Of playing together. It’s the lament. 

He hums along, quiet and comfortable. 

Initially, he has no intention of doing anything more; but then the way Astarion looks at him is like a flame to a candle. 

He's already created this for him; for the softness in his smile, so hard won and all the more precious for it. There's no hiding it from him either. 

So Gale opens his mouth, and sings. Soft, at first. Quietly. But it triggers a realisation, first in Astarion's mind, which then Gale sees; Astarion has never been serenaded. In all his years. Never had anyone sing for him and him alone. Not like this. 

Gale breathes deep, and lets his voice climb. Through the rafters, to the stars, echoing back at him from the dark walls and through the magic until it is a chorus, rising and swelling around them the way it should. 

Gale sings of the fear of an endless darkness; the foolhardy hope of a bright dawn that might never come; living on that hope anyway, in defiance of all that has been lost. 

And Astarion joins in. Borrowing the knowledge of the lyrics from his connection with Gale, imbuing them with something entirely his own. In Gale's voice, it is a lament - a longing. In Astarion's, it becomes furiously, defiantly hopeful. Like a call to arms; a challenge issued to an uncaring universe. 

Gale tips his head back, closes his eyes, and loses himself in it. The euphoria of this unexpected moment. For the breadth of that single song, he can be nothing but hope. Fragile and already forsaken, but hope nonetheless. 

As the final note dies, he opens his eyes. 

In the reality of the moment, he finds himself, as always, devastatingly mortal. 

The weave shimmers around them, alive with emotion and potential.

He feels the moment it shifts. 

Mystra is always a part of the weave, of course; she is the weave, really. But he's got quite used to that. 

This is different. This has Mystra's waking presence in it. For the first time in a very, very long time, Mystra is watching. Listening. 

Gale's stomach lurches.  

His mind is still open to Astarion for that fleeting second; just long enough that by the time he slams it closed, he knows it's too late. 

Knows that Astarion had felt the sudden swing of revulsion; the moment Gale had pulled back like it had been something he did not want. Something poisonous. Something unbearable. A wizard, who shapes the weave to his will, and yet recoils from its touch. The thing he’s built his whole self around. 

The weave dissipates. Mystra is gone. Astarion too. It is quiet, and cold, and Gale is entirely alone in his own mind. 

He breathes, trying to pull himself back together, trying to make sense of what just happened. 

It probably wasn't the smartest thing to do. Even if it hadn't been wholly intentional on his part, Mystra does not like to be spurned. He braces himself, fully expecting her to attempt contact again, or perhaps even to manifest. As the silent emptiness stretches out, however, and she does not appear, he begins to relax. 

He's not entirely sure what to make of that. Why Mystra would have attempted to make contact like that now, after all this time, he cannot fathom. Similarly, to have allowed him to close it so suddenly and brutally is most unlike her. 

More than that, he is surprised at himself. By the strength of his reaction, after so long hoping for the chance to see her again; composing a speech, for such an occasion. For how relieved he is, not to have to speak to her. To face her again, now, when he can no longer think of her as just an ex-lover. 

Instead, he thinks of her as something else. He's not quite sure what; but it's not something that holds them on an even keel. 

He's never been equal to Mystra. Not really. Not that she had ever really treated him as such, but somehow, he'd had to believe that they were in some way to keep going. To believe that he had some agency, some power and choice in the matter. 

Now, he sees it differently. He doesn't think about her loving him; he thinks about what he did, in her name. What she made him do. If he hadn't loved her, if he hadn't agreed… 

Well, he knows what would have happened, because it did. When he was no longer of use to her, she abandoned him. 

That had been the first moment he'd felt true joy in the weave since the orb. Of course she would choose that moment to return; to taint it. To remind him that it will never be his and his alone. There is no escaping her.  

It would be easier, perhaps, if he could be angry about it. Instead he has the sudden overwhelming feeling that he's about to burst into tears. 

"Gale?" 

Astarion's voice is almost a shock. 

"Right, yes, sorry, I-" he shakes himself. "How quickly these things fade, no matter how hard they were in the obtaining." 

He tries to smile, but it's wobbly, and he looks away before it can become anything else. 

"Lovely as that was," Minthara's deep, gravelly voice breaks the silence, "I can't help but wonder what you were hoping to achieve with it." 

"It wasn't for anything," Gale says, slowly getting a handle on himself. 

"But why would you waste such power on such frivolities?" 

"Because it's beautiful," Gale snaps. "Because I can. Because I'm going to die, and before I do, I want to spend the last of my time doing things that make me feel alive." He shakes himself, as if shaking off the remaining threads of weave, clinging like spiderwebs. "Anyway. The others will be back soon. I'm going to start making dinner. Apologies for waking you, Minthara." 

"I was not asleep." 

"Right. Sorry, Astarion, I think perhaps the spell will have to wait." 

"Another time," Astarion agrees. "I'll hold you to that." 

For the first time ever, Astarion attempts to help him. It's sort of appreciated, although he's as much of a distraction as anything. For a while, they work in near-silence. Eventually, however, Gale gets out of his own head enough to notice that Astarion is doing a piss-poor job of chopping vegetables. It suddenly occurs to Gale it might literally be the first time in his life he's ever done so. 

"No, look-" with a sigh, Gale steps over to put his hand over Astarion's, guiding the blade. "Like that." 

The moment he lets go, Astarion immediately resumes doing it the way he had been before. 

"Oh dear - Gale, darling, I think you'll have to show me again." 

Despite himself, Gale finds himself smiling. 

"Even I am not gullible enough to fall for you pretending to be bad with knives, Astarion," he says, and hands him another tomato. 

With a put-upon sigh, Astarion returns to doing it in a manner that Gale deems just about acceptable. 

By the time they hear footsteps and distant voices, they've almost managed to restore a semblance of normality. 

"It's the others," Astarion jumps to his feet. "Minthara, get behind me." 

"What?" Gale straightens up from the cooking pot. "Halsin is a perfectly reasonable man, I'm sure that he wouldn’t-" 

"I'm sure that you're forgetting exactly how protective he is - and his tendency to turn into a literal bear." 

"Right," Gale looks at the ladle in his hand. "I guess you standing there until we've had a chance to explain isn't a bad idea." 

"He won't attack you to get to me?" Minthara sounds surprised. 

"Gods no," Astarion doesn’t draw his blade, but his hand is on it. Prepared. "Can't say the same for some of the others though, so at least at first, let us do the talking." 

It’s Wyll and Karlach leading their little group. For that, at least, Gale can be grateful. If there are any two people better placed to make an argument to about second chances, he can’t think of them. 

“Hello,” he says, cheerfully, hoping that behaving as if there’s nothing wrong will keep tensions low. 

Karlach takes one look at the drow, and drops into a battle stance, blade drawn. Belatedly, Gale remembers that Minthara had tried to push Wyll into a chasm. 

“Whoah, whoah, hold on-” he steps out, aware that he’s wielding nothing more than a soup ladle and wearing his pyjamas - but before he can say anything at all, the tadpole writhes. 

He sees, for the first time, what Astarion had when he stepped into Minthara’s head. The way the duergar had been tearing at her mind, splitting her down to pull her apart. Her stubborn refusal to bow to the absolute. 

The moment Astarion’s intent had changed; from figuring out what she was doing there, to getting her out. 

Karlach relaxes. The others, too, seem to have shared the vision, the first time since reaching the shadowlands that they’ve really done so; the exception, of course, is Halsin. 

“Halsin,” Karlach sheaths her blade and puts her hand out to stop him moving forward. “It’s alright.”

“I am no longer under the power of the Absolute,” Minthara says, quietly. “I do not know why your companion saw fit to save me, but I am free, now. Free to make my own decisions. I have pledged my blade to your cause. To destroy the scourge on this world that is the Absolute. As long as that is your goal, I will stand by your side. If you will have me.” 

Halsin studies her, arms folded. He looks from her to Astarion, still poised for a fight. Then to Gale, trying to body-block them, which realistically would never work against Halsin of all people. Then to Minthara’s raggedy tent, the collection of spare blankets that is holding the place of a bedroll for now, and the odd assortment of bits and pieces that they’ve tried to use to make it look homely. 

“I have given those less deserving chances to prove themselves,” he says, finally. “I will not pretend that I do not bear you ill will for what you tried to do to my home. But, you failed - and you were not acting in your own mind. If, for now, our goals are aligned, I will not make our companions choose between you and me. We will need every advantage we can to defeat this evil.” 

“Thank you, Halsin,” Gale says, relaxing. “And we will tell you the whole story, I promise - I just need to stir the stew first.” 

The atmosphere settles much more quickly than he’d expected. Largely, he thinks, because once Halsin realises quite how much damage the duergar did to Minthara while torturing her, he offers to heal her just as he would for the rest of them. And she, slightly reticently, accepts. 

As he finishes dinner, they all sit around and break open a few bottles to discuss what they've been up to. He listens with great interest as Shadowheart describes the trials of the Gauntlet, trying to infer what spells might have been used in their construction. 

"So what did you get up to?" Karlach says, eventually, once they've finished explaining what the whole rat situation was really about. "Other than a good sing-song?"

"Oh you heard that?" Gale hadn't quite known how far away they'd been at the time. 

"Celebrating the success of the hunt," Astarion raises his glass to Gale. "The kitchens of Moonrise Towers have been well and truly emptied, and to the victors go the spoils." 

Gale raises his own in acknowledgement. 

"A very successful day all round," he agrees. "Plus we have a new recruit, and now we know exactly where to find the heart of the Absolute." 

"You found it?" 

"Well," Astarion grimaces. "We found a hole full of gore and viscera, and Gale started glowing." 

"Glowing?"

"Like this." Gale spreads his palms. The netherese orb is heavy, twisting and furious and very close to the surface. He's used to ignoring it now, but the moment he turns his attention to it, it greets him eagerly. Gale holds it carefully. Even this barest touch has his skin alight. The white light bursts from the mark across his face and down his neck. It wants more, greedy to consume, but he pushes it back down. The light fades. 

"You being able to do it on command does take some of the shock factor out of it," Astarion points out. 

"Oh, I'm just copying the way it felt earlier. I didn't know it could do that until we got close to the Absolute." 

"Well given that it's the first step towards you literally blowing up, perhaps you should avoid doing it again," Astarion snaps.

Gale nods. 

"Of course. Although I assure you, I have complete control of it. It's not the kind of thing I can set off by accident." This doesn't appear to placate Astarion anywhere near as much as he'd hoped. "Anyway, I think dinner is ready, if anyone's hungry." 

The answer, as always, is a resounding yes. 

"Gale Dekarios, you have done it again!" Wyll declares. "A most delicious offering." 

"Thank you! I've been cooking for many years, but nothing has been quite so much of a challenge as these last few weeks." 

"How old are you?" Minthara asks, apropos of nothing. 

"Believe it or not, that is not the easiest question for me to answer." 

"I can take a guess." 

"I'm not sure my ego would survive that, Minthara. I can give you three answers. If the question is when was I born, then the answer is about thirty years ago. If the question is how long have I existed, the answer is closer to forty years - or maybe more. It's a little hard to calculate. If the question is how long I've existed as this specific version of a corporeal form, then the answer is just over a year. Does that satisfy your curiosity?" 

"What is it with wizards and only ever using fifty words where five would do?" Minthara bemoans. 

"Alright - thirty-two, somewhere in my mid-forties, or fourteen months." 

"No, hang on-" Karlach says. "I get that magic and the astral plane and whatever Mystra had you doing might have made you older - but fourteen months?" 

"The orb," Gale shrugs. "It's a long story - but essentially it was trying to disintegrate me, and I was replacing myself as it did, because I'm a stubborn bastard and refused to die. But pretty much every single part of me was replaced in the process." 

"Right," Karlach says. "That's horrifying, I hope you realise." 

"I know," Gale agrees. "Trust me, living through it wasn't any better." 

Minthara nods. 

"But you were born thirty years ago. And are you by any chance related to Morena Dekarios?"

"There's not as much enforcement of family names up here as there is in the underdark, you know," Wyll says. 

It almost sounds like he's trying to defend Gale. Which would be sort of sweet, if it weren't thoroughly misguided. 

"Morena is my mother, in fact," Gale is pleased, if surprised. "I wouldn't have thought it likely that you would have met." 

Minthara nods. 

"We have not. Her reputation precedes her." 

"That it would," Gale agrees. 

Both Wyll and Astarion are now looking at him with entirely different expressions. Gale sighs. 

"Yes, that Morena. No, we don't know who my father was. My turning out to be human narrowed it down somewhat, but admittedly not much." 

"I had no idea," Wyll says. "The stories I’ve heard about your mother." 

"I would be willing to bet only half of them are true," Gale grins. "Although knowing her, it would be the more outlandish half." 

"Is she an adventurer too?" Karlach asks, curiously. 

"Ah, not quite.” 

"I think 'most famous prostitute who ever lived' would be a more accurate description," Astarion says, sounding somewhat impressed. 

"She prefers 'courtesan', if you would," Gale corrects. "One doesn't become a woman of her station without an extremely careful curation of reputation. Even now she's retired." 

"I suppose I can extend her that courtesy, even if she did try to kill me." Astarion says. Gale starts. 

"Really? Why? Did you deserve it?" 

"Oh, probably. I wasn't supposed to approach her - too high-profile. But I may have got slightly too close to a client of hers. In retaliation she attempted to seduce me in order to stab me. If she'd tried it on one of my siblings, it probably would have worked." 

"You sound quite taken with her, for someone who tried to kill you," Wyll says. 

"Well of course," Astarion grins. "I always respect a fellow master of the arts. I've had much less fun with people who weren't secretly trying to kill me, and all we did was dance." 

Gale laughs. He can imagine Morena clocking Astarion immediately. She has a sixth sense for scoundrels and rogues. Comes from being one herself, of course. 

"I shouldn't be surprised that you'd get on." 

"How is she doing?" Astarion wonders. "I confess, I hadn't thought about her in… well, it would be decades now. Before you, I presume." 

"I should think so. After she had me, she operated a much more limited clientele. Between the number of people who wished her to keep quiet about the possibility of my parentage and the number of people keen to keep a potential illegitimate child in good favour - especially once I became Mystra's Chosen - she has always lived in positive luxury. More so, in recent years; she's been bequeathed generous gifts in some unexpected wills. I may have been a surprise, and gods know I cause my mother more trouble than I've ever been worth, but I take comfort in having accidentally set her up for a very comfortable retirement." 

"I still can't see it," Karlach shakes her head. "Your mother? A courtesan? You wouldn't come swimming with us because it meant taking your clothes off in front of people." 

"Well neither did Astarion, and I don't think any of us would try and claim he's coy." Gale protests. "Much as my mother enjoyed her work, I think she always wanted to make sure I would have the options that she didn't. She was very clear on my body being my own, to do with as I wished, no matter what that might be. I earned a reputation as something of an old-fashioned romantic - or a prude, depending on who you asked. Either way, it meant that certain rumours about Mystra choosing me for reasons other than my magical prowess never got far." 

Karlach wrinkles her nose. 

"What, like they thought your mother would have taught you the tricks of her trade?" 

"Well, in fairness, she did," Gale grins. "I just wasn't often inclined to use them. And before you go thinking ill of my mother, it was nothing like that - it was theoretical study only. I imagine the version of 'the talk' that you got was more awkward and considerably less detailed than mine, is all." 

"My dad just gave me a book," Wyll agrees. "It wasn't even a good one. I didn't have the heart to point out the inaccuracies to him." 

"No information split into race-specific sections then?" 

"Race-specific?" 

"Morena is a professional. She saw sex as a skill, one that could be attuned with study the same way that music and magic could. It was just another part of my education. On the off chance that I did follow her into her profession, it would hardly do for me to embarrass her." 

"Right," Karlach shakes her head. "You know, when you said your mother was a force to be reckoned with, this was somehow not what I was imagining." 

"When I woke up this morning, I imagined that I would end the day dead," Minthara puts in. "I'm not convinced that this is better." 

"Speak for yourself, I am having a whale of a time," Astarion says. "Hey, Halsin, have you ever met Gale's mother? Morena Dekarios?" 

"Can't say I have," Halsin turns to join their conversation. "Though now you mention it, the name is familiar. Would she ever have been to the underdark?"

"Oh yes. The stories she could tell." 

Halsin is no more scandalised than Wyll had been, much to Astarion's disappointment. He does, however, admit to having spent several years chained to a bed in the underdark. A subject which then thoroughly distracts them from Morena. 

Gale is grateful for the break. 

Talking about Morena has made him ache more for Waterdeep than he has in a long time. 

It’s also been too long since he spoke to his mother. She’d been the only real exception to his self-imposed isolation, if only because she staunchly refused to observe it. She had been no more able to get into the tower than anyone else, but she had been uniquely placed to beg, bribe and bully him out of it every now and again. 

It had always felt like the two of them against the rest of the world, when he was a boy. To some extent, that year had been the same. Morena couldn’t have cared less if the Goddess of Magic had shunned him. Well, she called him an idiot for his part in it, but in the affectionate sort of way she had that meant he was already forgiven. That she was on his side about the whole thing. She'd had much, much harsher words for Mystra. 

At the time, he hadn’t appreciated it as much as he should have. He’d barely been on his own side. He does now, for all the good it does either of them. But then she’s always been a better mother than he’s deserved. 

By the time they've finished dinner, Gale is quite happy to be out of the spotlight. It's been a long day, and it's beginning to tug at him. With the intention of quieting his mind somewhat, he sets out to organise their supplies into a meal plan. 

After a little while, Minthara wanders over to watch what he’s doing. 

“Can I help you?”

"I had expected you to be more coy about your mother," Minthara says, leaning over his shoulder. 

Without looking up, Gale continues what he’s doing. 

"Why should I be? She's a quite remarkable woman. I'm proud to be her son. This is not Menzoberranzan." 

"Indeed it is not." For a moment, Minthara is quiet. Then she says; “You do seem to collect waifs and strays.” 

“We are a collective of waifs and strays,” Gale suggests. 

“I fail to see the distinction.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

“You only argue with the vampire then?” 

“His name is Astarion. Why, are you trying to pick a fight?” 

“I like to know people’s limits.” 

Gale is, all at once, utterly exhausted. 

The orb still aches, dull in his chest. The weave brushing against his skin is no longer soothing. It makes his hair stand up on end. The echo of the other’s voices are too loud, too confused. The stale air of the gauntlet, cloying and close, sticks in his throat. 

“I’m going to get some air,” he says, to nobody in particular, and walks away. 

The shadowlands are, strangely enough, less oppressive at night. Perhaps it’s just because it’s supposed to be dark. But the darkness and the graveyard are not what he wants right now. 

Down by the edge of the water, he finds it; a clearing. An open patch of sky, where he can peel back the curse, just for a while. Just enough to pretend that he is somewhere else. 

There’s a breeze coming off the water; cool and calming. 

This is how Astarion finds him; lying under a canopy of stars of his own making. 

"Did your mother teach you to sing?" He asks, making himself comfortable. 

"She did," Gale says, warily. "But before you ask, I have no idea if that one story is true. We're very open with one another, but there have to be some limits." 

Astarion chuckles. 

"I was going to ask because she sang for an audience, that one time our paths crossed. Something about her voice reminded me of yours. I hadn't put it together until this evening." 

In another time, another place, Gale would have made some kind of joke about that. Tonight, he doesn't have the heart. 

"I've written a letter to her. To Morena," he says. "I hope she'll never have to read it. But if I go through with this, will you make sure to give it to Tara for me?" 

Astarion frowns at him.

"Why are you asking me, of all people?" 

"I'm not sure," Gale says, "I trust you, I suppose." 

"Why?" Astarion sounds not just surprised, but utterly disbelieving. "What on earth gave you the idea that I'm trustworthy?" 

"You did, funnily enough. You're no monster, Astarion. I'm not saying I trust you implicitly - but I trust you to be yourself. I know I can trust you to care enough to try and save my life, for example." 

Astarion sighs, but doesn't deny it. 

"It really matters to you," he says, quietly. "She really matters to you. You and your mother must be close." 

For once, Gale has nothing to say to that. If he opens his mouth, he suspects he will say more than he wants to. 

"Fine. I'll make sure she gets the letter. But I hope I won't have to." 

"Thank you." Gale breathes a little easier. "You know, generally, when someone walks away from a gathering and doesn't leave any indication of where they're going behind, they aren't hoping to be followed." 

Astarion sighs. 

"You are infuriating," he says. 

"So you've said." 

"I am trying to figure out what you're doing, Gale, and I am beginning to come to the conclusion that despite your intelligence, you don't know either. You flirt quite deliberately, you make a concerted effort to spend time with me - and then you walk away and tell me off for following you." 

Gale sits up. Astarion is glaring at him, which Gale supposes he deserves. 

"It wasn't my intention to toy with you," he confesses. "I'm sorry. It's not - I was trying to gauge how I felt, as much as how you did." 

"And?" Astarion demands. "Have you figured it out yet, or are we just going to keep up this stupid dance forever? I'm not averse to the flirting, on its own, except you flirt like you mean it, and then behave like you don't. Just make your damn mind up." 

"Astarion-" Where to begin, he doesn't even know. "If we had been back home, I would have taken the time to do this properly. But I don't have time. And I think - I'm in love with you."

This is evidently not what Astarion had been expecting him to say. For a moment, his expression is pure astonishment.

Before Gale can say anything, Astarion leans towards him. For just the barest of moments, almost imperceptibly, he hesitates. Then Astarion kisses him. Soft, and sweet. It's absolutely not what Gale had been expecting. 

"Oh," he says, eloquently. 

"You're an idiot," Astarion says, with the kind of fondness that only he seems to be able to express through insults. 

"Unfortunately," Gale agrees. "Well, it's not that unfortunate, actually, given that it got me here." 

He leans back in, and Astarion meets him there. It's a fragile thing, that kiss, held in hope and fear. Then Astarion's hand finds his cheek, and Gale breathes into him, a desperate relief. Just the two of them and the silence of the night, entirely their own. 

"Not bad, for someone who's not been kissed in gods only know how long," Astarion says. 

"I suppose you'll have to refresh my memory,” Gale agrees. “Lucky for you I’m an eager and dedicated student.” 

Astarion pulls them both down into the grass, his fingers tracing the edge of Gale's jaw, through his hair, the edge of his lips. 

"Gods, to think we could have done this ages ago," he complains. 

"Could we?" Gale is bemused. 

Astarion's expression is of slack-jawed shock, which transforms quickly into delight. 

"Gale, did I know you were in love with me before you did?" 

Oh, fuck. 

"... maybe? When did you know?" 

"The night you came to see me - uninvited, may I add - because you were worried about me not eating. When you prepared a whole speech about how you wouldn't think less of me for what I was - and then you looked at me like if I was hurt by anything you'd said, you were going to hate yourself for it." 

"Oh," Gale says. "Oh dear." 

"Mmm," Astarion agrees. "I was just going to leave you to it. You didn't seem interested in pursuing it and initially I had no intention of trying to change your mind. Only then you kept…" 

"Flirting," Gale agrees. 

"Not just that. That would have been easier to ignore. It was the rest of it that was the problem. The rest of you. I kept finding myself by your side, without really meaning to. Finding reasons to spend more time with you. And then your damn cat nearly got you killed." 

Gale closes his eyes. 

"I've just come to a mortifying realisation," he says. "When I said I only slept with people I cared about-" 

"I had no idea what you were on about," Astarion agrees, smiling at him now. "It didn't occur to me that you had no idea. I thought you were assuming that I didn't want anything other than to fuck you, and you were warning me off. Except I had no idea how to tell you that I did want more." 

"So you've been trying to show me," Gale realises. 

"I thought I'd been doing quite well, earlier. You seemed to have cottoned on. Only then you went off by yourself and didn't invite me." 

Astarion's fingertips are resting on Gale's cheek. On the scar the orb has left, the spider-lines branching from his eye. It's so gentle. So infuriatingly, blisteringly gentle. 

It occurs to Gale that he doesn't want Astarion to touch him gently. He doesn't want to be held like he deserves kindness. He wants his touch to burn. To punish him, for daring to do this, to either of them, when he has so little to offer. He wants Astarion to touch him like he needs him, so he cannot leave, even if he wants to; to anchor him into this world that so desperately wants to be rid of him. 

Gale was ready for Astarion to be furious at him. He was ready to wield that. He wasn't ready for this. 

"I don't want you to die," Astarion says, like it's a confession. So quietly, so soft and stolen. 

It cuts Gale's conviction to the quick. He reaches up, his hand cradling the back of Astarion's head, his hair curling around Gale's fingers. Astarion makes a small noise, something that goes straight to Gale's core. 

Before he can say anything, though, Astarion puts his finger to Gale's lips. He rests their foreheads together. 

"I don't know what we're doing," he says. 

Gale breathes, reminding himself that he had prepared himself for this reaction. For far worse, actually. It makes sense. He understands. However much it hurts. 

He pulls away slightly, giving Astarion a little space. 

"I'm not asking you to love me back. I'm not asking for anything. I just- needed to tell you. I couldn't go without you knowing just how much you matter to me. I have enough regrets already." 

"No, I mean -" Astarion clicks his tongue, frustrated. "I don't know how . As much as I might want to - I don't know how to do this when it's real." 

"Oh."

"There are so many things I could say - but they're all practised. They're all performances. And I don't want to do that. I don't want to treat this- I don't want to treat you like that." 

"Oh." 

There's a whole realisation, a whole world contained in that one sound. It's in the way Astarion is looking at him now, his expression softened, the corner of his mouth turned down ever so slightly like he hates what he's saying, or perhaps that he had to say it; in the way he's holding himself, carefully, like he's made of glass and might shatter at any moment. Like he's expecting Gale to say something he'll have to protect himself against. 

And Gale wants that 'oh' to say everything he can't; that he doesn't know how to love with anything less than the whole of his heart and soul. That whatever Astarion wants will be his, if it's within Gale's power to give it. Even if he wants nothing. Even if he wants everything. 

But the last time he had loved like that, it had shattered. Even though he'd been trying to save it. As much as he doesn't want Astarion to be afraid of him, of this, he can't promise him that.

Astarion raises an eyebrow at him. 

"You're usually more erudite than this. I suppose I should be flattered that I can silence the human encyclopaedia so easily."

Gale huffs, not quite a laugh but not quite a sigh. 

"I just- don't have an answer for that. I don't care what this is, what we are, as long as I'm with you. One moment with you could sate me for a lifetime. This is enough. This is everything." 

"Gods damn it Gale, will you stop being so nice to me? It makes me want to be nice back!" 

Gale laughs, because that's ridiculous, but then Astarion pushes him back into the grass and kisses him properly, like he means it, like Gale has been trying not to imagine for the past week or however long it's been. It feels like forever. It feels like not long enough at all, for what it does to him. 

Gale puts his hand on Astarion's chest, pushing him back slightly, however much he doesn't want to. 

"Oh what now ?" Astarion sighs. "Even with my newly extended willingness to listen to you talk for a ridiculous amount of time, this is pushing it." 

Gale laughs, pressing his head into Astarion's shoulder, revelling in these small confessions. 

When he pulls back, they stare at each other for a second. He's so fucking beautiful, and it's entirely unfair. Gale just about manages to get his head back into the present enough to form words; 

"I think-" 

"Oh gods, don't do that."

"Astarion!" 

"If you keep saying my name like that I'm only going to find more reasons for you to do so." 

Gale tries to school his expression into something more serious. The unexpected joy in this makes him want to just let go and lose himself in it, but they're not young or naive or stupid enough to do that. Not now; not anymore. 

"Astarion, I mean it. If we really-" 

"Will you shut up for once!" There's affection in that, but sharpness too. Astarion breathes; and when he speaks again, that sharp edge is buried a little deeper. Not gone, not really; but subtler. "I'm going to regret this anyway. I'm going to regret you. I'm going to regret falling for you even when I was trying not to - even when you kept saying you weren't going to be around to fall for much longer. But I want you. I want this. And I might not be able to stop you, but I don't want to waste what little time we might have, first. Let me make that decision. I've had enough of letting other people make my choices for me." 

Gale blinks at him. 

"That's not even remotely what I was going to say."

Astarion opens his mouth, and then closes it again. 

"Oh," he says. "The way you were looking at me, I thought - what were you going to say?" 

Whatever it had been, Gale has well and truly forgotten. 

"It probably wasn't terribly important. Not more important than your 'let me choose you' speech, anyway." 

Astarion looks like he's going to tell him to shut up, so Gale kisses him instead, because he wants to. Because he can. Because it's beautiful, and it makes him feel alive. 

And Astarion leans into him, like he cannot possibly get close enough. Gale's hands find his waist, his neck, holding him there, pinning them both in place. Until, at last, Astarion pulls away from him; only to kiss instead the spider-web scar of his cheek, tipping Gale's head back to reach the soft spots under his ear, under his jawbone, where his neck meets his shoulder, his collarbone. 

Gale hums, appreciative, and Astarion leans back, resting his hand next to Gale's head to study him. 

"Do you know, I used to hate how much I liked you," he says, wonderingly, eyes skimming over Gale's face. 

"I did wonder if we were going to end up hate-fucking," Gale agrees. "I'm mostly glad we didn't. This is better." 

"Oh, I don't know. There's still time." 

"I think you've missed your window. I couldn't pretend to hate you now, even if I tried." 

And Astarion smiles. A soft, almost hopeful smile. Because of him. It nearly breaks Gale's heart all over again. 

"We are going to end up fucking though," Astarion clarifies, and it's less of a question and more of a statement. "I'm not letting you walk away from this one." 

"No more walking away," Gale agrees. "I promise." 

"Careful," Astarion traces the line of his shirt, down his chest, towards the orb. "Don't go making promises you can't keep." 

"No more walking away tonight," Gale corrects, and kisses Astarion's neck. Because he can. Astarion, to his surprise and delight, shudders. 

"Oh," he says, sounding equally surprised, and appreciative. "Interesting." 

"Very," Gale agrees, "Do you want me to do it again?" 

Astarion looks at him with surprise, like his body's answer hadn't been enough on its own. But then he stops, and considers it. 

"Yes," he says, eventually. "Yes. I want to know what this can be like, when you care. And I want to find out with you." 

"Let me show you." Gale pushes him back, takes his hands, and pulls him to his feet. "I want to love you the way gods do. The way you deserve." 

Astarion grins at him, hands resting on Gale's hips. 

"I should have known you use magic in the bedroom. I'm no God, Gale. You don't need to impress me." 

And despite the wicked little smile, despite the tease in his tone, there's a shard of truth to it. 

Gale takes Astarion's face in his hands and kisses him, sweet and soft and loving, with no intention of anything else in it. Just to kiss him. 

"Trust me, you are. I would know." 

It's a bad line, really, but he means it. And Astarion, for all his sharp edges and refusal to be anything but defensive, takes a sharp little intake of breath. Like he knows Gale meant it; that he might, in time, come to believe it. 

"Intimacy in the weave is different," Gale says, quietly, his hand still resting against Astarion's cheek, his fingertips at the nape of his neck. "I think it will be unlike anything you've done before. But it's up to you. I don't mind. As long as it's with you."

Chapter Text

There are several moments of that night that Gale would never have been able to imagine, even if he’d allowed himself to try. 

Astarion, standing amongst his books, his paintings, at the centre of Gale’s universe; looking for all the world like he belonged there. The evening sun, warm on his skin as the sun set, as he teased Gale for seducing him with a book.

The moment Gale had first touched him in the weave; the reverberations of it. Astarion kissing the scar the orb had left in his chest. 

There are several more that he had imagined, however much he had tried not to - but they cannot hold a candle to what it had been like. 

Somehow, still, the best of it all is waking in the grass, a crick in his neck and his back aching, Astarion lying on his back next to him, using Gale as a pillow. 

“You’re still here,” he says, with some surprise. 

“So I am,” Astarion says. “And while we’re stating the obvious, I see you’re awake.” 

“You cannot be comfortable.” 

“No,” Astarion agrees. “But here I am anyway." 

It's too early for Gale to think of anything to say to that. Instead he just lies there, waking up slowly, watching Astarion watching him. 

"Busy old fool, unruly sun,

               Why dost thou thus,

Through windows, and through curtains call on us?" 

He had been going to say more, but instead he yawns, and Astarion hums at him. 

"Why should we rise because ‘tis light?

Did we lie down because ‘twas night?" 

"And why do you only humour my poetry when there's nobody else around to hear?" Gale bemoans. 

Astarion just grins at him in lieu of an answer, but in fairness, it hadn't actually been a question. 

Gale kisses his forehead.

“I’m going to miss this,” he says, regretfully. “When we go back to the others and you lose your softness.”

“How dare you, I’m a stone-cold killer.” Astarion says, without any attempt to sound even vaguely offended. “Although I wouldn’t protest to finding more reasons to sneak off together. I will be most disappointed if that is a one-off.” 

He sits up, slipping out of Gale's arms. Gale stares remorselessly as Astarion stretches, shirtless, and wishes, not for the first time, that the shadowlands had a proper dawn. 

“I certainly have no intention of letting it be. Woe betide anyone who tries to stop me." 

Astarion grins at him over his shoulder, that sneaky little glance that makes Gale want to drag him back down into the grass, the rest of the day be damned. 

They return to camp before any of the others wake. Astarion, perhaps sensibly, returns to his tent to do his hair. It probably wouldn't have been entirely necessary if Gale hadn't discovered that Astarion liked having it pulled, but he refuses to feel guilty about that. Instead, as is his custom, he sets about preparing breakfast. 

As the others start getting up and starting their days, he finds his good mood fading. The discussion bounces around the camp; if they don't make it as far as facing Ketheric today, it will be tomorrow. And no matter how blissful the moments he's snatching from the jaws of fate, he still can't fool himself that he isn't snatching them. 

"Morning," Astarion says, behind his shoulder. "Again." 

Gale turns to greet him, and Astarion leans down and kisses him instead. A sudden hush falls over the table. 

"Oh," Gale grins. "And good morning to you too. I suppose we're not discussing this, then?" 

"Absolutely not," Astarion leans on him, shamelessly, so that Gale has to properly stretch his neck to look at him. "If you hadn't left my hair quite so unruly I would have let it start rumours." 

Gale has caught the mischievous glint in his eye. 

You started it , he thinks. 

"You had no complaints about it last night." 

To his amusement, Astarion looks absolutely fucking delighted, and smirks back, like he's issuing a challenge. 

"As I recall, I had no complaints about anything you did last night - or this morning." 

Challenge accepted. 

"Well, generosity is the noblest of virtues," Gale agrees. "Whether it be in the streets or betwixt the sheets. Besides, given my propensity towards verbosity, it can hardly be a surprise that I have a practiced tongue." 

Somebody makes a strangled little sound beside him, which he ignores. Astarion, laughingly, concedes. 

"Fine, you win this round," he leans down and says into Gale's ear; "We are going to have a lot of fun together, darling." 

Then he's gone, fingers trailing around Gale's shoulders as he walks away. As usual, sowing the seeds of drama and watching them bloom in his wake. 

Chaos, Gale thinks, fondly. 

There's something distinctly Astarion-affection-coded in the exchange. It's not softness. But it is open, and honest, which is not something Gale is going to take for granted. Astarion could have kept this between them. Gale wouldn't have blamed him for it. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd revelled in it. Almost like he'd been showing off; something that Gale hadn't realised would appeal to him. 

It had been an entirely unnecessary display of affection, and it leaves him feeling warm, and light - and loved. 

"We should probably kill Balthazar before we go down into Shar's pool," he says, resuming the prior conversation as if nothing had happened. "He's only going to be a nuisance, and he's surplus to requirements now. He's told us everything we need to know." 

"We're not going to find the Nightsong until we've found whatever this thing is that Raphael wants us to kill either," Astarion says, dumping his pack on the bench and producing the soul coin they'd found yesterday to give to Karlach. "This cost me three sets of lockpicks, you better use it well." 

Chapter Text

In the end, they don't make it as far as the Nightsong. Between Balthazar and the Orthon, it would be suicide to push any further. 

Gale has been living on borrowed time for a very long time now, but it doesn't make the uncertainty of it any easier. 

He goes back to the quiet place he'd found yesterday, hoping to reclaim some of the peace and the resolve of the moment. 

Unfortunately, the headspace is harder to return to than the physical space. Not having the energy to maintain the illusion, he releases it, and lies back in the grass with his eyes closed. 

Yesterday, he didn't have much to live for. It had been easier to frame Mystra's command as a choice; as if he really had any hope of defying her if he didn't want to go through with it. 

But now - now he doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to leave. 

It's a wasted realisation. 

"Damn," Astarion's voice says, exceptionally close. "There was a fifty-fifty chance between you being ready to seduce me and having a mope."

"Hells," Gale jumps, "How long have you been there?" 

Astarion is sitting next to him in the grass, looking highly amused that he's managed to spook Gale so thoroughly. 

"Long enough." His humour fades. "You're still planning on going through with it, aren't you?"

"...no." Gale realises, surprised at himself. 

"No?" Astarion repeats, disbelievingly. "Then why are you out here? And why do I still have my clothes on?" 

"Because I don't think it matters." 

"Of course it does. We'll find another way."

"Thank you," Gale says. He believes Astarion; believes that he will try everything. He does not, however, believe that there is another way. 

For a while, they sit in silence. 

"Will you stay with me?" Gale says, eventually. 

"I am," Astarion points out. "Thank you for noticing." 

Gale leans against his shoulder, smiling despite himself. 

"I mean - I don't think I'm going to be very good company, tonight. It's selfish of me to want to keep you to myself, I know, but I just don't think I can face the way the others are looking at me." 

"How are they looking at you?"

"Pityingly."

"Ugh," Astarion wrinkles his nose. "Good thing I brought a book. Otherwise I'd have to sit here being bored while you're busy feeling sorry for yourself." 

"You have a limited supply of sympathy, I see," Gale grins. 

"I thought you just said you didn't want pity," Astarion points out, taking the book from his satchel and getting settled. 

"Hang on, that's my book. Did you steal that?" 

"Borrowed," Astarion corrects. "Pending permission." 

"You know you can just ask." 

"But where's the fun in that?" 

Gale leans over and kisses him. 

"See?" Astarion says, triumphantly. "This is much more fun!" 

"Why that book?" Gale leans over his shoulder to peer at the pages. 

"I thought it sounded like a dramatic history. Revenge, drama, so on and so forth. Only this is more effective as a sedative." 

His hands rest next to Gale's on the edge of the pages. 

"It's not that boring," Gale laughs. 

"Gale, if you locked me away with this for a year with literally nothing else to do, I still wouldn't read it," he deadpans. 

"Oh but you'll read it if I ask you to keep me company?" 

"I-" Astarion concedes. "Gods damn it, stop laughing at me." 

"Or what?" 

"Or I'll make you, obviously." 

"I'm sure I can put my mouth to better uses." 

It is, it turns out, very hard to sulk or feel sorry for oneself with Astarion around. 

"You doing okay there?" He asks, a little while later, Astarion panting into his neck. 

"You have to ask?" Astarion breathes back. "Gale, you fuck me like you're worshipping me. Like it's a fucking art form."

Gale grins at him. 

"Is that a yes?" 

"Stop fishing for compliments," Astarion growls. 

The pleasures of mortal flesh are much sweeter than Gale remembers them being. Perhaps it's just because it's Astarion. Or perhaps it's because Astarion turns on a dime between being the gentlest lover Gale has ever known, and pinning him down to torture him mercilessly just because he can, and he's figured out that Gale really, really likes it. What he did to deserve either treatment he will never know, but if Mystra wasn't the last person he wants to hear his prayers right now, he'd be praying his thanks to the heavens. 

Some time later, Gale rescues the book from the damp ground and tidies it off. 

"We are not making a habit of treating my books like this," he warns Astarion, who is currently lying on his thigh. 

"You started it," he responds, not bothering to open his eyes. 

Gale hums, running his hand through Astarion's hair with one hand and flicking idly though the pages with the other, checking there's no damage done to the contents. Not that it would matter anyway. He could probably recite this book from memory in his sleep. He'd brought it with him more out of habit than with any real intention of reading it. 

Even so, he stops when he reaches the page with the diagrams of what the Karsite weave might have looked like, in those few scant moments between winking in and out of existence. The artist has rendered them in a very different style to the illustrations of the fallen cities and their artefacts. Gale imagines it's just as hard to represent in two dimensions as the actual weave is. Here, it has tendrils of smoke, like incense, or stretching like fingers, grasping for something. 

"Looks like your orb," Astarion says. He reaches up to trace the lines across Gale's cheek. Down his neck, to where the orb sits in his chest. Gale hums, in agreement and enjoyment. 

"When you said that these shadow-cursed lands aren't Mystra's realm," Astarion says, thoughtfully. "Is the shadow weave like this?" 

His finger rests in the centre of the circle that marks where the orb had sunk into Gale's chest, on the slight shadow of the bruise that never heals. 

"Hm?" Gale blinks. "No, no, the orb isn't shadow weave." 

Astarion frowns. 

"But it's not the weave as we channelled it yesterday, either. Is it? It feels… different." 

Gale puts his hand over Astarion's, listening. 

"I… hadn't thought about it." 

Astarion sits up. 

"What do you mean you hadn't thought about it?" 

Gale is thinking too fast to reply. 

Netherese magic. Of course it doesn’t use the weave. It destroyed the weave. But all of the Karsite weave that had ever existed had been destroyed the moment that Karsus had died… hadn't it? 

That's the story as Mystra told it. 

"It's the Karsite weave," he breathes. Saying it feels like a test, but the moment the words are out of his mouth, he believes them. Mystra lied to him. "That's why I couldn't give it back to her. It's not hers." 

Astarion raises an eyebrow at him. 

"That's what you were trying to do with it? Not the flowers and chocolates type, are you?" 

"It's the Karsite weave," Gale repeats. "This whole time…" he stumbles to his feet. "I have to speak to Elminster. Immediately." 

"Gale!" Astarion grabs his hand. "Clothes." 

"Right," Gale agrees. "Yes, of course." 

-

He stumbles back to camp, mind reeling.

"Let's hope he's in the same plane," he mutters, digging around in his components for copper wire. 

"What are you doing, Gale?" Wyll pokes his head blearily out of his tent. "It's late." 

"Sorry," Gale winces, genuinely repentant. "We might be about to have a visitor."

Wyll looks to Astarion, who just shrugs. 

"Don't ask me." 

Gale ignores them, trying to keep his hands steady as he works. Just moments after the spell sparks from his fingertips, the air stirs. 

Elminster appears, staff in hand, braced as if to fight. The fact he appears to be wearing his pyjamas somewhat ruins the effect, but still. 

Elminster looks around, assessing the situation, and then relaxes somewhat. 

"Gale, m'boy, it is a most ungodly hour to be calling-" 

"I know, Elminster, and I'm sorry," Gale interrupts. "But this is not a casual call - I might even go so far as to suggest it might be something of an emergency. Please; answer me as quickly and honestly as you can. Is it true that the Karsite weave was destroyed the moment that Karsus was?" 

Elminster blinks at him. 

"Well of course it was!" 

"Every single bit? Every piece of the Karsite weave has been accounted for?" 

"There are a thousand sources…" 

Gale grabs Elminster's hand, and holds it to his chest. 

There's a moment of silence. Even soothed, the orb is a force to contend with. Gale grimaces as Elminster reaches for it, the orb recoiling from the sheer power of the weave within. 

"This should be impossible," Elminster says, eventually, his voice quiet. 

"I know," Gale says. "Unless Mystra lied." 

Elminster snaps his fingers. Silence settles around them, thick and impenetrable. 

You did not get to be the wizard you are, Gale of Waterdeep, by questioning Mystra's will. 

His words settle straight into Gale's mind, like a sending spell. 

I mean you no disrespect Elminster, but I have to refute that. Questioning Mystra's will is exactly how I ended up here. 

Gale gestures to their surroundings; the depths of the Sharran temple; the companions they've woken, emerging from their tents to see what's going on. 

Take the spell down, Elminster. They deserve to know as much as I do. It affects all of us.

Elminster is reluctant, but he capitulates. The silence vanishes. 

"What's going on?" Astarion demands, the moment it does. 

"Elminster is going to tell us everything he knows about the Karsite weave," Gale says. 

Elminster sighs. 

"If I had known, Gale- how I did not see it, I cannot fathom. My eyes were blinded by my faith. I will regret it for the rest of my days. Had we known, on that fateful day-"

"But neither of us did," Gale sighs. "What is it, Elminster? What are we dealing with?" 

The old wizard takes a deep breath, and rests his hand on his staff. 

"Though often lauded as its opposite, the shadow weave is more like a dark twin to the true weave. If the weave has ever had a true opposite, it was the Karsite weave. 

"The Karsite weave was created with one purpose; to be everything that the weave was not. It could create and destroy, just as the weave can. But in its formation, it is its antithesis. It thrives on chaos and darkness, where the weave prefers order and light.

"Karsus designed his weave to absorb the power of the true weave. In doing so, however, he made something incredibly unstable; he ensured that they were dangerously volatile when exposed to each other. Simply put, in the wrong quantities, they cannot exist simultaneously. They destroy each other. 

"That is how Karsus triggered the great spellplague; the Karsite weave was intended to replace the true weave, to succeed it. Instead, when the full force of the Karsite weave came into contact with the power of the true weave, it triggered the most powerful explosion there has ever been, or will ever be again. 

"Until now, I thought it had been completely destroyed. But it seems that the smallest part of it lived on in that book. And now, Gale, in you." 

It is not a comforting revelation. 

"Every time," Gale says, slowly. "Every time I reach for the weave. Every time for the past year that I have cast even the smallest of cantrips, I have been holding a flame to a fuse. Yet Mystra allowed me to believe that I had it under control." He tries to breathe, but the realisation is moving faster than he can; "I could have taken the entire sword coast with me in my sleep! All these people - all those children, that we nearly died trying to save - all of my friends - and for what?" 

Lightning crackles from his fingertips. He hadn't meant to; that's what scares him most about it. He lets the shiver run through him, letting the lightning path its way up his arms, lifting his hair from below with the heat coming off it, until it's burned itself off. Until the air settles, and the orb retreats, growling, denied again. 

"They deserve better than this, Elminster. They deserve better than me." 

"It would destroy her," Elminster says. "Mystra is the weave, Gale. I hardly need explain it to you. To even be in your presence in your current state could unravel her." 

Gale blinks at him. 

"Then why did she try and contact me?"

Elminster starts. 

"When was this? What did she say?" 

"Yesterday. Nothing. I closed it." 

"You closed it? Mystra tried to contact you and you shut her off? What happened?"

"Nothing!" Gale twists his hands behind his back, pacing back and forth, trying to figure it out. "She didn't make another attempt. She didn't do anything. Damn Mystra and her planning. It's always like this. Trying to play lanceboard without being able to see the board, because it's spread across four damn dimensions and she's changing the rules as she goes." 

"The charm in your chest," Elminster says. "The one that Mystra bade me give you - it is feeding the orb on the purest form of the weave. Not to sate its hunger as I first thought, but to unravel it. It has changed the balance of the two forces. To burn it from your being. 

"It's possible she wanted to check it was working. If it works, it will be the answer to this. It will save you both." 

"Or it will destabilise me before that happens!" Gale snaps. "You still think she's trying to save me. She's not - she's trying to save herself. It makes no damn difference to her if it's unravelled, or if I explode. All she's doing is building a failsafe. It's so much easier than it used to be, you know." He spreads his hands. Now he knows what's happening, he can feel it; the distance between the warring weaves within his chest. The frisson between them. The burn as they edge towards one another. Towards destruction. 

The white light shining from his chest lights the temple like a sunrise. Like dawn. 

Elminster steps back. 

Gale forces the magic back. Down to where it belongs. The orb, closed off and protected in the hollow it has carved itself in his chest. 

"You can control it," Elminster says. 

"For now. But for how much longer, I have no idea. That's a risk Mystra is willing to take, evidently. But I don't know if it's one that I am." 

"I will talk to her, Gale." Elminster draws his hands together, the runes appearing in the air in front of him. "In the meantime, I can bid you only take the utmost care. I will make a plea for your cause, Gale." 

Then he's gone. 

Nobody goes back to bed for quite some time. Gale makes tea, partly because it seems like the right thing to be drinking in the middle of the night after a nasty shock, and partly just for something to do. 

"I think, perhaps, I should pack my things-" 

"Don't be an idiot," Astarion says, at the same time that multiple other voices at the table also attempt to shout him down. "Nobody's leaving. We have a Nightsong to find. You haven't exploded yet. It seems unlikely you'll do so at night, sitting around doing nothing, instead of lobbing fireballs or whatever it is you've been using the weave for these last few weeks." 

Gale looks at Astarion, and then his tea, and then the others. 

"You're sure?" 

"Completely," Wyll says. 

"Absolutely," Karlach agrees. 

Gale sits down, slowly, and tries to make his peace with their decision. 

"So," Shadowheart says, eventually. "Are you going to have to stop using magic?" 

"It hasn't done you any harm yet," Wyll says. "No matter how dangerous it sounds." 

"It's not me I'm worried about," Gale says, grimly. 

"I don't think Gale should be doing anything else that might further his condition," Halsin frowns. 

"How did you even figure it out?" Karlach asks. "After all this time?" 

"I didn't," Gale says. "Astarion did." He puts his head in his hands. "Because my Goddess lied to me, and I was stupid enough to believe her." 

In the brittle silence that follows that statement, Gale takes a deep breath, and tries to pull himself back together. 

"This might not be what you want to hear," Lae'zel says, and Gale looks at her in surprise. "But - I understand. I am learning that there is more to my life than Vlaakith. I do not know if you will have the time to be able to begin to see this for yourself, but I promise you, there is more to you than Mystra made you to be. Even if she is trying to unmake you. And I will stand by you, if you choose to defy her. Just as you stood by me when I discovered Vlaakith's betrayal." 

"Agreed," Karlach says, immediately. "I mean I hope we won't actually have to fight a goddess, and I've heard enough about the spellplague to think we should probably avoid killing her if possible, but that doesn't mean you have to do this her way." 

"If there was anyone who could figure another way out of this, it's you," Wyll agrees. "And you've got all of us to help you." 

Gale stares at them all as the murmur of agreement goes around the table. 

"Do not go gentle into that good night", Wyll says. 

Gale smiles. 

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light." 

"You are a sad, pathetic excuse for a wizard," Minthara sighs, "But even so, I owe my life to you. You have my blade."

Gale laughs, then. He sort of has to; otherwise he'll cry. 

Eventually they all make their way back to bed, under the unspoken agreement that tomorrow they will release the Nightsong, and face Ketheric. They will need their energy. 

Eventually, it's just he and Astarion. 

"How have I only just noticed that you're wearing my shirt?" Gale says, rubbing his temples. 

"You have been somewhat preoccupied," Astarion says. "But you seemed quite content to be shirtless, and I couldn't find mine, so. Gods only know where you put it." 

Gale tries to remember. It seems a lifetime away already. 

"Honestly, I have no idea. It might be in a different plane, for all I know." He sighs. "You should rest." 

"So should you," Astarion parries. "Yet here we are. Unless you prefer to spend the night alone?"

Gale thinks about refusing. He's a literal walking bomb - again. But if Astarion is content to use Gale as a footstool as he finishes his tea, he's probably content to take the risk of staying here with him. Just as they all have. 

"No," he confesses. "Not really." 

Astarion squeezes his bedroll and an unholy amount of cushions into Gale's tent with him. It turns the whole thing into something like a nest; closed in around them, cradling them away from the real world. Astarion rests his hand over Gale's heart, fingertips against the scar. 

"You're going to want to be as strong as you can be, tomorrow," Gale says, almost a whisper against his cheek. "Let me help. Please." 

Astarion frowns at him in the dark. 

"You're sure? You'll be alright?"  

"I'll make you stop if I'm not," Gale says. 

Astarion doesn't have to be asked twice. 

It's the strangest experience; not at all as bad as he'd anticipated. Although perhaps Astarion is being gentler than he might have been otherwise. It's hard to tell. 

Astarion's tongue flicks over his neck, catching the runaways. He's breathing heavily; his eyes alight, hungry and dangerous. 

"You're lucky you still taste a little off," he says. Gale reaches up and wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth. Astarion closes his eyes and leans into his hand. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?" 

"I'm beginning to have my suspicions," Gale says. 

When Astarion leans in and kisses him, it tastes of blood; that metallic tang. But if it begins as something intense, it slowly becomes softer; it's not the kind of kiss that's going anywhere else.

"Not too unpleasant, I hope," Astarion says, eventually, his fingertips brushing just underneath the two neat little puncture-wounds he made in Gale's neck. 

"Barely," Gale says. "Isn't there a specific chemical in your saliva that-" 

Astarion, grinning, kisses him silent. 

"Yes, thank you, I was aware," he says. "Don't think you're going to explain at me until I forget the way you reacted to that. You were enjoying yourself." 

"Oh hush," Gale turns his head into Astarion's neck. "That's quite the least of it, as you are perfectly well aware." 

Astarion says nothing; instead he pulls Gale in closer, arms around him. 

"I've got you," he says, quietly, into Gale's hair. "I'm with you. Wherever this takes us." 

And finally, eventually, despite the fear that he will unravel and take them all with him in his sleep, Gale manages to get at least a little rest.

Chapter Text

The Nightsong is a person. 

It's a revelation that makes both perfect sense and no sense at all. Gale is still mulling it over as they head back towards the Last Light to rally the reinforcements. 

When they reach the surface, it's still very early in the morning. The shadow curse isn't gone, by any means, but its grasp is weakening. It's almost possible to tell that there's a sky beyond it somewhere. 

"I am beginning to wonder if we're going to piss off every single deity in the pantheon before this little adventure is over," Astarion says. "Not that I'm against it, of course." 

Gale glances back at Shadowheart. She is walking in quite determined silence, despite the fact that they can all see the wound on her hand glowing. Karlach and Lae'zel are flanking her, not at all subtly, and Halsin and Wyll are bringing up the rear. 

"All in all, I think I'd rather have Selune on our side than Shar," Gale says, turning back to him. "And to be fair, though Mystra's upset at me, she's more concerned about the Absolute at the moment. And we just did Silvanus a huge favour, bringing Thaniel back." 

"Hmmm," Astarion agrees, thoughtfully. "Vlaakith doesn't have as much influence here as she could, I suppose."

"I would not presume to know what Withers is, exactly, but his power over life and death is not something that should be easily dismissed," Minthara puts in. 

"I think we're probably fairly well-balanced, in terms of deities we have and haven't pissed off," Gale surmises. “We’ll have to see what the Absolute actually is to decide whether or not it gets the deciding vote.” 

-

"Third time's the charm?" Gale suggests, as they gather at the steps of the tower. 

"I hope this will only take one attempt," Jaheira says. 

Gale nods, already distracted and not bothering to explain what he meant. 

They still don't know what the Absolute is, exactly. What they're going to be up against. He doesn't like the way it disquiets him. 

"Alright," Astarion comes up beside them. "Ready, Jaheira?" 

"When you are," she confirms. 

"Oh, just one more thing-" Astarion turns to Gale, grabs his robe, and pulls him in. 

Gale, despite being taken completely by surprise, manages to lean in and kiss him back without anyone bumping noses or anything equally embarrassing. 

"If I survive this, I'm going to teach you to ask before you do that," Gale sighs. 

"Would you have said no?" 

"No, but I would've made it count more." 

Astarion grins at him.

"Fine. Gale - I'm going to kiss you again, so make it count." 

"With pleasure." 

They break away from it breathing heavily, which Gale judges to be sufficient proof of his point. 

"You better not let that be the last," Astarion says, then turns back to Jaheira, who is looking at them like she's just won a hefty bet. "Alright, let's go." 

To say that Z'rell is pissed would be an understatement. Minthara's presence, plus her tendency to taunt her foes, absolutely does not help. Thankfully, Astarion misty steps up into the rafters and snipes her from above before she can do any real damage. And Minthara, it turns out, bites as hard as she barks. 

The rest of the battle, however, is the kind of bloody, scrounging affair that has them all grasping at desperate ideas to try and win an edge. They lose far too many of the Fist, too, to the damn ogre. 

Eventually, though, the last of them falls, leaving the ground floor of the towers a bloodied mess of corpses and the fallout of their spells. 

Gale slides through Jaheira's melted ice to give Wyll a hand getting to his feet. 

"Up the tower?" Wyll says, grimly, to which Gale nods. 

"Up to Ketheric." 

Halsin makes them all take five minutes to breathe and prepare, sharpening blades and regenerating spell-slots and whatever else they can do. 

"He's not going to make this simple, is he?" Astarion says. "The amount of undead in this place, the fact that Ketheric is supposed to have been killed already, his invulnerability, all of the little shrines to Myrkul…" 

"He's a fickle one, that Paladin," Minthara agrees. "Not picky about where he's getting his power from, it seems." 

"But we've got him where we want him," Jaheira points out. "He's a sitting duck up there. Just waiting for us to pick him off." 

"I admire your optimism, but I'm not sure I share it," Gale sighs, wrapping a bandage around his wrist, where someone or something had tried to take out his dominant hand - and, thankfully, mostly missed. There'd been some kind of poison on the blade though, so he'd had to take the extremely undignified and not to mention unpleasant precaution of sucking it out and spitting it onto the floor to try and prevent it getting much further into his bloodstream. 

Unfortunately spellcasting with any real efficacy is much more likely to succeed if he's not distracted by pain whilst casting. 

He ties the bandage off and wriggles his fingers, testing the tightness of the bandage against his ability to flex his wrist. 

"Alright," he says, standing up. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Shall we get rid of this shadow curse?" 

-

They're not ready for Ketheric. Unfortunately, they probably were never going to be. 

It's the moment Ketheric takes Aylin that it truly hits Gale how out of their depth they are. 

"Stop running away!" Astarion yells after him, incensed, as Ketheric vanishes again. 

Karlach picks herself up off the floor and spits blood from a broken tooth. 

"Oh and now we get to jump down into this fleshy tower?" She groans. "This day just keeps getting better and better!" 

They do it anyway, because of course they do. Gale casts feather fall on them all, at least, so they land no more injured than they already were. It is a long, long way down. 

"A mind flayer colony," Gale says, disbelievingly. "Despite it being the only explanation that fits all of the evidence - especially the pit we found behind the prison office - I don’t think I ever would have guessed." 

"Ten gold on this being where Mizora's 'asset' is being kept." Astarion picks his way through the viscera. "Gods, I thought we were done with this when we escaped the nautiloid." 

It is more than a little bit unpleasant. They're all on edge, even before they have to fight their way through more mind-flayers, what's left of a guard platoon, and-

"A death shepherd?" Astarion growls, disbelieving. "A fucking death shepherd? Here ?" 

At least they find Mizora. Even if she is, predictably, as petty as she can possibly be about breaking Wyll's pact. 

By the time they find a way down further into the Absolute's lair, they're all intensely aware of having been through the wringer. 

They cannot fight Ketheric like this. They stop by the top of the platform to discuss what to do next. 

"We cannot stop now," Jaheira is pacing back and forth. "Who knows what they will do if we give them even the slightest chance."

"I would agree, yet fighting in our current state would be suicide," Lae'zel argues. 

"It seems we may be doomed either way," Minthara says, helpfully. "The question, perhaps, is in which manner we would prefer to face said doom." 

Gale tunes them out. The architecture here is very much not to his taste, but there's a strange-looking device that he recognises from the nautiloid. He's pretty sure that he remembers the mind-flayers using it to regenerate, instead of sleeping or eating or anything that other such lowly mortals as themselves would do. 

There's a chance it only works on illithids, of course. But technically, they're part-illithid. 

Only Astarion notices when he stands up. 

"Where are you going?" 

"Do you recognise this?" Gale says, inspecting the blue glowing tentacles. Astarion comes to stand beside him.

"I think I saw something similar on the nautiloid. What is it?" 

"I'm not sure," Gale studies the tentacles as they drift gently through the air. "But I have a theory-" 

He reaches out, a single finger making contact with a single blue strand. 

The moment it does, there's a feeling of warmth, of soothing comfort. He breathes deep into the release of it. 

Astarion makes a noise of surprise. 

"Oh, well," Gale unties the bandage and looks at the newly smooth skin of his wrist. "That's handy." 

"What… did you do?" Shadowheart asks, looking at her hands with some confusion. "I feel about a thousand times better." 

"I'm not entirely sure," Gale says. "But there was one of these on the nautiloid, and I saw the mind flayers and the thralls using it. I didn't realise it would affect everybody, but we seem to be much better for it." 

He grins at the others, suddenly feeling much more optimistic. 

"Shall we go? False gods to topple and so on." 

Astarion stays by his side as they descend into the pit below. As they see, for the first time, what the Absolute really is. 

An Elder Brain, controlled by the Crown of Karsus. And the Chosen of the Dead Three controlling it. 

There is a lot of swearing. Very quiet swearing, but swearing all the same. They creep out towards the brain, trying to stay out of sight. 

"How on earth are we going to defeat that?" Gale wonders, quietly. 

"Oh no you don't," Astarion's hand finds his wrist. "If there's another way, we will find it." 

"Final resort only." Gale agrees. "You've given me too much to live for to be willing to throw it away so easily." 

Astarion's hand slips down his wrist to curl their fingers together, just for a moment. 

"I won't let it come to that," he swears. 

Then Ketheric turns on them. 

The first thing Gale does is get as close to Aylin as he can. As long as Ketheric has her in Balthazar's spell, they might as well be throwing stones at a glacier for all the damage they'll do. While Ketheric, on the other hand, is at full strength. 

He can already hear shouts of pain as he hauls himself up the fleshy webbing to where she's threshed to the ground. 

"Ally mine!" She calls, the moment he reaches her. "Release me, and Ketheric will fall!"

"That's the plan!" Gale grunts, doing battle with Balthazar's stupid Calishite runes. 

"There!" 

Aylin bursts out of her prison in a rocket of feathers and divine rage. 

In the spirit of adding insult to injury, Gale sends a fireball raging after her, and is gratified to see it singe off a good portion of Ketheric's beard. 

Even with Aylin's help, Ketheric does not go down easily. He seems to have an endless well of undead summons to draw on. Which makes sense, given his allegiance, but is no less frustrating for it. Gale hadn't thought to prepare enough spells that do a wider range of lesser damage - he'd been preparing to focus on Ketheric. 

But at last, Ketheric falls to his knees. Gale folds over, breathing heavily, waiting for him to finish his little speech so he can go and kiss Astarion and make dinner and they can get on with saving Faerun. Living the life he didn't think he was going to get a chance at. 

But Ketheric does not die. 

Instead, he throws his arms out, and gives himself to his god. 

In his place rises a creature that a human mind can barely comprehend. 

It is not the first time that Gale has faced down the avatar of a God. It is the first time that he's done so after losing all of the power that made it possible. 

They try to fight it anyway. What else can they do? But as it sweeps its scythe through them, sending half of them flying, Gale's grasp on a future he gets to live through begins to slip. 

He feels it running through his fingers like sand. As Shadowheart tries to fling a heal at Minthara that does not take. As Karlach swings her huge sword at the creature's side, and it makes barely a dent. As it shrugs off the claws of Halsin's owlbear like it's pushing through a thornbush. 

Even if they'd come into this without having to fight Ketheric first, they would have struggled. But this, very quickly, has gone from a fight to win to a fight to survive. 

Astarion had landed behind him, when the scythe had barrelled through them. He manages to get to his feet before Gale does, and stops on his way past to give him a hand. 

"Back on your feet," he says, attempting levity and instead hitting desperation. 

Astarion is bruised almost beyond recognition, the whole left side of his face purpled with it, his lip bleeding. He's holding himself badly as he breathes, a telltale sign of broken ribs. If he's not careful, he'll puncture a lung. 

Gale looks up at him through the blood running down his forehead and into his eyes, and makes the decision.

"I love you," he says. "I'm sorry." 

Astarion's eyes widen. 

"Gale, don't you dare-" 

Whatever else he says, Gale doesn't hear it. With a wave of his hand, Astarion is gone. Behind him, he sees Wyll, then Shadowheart, then Lae'zel, vanish into mist. He has to draw on more than his own power to do it. The orb awakens in his chest as he reaches for it, drawing on it. It roars forth, hungry and merciless in its hunt. 

"What are you doing?" Aylin yells, from above. With a wave of his hand, she's gone too. Until, at last, Gale is alone. 

The avatar turns to him. Gale allows the orb a little room to breathe. Feels the moment it begins to glow through his skin; like a warning. Like a beacon. 

And he begins to speak. 

-

Astarion lands awkwardly. His arm half-extended, attempting to grasp for Gale. Who is no longer there. 

He stumbles, catching himself on a pillar, and realises where he is; in the main room of Moonrise Towers. For a few breaths all he can do is stand there and breathe through the pain. 

Karlach lands next to him, a moment later, still mid–swing. 

Within moments, the room is full of people. Full of the people who had been trying to fight the avatar of Myrkul. 

"Shit!" Wyll shouts. "He's going to do it!" 

As if in confirmation, Gale's voice suddenly rings around them. 

" I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground." 

Astarion hauls himself to his feet, as Aylin tumbles from the sky in front of him, catching herself just before she hits the ground. 

"So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind.

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned."

Karlach grabs Astarion's hand. 

"I think we have to run," she says. "Come on." 

So they run. Out of the main doors, down the steps, across the bridge. Behind them, the sky grows brighter and brighter, Gale's voice still echoing around them. 

"Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave," he says, with the kind of reverence that Astarion recognises, even if he doesn't know the poem itself. 

"Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know.”

His voice is wavering now, as if torn from shaking lips, as if he’s breathing deep to draw them out; 

"But I do not approve.”

There’s a pause; a long pause. In the silence, there is only their footsteps, and the distant crumbling of rock. They've nearly made it to the far end of the bridge when it finally happens. 

“And I am not resigned."  

The sky shatters above them. 

Astarion turns to look back before it occurs to him that he shouldn't have. Beside him, the others do the same.

He counts them, quickly. Karlach and Wyll, Shadowheart and Lae'zel, Halsin and Jaheira, Minthara and Aylin. 

The only one left behind had been Gale. He'd got them all out. Just as he said he would. 

So they stand, survivors of a battle they should never have been able to win. Watching, as the top of Moonrise Tower shines brighter than the sun. Like a candle, beaming light into the darkness. Around them, the Shadow Curse begins to dissipate.

Chapter Text

"I suspect I know the answer to this," Astarion says. "But Withers - is there anything you can do about Gale?" 

The skeletal thing studies him, for a moment. 

"The wizard is beyond my reach," he says. "I am sorry." 

Astarion says nothing. Instead he turns, and walks back towards where Elminster and Tara are standing; by Gale's carefully packed away possessions. 

“One moment,” Astarion says. 

He stoops, looking for the pocket in the side of the case. His fingers meet paper; the letter. 

It’s quite a small envelope, really. In Gale’s rather flamboyant handwriting, ‘Morena’ flourishes across the front. And then, underneath it, he’s added; ‘and Tara’. It’s dated, too; two days ago. 

Astarion hands it to the tressym, who takes it in her mouth, and then immediately drops it on the floor. 

“Mrow!” 

Astarion looks to Halsin, who raises his eyebrow at her. 

“If you’re sure?” 

“Meow!” 

“She says it’s not a letter, exactly - it’s a spell. Would you be able to open it for her, please?” 

Astarion slips his finger under the wax seal. It feels like a perfectly normal letter to him. As he slides the folded paper out, however, it falls open in his hands. 

“Morena,” Gale’s voice says. The illusion isn’t complete; it seems faded, slightly, and out of focus. But it is undeniably Gale. Wearing the shirt that Astarion is wearing now. The way he had been, that night. The night he'd finally told Astarion he was in love with him. 

“I hope you’ll forgive the lack of pleasantries, but this isn’t a social letter. 

I have been carrying this orb for over a year, and I have yet to find a way to sate its hunger. Mystra has offered me an alternative. I can use the orb to destroy a great power rising in this part of Faerun. This power threatens existence as we know it - not the first time you’ve heard that from me, I know. I had hoped I’d be able to tell you the story myself someday. Instead, it seems the only way I can save Faerun this time is at the expense of myself. 

I want you to know that I have tried to find alternatives. I am writing this, still, in the hope that there may be something I have missed. But if you’re reading it, then I failed. If this is how you find out I’m gone, I’m sorry. You deserved better, and I wish I could have found a way to say goodbye properly. 

I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but there are a few things I am unable to tie up given my current situation. 

There is a box under my bed that contains a series of books and files obtained from my dealings with an old colleague of mine. The rest of my belongings, you can do with what you wish. I believe my will still states that anything of use is to go to the students or libraries of my old university. That box is the only exception. Whatever you do, please ensure it does not fall into the hands of any of my old colleagues, or any young and impressionable wizard. 

There might be someone who comes and asks you about it. His name is Astarion. If Tara is with you, she knows him. He may never come, but if he does, you can give that box to him. I made him a promise to try and help him with something, and if I’m gone then… well. The box may help him. And I trust him to make the best of its contents. 

I have more to say to you, Morena, far more than any length of letter can contain. To try to do so would be a fool’s errand, and I’ve had quite enough of those. 

Suffice it to say that I love you. I miss you. I hope that you have many long and happy years yet ahead of you. I hope you can take comfort in knowing that when they eventually come to a peaceful end, I will be waiting.” 

There’s a ripple in the air, and the illusion is gone. 

Astarion stares at the piece of paper in his hands. Gale’s words are written out across it, exactly as he’d spoken them. At the end, underneath, there’s just a few more words; 

‘“Yet if you should forget me for a while 

And afterwards remember, do not grieve: 

Better by far you should forget and smile 

Than that you should remember and be sad. ”

With love and regret, your son, Gale.’

Chapter Text

It has been a miserable few days. Even though they've survived Moonrise. Even though they've lifted the curse. 

They'd made camp in what was left of Moonrise as they recovered. The Tieflings and what remained of the Fist had joined them too, determined to reclaim the whole place. 

The armies of the Absolute are marching on Baldur's Gate. They cannot delay any longer. 

It's Alfira who approaches Astarion as they're packing up final bits and pieces, ready to move on. 

"We're going to go and say goodbye," she says, tilting her chin up as if she expects Astarion to tell her it's a waste of time. "I want to play for him." 

"I think he'd have liked that," Karlach says. "Can I come with you?" 

"Of course!" Alfira nods. "It's not just for me. It's for anyone who wants to say thank you. For what he did for us." 

"I'll bring my violin," Astarion says.

In the end, they all trail up there. Halsin and Jaheira and Wyll and Shadowheart and Lae'zel. Not just those who had fought with him, but others too; Aylin, and Isobel, and Dammon, and Rolan too. More faces that Astarion recognises but can't put names to. Even Minthara. 

They spill out across what remains of the top of the tower, picking their way through the fallen columns and the rubble of what had once been mighty ramparts. 

Over time, the light beaming from Moonrise had faded. But in the centre of it all, that strange little light still glows; flickering, like a ball of flame, but white as bone. Around them, the air seems to shimmer with magic. It catches the light when you're not looking directly at it. He wonders if it will always be like this, now. Or whether one day, sooner or later, this will fade too. 

Alfira doesn't play to the rest of them gathered up there; she turns away from them, to the wide world beyond. Astarion stands just behind her. Concentrates on keeping his hands steady. As she begins to sing, however, something strange happens. 

He feels it before he sees it; the weave trembles. Between the lute and the violin, there's something else. If he wasn't completely sure only the two of them were playing, Astarion would have sworn he could hear a lyre. It must be his memory, filling in what it's supposed to sound like. He ignores it, focusing instead on the music, on getting the piece right. 

It's only when she draws it to a close that he hears something he hadn't before. 

Someone is humming. But it's not someone standing behind them. It's not one of the others. Instead, it seems to reverberate through the air around them. 

"Alfira…" Astarion says, quietly. "Tell me I'm not the only one hearing that." 

"You're not," Alfira says. "That's Gale's voice, isn't it?" 

Astarion doesn't confirm that. 

Of course it is. But how, he has no idea. He daren't hope it means anything. It's an echo, perhaps - a memory, like the illusion in the letter. Something that Gale had left for them. 

But it doesn't feel like that. He hadn't had time. Besides, Gale wasn't usually so vague. 

"There is something strange happening here," Elminster says. 

Astarion jumps. 

“Where the hells did you come from?” 

“Oh, here and there.” Elminster is frowning, as if there's a puzzle to it. "Whatever he did, it isn't exactly what Mystra asked of him. There's something different about this. The whole of this area should have been turned to dust." 

He approaches the flickering light. As he does so, it flickers brighter, stronger. Elminster steps back again, hurriedly. 

"And it's still active." He says. "It's still doing something. Gale, what have you done?" 

He closes his eyes and begins to murmur, his hands moving through the air. 

Alfira glances at Astarion. 

"Should we step back a bit?" She whispers. "Just in case?" 

Astarion nods, and they cautiously back away from the muttering wizard. 

"This is strange indeed," Elminster is saying, shaking his head at the air. 

"So it is," a voice says; a woman's voice. It echoes above them, as if from the sky itself. 

She manifests slowly. At first there are strands of cloud, smatterings of starlight, a sunbeam - they pull together, becoming something more. The shape of a face, a pair of eyes, a mouth. 

"Mystra," Elminster bows. 

Mystra fades gently into being above the tower, a giantess looking down upon her realm. Wisps of golden light weave through her hair, floating and curling as if underwater. She glows with purple light. She holds a sense of a threat not yet made; a power that, if unleashed, would destroy them all before they even knew it. She is stunningly beautiful; almost unbelievably so. In trying to concentrate on what her features actually are, however, they seem to shift. One moment she seems to have high, sculpted cheekbones, and the next she has softened and rounded; the harder the effort made to pin her down, the less conceivable she becomes. Looking for too long could cause a man to lose his mind. 

"Gale of Waterdeep," she says, and her voice echoes. 

The distant hum becomes louder. The air shimmers; the speckles of light turning, catching like shattered shards of a mirror. In the centre, where the orb still hangs in the air, drinking in the shadows, a shape begins to form. It's barely there; a slight deepening of the light, what might barely be called a shadow of something. The air is so thick with magic it's almost impossible to breathe through. 

"Not quite," someone replies. The voice seems distant, as if it came from a sending stone a very, very long way away. Yet it is all around them, spoken through the air itself. "I'm afraid there doesn't seem to be much of me left."

Mystra leans down. Her torso alone is half the height of the tower. As she moves, the air moves with her; the weave, responding to her presence, answering her call.

The shape takes form. Where there had just been a blur, now there is something that, if you squinted, might almost be human. 

"Hello," the shade of Gale says, a little more distinctly. "You're looking well. Broke out the fireworks, did you?" 

"I wish I could say the same to you," Mystra replies. 

"This is what you asked of me. You can hardly be surprised by the outcome." 

"You defied me, Gale of Waterdeep. And you have unleashed the karsite weave. That which was created to destroy the true weave. To absorb it. Its hunger is barely sated. It could yet take the whole of creation with it.” 

A goddess’ anger is a terror to behold at the best of times; when she takes up half the sky, it would be enough to make even the greatest of rulers quake in their boots. Gale, however, seems unfazed. 

“If that were true, you wouldn't be able to stand in its presence," he says. "Still, after all these years, you have so little faith in me.” 

The orb, still floating in the centre of the tower, begins to grow. Until it’s possible to see what is happening inside it; what’s happening to it, even. There, in the centre, is a burning ball of black light. And feeding into it, frissioning off the edges like a fire that burns too bright to look at, are three threads. 

One of them seems to be coming from Gale. Another, from Mystra. The third is coming from the shadowlands; what's left of Shar's shadow weave. 

Like an embering log, or a roll of twine unwinding, they are eating away at that black light. Even on a huge scale, the pace at which it’s happening is barely perceptible; but it is happening. Very, very slowly, the netherese magic is disappearing. 

“I thought that the greater part of my power was absorbed by it, but it wasn’t. Such is the nature of the weave - neither finite nor infinite, both matter and anti-matter, entirely shapeless and beholden to whichever shape the wielder wishes. Ineffable, one might say. Generations of scholars have driven themselves beyond the brink of madness, trying to understand it.

“You were right, when you said a lesser wizard would have been destroyed by it. I should have been. Instead, I have held the orb in suspension all this time, burning the edges of its power off before it could grow, at the expense of my own. It wasn’t quite enough, still - first I found ways to feed it weave, and then you did; that pure stream of weave, unravelled, was enough to hold it in perfect balance. But when I was exposed to more of it - I felt it tip the other way. You gave me just enough to keep the orb sated, to keep me alive - but not enough to destroy it.

“But now there’s the shadow curse. The shadow weave. It would have worn away slowly eventually, once Ketheric was dead. But I could draw it in faster. Not much, admittedly. I’ve burned away my corporeal form and most of my remaining essence holding this little reaction in balance. But it’s enough. It will take years for this place to recover, rather than decades.

“So, you got what you wanted, even if I didn’t do it your way. Ketheric is dead, and the shadow weave is nearly gone. As is the karsite weave. As am I. But Moonrise towers, and all the people in it, are still here. And I will not apologise to you for that."

“Yet the elder brain lives,” Mystra’s voice is accusatory. “You hesitated.” 

“I didn't want to die!” Gale’s voice rings with anger. 

“Even though I asked you to.” 

“You had no right to ask that of me! You cast me out, remember?” 

Mystra’s avatar changes. 

A human-sized figure steps from the place the tower-sized one had been moments before. The air still crackles gold and purple around her, the weave curling in her wake like waves. Her eyes glow white. She floats down through the air, her feet coming to rest on the very edge of the tower. 

“Again, you defy me, Gale of Waterdeep. I am surprised. Are you not afraid?” 

“Oh dear,” Gale’s shade actually laughs. “Rather showing your hand there, aren’t you, Mystra? Do you want me to be afraid? I never was before. Seems like a waste of energy, given that I’m already dead. Mostly, anyway.” 

Wyll whistles quietly through his teeth.

“Is this brave or stupid?” He whispers to Karlach, who shushes him hurriedly. 

Mystra seems to consider Gale for some time. At last, she speaks. 

“Your work is not yet finished. I am willing to give you another chance. I will restore your body to you, and your original power along with it. In return, you will act as my Chosen once more. One last time. Until the Elder Brain, and this threat, is defeated.” 

“No.” 

Mystra looks genuinely surprised. 

“No?” 

“No, I will not be your Chosen. Not anymore. Never again, in fact. And especially not on such a... fraught timeline. I've had quite enough of living with dying, thank you very much.”

In the silence, Mystra laughs. It’s a strange sound. Not quite real; like she’s forgotten how. 

“I sought to understand you. I thought I had succeeded. And yet still you surprise me. Once, that offer would have been everything you ever wanted.” 

“Time changes people,” Gale agrees. “I’m not the man I was when I loved you. Not anymore.” 

"Loved," Mystra says. "Past tense." 

She sounds almost human, now. The echo has gone from her voice. Even so, her tone is completely dispassionate. 

"Can you truly be surprised? Or is it just such a novelty for one of your Chosen to live long enough to reach that point?"

"You have changed little, it seems." 

The affability in Gale’s voice vanishes, all at once. 

"I'm not arguing with you because you like it! I'm not going to concede and let you walk all over me at the end of this. I'm not playing your game, Mystra." 

Mystra moves. There’s something strange about it; like she’s out of sync. She moves her feet, like she’s walking, but they don’t touch the ground, and she moves a little further than her steps should take her. As she does so, Gale becomes almost visible, standing before her. Hands outstretched, the orb hanging above them. Like a ghost, or an apparition. He glows, just slightly, with the same light that beams from Mystra. 

"Interesting," she says. "Am I to understand that you would truly rather die than serve me?” 

“Apparently,” Gale agrees. “Trust me, it’s just as much of a surprise to me as it is to you.” 

“Even though your companions may fail without your help?” 

“They won’t. You don’t know them like I do.” 

“Such faith,” Mystra frowns at him like he’s a puzzle. To that, Gale says nothing. “There’s someone else,” Mystra says, her expression clearing of confusion. 

“That’s hardly the only reason to refuse your offer," Gale protests. "But yes. There is.” 

Mystra nods. 

“I could give you your body back, but nothing else. None of your power. Who would you be, Gale of Waterdeep, without your magic?" 

Gale appears to consider this for a moment. 

"I don't know,” he says, eventually. “A better son, I hope. A friend, perhaps. A lover, even. Who knows what else? I suppose I'd find out."

“And if I let you die? What would you do then?” 

“Wait.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

It’s almost as if he doesn’t know that Mystra is toying with him. Instead of being strung out by her so obviously walking his alternatives in front of him, tempting him into her offer with thinly veiled threats, Gale answers her questions as if they are innocently or even academically asked. As if she honestly wants to know. 

Perhaps, in her strange way, she does. 

“You may be waiting a very long time,” she says. 

“Yes.” 

“Even then, he may not be easy to find.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“He may not even want to be found. As you said, time changes people.”

“I know,” Gale sighs. “Perhaps fate will bring us back together, before the universe dims. Perhaps it won't. But finding out will be my choice. I spent my life chasing around after you. I spent an entire decade doing it twice - which I never really managed to explain to my mother, by the way. I’d quite like to spend my afterlife making my own decisions, however stupid you personally may deem them to be. And I’m quite content to take the consequences.”

Mystra almost smiles. 

“You know my power. You know it is possible for me to destroy you completely, afterlife included.” 

“I rather thought you might say that,” Gale sighs. “Well, there’s not much of this karsite weave left anyway. So be it. But before you do, Mystra, will you hear a dying man’s final words?” 

“Have you not had enough of my time?”

“You have an eternity,” Gale snaps. “I do not.” In a moment, his voice is calmer again. “Please.” 

“I’m listening.” 

"Do you remember how old I was, when we first met?" 

Mystra does not answer immediately. 

In the silence, there is a distant echo of something; strange, and distorted. 

The air moves; behind what is left of Gale, something is moving. A smaller figure. A child; a young boy, his face lacking detail but immediately recognisable nonetheless. In his hands, a book. At his feet, a familiar winged cat. 

"Twelve," Gale says. 

"So powerful, for one so young," Mystra says. 

"Too young," Gale says. "There's a reason we don't let children make major life decisions, Mystra." 

"You did not become my Chosen until many years later." 

"Didn't I?" Gale says. "Officially, perhaps, I was not. But you ensured there was nobody else who would get in your way. Ensured there was no way I could even conceive of refusing you." 

"Would you have?" 

Gale sighs. 

“When you first came to me, I knew who you were, and what your appearance meant. I knew, Mystra, what had happened to every other one of your Chosen before me. I knew how few had survived their tenure. That as many died by your hand as fell to enemies you commanded them against." 

"I have only been Mystra for a nominal amount of time, given the scope of these claims." 

"Have you though?" Gale ponders. "Is not the Goddess of Magic the essence of the weave itself? If, then, you took on the essence of the Goddess who came before you, can you claim to be another being entirely? I know for a fact that you have her memories.”

Mystra does not deny this. Instead she simply waits for Gale to continue. 

“As far as I'm concerned, you are the same Goddess you have always been. Your actions have never given me reason to believe otherwise. Perhaps it was arrogance, that I thought I might be different from all the Chosen that came before me - but I think I knew, even then, that if I gave my life to you, you would be the death of me. And I forgive you.” 

“You forgive me?” 

Mystra seems genuinely baffled by this statement. Like Gale couldn’t possibly have anything to forgive her for, even though she’s just threatened to wipe him from existence. 

“If you do remember being human, Mystra - if that is something you claim you still have a connection to - then consider this, when it comes time for you to find another Chosen:

"I forgive you for lying to me. For using me. For leaving me to face my mortality alone because you had no further use for me. Abandoning me in my time of greatest need, one might say. And I forgive myself for letting you; for not knowing otherwise. The predictability of being a wizard undone by his own hubris isn’t lost on me, I assure you. Foolish of us both, I suppose, to aspire to be anything other than what the fates would make of us.” 

“Is that all?” 

There’s a small moment of quiet, and then Gale’s voice, perhaps the last time any of them will ever hear it; 

“Mere air, these words. What cannot be said will be wept.” He sighs. “Which is to say; yes. That’s all.” 

"Very well then." Mystra holds her hands out towards him, as if to receive the orb from him. "I suppose this is goodbye. I will do my best to make it painless." 

There's a flash of light, so bright it's blinding. 

Squinting through the light, it is just possible to see two shapes; one human, one Goddess. Between them, the orb rends itself in two; overtaken, at last, by a pulse of pure weave strong enough to shake the fabric of reality. It seems to tear around them, seams unstrung, the sky split with green and purple and yellow light like a bruise. Underneath the wrench and whistle-pop of reality twisting, someone is screaming. 

The shattered shards, hanging in the air, begin to turn. Slowly, at first, then faster. Spinning until their edges are blurred. Then, like a hole punched in time, they all vanish. 

It takes a moment for the sense of reality to reassert itself. 

Mystra is gone. So is the thick presence of magic in the air. A deep breath of fresh, clean air is the confirmation; the shadow curse is gone. All of it. As is the orb. 

Kneeling, half-collapsed, in the centre of what used to be Moonrise Towers, is Gale. 

He stares at his own hands, entirely unable to understand what had happened for a moment. Flexes his fingers. Real, human, and still stiff where the blood is re-learning how to flow through his veins. 

He begins to laugh. 

Sits up, slightly. Beyond the crumbled edge of the tower is a world he barely recognises. What had been shadow-cursed, presumably. Now it is something else. Chaos, undeniably - but a chaos of colour. Green and brown and alive. The kind of chaos from which things are born, not destroyed. And he has begun to appreciate a little chaos, recently. 

He puts his hand to his chest, and discovers that in her infinite wisdom, Mystra had restored his body and none of his clothing. His bare chest, however, bears a familiar scar that feels unfamiliar. Where his fingers rest against it now, it is not sensitive. There is no thrum of magic under his skin. The orb is well and truly gone. 

So, it seems, is everything else. 

As the strangeness of most of the situation settles, he can feel it. Or rather, the lack of it. 

This is not like a long day that has left him exhausted. The weave is gone. What power he once bent to his will is gone. Nothing more than a memory. 

He is a wizard no longer. 

But he is alive. 

“Gale?” 

Gale looks up, then around. 

Of all the things he was expecting to see, it was not a small crowd of people standing behind him.

“Hello,” he says, and then finds himself utterly at a loss. What does one say, when finding themselves alive against all odds and having anticipated the opposite? “I appear to be alive,” he tries, and then, realising how ridiculous that sounds, laughs at himself. “I don’t suppose any of you kept my clothes?” 

It’s Astarion that moves first. It’s not a wide rooftop, not really, but the few steps it takes him to get to Gale seem to take an eternity. He unclasps his cloak, kneels in front of Gale, and places it around his shoulders. His hands linger on Gale’s neck, then his chest, eyes tracing the scar; making the same assessment that Gale had. 

“It’s gone,” Gale confirms. “No orb. No magic, either. I suppose I’m just plain old Gale Dekarios now. Whatever that means.” 

"It means you're alive," Astarion says, and kisses him. "Don't do that again." 

"I wasn't planning to, even if I were physically capable of it." 

"I meant dying," Astarion says, furiously. "I don't care how! I did not give you permission to die!" 

Gale laughs at him. This ridiculous man he loves, that he gets to see again. 

He attempts to stand, and realises that his limbs are still unsure on how to coordinate such an action. Astarion catches him as he tilts. 

"Ah," Gale says. "I might have spent slightly too long as a cloud of dust." 

-

They manage to get him downstairs eventually. Wyll lends him some clothes, and Karlach picks him up. 

"Haven't you carried me out of Moonrise Towers before?" Gale says, cheerfully, as they descend. "I'm getting a distinct sense of deja vu." 

"What you should get is a functioning pair of legs," Karlach tells him. 

"I do! I have those!" Gale says, thoroughly delighted. "And at some point soon, they might even work!" 

Karlach laughs, shaking her head at him. 

"You are definitely not fully there yet, are you?" 

"I rarely am," Gale confesses. "You know my mind wanders all over the place." 

He attempts to move his legs, just to see if he can, and is delighted to find he can wriggle his toes. 

"Is this what he's like when he's drunk?" Karlach asks Wyll, who is making up a bed and trying very hard not to laugh. 

"Don't ask me, we've never had more than a bottle." 

"He isn't quoting enough poetry to be drunk," Astarion says, bringing over a mug of something hot. "Here - Jaheira said you're not to have anything but broth until your body's had a chance to figure out how it functions again." 

"Oh no," Gale looks devastated. "But food is one of the best things about being alive!" 

"It's just for now," Wyll reminds him. "Not forever." 

It's at that point that a small, furry missile comes tearing through the room. 

Gale throws his arms out, nearly sending the mug that Astarion had been holding out to him flying. 

"Tara!" 

"Mrow!" 

She lands next to him and immediately starts berating him. Or at least, he assumes she does. 

"It's no use, I’m afraid. I can't hear you anymore." 

She pauses in her yowling and puts a paw on his hand. 

"Mrow?" 

Gale shakes his head, sadly. 

"All gone. All of it. No weave. No nothing. Just Gale." His voice breaks; “I’m sorry.” 

Tara stays by him anyway. She tucks herself into his side and purrs like a little engine, until he falls asleep, curled around her. 

Chapter Text

Gale sleeps all the way through the day and the next night. 

He finally wakes in the very early hours of the morning, to find Halsin sitting in the chair beside the bed. The druid had apparently been watching him wake, because he says; 

"How are you feeling, Gale?" 

Gale considers this question. 

"Alive?" He tries, at first. Then; "Oh, and hungry. Starving, actually." 

What he doesn't say is that he feels empty. Like there's something missing. 

That's not something Halsin can help with. Still, as he sits up and drinks some of the broth that Halsin brings him, he can't stop worrying at the hollow in him; like the socket left by a lost tooth. Where the weave used to be. 

Tara stretches, yawns, and resettles by his side. Absent-mindedly, he scratches her behind the ears. 

"How is everybody, Halsin?" He asks. "Nobody else got caught in the explosion, did they?" 

"Everybody's fine," Halsin reassures him. "Better, now that we have you back." 

Gale smiles at him. 

"Thank you. I'm glad to be back. Although - I could really do with some proper food." 

Halsin nods. 

"Elminster also brought your things back, if you'd like to be back in your own clothes." 

"Oh gods, would I," Gale breathes.

And so, when the others start waking a few hours later, it's to Gale sitting up at the table, Tara curled in his lap, cup of coffee in hand, chatting happily to Halsin. 

After the greetings, the hugs and the back-patting and the general cheer, they're almost a little breakfast party. 

"To Baldur's Gate!" Karlach raises her coffee like it's a beer. 

"Actually, about that-" Gale says. "I'm… not sure I can come with you." 

Karlach frowns at him. 

"Well of course you can. You might not be able to incinerate our enemies anymore, but there's plenty else you can do." 

"Like what?" Gale blinks at her. 

"Cook," Wyll says, immediately. "No offence, Halsin." 

"None taken." Halsin agrees. "I am a good cook, Gale is an exceptional one." 

"Your knowledge has proved invaluable to us so far," Lae'zel says. "We would be poorer without it." 

"And unlike Astarion, some of us quite enjoy your music and your poetry," Shadowheart says. "We were quite a sorry little camp without you, you know." 

Gale looks at them with genuine astonishment. 

"Besides, you're our friend," Karlach says, firmly. "And a wise wizard once told me that friendship is not a transactional relationship."

Gale wrinkles his nose. 

"I don't think wizards are traditionally known for their wisdom," he says. "Especially the one in question. I seem to remember him making some fairly questionable decisions in his time." 

"I resent that," Astarion says. 

"Not you," Gale corrects. "You might have been the only one I have zero regrets about. Well, other than nearly dying immediately after." 

"I haven't forgiven you for that yet either," Astarion says. "Don't think you can sweet-talk me into forgetting about it so easily." 

"Sorry," Gale winces. 

"You will be," Astarion agrees. "Anyway, you don't need to make up your mind yet. If you're going back to Waterdeep, Baldur's Gate is the best place to get a boat from. I also distinctly remember you promising Alfira you'd meet her at the Elfsong just now. So, you might as well travel with us until then." 

"So we have plenty of time to persuade you we're worth keeping around," Wyll agrees. 

"I know," Gale says, quietly. "It's not that. It's that I won't be able to help. If anything happens to any of you, there's nothing I can do to stop it. I don't know if that's something I'll be able to face." He attempts a smile. "Until now, magic was my life. It's terrifying, in a way. Facing a change of faith when your power was granted by the Goddess you shunned." 

"It was bad enough for me, and I had a different Goddess willing to step in," Shadowheart agrees. "I understand, Gale. But you do have time. It's going to take us a few days to reach Baldur's Gate. Until then, I think I speak for all of us when I say I'd rather travel with you than without." 

There's a general murmur of agreement. 

"Perhaps you would feel her absence less if I taught you to duel?" Lae'zel suggests. 

"I hope that was a joke, Lae'zel." 

"I think you'd look perfectly dashing wielding a longsword," Astarion says. "In my totally unbiased opinion, of course." 

"Very funny," Gale sighs, but he's smiling now. "The only thing anyone would get out of that would be an unexpected and extremely un-fashionable haircut." 

Later, as they're getting ready to finally leave Moonrise behind, Astarion comes to give Gale a hand packing. An unnecessary hand, but appreciated nonetheless. 

"You're not bad with a dagger. If I taught you a few bits and pieces, you might even be passably good. Obviously you're safe with us, but when your self-defence is usually fireball, a dagger requires a bit more finesse." 

It's a good point. 

"I would have a better time learning how to stab people from you than anyone else," Gale concedes. "Though I suspect we'd be unlikely to get much done." 

"On the contrary - I'm on strict orders not to tire you out too much." 

"From who?" Gale demands. 

"Me," Astarion takes Gale's hand to kiss his fingers. "I didn't think you'd have any complaints about old-fashioned romance, Gale." 

Gale groans. 

"I can't believe you're trying to be a good influence on me, of all people." 

"Humour me," Astarion grins. "You kept me waiting long enough. Now I can have my revenge." 

Gale says nothing. 

He wants to ask Astarion what he'll do when Gale goes back to Waterdeep. He doesn't want to know the answer. So the question stays, unasked and unanswered, and they finally set off towards the city. 

Tara trots happily by him all morning, occasionally meowing at him as if to test that he still, truly, cannot understand her. They largely trail behind the others; Gale is feeling much better, but not wholly normal yet. What he'd once been accustomed to has become onerous. 

Eventually, Astarion just takes his bag off him. 

"Sorry," Gale says. 

"Stop that," Astarion scolds. "You'd do the same for me. You did, actually. Now all I have to do is start quoting poetry at you." 

Again, Gale says nothing. Astarion sighs, and bumps him gently in the shoulder. 

"Diffidence doesn't suit you, dear." 

Gale sighs. 

"I'm just… getting used to it."

"That's allowed," Astarion agrees. "I imagine it's somewhat like losing a limb. It's going to take time to adjust to. What's not allowed is thinking that you're not worth anything without it." 

Gale stops. 

"Gale?" 

Astarion stops beside him. Tara turns back, one paw raised. 

"I-" Gale puts his hand to his chest. "Can't breathe." 

He drops to his knees, suddenly too wobbly to stand. 

"Halsin!" Astarion yells. "Halsin, a hand!" 

Gale can feel his heart racing, his breath rasping shallowly in his lungs; not deep enough for any relief. His head is pounding. Astarion is leaning over him, a hand across his back, like he can somehow protect him by doing so. 

"What-" Gale tries to say, and gives up when his chest spasms painfully with the effort. 

Halsin's hand finds his wrist, looking for his pulse. 

"Can you talk, Gale?" 

"What-'' Gale tries again. "What's happening to me?" 

"Panic attack," Halsin says, calmly. "You're alright. It'll be the shock. You've been remarkably calm, this whole time. I suspected you might have a delayed reaction. We'll just sit here until you can breathe again." 

"Oh," Gale frowns. Halsin is rubbing soothing circles on his wrists, but it's just mildly irritating. Gently, he pulls his hands back. "But I didn't feel...?" 

Instead he reaches for Tara, who immediately bumps her nose against his hand and comes to stand on his thighs, pushing her purring face into him. 

"You've never had one before," Halsin surmises. "They have a tendency to creep up on you out of nowhere." 

"Is that what these are?" Astarion says, curiously. "I always thought it was something to do with my heart." 

"It can feel like a heart attack," Halsin agrees. 

"When do you have them?" Gale asks, surprised. Tara baps his arm, and he reaches down and picks her up so she can curl into his arms and his chest. 

"Usually when I did something I knew Cazador would punish me for," Astarion says. "Or after he did it for no reason. Sometimes for no apparent reason at all. I always assumed it was the stress of the whole thing. Hearts are delicate like that." 

Halsin hums an agreement. 

"People always seem surprised by how physically stress can manifest itself." 

Almost without noticing, Gale has begun to breathe a little easier. His heart is still racing, and he's shaking a little, but he just feels tired now. 

"Tea, food, and rest," Halsin says, patting his knees and getting to his feet. "We're not going any further today." 

Gale doesn't have the energy to protest. None of the others seem to mind overmuch. Wyll, when Gale expresses his concern that he's holding them up, laughs at him. 

"Come on. You've been disintegrated and then reassembled twice in two years! We're lucky you can walk at all. And if you couldn't, we would just take turns carrying you." 

Even Minthara doesn't seem overly bothered. 

"This Gortash seems confident in his 'Steel Watch'", she agrees. "The whole plot seems to involve keeping the Absolute's forces on the doorstep of Baldur's Gate until the right moment. The more the two of them destroy each other before then, the less of both of them we have to deal with later.”

“But-” Gale tries to protest.

“Cease your whining. Stopping isn't irritating, but you are." 

"Have you ever come across the concept of 'tact', Minthara?" Wyll suggests. 

"I've certainly heard of it, though I've yet to find any use for it."

So Gale tries to get some rest. 

Unfortunately, both Karlach and Lae'zel struggle with the concept of speaking softly. Shadowheart, ever the pragmatist, decides to take them swimming to burn off some steam. Gale listens as Karlach's voice disappears into the distance, challenging Lae'zel to try and swim more laps of the river than her. 

A little while later, Astarion comes and sticks his head into Gale's tent. 

"Of course you're awake," he sighs. "You're terrible at following instructions, you know." 

"I am lying down," Gale protests. "What more do you want from me?" 

"I am not going to answer that question." Astarion has brought a book. "Sit up," he commands, and when Gale does so, positions himself so that Gale can lie in his lap instead. Then he opens the book, and proceeds to ignore Gale. 

"Is this supposed to help?" 

"Hm?" Astarion says. "Oh, no, I just wanted you there." 

Gale smiles at him. It might be the first all day. Astarion closes the book, and studies him for a moment. 

"What will you do, if you don't stay with us?" He says, at last. It's a brittle question; he's holding it close to his chest. 

"I don't know," Gale says, honestly. "Go home. Most of the contents of my tower aren't of much use to me now. Other than the practicalities, though-" he sighs. "Morena thinks I'm dead. I need to change that, as soon as possible." 

"Oh," Astarion takes his hand out of Gale's hair to pull the letter out of his pocket. "There wasn't exactly a reliable postal service in the Shadowlands. We decided to hold onto it until we got to Baldur's Gate and post it from there." 

Gale looks at the broken seal. 

"You saw it?" 

Astarion's eyes sweep sideways. 

"Tara asked-" 

"No, no, I'm not annoyed at you for opening it. I'm- I'm sorry I put you through that." 

Astarion puts the letter down and takes Gale's face in his hands. 

"Don't ask me why it's in my pocket instead of my trunk," he says, so quietly it's almost a whisper. "Even when I've got the real you back now." 

"Astarion-" 

"Ssssh. I said don't ask." 

"Can I ask you something else?" 

"Maybe," Astarion looks at him askance. "I can't promise I'll answer." 

"Would you ever come to see me? In Waterdeep?" 

"Oh," Astarion relaxes. "Well, obviously. I mean, if we both survive this." 

"In a hypothetical future," Gale agrees. "You'll always be welcome." 

"I like your hypothetical future. Baldur's Gate has its charms, but once I'm truly free of Cazador, and I can go anywhere in the world? I have no intention of sitting inside rotting. I can't confess I've been much more interested in Waterdeep than anywhere else before now, but it seems a rather appealing prospect all of a sudden." 

Gale grins up at him, suddenly happier than he's been all day. Triumphant, Astarion gets his book out and rests it on Gale's head. 

"There. Seeing as you're so determined to be of use, you can hold my book for me." 

"With my face?" Gale protests. 

Astarion lifts the book up to grin at him. 

"I can sit on it instead if you prefer." 

"I thought you'd said you were holding out on me." 

"I was," Astarion groans. "But you're right there, Gale. Your sheer existence has been eroding my willpower all day. And you're refusing to sleep. It would be cruel of me not to help tire you out, wouldn't it?" He pauses. "If you want me to, of course." 

"Maybe if we didn't have an audience," Gale points out. 

"Oh Halsin and Jaheira went off to join the others swimming, and I suggested to Wyll and Minthara that they might want to go too. I have no idea where Tara went, but I suspect it involved squirrels." 

Gale laughs. 

"You are incorrigible, aren't you?" 

"I hope so," Astarion grins. "In all seriousness, Gale. I mean it. I want to help." 

"You're here," Gale says. "You have no idea how much that helps already." 

Astarion rolls his eyes. 

"You are sickeningly sweet, love, and getting us nowhere. So I'm going to give you two options, okay?" 

"Two?" Gale says. "You're not just going to tell me what to do?" 

"Well, that might be one of them," Astarion purrs, "If you're good." 

"So is the other option that I get to tell you what to do?" 

"Oh no, absolutely not," Astarion says. "That's not nearly tiring enough. You're already very well-versed in bossing me around, and I'm exceptionally good at following instructions."

"When it suits you, sure." 

"It always suits me when it's you," Astarion puts the book aside, his hands coming to rest on Gale's shoulders. 

"You, however-" his fingers are working at the neck of Gale's shirt, pulling the strings loose. "Could do with some practice." He pauses. "Or we could practise stabbing people. It's up to you." 

Gale grins at him.

"Mmm, I don't know. Both options seem tempting. I may have to be…persuaded." 

Astarion takes it exactly as the challenge it had been. The only warning Gale gets is the twitch of his lip. 

Then Astarion flicks his hips, and Gale finds himself on his back, pinned between Astarion's knees, with a very satisfied looking vampire grinning down at him. 

"You're in trouble," he says, voice low, almost dangerous. "You seem to think that you're not worth loving. I disagree. In fact, I've been trying to tell you I disagree all-" his fingers move lower, "damn-" lower again, "day. But someone hasn't been listening. So, it seems I'm going to have to show you, instead. Maybe this way, it will stick in that head of yours." 

Gale grabs his wandering hands, dragging him back up his body to be kissed. 

"You are having far too much fun," he complains. 

"Of course," Astarion's eyes are dark, his gaze heady, like wine. "You know I love to tease you." He pauses, and leans in to kiss Gale again, with none of the hunger there had been before. "Do you remember what you said, the first time we did this?" 

"Which bit?" Gale says. "Because right now, probably not." 

Astarion laughs, twists his wrists free, and pins Gale to his bedroll. 

"Let me love you," he says. "The way you deserve." 

-

Gale does sleep, afterwards, although mostly because Astarion stays curled into him and winds his fingers through Gale's hair until he's breathing long and slow and deep. 

And when he wakes, Astarion is still there; and it is still light. After the shadowlands, it's quite a novelty. 

"Ugh, you're going to want to get up now, aren't you?" Astarion groans. "I was comfortable." 

"You could lie in the sun though," Gale points out. "Is it late enough to start cooking?" 

Astarion frowns at him. 

"Really, Gale?" 

"It takes considerably less energy than sex," Gale protests. "And I want to do things that feel… ordinary." 

Astarion sighs. 

"Fine. I suppose I'll help." 

He doesn't stay irritable for long. Mostly because Gale gets very excited about being able to have a proper slow-roast again, and Astarion gets to tease him for being so enthusiastic about it. 

"The greatest pleasures of life;" Gale professes. “A delicious meal, preferably accompanied by good wine, love in its most enjoyable of forms, and some form of art to be appreciated at one’s leisure." 

"Then this afternoon is only lacking one so far," Astarion muses. "I should fetch my violin." 

Gale looks up from turning the spit. 

"If music be the food of love, play on? " he suggests. 

"Well, how can I say no to that?" 

Gale laughs. 

"If you play something I know, maybe I'll sing for you," he suggests. 

And so, when the others finally return from their afternoon's swim, it is to music, food and laughter. 

They sit around the campfire as the evening draws in, admiring the first sunset they've seen in several weeks. 

Tara wanders back through the camp as Gale stands to get more tea. 

"You're back late," he observes. "No luck hunting squirrels?" 

"Plenty," Tara sniffs. "Unfortunately when I tried to come back earlier you appeared to be… busy." 

Gale snorts.

"Yes, alright Tara, there's no need to-" 

The mug shatters at his feet. 

"Mr Dekarios?" 

"Tara!" 

"Oh thank goodness. That was becoming unbelievably tiresome." She sighs. "You're quite infuriating when you ignore me." 

"I really wasn't trying to," Gale grins. 

Before he can say anything else though, Tara's expression changes. 

"I think your-" she says, in the same moment that Astarion stands up from the campfire. 

"Gale, your scar!" 

Gale looks down. 

His chest is glowing. Not white - not like it once would have. Purple. The colour of the weave. The true weave. 

Sparks are crackling from his fingers. Sparks he did not call. Sparks that refuse to die, no matter how hard he tries to dismiss them. 

"Oh hells-" 

"Oh dear," Tara agrees. 

Gale had spent a solid portion of the morning worrying about the new feeling of emptiness. 

It's gone. Somehow, he hadn't noticed. Because when he'd woken up that afternoon, he had no longer felt different.

"I don't suppose you have a counterspell to hand - or paw, as the case may be?" 

"Oh dear ," Tara repeats, much more emphatically. "Perhaps now would be a good time to start running?" 

"An excellent suggestion," Gale says, and promptly breaks into a sprint. "Wyll!" He shouts in his wake. "Wyll, counterspell! COUNTERSPELL!" 

"I don't have one!" Wyll yells back. 

"Then RUN!" The command rattles through him, even his voice echoing with the strength of it. The power is reeling, biting at the most fragile of reins he has on it. It's deep, too; deeper than he's been able to access in a long time. 

The lightning is sparking from his fingers now, his arms coming out in goosebumps. The ferocity of it is wound up like a spring. 

If he doesn't release it now, it will release itself. If he does it, at least there's a chance he can control it. 

He still tries to get as far away from the others as he can, first. Two steps more, however, and the weight of holding it pulls him to his knees. The lightning is crackling off his skin almost like flame, now. It should burn. It should scald. Instead, it's beautiful. Gently warm, like a hearthstone in the earliest moments of dawn. 

It is his. This is the power he lost, to the orb. Free, at last, from being bound to it; consumed by it. Free to be a part of him again. Glowing through his blood, under his skin, pulsating with life and power and a potential he'd thought lost forever. 

The fear fades. 

This is his. This is him.

In one hand, he grabs a fistful of earth, water ready in his palm to swallow it. In the other, he pulls fire to his fingers. He throws them together, pulling their essences into the spell as they spit and smoke. It takes shape in his hands; familiar and strange, unwieldy and desperate to be wielded. 

Gale spreads his palms, and calls on it. The movement comes to him from the depths of his memory, his hands moving as if of their own accord.

“Astrumvocatis!” 

The wind picks up immediately. It tugs at him, throwing his hair in his face and the robe back from his wrists, cold and furious and fierce. Thunder rolls overhead, long and loud, the ground shaking with it. In the final moments of dusk, the sky darkens to a deep black. Above him, the stars emerge, more numerous than they had ever been in Waterdeep. 

Then softly, quietly, the stars begin to fall. One by one, at first. The biggest, the brightest. Streaking down through the sky, carving glittering paths of light.

Then more of them, tens and hundreds and then thousands, drifting slowly down, trailing light like comets, until it seems to be raining stars. 

"Oh," Tara says, "How beautiful." 

Gale is inclined to agree. It's still taking every ounce of his focus to cast it, however, so he does not reply. The sparks of lightning running along his arms have faded now, the loose magic channelled into this; given form and purpose, it no longer spits and bites, but flows smoothly. Eagerly, even. 

The first of the fallen stars have nearly reached them. Gale raises a hand, and the light scatters. Like fireworks, perhaps. Only gentler - softer and slower. The sparks skid across the sky like shards of ice across a frozen river. The little flares of light as they explode brighten the whole campsite. And the forest beyond. The whole of their little corner of the world, lit by the magic of the stars. 

"Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths… " Gale says, absently, then chuckles to himself. The chuckle breaks on a sob. 

He kneels, in the dust and the dirt and their grubby little patch of reality, tears streaming down his face, the stars reflected in them. Just behind him, a voice says;

“Enwrought with golden and silver light,”

He turns, and finds Astarion standing behind him, looking up at the stars as they fall. He looks, if possible, even more beautiful in their light. 

“The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light.” 

“When I said run,” Gale says, disbelievingly, “I did not mean towards me.” 

Astarion shrugs. 

“You didn’t specify.” 

"I could have hurt you!"  

"But you didn't," Astarion points out. "You never have hit any of us by accident, it seemed unlikely you were going to start now." He pauses, suddenly looking quite put out. "Although I didn't necessarily think that clearly about it, honestly. You seem to have broken my self-preservation instinct. I hope you realise how worrying that is." 

Gale gets to his feet, brushing the worst of the dirt from his robe, hands shaking. 

“I’m staying,” he says, in relief and disbelief and excitement and fear. “I can stay!”

Astarion laughs at him, which Gale wouldn’t appreciate if he didn’t then say; 

“You get your magic back and that’s what you think about? I thought you were having a crisis about your whole sense of self! You could have stayed anyway!”

Gale closes the space between them in two steps and pulls Astarion in to kiss him. 

“Ugh, you’re wet,” he complains, reaching up to try and wipe some of the tears from Gale’s cheeks. “Try not to cry on my shirt, please, I’ve already lost one perfectly nice piece of clothing to you.” 

The stars are still falling around them as the others gather back by the campfire to watch. As they walk back towards them, Astarion says;

“We weren’t going to let you go, you know. We were just giving you the chance to come around on your own.” 

Gale squeezes his hand. 

"So," Shadowheart says, as they approach. "What does Mystra have to say for herself?" 

Gale shakes his head. 

"Nothing. Not even the vaguest hint of her, in any of this. If I had to guess, she remade me exactly as I had been, just minus the orb. And because the orb was the only thing holding me in check, without it-" he looks up, and smiles. "Well, you can see for yourself." 

"Why the delay?" Jaheira frowns. "It's been over a day since we got you back." 

"Now that's a question," Gale nods. "I don't know, honestly. Why don't newborns show signs of the weave? Why does it only become apparent later in childhood? For that matter, why does any of the weave work the way it does? You could join the leagues of wizards trying to answer that exact question. Knowing you, you'd probably do a better job than half of them." 

Jaheira laughs. 

“I can tell that you are feeling better. It is reassuring, to have you reply with more than a sentence.” 

“Thank you, I think.” 

They settle back around the campfire, reclaiming forgotten mugs and abandoned seats. The spell is in full flow now, the light above them sparkling like candlelight; like a city is glimmering at them, somewhere out beyond the edge of the realm. 

"What is this spell?" Wyll asks, curiously. "I don't recognise it."

"Oh, it's one of mine," Gale says. "I was working at the edges of the different schools of magic, before the orb. They can be irritatingly restrictive, you know. This is somewhere between Control Weather and Meteor Swarm, with a dash of Weird to spice things up. 'Astrum ’ being the stars, the cosmos, the very heavens themselves, and ‘vocatis ’ being to call upon, or to summon. Although it's not finished, I'm afraid. Mystra never had as much use for the ones that weren't lethal. I suspect it will start raining in about ten minutes' time. Evocation and Transmutation aren't happy bedfellows, even if you bring them together through Illusion, which they both tolerate perfectly well. Trying to create something and change its inherent nature at the same time is always a challenge. I never did get around to smoothing out the side-effects." 

"You… created your own spells?" Karlach says, thoroughly impressed. 

"Oh yes," Gale says, happily. "Though I'm afraid I left my notes for all of them at my tower, so it's not going to be much use to us. This is the only one I really remember." 

"Of course you only remember the one that is beautiful but serves no useful function." Minthara sighs. “Though having seen what you are capable of, I not longer wonder at Mystra wanting you on her side,”

“Hmmm,” Halsin agrees. “I'm glad you're on ours, Gale." 

"Me too," Gale says, looking around at the faces around the fire; most of them turned upwards, still, watching the slow fall of the stars. "Me too."

Chapter Text

Waterdeep at night is as sleepless as Baldur's Gate. The cloaked figure steps from shadow to shadow almost entirely unnoticed, slipping past groups of revellers, brawlers, and marketeers cramming their last few sales in. 

After the gloom of the underdark, it's strange to be somewhere with such a flat palette. The flora and fauna of the underdark, for all its drawbacks, glows in the full rainbow of colours. Waterdeep, built instead for sun-walkers and surface-dwellers, pales at night. 

The streets grow quieter as the cloaked figure makes his way further from the docks, around the curve of the bay and into the residential areas of the dock ward. The houses become grander and stranger in equal measures as he covers the cobblestones in his quick, easy gait. 

At last, he reaches his destination. He'd had specific directions, though it turns out he hadn't needed them; the tower had been visible even before they'd docked at the harbour. All he has done is follow the warm, inviting glow of the lights in its upper windows. 

Finally, he raises his hand, and knocks. 

The woman who opens the door is exactly as striking as he remembers; perhaps even more so. 

She's tall, dark-haired, with a strong brow and eyes that gleam with good humour. She still dresses luxuriously, though it's a quieter kind of luxury. Good tailoring, made to be almost invisible whilst enhancing all the wearer's best assets. Her smile-lines are deeper now, and her hair has thick streaks of grey in it. It suits her. 

“You must be Morena,” he says, with a bow. “It’s an honour-” 

From her heels a meow cuts him off. A moment later, Tara appears on Morena's shoulder. 

"Tara!" Astarion greets, delighted. "I hope you'll forgive the smell of the underdark. No matter how many times one bathes, it’s hard to shake." 

Tara sniffs the finger he stretches towards her, then apparently decides that it's worth the offence of the smell, tilting her head to invite him to tickle her under the chin. 

“And you must be Astarion!" Morena says, her voice rich and pleased. "I’ve heard so much about you!"

"All good things, I hope?" Astarion smiles. 

"Through Gale and his rose-tinted glasses? Nothing but! Come in, come in - here, let me take your cloak." 

She leads him into a huge circular room that seems to be mostly kitchen. It has two fireplaces, on either side of the room. One clearly belongs to the kitchen and serves the oven as well as several other appliances. The other sits in the centre of a curved bookshelf that matches the kitchen cabinets, with two armchairs tucked up next to it. Morena stops by this one and grabs another log to throw on the fire. As she does so, Tara hops off her shoulders and curls up in one of the armchairs. 

"Oh dear, then I'm afraid I may be a disappointment," Astarion warns. 

"Oh I doubt it - he certainly wasn't exaggerating about your beauty."

"Morena, you have my blushes." 

"I should hope so too! My compliments are few and far between, I shall have you know. I refuse to issue anything other than statements of fact for which I have irrefutable proof." 

There's a large dining-sized table in the centre of the room. It could easily seat twelve, but there's only five chairs cramped along the far end of the table. The rest of it seems to have been given over to scrolls, bits of parchment, and ingredient preparation. Whether alchemical or culinary isn’t entirely clear, so Astarion gives them a wide berth just in case. 

"Please, make yourself comfortable. Just one moment." 

On the far side of the room, a staircase curves back around the outside of the kitchen wall, presumably all the way back around the tower wall and up to the next level. There's one going down, too, to what he would assume is a pantry. 

Morena leans over the bannisters at the bottom and yells;

"Earth has not any thing to show more fair!" 

Then she wanders back into the kitchen, stopping to sniff and salt a pan of something bubbling away on the hob. 

There's a shift in the air; and there's Gale. He materialises with his back to Astarion, beside Morena. His hair is longer, now, and he's no longer as willowy as he was. He looks much healthier. Other than that, he’s exactly as Astarion remembers him. 

"Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

a sight so touching in its majesty."

Gale leans over Morena's shoulder to set the tea kettle on the hob. 

"Two lines?" She reprimands him. 

"They're the best two," Gale defends. 

"Heathen boy!" Morena scolds, but she’s smiling. "Honestly, I let you go off on one adventure and you come back leaving a poem at two lines and calling it done!" 

They move around each other with thoughtless ease; Morena places a used bowl in the sink, and with a flick of his wrist, Gale has it washed and drying on the rack. 

"Alright, a long one for you then; 

There was drama enough in my turbulent past:

Tears and passion–I’ve used up a tankful."

Morena turns to him with a hand on her heart, fully performing the remainder of the stanza; 

"No news is good news, and long may it last.

If nothing much happens, I’m thankful.

A happier cabbage you never did see,

My vegetable spirits are soaring.

If you’re after excitement, steer well clear of me.

I want to go on being boring." 

Gale laughs. 

"And that's cheating," she declares. "You can't do my favourites all the time, there's no challenge to it!" 

"No, but then you get to do your favourites. How long have you been here, anyway, happiest of cabbages? I'm going to thoroughly regret letting Tara give you a key, aren't I?" 

"It depends - when did you last eat?" Morena fires back at him. 

Gale pauses, considering. 

"What day is it?" 

Morena throws a tea towel at him. 

"I'm kidding!" Gale defends, catching it. "I'm doing an evening lecture up at the university tonight-" 

"There's plenty of dinner for Arabella too," Morena says. 

"Excellent," Gale folds the tea towel and throws it over his shoulder. "Now what did you need me for? You seem to have this under control." 

Morena smiles at him. 

"You have a visitor." 

Gale turns, frowning, and spots him. The smile splits his face like the sun rising. 

"Astarion! You didn't say you were coming!" 

Two steps across the kitchen and he's there. Astarion stands to meet him and finds himself swept up into Gale’s arms. He buries his head in Gale's shoulder, in his hair, and holds on like he's an anchor. 

His smell has changed; richer, now, accented with perfume and the musk of books, lacking the edge of blood and dirt he'd been so used to. His robe is of better quality, a softer material. He’s softer, too; being here suits him. 

"I've missed you," Gale says, into him, into his hair, and even when he lets go he doesn't step back fully, still holding Astarion's shoulders as if he can prevent him from leaving again by doing so. "How are you? Have you been getting my messages?" 

"Every sunset, without fail." Astarion grins. "I could set my clock by them. I would have told you I was on my way, but it turns out that introducing seven thousand vampire spawn to a place can destabilise the economy somewhat. I couldn’t get a sending stone for love nor money in the underdark, and I didn’t manage to get a message sent from Baldur’s Gate before the ship sailed either.” 

“You sailed?” Gale says, disbelievingly. “Are you alright?” 

“Gods no,” Astarion shudders. “It was awful. But much less awful than trekking a month overland.” 

“You sailed, Astarion. For me?” 

Gale is staring at him like he somehow can't quite believe he's real. Like part of him hadn't actually ever expected to see Astarion again. 

Which cannot be allowed to stand. 

Astarion pulls him down and kisses him. Just in case Gale had had the chance to get any ideas in his head about anyone's feelings having changed. 

"You missed me too, then?" He grins, when Astarion lets him go. 

"No, I'm counting the days until I can leave again." Astarion rolls his eyes. "I left Dammon and Minthara this tower as my forwarding address, so you'd better not have changed your mind on me." 

"Oh, hardly. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I think you'll find. How was the underdark? I imagine Minthara's enjoying her new charges." 

Astarion laughs, sudden and bright. 

"Oh, she is, in her own way. The stories I have to tell you - I hope you weren't expecting to be too busy these next few days." 

"It can nearly all be rescheduled," Gale waves his hand. "You're more important. Now come on - Morena won't take being ignored much longer." 

"I will be ignored all day and night for the man who makes my son this happy!" Morena says, entirely unrepentant about her eavesdropping. "Speaking of, Gale, how is that spell you've been working on going?" 

"Ah," Gale sighs. "I'm afraid I've hit a bit of a snag - unless we want to plunge the world into eternal darkness, which is what Susan's notes seem mostly concerned with. Tea, Astarion?" 

"A woman after my own heart," Astarion says. "What are you working on?" 

Gale looks at him over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. 

"I made you a promise, did I not?" 

Astarion pauses. 

"Is this…" 

"Walking in the sunlight again. I wasn't joking about that. Ever since we got rid of those little parasites, I've been researching. I'm glad you've come now, actually, you have impeccable timing. I'm preparing to head off up north in a few days - on foot, you’ll be pleased to hear. Chasing the trail of a lost manuscript. Not the kind of adventure that's up to the stakes of the last one, of course, but I've been getting restless just sitting around in my tower all day." 

"Ha! That is the understatement of the century," Morena says. 

Gale grins ruefully, bringing Astarion his tea and stooping to kiss his forehead. 

"I don't suppose you want to come with me?" 

"We'll have to travel at night," Astarion reminds him. 

"Probably quieter roads that way," Gale agrees. "None of the traffic to deal with." 

"He's practically nocturnal at this point anyway," Morena adds. "You know what he's like when he gets started on something. I left him reading at the table after dinner the other evening, and when I came back the next morning to drop off some post, he's still sitting there!" 

"I don't actually," Astarion says. "But I can imagine." 

There's a knock on the door then, and Morena looks delighted. 

"Come in!" She shouts - needlessly, it turns out, because Arabella has already let herself in. 

"Hello Ms Dekarios! That smells delicious!" 

"Our little idol thief!" 

"Astarion!" Arabella throws herself at him. Astarion, who hadn't been expecting anywhere near that enthusiastic a greeting, only just manages to catch her. Two seconds later, Scratch comes barrelling into the both of them, and if Gale hadn't caught the back of Astarion's chair they all would have ended up on the floor. 

"Down boy!" Arabella commands, and the dog instead runs circles around the kitchen, barking happily at them all. 

"Did Gale tell you what I've been learning yet? I can do a fireball now!" 

"Not inside!" Gale and Morena shout, simultaneously. Arabella lowers her hands, looking slightly chastised, but only barely.

"Oh yeah." 

"Do I want to know how many times you've done that?" Astarion grins. "Actually that's not a question, I absolutely do." 

"I'll tell you when Gale isn't listening," Arabella whispers, conspiratorially. "He barely ever shouts, but he does that face where he's disappointed in you and it's so much worse ." 

Astarion knows exactly the face she's talking about, and sympathises. 

"Do you want tea, Arabella?" Morena says. "It'll be ten minutes or so until dinner." 

"Mmmmm… is it Halsin tea?" 

"It is not Halsin tea," Gale says, gravely, as if breaking terrible news. "But that does not mean it is bad tea." 

"Ugh, fine," Arabella flops dramatically into a chair. 

"How is Halsin?" Astarion asks, curiously. "He's one of the only people I've barely heard from since we all went our separate ways." 

"He writes to me every week!" Arabella declares. "He keeps telling me that the owlbear misses me and I'm welcome to visit anytime, but I think it's him that misses me really." 

"He's much happier looking after all of those kids than he ever was as an archdruid," Gale puts in, as he brings Arabella her tea. "Have you heard much from the others recently then?" 

"Some of them. Shadowheart and Lae'zel are a little harder to keep track of, given the nature of the astral plane. I've heard news of Orpheus though - it seems news has got out about Vlaakith, so the gith are in turmoil." 

"I'd heard that too," Gale winces. "I hope they're okay." 

Scratch, apparently having run out his energy, barrels under the table and shoves his nose into Astarion's lap. Astarion obliges him very happily, and even allows Scratch to lick his wrists as he does so. 

"I think Shadowheart said she'd be visiting Isobel and Aylin, given that's where her parents are living now, so perhaps we'll hear from them sometime." 

"Oh, I keep meaning to write to Isobel - I should do that." 

Astarion nods.

"Boo sends me things occasionally. No idea what they say, of course, but given that Minsc can't write and Jaheira won't, it's better than complete silence.

"And Karlach and Wyll are in fairly regular contact with Dammon, who's been letting us know how they're getting on. They've collected another little group of adventurers by the sounds of it. I hope Zariel knows what she's got coming for her. Well, after Raphael, maybe she does." 

"I've had a few letters from Wyll, yes. I sort of wish Karlach had let us go with her," Gale frowns. "As much as I'm happy to be back in Waterdeep, I can't help but think we should be doing more for her." 

"I think having friends to come back to is motivating her," Astarion points out. 

They pause for a moment, thinking on this. 

"If engineering was more my forte, I would be doing everything I could. But as it stands, she has Dammon on side - and if he can't figure it out, no-one can," Gale says. 

Astarion smiles at him over his tea, warming his hands on the mug. 

"I don't suppose you've ever considered getting married in the hells?" 

Gale’s expression changes incrementally; he had been happy already, but now he’s glowing. Astarion shouldn’t revel in how easy it still is, to do that, but it has been some time since he’s had the chance. 

"I would marry you anywhere," Gale declares. "But I also have great faith in our friends, and I think Karlach isn't the only one who would prefer it if we wait until they figure out how to come back to Faerun. If that's alright with you, of course. I'd marry you tomorrow if you wanted me to." 

"I said yes already, didn't I?" Astarion reminds him. "I can wait." 

"It wouldn't be the same without them there," Gale agrees. 

Astarion had been watching Morena over Gale's shoulder. The moment she had turned, and her expression changed. 

"Gale Dekarios, did you propose without telling me?" She cries. 

Gale's cup of tea stops in mid-air, halfway to his mouth. 

"Uh-" 

Astarion takes pity on him. 

"He didn't get down on one knee, Morena. It was more of a discussion. Although yes, technically, Gale is the one who asked me." 

This doesn't help, if the expression Gale shoots him is of any indication. 

"Am I invited?" Arabella asks, urgently. "I promise promise promise I won't cast any fireballs." 

"Maybe if we do get married in Avernus fireballs would add to the ambiance," Astarion suggests. 

"Astarion, please," Gale sighs, though he’s smiling. "Of course you'll be invited, Arabella, but we haven't planned anything yet. We've just agreed that we want to. That's all. We have other things to worry about first, too." 

"You wound me," Astarion pretends to swoon. "Here I was, thinking that I'm the greatest thing that's ever happened to you-" 

"Oh, you are," Gale says, absolutely seriously. "Which is exactly why I want to do it properly." 

"Stop ruining my jokes by being sincere," Astarion complains. 

"Never," Gale puts an arm around his shoulders. "And I doubt you'd have me any other way." 

In truth, there's nothing Astarion can say to that. 

Morena spends most of dinner berating Gale about not telling her that Astarion is technically his fiancé. The two of them talk over each other constantly, finishing each other’s sentences, replying to questions that haven’t been fully asked yet. At times, it seems almost like they’re having three conversations at once. Astarion watches, and listens, and wonders if Gale talks so much because he just assumes that he doesn’t have to stop for anyone else to join in. There’s a warmth and familiarity to the way they talk to each other; he knows for a fact that Morena is a truly eloquent conversationalist. But this, it seems, is how she is naturally; where she doesn’t have to be performing a role.

Despite Gale's protests that they haven't really made it official, when he and Arabella head off to the university, Morena shows Astarion to what it turns out is his room. 

It's largely empty, at the moment, but it's clear that some thought has gone into it. From what Astarion remembers of Gale's study, this is similar; it's a room with a balcony, though currently the window is shuttered, and closed off behind thick velvet curtains. Despite that, the room is well-lit, high-ceilinged, and feels spacious. There's a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a bath right by the fireplace. It has also very clearly been made as cosy as possible. The number of pillows on the bed and the chaise is frankly excessive, even by Astarion's standards. 

"How long has this been set up like this?" Astarion asks. 

"Oh, since he got back," Morena says, bustling round plumping pillows and brushing the dust off the desk. There's even ink in the inkwells. "He knows he's not the easiest man to live with, my Gale. I think he wanted to make sure you had a space that could feel like it was your own. That you could make it your home as much as his." 

Astarion doesn't know what to say to that. 

"I didn't really bring anything with me," he confesses, thinking about the small trunk downstairs. 

"Well, he did say he'd been intending to take you down to the tailors at some point. He said you had exceptional taste and not enough chances to indulge it, which he intended to change." 

"He talked about me a lot, then?" 

Morena laughs. 

"He did. All of you, really. Despite having never met this Wyll or this Karlach, I feel as if I know them. You too, in a way. You're not quite what I pictured, though - I hope you don't mind me saying so, but I'm looking forward to spending some time with you myself. Getting to know you a little better." 

"I would like that," Astarion says. "I've heard a lot about you too, you know. You taught him to sing, I hear." 

"We're a household of music and poetry," Morena agrees. "Even when he started studying magic, I wasn't going to allow him to grow up without a true appreciation for the arts." She wags her finger at him, the same way Gale does. "Anyway - I shall leave you to settle in. I suspect you had a long journey even before we threw the chaos of the Dekarios clan at you. I'll be downstairs for a little while, but despite how it may appear I don't actually live here, so once I'm gone I'm afraid if you need anything you'll have to wait for Gale to get back. He shouldn't be too long, I don't think. Not knowing that you’re here waiting for him." 

"Wait - before you go." 

She turns in the doorway. 

"Hmmm?" 

"Do you know if he's heard from Mystra?" 

Morena raises an eyebrow at him. 

"Seems like the kind of question you should be asking him, not me." 

"Oh, I will," Astarion agrees. "I just want to be prepared for how he's going to react to it. So I don't say anything… unhelpful. I have been known to. I would like to… not." 

"You are a sweetheart, aren't you?" She smiles at him. "I don't know if I ever met a man like you in my whole career. Heaven only knows where Gale found you." 

Astarion shakes his head. 

"I wasn't the man I am now when we met. I have Gale to thank for that. More than he will ever know, I suspect." 

Morena puts her hand over her heart. 

"You two," she says. "To think, I was worried you weren't going to talk about him the same way he talks about you." She coughs, slightly, presumably trying to cover that her eyes are watering. "No, he hasn't heard from her. I presume she went and fished the crown out of the Chionthar herself, or made that poor old man of hers do it, but I suppose we might never know, and we must make our peace with that." 

Astarion nods. 

"Good. Thank you. We have killed Gods, you know, but I'd rather not make a habit of it."  

Morena laughs, sudden and sharp. It is so entirely unlike Gale's laugh that it's almost startling. 

"Well, if you change your mind, I used to be a terror with a scimitar. Self-defence and showmanship only, of course." 

"Of course," Astarion agrees, and winks at her. To his absolute delight, Morena winks back, a finger to her lips. 

And with that, she leaves him to it. 

Enjoying the revelation that he thinks he and Morena are going to get on like a house on fire, he turns to inspect his room. 

Astarion could do any number of practical things. Unpacking and bathing should be top of the list. Instead he drifts around the room; poking at the few tomes Gale has put on the otherwise-empty bookshelves, rearranging the pillows. Eventually, he finds himself drawn to the balcony. 

That's where Gale finds him, a few hours later. Sitting on the bench in the back corner, watching the moon over the water. As the ships pass, the reflection ripples, the stars sparkling as the water sweeps under them. The city, sleeping beyond the tower. As if it is waiting. 

Gale sits beside him. 

"How are you?" He says, quietly. "Have you eaten? When did your ship come in, did you rest before you came here?" 

Astarion turns to him, remembering how soft that concerned look of Gale's is, under his furrowed brow. 

"Did you spend your whole evening worrying about me?" He grins. 

"Maybe," Gale admits. "Are you? Alright?" 

Astarion leans into him, and breathes. 

"Thoroughly enjoying my freedom, now that I get to spend it with you." 

Gale hums, taking Astarion's hand from his lap to kiss his fingers. 

"How are you? You never mentioned how you were feeling, in any of your messages. I think Minthara decided she'd had enough of my help in the underdark when she caught me yelling to an apparently empty room that I wanted you to stop telling me that you loved me and tell me how you were." 

Gale chuckles. 

"I'm fine, Astarion. Better, now you're here. Maybe better than I've ever been. I still sometimes forget how to breathe, but Morena and Arabella know what to do when that happens, now." 

"Good," Astarion puts his head on Gale's chest, and listens to his heartbeat; strong, steady, and unencumbered by the weight of the karsite weave that had once stained it. 

There are a thousand more questions he still wants to ask, a thousand more things he's had to store away over the past few months, to wait to be able to say. But now, there's only one in the forefront of his mind. 

He pulls back to study Gale's expression. 

"You made me a room," Astarion says, wonderingly, still trying to puzzle out how he feels about it. 

"This is your home, too.” Gale says, simply. “If you want it to be."

Astarion sighs, irritated. 

"Of course I want it to be, Gale. You think I came halfway across the sword coast because I wasn't fucking sure?" 

"A fair point, astutely made, as usual." Gale smiles, and pushes Astarion's hair back out of his face. "I think this all just feels… too good to be true. You're here. This is our life now. Even when I was trying to imagine a future worth fighting for, I never imagined it as wonderful as this reality is turning out to be. I suspect that was the fastest lecture I’ve ever given in my life, knowing you were sitting here waiting for me." 

Astarion shakes his head, smiling. 

"Gale, I know we haven't seen each other for months, but I'm still not-" he grimaces. "Being with the others, in the underdark. I was always being reminded of who I was. What I used to do." He makes an attempt at a smile. "Can you believe I've just lived through what has maybe been the longest dry spell of my life, and I still don't think I'm ready?" 

"I can believe it," Gale nods. "You need time. However long you need, Astarion, I will be here for you." 

"What if time can't heal this?" Astarion says, quietly. "No matter how much I want to - what if this is how I am, now?" 

Gale rests their shoulders together. In the moonlight, his voice is quiet; earnest. 

"Astarion, I'm in love with you. You are everything, to me. You could say you never want me to touch you again, and it wouldn't change that. Not as long as you still want to be with me - whatever that might look like. I can live without many things - but I cannot live without you. 

"That's why I wanted you to have this room. It's your choice. You can make this your space and lock me out completely. You can share my room with me from this night on and never use this one again. Whatever you want, if it's within my power to give it to you, I will. For as long as you'll have me. I want there to be thousands more days like this ahead of us, and I frankly do not care what we do with them. As long as you're here. As long as you're by my side." 

Astarion leans in and presses his forehead to Gale's, breathing in the quiet intimacy of it. 

"I… love you too." 

He hadn't expected the words to be hard to say. He's known it, of course, for a long time. But he's never said it and meant it before. 

He does now. 

"I know," Gale smiles. "But I appreciate you saying it." He pauses. "Actually, I might need you to say it again. About a hundred more times. Just so I can remember it when I'm having a bad day, or you're off doing your own thing, or-" 

Astarion laughs. 

"It's easy for you to say," he says. "I'll get there." 

"You will," Gale agrees. "And in the meantime I'll say it enough for both of us." He pauses, then asks; "Can I kiss you?" 

"Please do." 

So Gale does, just as soft and sweet as the first time, however many months ago that was now. 

And when the sun rises, the balcony is empty; the shutters firmly closed and the velvet curtains pulled shut. Inside, in a room that does not yet feel like a home but has all the potential to become one, there are two people curled in the bed together. One is asleep on the other's shoulder. Between them, a book is open on a page about powerful spells that can grant wishes. 

In a moment, a pigeon will arrive with a letter. It will wake the tressym, asleep on the armchair in the kitchen. The ensuing chaos will wake them all, and when they finally retrieve the letter, it will change all of their plans. It will be a long time, then, before they get any real rest. 

But for now, they are sleeping, and safe. The next adventure is in the tomorrow.

Chapter Text

“I envy not in any moods
         The captive void of noble rage,
         The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods…

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
         I feel it, when I sorrow most;
         'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”

- from ‘In Memoriam, A.H.H’, by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Gale and Astarion, The Fifth Day

“ My heart is like a singing bird
                 Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
                 Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; ”

- from ‘A Birthday’, by Christina Rossetti

Gale, The Sixth Day

“...let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:”

- from ‘Amoretti LXXV: One Day I Wrote Her Name’, by Edmund Spenser

Gale, The Sixth Day

“ She walks in beauty, like the night ”

- from ‘She Walks in Beauty’, by Lord Byron

Gale, The Sixth Day

“Busy old fool, unruly sun,
               Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?”

- from ‘The Sun Rising’ by John Dunne

Gale, Morning of the Ninth Day

“Why should we rise because ‘tis light?
Did we lie down because ‘twas night?”

- from ‘Break of Day’, also by John Dunne

Astarion, Morning of the Ninth Day

“Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

- from ‘Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night’, by Dylan Thomas

Wyll and Gale, Evening of the Ninth Day

“I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned…

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know.  But I do not approve.  And I am not resigned.”

- from ‘Dirge Without Music’ by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Gale, The Tenth Day

“Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve…
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad”

- from ‘Remember Me’ by Christina Rossetti 

Gale, The Eleventh Day

‘Mere air, these words…’

- attrib. Sappho

‘What cannot be said will be wept.’

- Sappho

Gale, The Twelfth Day

“ If music be the food of love, play on ,”

- Twelfth Night 1:1, Shakespeare

Gale, A New Dawn

“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light, ”

- from ‘He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven’ by W.B. Yeats

Gale and Astarion, A New Dawn

“Earth has not any thing to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty”

- from ‘Composed Upon Westminster Bridge’ by William Wordsworth

Morena and Gale, Epilogue

"There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
Tears and passion–I’ve used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last.
If nothing much happens, I’m thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you’re after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring ."

-from 'Being Boring', by Wendy Cope

Gale and Morena, Epilogue

Songs this was written to:

First Light - Hozier
The Sound of Silence - Disturbed
Dreams - The Cranberries
Teardrop - Massive Attack
Black Velvet - Alannah Myles
Like The World is Going to End - Ben Rector
Could Have Been Me - The Struts
Bird Song - Juniper Vale
Like a Prayer - Miley Cyrus
What’s Coming to Me - Dorothy
Light My Love - Greta von Fleet
A Little Bit Happy - TALK 
All Things End - Hozier
Someone To You - Lewis Capaldi 
Castles - Freya Ridings
It’s Getting Better - Cass Elliott