Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

An arrow sliced through the air, missing Gale's head by a hair's breadth as he took cover behind a fragmented archway. He screwed his eyes shut and swore under his breath.

The entire affair had transpired into a veritable disaster, devoid of any semblance of their intended diplomacy. Their mission, initially crafted with hopes of persuading the goblin chieftains to direct their attention away from the sacred druid grounds, swiftly spiralled out of control. Thanks to Astarion's failed attempt at deception, compounded by his rude and unamusing remarks, they found themselves attacked by two dozen pissed-off goblins before they could even approach the camp's entrance.

In hindsight, the vampire's original idea of sneaking in and systematically neutralising their adversaries might have yielded a more favourable result. But, quite frankly, even if they had tried, Gale had doubts that the shrubbery surrounding the camp could have concealed Karlach's impressive stature or that his protesting knees could have withstood the rigours of such a clandestine operation.

Now, separated from Karlach and Shadowheart, with Astarion gods-know-where, Gale huddled in the dirt, deeply regretting all decisions that led him down this path. He prayed for a well-timed divine intervention, but judging by the general state of their recent fortune, the gods had long abandoned them.

His foot slipped, the soppy, muddy grass offering no purchase, and he slid to the floor with a wet, sickening squelch. The stench was all-encompassing and overwhelming. Rotting flesh and entrails, in various stages of decay, were strewn across the earth, forming a gruesome tapestry of death. Pools of vomit and Mystra-knows-what-else slicked every available surface, a grotesque aftermath of the goblins' putrid feast, rendering the terrain into a fetid, treacherous morass.

The situation was far from ideal. They had been at it for what felt like hours, and Gale could feel his grasp on magic ebbing slowly as he drained himself. Each spell became increasingly difficult to draw in, and they had barely made a dent in the onslaught.

He instinctively reached out to the jewel in his ear, then aborted the movement, fingers curling into a fist instead. His nails bit into the skin of his palm. He forced himself to slow his breathing, grounding his awareness in the cool stone wall pressing against the knobs of his spine. He leaned into it until discomfort flirted with pain, anything to anchor himself as he tried to concentrate once again, carefully tugging at the webs of the Weave. Irritation welled in his chest as he sensed those strands escaping his grasp. 

Just as the dark tendrils of panic began to infiltrate his nerves, a body skidded beside him, narrowly avoiding collision. In a desperate bid for self-preservation, he moved to grab a rusty dagger lying discarded at his feet, only to halt as he discerned the familiar form of the vampire. Astarion slammed his back against the same stone structure Gale was using for cover, seeking refuge from the rain of arrows.

The elf's appearance mirrored Gales own wretched state perfectly. His face was drained of its usual allure; he seemed exhausted and fatigued. Sharp crimson eyes shadowed by bruise-tinted circles, his cheekbones protruded, giving him a hollow and gaunt countenance.

Astarion's fingers moved with practised ease as he swiftly coated his next arrow in poison, then reloaded the weathered crossbow he had scavenged from a carcass days earlier.

Another goblin arrow wedged into the ground right next to Gale's right ankle, snapping him back to the present and prompting him to refocus.

"Are you going to just sit there gawking, or do you intend to be of use, wizard?" Astarion snapped at him, not even sparing him a glance. 

Disregarding his words, Gale surveyed the elf, taking in his cadaverous appearance, "You look like you've been dragged through the Nine Hells." Gale voiced without truly meaning to.

Astarion turned to him. "Why thank you," he said, his eyes half-lidded, with a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth—entirely out of place given the circumstance. "And here I was beginning to think you were immune to my charms."

"I—" Gale faltered, his eyebrows pinched as he tried and failed to decipher the expression on the elf's face. With a great portrayal of intelligence, he landed on a simple "What?" His usually refined vocabulary momentarily forgotten amidst the storm of arrows and the conversation veering wildly off-course before it even started.

Frustrated that, even when resembling someone who had just emerged from a freshly dug grave, Astarion still possessed something dark and rich that burrowed under Gale's skin like an unwelcome parasite, setting his nerves on edge.

"Aren't you just the paragon of speech, Wizard of Waterdeep?" Astarion deadpanned, his gaze constantly darting around in search of enemies. With each target he identified, his teeth sank into his lips in concentration, leaving faint impressions where his fangs pressed against the tender flesh. Only a subtle eye-roll, which Gale caught because he was glaring at the elf, hinted that Astarion was jesting at his expense.

A muscle in Gale's jaw twitched.

"I realise this may be a foreign concept to you," Gale said, voice edged in irritation, "but I need to know how my companions are faring in the heat of battle," he pointed at Astarion. "Your aim is faltering, and your countenance... frankly alarming. If there's something I ought to know before we all end up decorating the floor in viscera, now would be the time."

The elf's smirk widened. "Oh, now you're a marksman as well; how delightful!" Astarion retorted, voice lowering into a soft purr "I do love a man of many talents."

Gale's persistent frown deepened, and a headache born of sheer indignation began to pulse at the base of his skull. 

"I have received training in weaponry, basic martial forms, as part of my early tutelage. But I wouldn't claim proficiency by any stretch of the imagination." Gale countered. 

The elf shot him a withering look, held it for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the horizon with a slight shake of his head. 

Astarion's ability to dodge uncomfortable questions was nothing short of impressive. Gale found that engaging in a straightforward exchange with the elf often felt eerily similar to their current uphill battle against the goblin horde: swift and discomfiting. A verbal sparring match, so to speak, with Astarion pivoting toward cutting remarks and humiliation whenever he felt cornered. Some of their companions have dealt with it better, but Gale could never find the right words, the correct reactions to ensure their interactions remained on a track he was able to navigate.

He fancied himself a patient man, but Astarion had this uncanny knack for goading him into losing his temper and turning even the most casual conversation into a test of restraint. They were playing different games entirely, leaving Gale feeling off-kilter and unaware of the rules.

"I fail to see how any of this is your business," Astarion remarked eventually, a note of tension slipping into his voice. He manoeuvred around the wall quickly and took a shot at one of the guards standing on the rubble-strewn balconies. Missed. 

Gale may not have been a healer or a cleric, but even to his untrained eye, he could see the slight tremor in Astarion's hands. The way he moved, as if his body no longer sat comfortably on his bones, like his skin was an ill-fitting glove. He recognised the unmistakable signs of exhaustion. But considering they had just enjoyed a decent night of respite, that couldn't be the only explanation.

Oh.

Realisation struck him like a sudden gust of cold wind.

He was all too familiar with that kind of fragility, the cautious movements, the tightness around the eyes. He had seen it before, often enough in his own reflection.

Hunger. Astarion was starving.

"Astarion, when was the last time you fed?" Gale blurted out, and the elf spun around, mouth ajar.

"I beg your pardon?" Astarion spluttered, his fingers tightening their hold on his weapon as if Gale had broached some indecent subject. Then the expression was gone in a heartbeat, "Your profound concern for my well-being is touching. Warms my dead heart. Truly." Astarion quipped, his smile tight and failing to reach his eyes. He ducked just in time to avoid an axe hurtling their way as he peeked out from their scant cover. "But is now really the time?"

"When was the last time you fed?" Gale repeated, with a little more conviction, allowing his impatience to seep through his words. "I need not remind you that it is imperative I survive this encounter." He pressed a palm to his chest, where the orb pulsed beneath the layers of his robe. "Having exhausted the last vestiges of my power, I am unable to fend for myself, let alone dispatch our adversaries. And if my heart stops, I assure you, the goblins will be the least of your concerns."

He glanced across the courtyard to where Shadowheart and Karlach were surrounded by a tight ring of goblins. He watched as the tiefling lifted her enormous axe, poised to strike, but before the weapon could cleave through the foul creatures, a goblin with a crude club landed a heavy blow, driving her to her knees.

He couldn't risk their lives.

Astarion released an exasperated sigh of defeat, "The goblins have hunted the forest dry, and while our fellow companions are surprisingly tolerant of my... condition, there's a distinct lack of volunteers for a blood offering. Can't imagine why," he said dryly, his index finger lightly tapping against the wooden tiller. "I'm just drained, trying to find an opportune moment to sink my teeth into these wretched creatures, but I'm unable to get into… biting distance," He added, then fished out a different vial of liquid and dipped his next arrow into it. 

"Very well, so what is it that you need?" Gale's demeanour shifted, his mind promptly focusing in pursuit of a solution.

A flicker of surprise crossed Astarion's face. It was evident from his general attitude that teamwork wasn't something he was particularly accustomed to or adept at, but neither was Gale, and these were desperate times. 

"I've little strength left," Gale admitted after a beat. "Shadowheart and Karlach are out of reach, and, loath as I am to say it, you may be our best hope at the moment." He gestured towards their occupied companions, but quickly withdrew his hand as a firebolt scorched past them.

"Oh my," Astarion lowered the crossbow, clutching at his chest with his free hand, and let out a feigned gasp. "Are my pointy ears deceiving me, or is the once-esteemed Archmage of Waterdeep offering himself as supper? How gracious," he mocked, a smug smile stretching across his visibly wan face.

"If it stops your aim from straying and gets us out of this alive, then it's worth a try," Gale responded, feeling the weight of Astarion's gaze as he spoke. It was likely improper that a small part of him found excitement in the prospect of experiencing a vampire feeding firsthand.

Astarion's smile faltered, and Gale squirmed slightly under his relentless stare. 

"Gods…you are serious," it wasn't a question. "It could… make a difference, alter the course of this grim affair," Astarion said, briefly setting aside the usual animosity that made itself at home in his expression, for a whisper of genuine concern. "Are you certain?" His deep tone carried a subtle undercurrent of emotion that Gale stood no chance of understanding.

A quick, sidelong glance and a beat of silence followed. Gale realised he was being offered an escape route.

Gale's gaze drifted back to their allies once again. Karlach—her entire form ablaze with the fires of her rage—had collapsed to the ground, while Shadowheart, in the midst of casting restorative spells, struggled to keep her alive for a few fleeting moments. They were in dire straits.

"Every passing second we spend chatting chips away at our chances of survival. Do what you must," Gale responded firmly.

The elf simply nodded, then placed the loaded crossbow on the ground with care, positioning it away from the grime but still within arm's reach, should they be interrupted. Gale's chest rose and fell rapidly as Astarion moved closer, swift and purposeful in his actions as always.

Surprisingly, Astarion didn't go for Gale's neck, as he had half expected. Instead, he reached for Gale's hand, fingers curling around his with slow insistence, prying them from his staff. Gale didn't resist. He allowed the elf to roll up the sleeve of his robe and push the leather gauntlet out of the way, revealing the soft expanse of his wrist. Astarion maintained unbroken eye contact, a hint of uncertainty flickering in his gaze as he leant forward, pausing for another heartbeat as if offering Gale another chance to reconsider.

Gale remained motionless as Astarion raised his wrist to his mouth, his breath sending a shiver down Gale's spine and jolting him from his anticipation-laden daze. By Gale's rarely mistaken understanding, vampires had no need for air. However, before he could lend voice to the intrusive thought, he felt the cool press of lips against his pulse point, followed by the sudden, sharp pain of teeth sinking into flesh, and Gale's mind went blank.

He had to fight back the overwhelming urge to gasp. It had something tightening low in his gut. It's been so long since someone had touched him that even in the middle of a battle, a vampire feeding on him sent confusing signals through his body.

The initial sting quickly dissipated, replaced by a chilling sensation as Astarion's vampiric energy flowed into Gale, soothing the pain. The sound of the battle surrounding them dulled in his ears. The air was charged with unexpected intensity and teetered on the edge of an eerie but not unwelcome sense of tranquillity. 

Gale leaned back against the stone wall, poised to draw a calming breath and steady his nerves. However, the bubble of serenity shattered when Astarion abruptly recoiled.

The elf's hands flew to his red-stained lips, his mouth agape, an accusing scarlet glare fixed on Gale. "By the gods, what is wrong with you?" he sounded hysterical, and Gale might have found amusement in the uncharacteristic flailing of his arms if instant worry hadn't flooded his mind.

Gale's brow knitted with confusion. "What do you mean?" His reawakening panic must have mirrored Astarion's as he frantically checked the wound on his arm, unable to find anything out of order. 

Astarion, though somewhat recovered, still wore an expression of undiluted shock and disgust. 

"Your blood tastes like the bile of the cave spiders. Cave spiders, Gale. It's revolting," the elf said, his gestures still exaggerated. Despite the circumstances, Gale found himself inexplicably offended.

"What in the Nine Hells are you pricks doing? We need help!" Karlach's voice cut through the chaos, sharp with irritation as she bellowed at them. Amid a field of goblin carcasses, drenched in gore and dirt, she stood tall. The frenzy of her recent bloodlust had only just subsided, leaving her body wreathed in untamed flames. Gale couldn't help but steal a fleeting glance, momentarily captivated by her wild beauty.

"Aaand there goes my cue," Astarion quipped. "I'm coming, darling!" he shouted, a light tone filling his voice seemingly out of nowhere. Despite barely having a mouthful of Gale's 'revolting blood', it seemed enough to spur him into action. With swift agility, the elf sprang into motion.

Gale had witnessed Astarion in combat in the past, noting his rapid arrow volleys and deft blade work in the heat of battle. Yet, in that instance, as Gale watched Astarion seamlessly transform into a lethal predator before his very eyes, he was left utterly spellbound in every sense of the word.

The elf's movements flowed seamlessly, the sinewy muscles of his thighs beneath the tight leather breeches shifting with each deadly manoeuvre. Astarion proved himself a formidable force, effortlessly dispatching three goblins with a single magical arrow. Whether it was the effect of the bite, exhaustion, or simply the first time Gale had actively observed the elf in combat, he was unable to tear his eyes away. 

✦

Gale had been grappling with the murky mist of recollection of the past few tendays. One moment, he stood on the threshold of his Tower in the heart of Waterdeep, and next, he was falling.

The memories in between resembled a fever dream, where apparitions of otherworldly entities, the sinister presence of illithids, and the unsettling sight of squirming tadpoles danced upon the periphery of his consciousness to the thunderous rhythm of his own heartbeat. Then, there was the sensation of plummeting from a significant height, which was not an entirely novel experience for him, however, falling out of a nautiloid ship engulfed in flames right after those tentacled aberrations had forcibly implanted a tadpole through his ocular orifice and into the recesses of his brain, presented an unprecedented predicament, even by his resilient standards.

In truth, Gale often ended up entangled in situations of rather unwise or unexpected nature, but this, admittedly, might have been the worst one yet. Well, perhaps not worse than the orb fiasco with the threat of explosion firmly tethered inside his chest, but undeniably a close contender for second place. He made a mental note to stop accumulating magical anomalies with a predisposition to swiftly end not only his own existence but also the lives of those within a considerable radius.

In the midst of hurtling towards the ground, however, musings on explosions and tadpoles had to take a backseat to the threat at hand—namely, gravity.

As Gale tumbled earthward, he caught a slight glimmer on the side of a hill. Landing safely was one thing; he needed a plan to shield himself from the impending crash of the ship tailing him.

So, he did the only thing he could think of. Mid-descent, Gale reached out, seeking a bridge to the Weave, to Mystra. Silently pleading for permission, he attempted to interlink whatever access he still maintained with the Weave to connect with the glinting travel portal in the distance. Guided by instinct rather than conscious volition, he wove the incantation in a hopeless attempt to forge the link. 

Energy surrounded him, force pulsating around his body. For a breath, it was bliss—the scent of rosewater, a tender warmth enveloping his being, reminiscent of bygone times. He could just about feel her skin under his fingertips. But then darkness crept into his mind, and a struggle ensued. He didn't stand a chance against the foreign energy, and the orb began rapidly devouring the magic he conjured, siphoning it away along with the remnants of distant memories. 

Undeterred, Gale remained steadfast in his focus on the elusive target, even as he became entangled, dragged inexorably into the swirling vortex of magic.

It worked. Sort of. Gale was still alive, as far as he could tell, but he was trapped. The connection he forged with the portal was hasty, rushed, and incomplete. A sloppy job at best, rendering him a prisoner of sorts, incapable of manipulating the energies that ensnared him.

The sensation of being completely drained of magic, a feeling both alien and unsettling, pushed him to the edge. Cold fear washed over him as he continuously reached out to the unresponsive tangle of webs. 

Gale's connection to the Weave was always peculiar; he had mastered the Art as naturally as acquiring speech or perfecting one's first steps. Manipulating the webs had been as natural to him as drawing breath, and until recent events, he hadn't realised how much he relied on this connection. Ever since his major blunder with Mystra, since the volatile orb made itself at home in his chest, his bond with her had been severely corrupted, and his access to the Weave compromised. What once felt like crafting delicate art now resembled fighting a battle with wooden swords riddled with splinters. What used to come naturally now demanded twice the energy and concentration, leaving him fatigued much sooner than ever before. What was once a dialogue had become a weary soliloquy.

Gale wondered if this was the typical experience of magic-wielding for others, for those less gifted, or if he was corrupted beyond repair.

This is how he found himself trapped in a portal, his impatience corroding his senses as he awaited the slow resurgence of his magic, battling against the looming dread of what if it never returned. The prospect of a life devoid of magic was unfathomable, yet his concern wasn't just for himself but for the catastrophic consequences a magic-starved orb could unleash, potentially claiming half of the Sword Coast with him.

The approaching murmur of voices forced his mind out of its rapidly darkening spiral. Though drawing nearer, the sound remained unintelligible, distorted, almost like distant speech from beneath the surface of water.

Then, he could sense someone interacting with the portal. A small rip suddenly appeared, and seizing upon the opportunity for escape, Gale thrust his hand through it with desperate urgency, but the opening proved too narrow for him to pass through.

"A hand, anyone?" he tried. 

A sudden, sharp sting jolted through his palm as someone on the other side delivered a harsh slap—which was, well, really fucking rude.

"Perhaps. I should've clarified" he said, trying to hold his impatience at bay. "A helping hand? Anyone?" He could feel the person on the other end reaching out to the portal's magic, and Gale sensed its grasp on him loosen.

"Whatever you're doing, it's working wonders! Now, a quick little pull should do the trick." The hand clasped his and pulled.

The sunlight poured down, harsh and unforgiving, causing his head to throb relentlessly. His knees trembled, weakened from disuse; then he keeled over. When he raised his eyes against the blinding backdrop of the midday sun, an elf stood there, silver hair arranged in artful curls haloed by the bright light. In a moment of fleeting delirium, Gale entertained the thought that a deity had descended to his aid.

However, as the initial disorienting haze subsided and his vision sharpened, he discerned that another figure, a woman, stood beside them, both strangely familiar. He clambered to his feet and offered a hand.

"Hello, I am Gale of Waterdeep." 

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale 

It took a couple of days for their ragtag group to regain footing after the disastrous encounter at the goblin encampment. 

It wasn't that Gale was obsessing over the events that transpired between him and the vampire—oh no, he was simply contemplating them. A lot. Alright, perhaps his mind was entirely entrenched in a single pursuit, and he had spent the past two days buried deep within his meagre collection of books, trying to figure out the source of the apparent foul taste of his blood. But could anyone fault him? Some of Gale's worst nightmares were woven from threads of incomprehension, of not knowing things, and recently, most of his troubles seemed to trace back to that cursed orb thrumming under his ribcage.

A few seasons back, after countless weeks of poring over tomes, with Tara's invaluable assistance, they had chanced upon a remedy for the blight. Not a panacea, mind you, but a treatment of sorts. Satiating the orb with Weave-infused artefacts, the tressym had helped him acquire, held the worst of the darkness at bay, though it came at a steep price, in quite the literal sense. Despite the strain on his finances, the cost paled in comparison to the potentially disastrous alternative.

Lately, however, the orb had been changing. Its persistent hunger had morphed into an insatiable appetite, gnawing at Gale's chest with newfound fervour. It no longer merely tainted his connection to Mystra; it felt as though the malevolence was seeping into the very essence of his being. 

Which was an unsettling thought, to say the least. 

His search for answers about his tainted blood, however, was thwarted at every turn; each trail picked up in moth-eaten books led him down yet another fruitless path. After nights spent scribbling frantic notes and even resorting to the extreme measure of slicing his fingers open to taste his own blood, which, mercifully, tasted very… well, bloody—, Gale was reluctantly ready to admit defeat. But giving up wasn't in the cards for someone like Gale. So, on the third evening of painstakingly futile research, he resolved to set his pride aside.

This is how he found himself hovering near Astarion's tent, under the weight of deep-seated apprehension.

"Are you planning to lurk there all night like some brooding ghoul, or will you finally step inside? Or perhaps you're about to reveal yourself as a fellow vampire, helpless without a proper invitation," Astarion's calm, bored voice drifted from within the tent.

Gale paused for a quick breath, then stepped inside.

It was the warmth that caught him off guard; he had anticipated a cold, unwelcoming atmosphere more befitting of vampire stereotypes. Instead, the tent embraced him with unexpected comfort. Mounds of pillows, soft blankets, and books neatly arranged on a table greeted him. Astarion, despite his penchant for teasing Gale about his love of reading, boasted an impressive book collection, far more organised than Gale could ever manage. He could almost hear Tara's mocking reprimand: 'Mr. Dekarios, even the blood-sucking vampire spawn can maintain better housekeeping than you.' It wasn't Gale's fault that Tara didn't understand his system.

Astarion lounged on his makeshift bed, stretched out, all long limbs, his camp wear worn and soft in the flickering candlelight. Seemingly absorbed in a book, his eyes never left the page as he spoke. "To what do I owe this pleasure? I assume you didn't come all the way here just to admire my belongings?"

"I wanted to discuss what happened," Gale said, opting for directness, "during the fight at the encampment." Astarion visibly tensed, though his gaze remained fixed on his book.

"Gods, even if I were inclined to a... midnight snack, rest assured, you wouldn't be my first choice. You have nothing to worry about, little mage." 

Gale felt a flush of heat rise to his cheeks. Growing up as a prodigy, he had been accustomed to admiration from a young age, being treated and viewed as someone special. He was far less accustomed to pet names, especially those with the undignified flair Astarion seemed to favour.

"That's not—" Gale began, but suddenly he was struggling for the right words. It wasn't a frequent occurrence for him to be left speechless, but Astarion often rendered him tongue-tied in the most frustrating ways possible.

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but your blood is not exactly a delicacy. Rest assured, I will be steering well clear," the elf continued, his tone casual as if discussing the weather, and he turned a page.

"I would prefer if you didn't," Gale's thoughts spilt out unexpectedly into the open, scattered like pearls on the ground amid the sudden deathly silence. 

A tidal wave of mortification washed over him in the wake of his unguarded straightforwardness. Astarion froze, then slowly tilted his head, finally meeting Gale's gaze with suspicion. 

Gale lifted his fist in front of his mouth and cleared his throat. "The flavour of my blood... I can't make sense of it. It's been haunting me for days; I've combed through every tome in my collection. There's not a single mention of such a phenomenon. It must be tied to this cursed blight inside of me," he rushed, his words tumbling out as he desperately sought for Astarion to understand this wasn't some perverse obsession. "I need more evidence, more information to figure out what's happening before we all get obliterated."

The orb had already irrevocably changed the course of his life; as everything continued to unravel, Gale feared it might also be gradually poisoning him from within. The familiar unease that swelled at the thought was an unwelcome acquaintance, quickly expanding too large for his skin to contain.

Astarion, presumably hearing his suddenly elevating pulse, sat up straight and closed his book, but he kept a finger inside to mark the page.

"You're not about to explode, are you? I'd rather be far, far away from you when that happens," he quipped, his words harsh.

It coaxed an unexpected bark of amusement from Gale.

"No... I'm... no," Gale stuttered, "I apologise, I'm not exactly feeling myself, and I'm not explaining this well. I'm not usually this bad with my words." He took a slow, measured breath, ran a hand down his face in an attempt to regain his composure, and tried to engage the more rational side of his mind. "What I'm trying to convey, albeit poorly, is that I'm concerned that the orb has something to do with the taste of my blood. I have some theories I'd like to test out to better understand what's happening. I know this is a significant request, and I completely understand if you choose to refuse, but I had to ask."

Astarion remained motionless, akin to a statue, his unblinking eyes fixed on Gale, making him shift uncomfortably under the unnerving gaze. "Forget it, this was a foolish idea. I just—"

"What do you want, wizard?" Astarion interrupted, possibly growing tired of Gale's ramblings.

The embarrassment and awkwardness that had enveloped Gale somewhat dissipated, and he immediately felt in his element now that the conversation was steering onto more favourable topics of an academic nature.

"I have tasted my blood," he said, which earned an arched brow from Astarion and an amused smirk. "There was no hint of bile, suggesting that it's not the blood itself but the life essence—the one vampires feed on—that's tainted. I'm wondering whether the magical items it demands might affect it. However, considering the orb's recent unreliability, it might be unwise to use them unless absolutely necessary. Perhaps we should try potions or some form of purifying ritual cast upon me instead," Gale proposed, counting options on his fingers. Astarion appeared to ponder the suggestion.

"Let's say that I agree. What's in it for me?" the elf leaned back on his bed again, studying Gale with sharp, calculating eyes, not for the first time reminding Gale of an overgrown feline.

"Well, I was thinking that, despite my blood not being particularly—" Gale paused, searching for the right word, "appetising…" the corner of Astarion's lips twitched, "Correct me if I'm wrong, however, it still seemed to have its advantages. And if we could find a way to make it... more palatable? I'd be willing to—" Gale's words faltered as he became acutely aware that he was rambling once more. There was a certain quality about Astarion that often made him feel like a child under scrutiny. "Provide the additional sustenance you might need on occasion," he finished weakly, his voice trailing off.

"Interesting. So, if I understand correctly, you would allow me to feed on your foul-tasting blood, and you might even gather some information about that love bomb tucked in your chest," he concluded, rolling the words around in his mouth as if trying them on for flavour. He then nodded slightly in agreement. "Fine," Astarion declared evenly. "Now, where do you want me?" he asked, setting the book aside.

"What, right now?" Gale's eyes widened in surprise. He had expected more resistance. "Also, please refrain from calling the orb a 'love bomb'," he added with a deep frown of disapproval. 

"Should I expect a formal dinner invitation then?" the vampire drawled, disregarding his complaint, clearly enjoying that Gale wasn't entirely in control of the conversation. The elf knew precisely how to get under Gale's skin.

"Fine, no, we can start now," Gale said with a nervous smile, his excitement shining through. He clapped his hands together before reaching into his pouch and, after some rummaging, retrieved a small vial containing a rich crimson liquid. "This, my bloodthirsty friend, is a dragon's blood potion—well, my twist on it." He had scraped together the ingredients and made the potion, intending to use it only in dire situations where someone was cursed beyond what a restoration spell could handle. This situation certainly fell within that category.

"Dragon's blood," Astarion repeated.

"Yes, it's a potion that Khelben Arunsun, Lord Mage of Waterdeep…"

"He used it to dispel the curse that kept Daland in Undermountain. Yes, I'm aware I'm not an imbecile," Astarion interrupted, his voice tinged with a touch of impatience. Gale blinked, surprised. "You are staring again," the elf remarked, his tone sharp. 

"I just didn't expect someone like you to—" 

"Someone like me?" Astarion squinted at Gale dangerously, his tone turning glacial. "Pray, do tell me what you mean by that."

"I just didn't expect you to—" Gale tried again, but Astarion cut him off once more.

"What? Be able to read?" The elf's piercing eyes were like the point of a blade. Before Gale could utter another word, Astarion pressed on. "Let's just proceed," he added with a huff and a shake of his head.

"Very well," Gale concurred. In truth, the tale of Daland wasn't something plucked from nursery rhymes; it wasn't common knowledge unless one had delved into research or was deeply immersed in Waterdavian history, leaving Gale somewhat taken aback. But Astarion was right. The more they talked, the more likely this would end up in homicide, so opting for a silent resolution, he delicately uncorked the vial and raised it to his lips. The liquid, devoid of taste, ushered in a cool surge of magic, coursing through him as he swallowed. The enchantment flowed, washing over his body, making the orb hum.

"Potions brewed from ingredients sourced from creatures of the magical variety open new doors to accessing the Weave. It creates a connection that feels more instinctual, like glimpsing through the eyes of the very creatures from which the ingredients are derived. It's a more primal kind of bond that most people are not even aware of when consuming them." Gale explained, letting the magic settle for a heartbeat or two. 

Once the magical current found its equilibrium, Gale nodded to Astarion, extending his arm toward him. Astarion leaned forward, his cool fingers wrapped around Gale's wrist as he brought it to his mouth. Gale's eyes fluttered closed from the sensation of skin-on-skin contact that he still wasn't accustomed to. Gale sensed the vampire's breath on his skin—something he had noticed at the goblin camp too, but had dismissed as a mistake caused by the disorientation of battle. Yet, there it was again. Then, his thoughts came to a screeching halt as Astarion's lips met his pulse point, and all breath evaporated in Gale's lungs.

Sharp sting was followed by ice-cold numbness that vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

Astarion abruptly recoiled.

The elf shook his head, dropping Gale's hand "No, absolutely not," he fervently rejected, wiping the tainted crimson liquid that trickled down his chin.

To his surprise, that familiar wave of rejection didn't come. Instead, he felt quite the opposite—a challenge. His mind raced with possibilities. The corruption might not be inherent in his blood but rather a magical coating, like an oil slick on water, refusing to mix and maintaining a distinct separation. 

He paced back and forth, his thumb tracing circles around the bite mark Astarion had left on his wrist.

"You're mumbling. Has the bile finally destroyed your mental faculties as well?" Astarion remarked, still looking a little ruffled. His lips pressed together into a slight frown.

Gale stopped and examined the elf. "How are you feeling? Is there any improvement?" He couldn't discern any significant change in his countenance.

The elf shrugged, "I didn't take as much as last time, but I guess blood is blood, so there was a small surge for sure, but the gods awful taste remains."

Gale's hand found the hem of his robe and absentmindedly started to run fingertips over it, "Hmm. I suppose we could give a magical item a shot. Though I remain somewhat wary of the orb. Still, it may be worth a try. You wouldn't happen to have any lying around, would you?" Gale asked, surveying his surroundings.

Astarion's eyes narrowed. "Let's say I had, what makes you think I would hand them over freely?"

"Oh, come now. You're the one who's always rummaging through corpses and lightening the load of unsuspecting merchants. It's hard to believe you haven't come across any magical trinkets yet." Gale said with some humour. 

"Presumptuous of you," the elf remarked with a smirk. "Former Archmage of Waterdeep, was it? Aren't you supposed to be rolling in riches? Why would you need aid from a humble vampire spawn like myself in acquiring such invaluable items?" 

"Ah, my apologies. Next time I'm getting abducted by illithids, I'll make sure to remember to grab my wallet." Gale grumbled, rising irritation eating at the jovial mood. He had to remind himself that he was here asking for a favour, so keeping his calm would likely be beneficial.

He did have a gauntlet lying around in his tent, though he was hesitant to sacrifice it, as it provided protection magic that Gale so desperately needed. Nevertheless, if no other options were available, it would have to suffice.

With some resignation, Gale conjured a Mage Hand. However, before he could direct it to fetch the gauntlet from his tent, Astarion's eyes snapped to it.

"That!" the vampire exclaimed, the tense moment discarded in favour of sudden uncharacteristic excitement as he straightened again, placing his feet on the ground. "That smelled different." 

"What do you mean?" Gale looked at him, puzzled.

Astarion gestured in the general direction where the Mage Hand appeared "When you conjured the Hand, your scent shifted. I wonder if that could be related."

"That's interesting," Gale said as he dismissed the spectral hand and conjured a small ball of fire in his palm. "How about this?"

"Fantastic. Feel free to incinerate my tent while you're at it," Astarion complained, "but yes. It's almost an imperceptible change, like a flicker of a flame; you blink and you miss it."

"Interesting," Gale repeated. His thoughts a whirlwind; he always relished an excellent magical mystery—the trial and error, the excitement of uncovering answers. Unfortunately, lately, his days had been consumed by putting out fires, moving from one crisis to the next. There was hardly a spare moment for learning, let alone anything remotely intriguing. However, with this newfound opportunity to delve deeper into magic, his enthusiasm reignited. "Would you mind giving it another try, while I cast a spell with my other hand?" he asked, eager to make the most of the chance.

Astarion peered at Gale's hand in silent contemplation, then the vampire gestured invitingly, not shifting forward this time but prompting Gale to bridge their distance. Gale stepped closer obediently, right between the elf's parted legs, and placed his hand in Astarion's. Cool digits loosely wrapped around his wrist once more, but instead of bringing it to his lips, he singled out one of Gale's fingers.

Gale couldn't help but feel a twinge of self-consciousness as he noticed the stark contrast between their hands. His own was perpetually smudged with ink, stained from hours spent poring over parchment. Astarion's, by contrast, was immaculate—elegant, with neatly trimmed nails and not a speck of dirt in sight. Even the faint calluses on the elf's palm, earned from wielding weapons with deadly force, did little to diminish its disarming softness.

"We don't know how many tries this will take. If I keep biting your wrist, it is going to get mangled. For now, I'll simply pierce the skin here," the elf explained, his low voice dragging Gale back into reality.

A subtle tinge of unexplainable disappointment followed, though the elf's suggestion made perfect sense. Gale forced himself to relax, allowing Astarion to use a single sharp fang to make a slight cut on his index finger. As crimson liquid pearled at the tip, he recast the small flame into his other palm.

Gale became painfully aware of his misjudgement as his brain absorbed the scene before him. He was well-acquainted with his knack for making poor decisions in life. However, allowing Astarion to lap at his finger while peering up at him through his long, pale lashes undeniably secured a prime position on his ever-growing list of regrettable choices.

Judging by the sly smile tugging at the corner of Astarion's mouth, he knew exactly what he was doing.

Mercifully, the moment ended almost as abruptly as it began when Astarion leaned back, shaking his head again. Despite the apparent distaste for the blood he had just sampled, the smirk remained on his face, clearly relishing Gale's growing discomfort, which had bloomed into a heated blush.

"Still disgusting," he declared matter-of-factly, his persistent leer in stark contrast with his words as he reclined further into the heap of cushions on his bed. 

Gale snatched his hand back, needing a moment to compose himself. Astarion's unrelenting flirtatiousness, combined with the vivid mental replay of what he had just witnessed, made coherent thought nearly impossible. He fancied himself the master of effortless charm, yet Astarion had the most disarming knack for leaving him utterly bereft of words.

He cleared his throat, "I think there might be a need for more research. I have some reading to do, but I would like to carry on this experiment if you are amenable." 

"See you tomorrow, darling." Astarion chuckled, deep and smooth like velvet, and Gale wanted to punch him. 

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale 

The orb expanded within him, stretching his chest and fracturing his ribcage with unrelenting force. A subtle black-violet radiance seeped through his paper-thin skin as the otherworldly mass pressed against his bones, organs, and soft tissue; the sounds of cracking and squelching pierced the silence of the surrounding darkness. The excruciating pain held the promise of a cataclysmic explosion, threatening to rend him apart at the seams.

His hands moved instinctively, nails tearing into muscle, driven by an inner resolve that bordered on primal. As his skin yielded, the vibrant light of the corrupted alien mass spilt out, grotesque and raw. The frigid air had settled numbly in his fingers while the sudden damp heat on his hands served as a sharp contrast and stirred something at the precipice of consciousness.

A sudden jolt thrust Gale into harsh wakefulness, his heart pounding violently against aching ribs. Fear's icy grip tightened around his lungs as each laboured breath struggled to deliver air. His blood pulsated loudly, a persistent beat deafening and disorienting. Cold sweat pearled on his forehead, cascading down to his temples as he fought desperately to force his breathing back to normal.

As he slowly rekindled with awareness, the cold violet terror ebbed away, leaving only the throbbing chest pain and the disconcerting warmth that remained on his hands. Summoning a feeble light for clarity, Gale's eyes darted around his tent, trying to orient himself. He recoiled at the gruesome sight of his blood-soaked torso, his fingernails painted black in the dim light.

He traced the jagged red marks and hissed as the salt of his clammy palms bit at fresh wounds. With trembling hands, he reached for a healing potion from his pouch, downed it hastily, then collapsed back onto his sweat-dampened covers. He folded an arm over his face. He ought to have got out of bed and cleaned up the mess, but he felt weak to his core, nothing but an empty husk. Within seconds, exhaustion claimed him, and he surrendered to the embrace of a dark, dreamless unconsciousness.

When Gale awoke the next morning, his sternum was crusted with flaky, blackened blood. The faint lines still lingered. Healing potions could slow the bleeding or even stop it if the wounds were shallow enough, but the skin beneath had taken on the raw hue of fresh meat, not a scar, exactly, but a ghostly reminder. His own torso reminded him of a macabre, rust-streaked chest, fleshy and grotesque, a deceptive treasure hidden deep within his ribcage, like a mimic lying in wait for some fool to open it... and strike.

He hurried to his improvised basin, splashing water on his face in a feeble attempt to scrub away the dirt. Blood tinged the water a faint pink as it rippled. When he glanced at the water-spotted mirror, a fatigued face greeted him—dark circles beneath haunted eyes, and facial hair just a touch too long, badly in need of grooming.

Hastily tying his hair back and throwing on his clothes, Gale stormed out of his tent. It was still dark outside; the early hour meant that none of their companions were yet up and about, a fact for which Gale was immensely grateful. His mind was a haze, but he was in desperate need of answers, and he needed them at once.

Without invitation, Gale barged into Astarion's tent, only to find the elf already on his feet, seemingly ready to depart. Though his eyes were alert, Astarion still looked tousled from his reverie—hair in disarray, residual softness from his rest still carved into his features. 

"What in the Nine Hells is going on?" Astarion demanded, reaching for his armour.

"Nothing, nothing, just need a word with you." Gale lifted his hands to stop the elf from grabbing his battle gear and storming out of his tent. 

"You reek of blood, and your heartbeat is going crazy. Should I be expecting a goblin horde?" Gale must have done a poor job of cleaning himself up amid his early morning dismay.

"No, no goblins. This was me. Had a nightmare, and, well..." Gale gestured at his exposed chest beneath the black shirt hanging loosely around his frame, undone, where the faint lines remained visible. Astarion's eyes widened briefly, but Gale pressed on before he could interject. "As I have mentioned previously, something's wrong with the orb. It's growing more volatile. The artefacts aren't appeasing its hunger like they used to, and it's making me more restless. And my blood—" he wavered, "I just need more answers." The words rushed out of him, and he finally glanced at the elf standing before him.

In the flickering candlelight, with silver curls dishevelled, Astarion looked even more beautiful—ethereal, a descriptor Gale typically reserved for deities, gods and goddesses. Most certainly not for vampire spawn. 

Gale shook his head to clear his mind of wandering thoughts and willed himself into an explanation. 

"You mentioned earlier that when I cast, there's a subtle change in my scent. I've been wondering, perhaps it's the moment a spell is birthed that creates the effect."

Astarion scrunched his nose at Gale's choice of words, "Birthed? Really?". He rested his armour back onto the chair and crossed his tent. 

"Yes, the point when it's simultaneously leaving the Weave and entering our plane of existence, materialising and connecting with the caster. That might be the key. I've noticed on multiple occasions that when I cast spells or consume anything magical, the orb behaves differently. It's happier, more... sated. My theory is that my connecting to the Weave, appeasing the orb, might also be what alleviates the poisonous taste of my blood," Gale spoke rapidly, a mile a minute, his hands wildly gesticulating to emphasise his words. His rambling monologues typically caused people to lose interest after a few words. To his surprise, this didn't seem to be the case with Astarion, who watched him with rapt attention, softly humming in agreement once Gale finished.

"This kind of makes sense. Fine, so what's your suggestion? You can hardly keep a spell in the 'birthing canal'," Astarion mocked, running with Gale's unappealing metaphor but without the usual bite in his tone. 

"Well, not precisely, but spells that demand heightened focus," Gale began. Then, with a graceful gesture, he waved his hand through the air, connecting with the wild webs, channelling magic, beckoning it right into the palm of his hand. In an instant, an illusion appeared—an image of a small black cat nestled on Astarion's table. "Stay connected to the Weave, to the source longer," he finished. 

Gale was pleased. Typically, the prospect of a breakthrough grounded in theory alone would have been enough to spur him into action. But this time, it was Astarion's unwavering attention and careful contemplation of Gale's words that stirred a strange concoction of emotions within him and fueled his determination to succeed.

Memories of past acquaintances, friends, lovers, mentors, even his own mother's empty words skirted around the fringe of his mind. Most people found him obnoxious when he went on one of his explanatory tangents, often misconstruing his enthusiasm as arrogance. Gale ran his hand down his face, trying to clear his mind and focus on the connection; he wouldn't allow these memories to poison his momentary enthusiasm. 

Gale held his breath and lifted his head to look at Astarion.

"Oh, by all means, turn this place into a menagerie," Astarion grumbled, but Gale didn't miss the small uptick of his poorly concealed smile. The elf's eyes roamed over him once more, clearly trying to catch a glimpse of the source of Gale's injury, but refrained from further commenting on his current state of disarray. 

"But yes, this seems to be doing the trick; you smell more… stable," Astarion added evenly, then shifted his gaze to the illusion of the cat with an unexpectedly gentle expression, rendering him almost... human somehow. It was an uncommon look on him, not something he often revealed to others, at least not an expression Gale had ever been privy to.

The creature on the table was astonishingly lifelike, with its dark, watchful eyes fixed on Gale. It sat up, lifted its paw, licked it, and began grooming its round face, meticulously combing through its whiskers. Despite its seemingly tangible presence, the cat remained eerily silent. Its midnight fur shimmering in the gentle glow of the candlelight, and Gale had to swallow around the sudden tightening of his throat. He missed Tara. 

"Would you mind if we tried again?" Gale asked, softer than intended, looking at Astarion with hopeful excitement. To his surprise, the elf's usual cold demeanour also appeared to be slipping slightly.

"Why not? Let's see if we can make a snack out of you, Sunshine," said Astarion in his usual flirtatious tone, back in place, but there was no edge to his words this time. 

A wide, unbidden smile spilt onto Gale's face as he quickly renewed his spell to keep the connection strong, and Astarion responded with a rare smile that reached his eyes. Gale did his best to suppress the warm feeling suspiciously similar to pride that the sight invoked. Gods, if Elminster witnessed how far he had fallen—the great Gale of Waterdeep, squirming in front of a vampire, asking him to feed on him.

Gale reached out, offering his arm. Astarion once again clasped his wrist, the familiar gut-churning feeling following right in tow. The elf raised Gale's index finger to his mouth, puncturing it with his fang, quickly sending blood rushing to the surface of his skin. Gale shifted his weight and had to suppress a strangled sound as he felt Astarion's tongue slide against his fingertip, lapping at the bead of scarlet. The elf closed his eyes and hummed in satisfaction, a visible shiver running through his body.

Breath bated, Gale waited for the verdict. "Is it better?" he managed, pressing the words out with a strangled exhale. The concentration spell gradually settled in the back of his mind. Spells of this nature weren't typically a wizard's forte, but Gale had always exhibited an uncanny ability to manipulate the Weave in ways that suited him with frightening ease. This was precisely why Mystra had taken an interest in him in the first place.

Astarion remained still for a heartbeat or two, as if savouring the flavour, and Gale granted his eyes free rein to roam. The way the elf's silver locks curled around his pointed ears, the candlelight glinting on the shiny strands, Gale took it all in. His gaze lingered on the set of small moles high on Astarion's cheek; the sole imperfection that somehow only accentuated his otherwise flawless appearance.

Astarion nodded. "It's strange… there's a difference, definitely not a flavour I've ever tasted. Mind you, I'm no human blood connoisseur. Yours is the first I've tasted, after all," said Astarion conversationally.

Even with his mind running on the back burner, this revelation felt significant. Gale struggled to figure out why as his rising emotions and scientific reasoning warred for attention.

"What?! " His grasp on the spell was precariously close to slipping; it was a miracle he hadn't lost it already.

"Don't get me wrong; I've sampled my fair share of spellcasting creatures since our little 'Journey of Joy' began—occasional goblin or bugbear here and there. But people aren't exactly lining up to offer their necks willingly, except for you, for some inexplicable reason," Astarion continued. 

Gale's mind raced, trying to recall any hint, any snippet of conversation from the past few tendays that might shed light on Astarion's usual feeding habits, but he came up empty-handed.

"What about… in the past?" Gale asked before he could have changed his mind, worried that inquiring about the elf's past might ignite his usual ire.

"What, with Cazador?" Astarion released a humourless laugh. He turned his head towards the cat that remained curled up in the same spot. "Is this your poor attempt at humour? I'm but a mere spawn. Sinking my teeth into a putrid rat was considered a grand indulgence in our loving household. We weren't allowed to feed on thinking creatures," he said as if discussing the weather, but his gaze remained averted. 

"So, you wouldn't know if all human blood is the same as mine? Perhaps this is more of a human thing than a 'me' thing," said Gale, forcing his mind back to their experiment. He was certain Astarion wouldn't appreciate further prying from a barely-acquaintance, and Gale had no desire to let the conversation devolve into an argument. He carefully locked this information away for later, to ponder over in an undoubtedly healthy manner once he was in the safety of his own tent.

"Sorry to disappoint, darling, but this is unmistakably a 'you' thing. While I may not have tasted human blood on my tongue before, I have certainly encountered its scent, and yours is unlike any other, with or without your magic suppressing the blight," said the elf before he walked up to his table. "It wasn't noticeable at first, but once I knew what to look for, the difference was unmistakable." He playfully prodded at the cat, now peacefully dozing on the wooden surface. His hand easily sliced through the fake image, but the illusion didn't falter. "You are good at this, aren't you? Most of the spellcasters I've met can barely keep their enchantments up for over a few moments. But here you are, maintaining yours effortlessly while chattering away." 

"Well, I was called a prodigy for a good reason," said Gale, alowing a smile to creep back on his heated face. "Shall we?"

"What?" Astarion tilted his head to look at him, his brows furrowed slightly.

"You've undoubtedly earned a meal, vampire," Gale chuckled, suddenly feeling better than he had in days.

Astarion straightened, and his ever-penetrating gaze bore into him. "Are you certain?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious. 

Choosing to withhold words he'd undoubtedly regret later, Gale simply nodded, stepped closer, and extended his arm. Astarion accepted it without hesitation, cool palm sliding against warm skin.

"Alright then," the elf said, crimson eyes flicking between Gale's as his tongue briefly wet his lips. "Sitting might be more advantageous," Astarion continued, motioning towards the bed. "Feeding, you see, can take a lot out of you and tends to leave one rather lightheaded. Also—" Astarion's grip on Gale's arm tightened slightly, and his eyes trailed down to Gale's throat. "If I could trouble you for your neck this time, it would be much more convenient," he said with an unreadable expression.

When Gale didn't respond, unable to form words around the sudden shock of air that got lodged in his throat, Astarion continued, "Feeding from the wrist works in a pinch, but the neck provides better access and flow," then a sly, seductive smile climbing upon his face he added, "Or I have been told the inner thigh is also—"

"The neck will suffice," Gale said abruptly, trying to keep the onslaught of the conjured images in his mind at bay as his face warmed. 

Astarion released his arm with a low, dark chuckle, and Gale had to avert his gaze. He ran his now free hand down his shirt, wiping his suddenly clammy palm into the soft fabric. It appeared that weaving suggestive ideas had become a favoured pastime for Astarion. Previously, they always felt like empty words; flirtation was just another weapon in the elf's extensive verbal arsenal. However, in the last couple of days, there had been a shift; vacant vocabulary slowly filled up with provocative mental imagery that Gale would have preferred to be without.

He released a trembling breath and pushed aside his slight discomfort and embarrassment, determined to proceed. He was indebted; Astarion had aided him, and now it was his turn to return the favour, even if his traitorous body, after weeks of disinterest, suddenly decided to start taking the elf's words seriously.

Astarion beckoned him to the bed, humour still evident on his face, but it wasn't the cold, mean variety Gale was so accustomed to. 

How much worse could this be?

"Of course," Gale managed, a pang of nervous regret accompanying his compliance as Astarion guided him to sit on his bed, feet resting on the ground. But it was too late to backpedal. The elf nestled beside Gale, shifting slowly as he encroached on his personal space. 

It turned out things could get much, much worse.

Astarion leaned closer, close enough for Gale to catch his scent. An intoxicating blend of something sweet, mingled with bergamot, rosemary, and something dark and opulent, all layered beneath the soft, lingering fragrance of sleep, struck Gale with unexpected force. For a singular, unguarded moment, an irresistible urge surged within him, tempting him to turn his head and bury his face in the elf's neck, where the scent promised to be most potent. 

Fortunately, just before he could have yielded to his erratic impulses, the elf deftly snaked a strong arm around his midsection, pulling him closer and coaxing him to lean against him.

Gale's heartbeat quickened with the all-encompassing sensation of being touched, being enveloped by another. Overwhelmed by the sudden intimacy, Gale's hand instinctively found its way to Astarion's arm, grasping but not pushing it away.

Astarion indulged in one of his needless inhales, something Gale had almost grown accustomed to. On the verge of turning to interrogate him about it, Gale froze as the elf exhaled near his ear, causing an involuntary shiver to roll down his spine. Astarion slowly scented him like a delicacy awaiting consumption. His ears and neck, particularly sensitive, tingled, and he had to choke back a whimper. One hand still clutched Astarion's arm, while the other reflexively gripped the elf's thigh, which was pressed firmly against his own, as anticipation spread heat through Gale.

All rational thought dissipated, however, when Astarion leaned in and rested his lips against Gale's tender skin for a heartbeat. The initial sting of teeth sinking into flesh was soon replaced by the familiar cool sensation that swiftly eased the pain as Astarion began to feed. 

The elf swallowed, and Gale half-expected him to recoil again, but instead he deepened the connection, moving impossibly closer, his arm tightening until there was no space left between them. Gale had imagined Astarion's entire body to be as cold as his hands tended to be, but it felt more like a cool gulp of fresh air than the biting winter chill he had envisioned. He was acutely aware of every inch of them pressed together; Astarion's spring against his own blazing summer heat.

Astarion fed on him as if he were famished, which was undoubtedly true after years of torment. The realisation that the elf had never had the chance to feed undisturbed, in a safe setting, struck Gale profoundly. An unexpected sense of privilege washed over him at the thought of being able to provide this moment to Astarion.

Finally, he relaxed his muscles and leaned into the strong body beside him.

The gentle puffs of air through Astarion's nose continued, and neat lines of gooseflesh rose in their wake. Initially, he thought Astarion was breathing purely to provoke a reaction, but now he wondered if it was a lingering reflex carried throughout all these years.

He could feel the elf's mouth flex as his jaw locked over his flesh. A small, distant part of his brain realised they were probably going too far, but it felt like sinking into a warm bath.

Vague memories of hot springs from his youth emerged before his mind's eye—the sensation of slipping into a secluded pool where the water wasn't scalding but perfectly warm, enveloping him in weightlessness. It was mesmerising, feeling so surrounded, so safe. He longed to weave poetry about the beauty blooming in his thoughts, but he was growing too tired to speak.

Breathing became increasingly difficult, as if an imaginary hand had closed around his neck, constricting his airway. 

Now, that was a thought. 

Any recollection of pools and bathwater swiftly dissipated and gave way to a vivid mental image of Astaron's long, elegant fingers wrapping around his throat in an iron grip. All he could hear was the rush of his pulse in his ears. Suddenly, unbidden, that long-suppressed sound rose and broke free from the depths of his throat. It seemed to bring Astarion back to his senses, and he slowly withdrew. 

The world slowed, as if his head were submerged underwater; every sense dulled, every defence lowered.

He turned slightly, each movement requiring conscious effort. It was difficult to keep his eyes open or his head upright. So he rested his temple against the elf's shoulder, his gaze drifting to the vampire's mouth, now stained crimson. Plush lips slightly parted, exposing fangs tinged soft pink—an unexpected urge to lick into his mouth and taste his own blood coursed through Gale.

Astarion, with his lashes hanging low over his eyes, searched for Gale's gaze. The elf shifted, turning towards him, and with the movement came the horrifying discovery that Gale was very, very, very hard. 

Freshly awakened desire spiralled into steadfast embarrassment, which quickly deepened into belly-deep shame, hitting Gale like a bucket of ice water. 

He was unsure when this had happened and, more importantly, what had brought on such an unexpectedly strong reaction.

His mind still hazy, limbs weighed down, he attempted to put as much distance as possible between them. He prayed to all gods, greater and lesser, that he wouldn't succumb to unconsciousness from blood loss, or worse, that Astarion wouldn't take note of his current state. The previously heated expression on the elf's face was now replaced with one of genuine concern.

"Wizard, are you..." Astarion's voice trailed off, tinged with an uncharacteristic note of uncertainty, which only escalated Gale's panic further.

He couldn't have noticed.

Gale was struggling with an onslaught of complicated emotions, accompanied by a dizzying light-headedness. It was suddenly all too much.

"I need to..." he stammered, rising abruptly. His vision dimmed, black spots began to blot out his sight, and he fought to maintain his balance as he nearly collapsed back onto the bed. Astarion reached out to steady him, but something in Gale's expression must have given him pause, for he halted just short of contact.

Gale wasn't unfamiliar with a sensation of simmering arousal; far from it. He simply wasn't accustomed to experiencing it in the absence of romantic attachment. In his experience, this kind of heat always walked in the footsteps of profound emotion. It left him reeling, unable to comprehend how such a feeling could arise for someone he could barely tolerate for more than a fleeting moment before longing for their swift and torturous demise.

It wasn't exactly Gale's finest moment—stumbling out of Astarion's tent like an awkward debutante fleeing the scene—but he desperately needed a moment of peace and a great deal of distance from the damned vampire.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Astarion

Astarion wasn't a man of many words. Well, fine, let's rephrase that.

Astarion wasn't an elf of many truthful words. He excelled at blabbing, flirting and liked to think he was an outstanding partner at low-stakes banter. But when it came to sticky territories like other people's emotions, he was utterly useless and, quite frankly, uninterested.

So, when the Great Wizard of Waterdeep had burst into his tent, reeking of blood and sweat, delivering an impassioned monologue on life essence and magic—which led to Astarion feeding on him and nearly killing the man, only to be abruptly left alone, still in a daze from the lingering effects of the magic-induced euphoria—he found himself unsure of how to proceed.

Gale's deficiencies in small talk, his tragic response to flirtation, those lamentable fashion choices, and his uncanny ability to incite Astarion's ire within seconds were almost admirable in their consistency. And yet, Astarion found himself drawn to the wizard. There was a certain allure in Gale's formidable intellect and talent. That power, gods, that power. Even dulled by the orb in his chest, it was exquisite. Overwhelmingly so.

Astarion wasn't exactly forthcoming about the effect the wizard's blood had on him. He admitted to the change in its smell and taste, and acknowledged its invigorating effect, even after just a few drops. However, he conveniently omitted that Gale's blood, when infused with magic, was enormously potent.

The moment it touched Astarion's lips, a surge of energy from the Weave washed over him. Its lingering effect was immediate and profound. His persistent nausea vanished, replaced by a sense of strength he hadn't felt in decades. Tasks that once demanded great concentration now seemed effortlessly simple. The sensation was a heady, enormously addictive wave of rapture, intoxicating and exhilarating, leaving him craving more.

Astarion had always been drawn to power, and spending two centuries without even a morsel of it had left him starved in more ways than he had imagined. He wasn't simply hungry for blood. He wanted to feel Gale's mouth-watering, powerful magic coursing through him again immediately after his mouth had detached.

On the first night after their encounter, a plan to seduce the man, adding him to his ever-growing list of victims, began to take shape in Astarion's mind. The wizard's inexperience in making lasting connections presented a vulnerability ripe for exploitation. From what he had gleaned about the mage's past relationship with the Lady of Mysteries herself, it seemed he was the hopeless romantic type.

And romance, Astarion could do. With a dash of seduction here and a sprinkle of deceit there, he could secure not just a reliable source of sustenance but also access to the potent magic he so desired. If he played his cards right, he might even succeed in evoking genuine feelings from the man, potentially gaining his protection, a precious asset in the inevitable confrontation with Cazador

And yet, even when he had the wizard standing right between his legs, his cheeks flushed and his heart beating erratically, he didn't act on it.

He was painfully aware that the others only tolerated his presence and turned a blind eye to his condition because they recognised his value in battle. They appreciated his adept skills in lockpicking and his swift ability to disarm traps, but he doubted they would choose him over the wizard if it ever came to that. He couldn't risk getting expelled from the group if he accidentally killed the man drinking him dry or broke his stupid, emotional human heart.

So he did the next best thing: he avoided Gale entirely for the following tenday, speaking only when absolutely necessary and only in the presence of no fewer than three members of their little dysfunctional band of freaks.

In hindsight, it was likely obvious what he was doing, but Gale wasn't exactly queuing outside his tent to revisit the moment he was nearly killed in a blood-induced frenzy, or how perilously close Astarion had come to crossing boundaries best left... untouched.

Astarion, however, could not deny that the sound the man had made while gasping for air through rapid blood loss was seared into his memory. It was the kind of sound that, had he allowed himself the indulgence of sleep, would have haunted his dreams for all the wrong reasons. He wondered whether Gale realised just how close he had come to death.

He had never expected to see the wizard as anything but a walking, talking encyclopaedia of random, often useless facts. Yet here he was, lying in bed, reading the same page in a weathered copy of the mostly inaccurate Annals of Baldur's Gate for the fourteenth time without absorbing anything at all, as his gaze kept darting to the man in question through the entrance of his tent.

He slowly dragged a fang across the soft skin of his lower lip, imagining the sensation of sinking it into the wizard's neck once more. His eyes fluttered shut as he indulged in the fantasy.

"I brought him five onions, a brick of stale bread, a sun melon, and six oranges," Karlach's voice cut sharply through his thoughts, jolting him back to reality. She poked her head into his tent, just as those thoughts were taking an exceedingly inappropriate turn.

Astarion let out a low, amused snort.

"Really scraping the bottom of the barrel today, aren't we? That sounds positively revolting."

"That's what we said last time when we dumped a sack of walnuts and some withered apples on him, and then he whipped up that stew I'm still dreaming about."

Astarion raised an eyebrow. "I don't think I trust your tastes."

He could not remember exactly when it had started, but Karlach and he had taken to gathering and offering Gale a progressively ridiculous assortment of pilfered ingredients for their meals. Astarion, not eating, did not care much for the outcome but relished Gale's unmistakable displeasure each time they presented the wizard with yet another bag of garbage.

"If you could eat, you'd get it," Karlach said, jabbing a thumb towards camp. "Fringe is the pickiest eater I have ever met. The woman practically lives on coffee, wine and repressed rage alone, and even she devours everything Gale puts in front of her."

It did not go unnoticed how Karlach tried to weave Shadowheart into every inane conversation lately, but Astarion decided to, for a change, keep his observation to himself.

"He probably uses magic," Astarion shrugged.

"Nuh-uh," she shook her head. "He doesn't. I have been hovering around him for days, and other than the occasional Mage Hand to grab him items, he doesn't use anything else," she said, her eyes wide, clearly impressed by the wizard's culinary prowess.

"Oh, I'm sure he loved that," Astarion muttered under his breath.

The tiefling rubbed the back of her neck. "I do feel a bit bad, though, for doing this to him," she added with a concerned look.

"Please." Astarion waved a hand lazily, brushing the thought aside. "From what I've seen, he performs his little suffering act for sympathy, but he lives for the challenge. We're doing him a favour," he added, mostly for Karlach's benefit.

"That's true. He always seems pleased when he manages to make something amazing out of all this crap," she said, her signature smile hitting Astarion with the usual, disarming force.

"Yes, well, do spare him the praise. His ego already takes up more space than his tent," he huffed, idly flipping between pages of his book.

The tiefling's brows furrowed into a frown. "I know you two don't particularly see eye to eye, but if you just tried to play a little nicer and didn't antagonise him every chance you get, I think you two would actually make surprisingly good friends. You have a lot in common," Karlach said, sneaking a glance at the wizard before returning her gaze to Astarion.

How ridiculous.

"And I think you should aim to stick that pretty nose of yours somewhere safer, you might find life lasts a touch longer," Astarion retorted, eyes firmly on the pages of his book.

"Ooh... Grouchy." Karlach laughed.

Astarion liked her, liked her too much, which was becoming a problem. He needed to remind himself that he was not here to make friends. They were temporary allies. He could not afford to get close to these people.

"Ah, he looks nearly done. Better go and check this out." And just like that, she was gone. She kind of reminded Astarion of a poorly trained dog, and to his annoyance, he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Using Karlach's exit as an excuse, Astarion let his eyes wander through the open entrance of his tent and back to Gale, who stood by the steaming soup he had been labouring over for the past few hours, as he did every evening. It was almost like a ritual, every night when they returned to camp, Gale would take out the same tools and, with meticulous attention, begin preparing dinner.

In his newfound commitment to keeping a subtle eye on Gale, Astarion couldn't help but notice how the wizard carried his tension. The muscles in Gale's jaw tightened whenever someone lingered too close to his makeshift workstation, and he shifted uncomfortably when anyone encroached on his personal space or tried to place a hand on his shoulder. Too polite to say anything, Astarion could only imagine how irritated he must have been by Karlach's hovering over the past few days.

He smirked a little to himself at the thought.

Gale was wearing those accursed purple robes of his, his hair partially tied back to keep it from falling into his face as he tended to the food, which made him look much younger.

Astarion had turned stealing stealthy glances at the wizard into an art form by now, or at least, that was what he had thought, until Gale suddenly looked up and made deliberate eye contact with him.

He watched, mortified, as Gale gave the food a final stir and, deeming it finished, calmed the roiling fire beneath it with a quick spell, then began walking towards Astarion's tent.

He had the overwhelming urge to claw his way out and flee into the forest like some tragic, feral creature. Surely he could survive out there, live off the land, sleep under the stars, commune with squirrels. Halsin, the enormous druid and their newest addition, certainly seemed to enjoy that sort of thing.

But really, who was he kidding? He wouldn't last a day. The dirt, the damp, the complete absence of decent upholstery—

"Hello," Gale said, interrupting Astarion's rather dramatic contemplation of his odds in the wild. He stood at the entrance to the tent, hovering awkwardly, and gave a dim little wave that made Astarion want to lodge a blade squarely between his eyes.

"How can I be of assistance to our esteemed mage this time?" Astarion might have been having an internal meltdown, but two centuries of practice at carefully concealing emotions wouldn't amount to nothing.

"I think it would be best if we talked," Gale carefully laid out his words with a small smile plastered on his face, but Astarion could hear the rapid beating of his heart. The confirmation that he wasn't the only one on edge helped alleviate some of the feelings of impending doom and instantly lifted him to a higher standing. All his instincts were screaming at him to exploit Gale's agitation before he discovered Astarion's own, but one wrong step, a poorly worded comment, and this could all go to shit.

Instead, worried his voice would betray him, he simply nodded and sat up straighter.

Gale shifted from one foot to the other, cleared his throat, and closed the flap on the tent behind him, seeking some illusion of privacy.

"I know things have been a bit uncomfortable in the past few days," he started.

"Really? I haven't noticed." Astarion's words slipped out, practised and sounding as bored as ever. He followed this with an empty smile, he knew didn't reach his eyes. Still, he couldn't help but revel a little in the annoyed flush that coloured Gale's cheeks.

"Well, every occasion that I have attempted to engage in conversation with you, you quite literally turned around and walked away," Gale said.

Fine, so he might not have been as smooth as he imagined.

Astarion rolled his eyes. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to apologise." His words got Astarion's full attention.

"You wanted to apologise?" There was a beat of silence. "Pray tell, for what exactly are you apologising for?" Astarion was suddenly annoyed.

He knew he had to tread carefully; his place in the group, his sole thread of security, depended on it. Still, a hot flicker of anger flared in his chest as the pitiful human readily accepted blame for something that had been entirely Astarion's fault. Normally, he would have seized the opportunity without hesitation, a perfect solution to his problem: accept the apology, let the man believe he had wronged Astarion and wallow in misplaced guilt, and perhaps even twist it to his advantage.

But he didn't. And once more, he couldn't say why.

The surge of irritation was unexpected, irrational, and all the more intense for it. It built quickly, until it loosened his tongue and the words spilt past his lips before he could stop them.

"If memory serves, it was I who fed on your power-spiced blood for a few heartbeats too long, nearly draining the wretched life from you, and well-nigh got off on it." He aimed for a cool and collected mocking tone, but somewhere halfway through his monologue, real emotions arose.

All pretence of reading long forgotten, he threw his book on the bed.

This imbecile almost died, and he is the one making apologies?

"You… what?" The wizard stared at Astarion, mouth agape, eyes wide. Only then did Astarion realise he might have revealed more than he originally intended.

"I assumed your swift departure was because I more or less drank you dry," Astarion said, and Gale shifted his weight awkwardly.

"No? Yes? That wasn't... You were aroused?" Gale, of course, honed in on the most horrifying detail Astarion didn't mean to share. The wizard looked at him with wide eyes, and it seemed all the blood had permanently relocated to his face. Gale was always calm and had a rational explanation for everything. Seeing him so out of his depth stirred something dark in Astarion's belly, the predator in him momentarily raising its head. He consciously pushed the feeling aside; he needn't make this situation worse.

"I just told you I nearly killed you, and that's what you decide to focus on?"

"Well, were you?" Gale pressed.

"Naturally," Astarion affirmed with entirely feigned confidence. There was nothing natural about anything that occurred that night.

Astarion sighed theatrically and stood. Walking up to the small cabinet next to the table, he poured himself a glass of wine and looked at Gale with a questioning raise of his brow—a silent offer—but the man just shook his head in response. The wine was horrible, but the novelty of being able to drink something other than meagre drops of blood after so many years hadn't worn off just yet.

Only after he took a sip from the foul-tasting beverage did he continue, "Your blood, darling, is rather unique even when it isn't pumped full of your glorious magic, but as I'm sure you are well aware, blood is an excellent conduit for magic. Your raw power coursing through your veins, flowing into my body… it was intense, invigorating, and undeniably arousing." A half-truth. Enough to provide an explanation, not enough to reveal the full devastating effect it had on Astarion's resolve. His voice shifted back to his usual low tone as he stalked closer to Gale. The man stood rooted in his spot and averted his gaze, avoiding direct eye contact.

"Does this happen every time you feed?" The deep flush creeping to the tips of his ears made it clear what he was still hung up on.

Astarion was just about to take another sip, but he choked on his wine. He couldn't say he knew the man well, but that question was so Gale. Astarion had to hold back a burst of laughter as he came to the realisation that his inquiry was probably driven more by academic interest than anything else. He wouldn't be surprised if he had a notebook tucked away with a page titled 'Feeding-Induced Sexual Arousal in Vampires'.

"Are you asking me if I get hard every time I feast on a hog?" Vulgarity was a great weapon to wield against Gale, and just on cue, the man's face heated to an impossibly darker shade. It was a delicious sight. "No, I don't."

There was a moment of silence. Astarion could almost see the cogs turning in Gale's head as he was furiously contemplating.

"Well, the orb you see is a rather powerful— "

"It's not the orb," Astarion interjected before Gale could start rambling. "It's difficult to explain, but when I felt your magic inside me, I could feel the presence of the orb. It was alien. Like an outsider taking temporary residence, but the power that is yours tastes like you," he said, gesturing at Gale with the bottle of wine in his hand, "It feels like you, it's settled and… feels at home."

"That's precisely the sensation." Gale finally snapped out of whatever embarrassment-induced stupor he was held captive in, and his demeanour shifted immediately once the topic veered to safer waters. "I remain convinced, however, that whatever led to those more... elevated experiences was still coming from the orb. It holds considerable potency..."

Astarion looked up at the roof of the tent in frustration. "I already told you it wasn't the orb; are you now fishing for compliments, Sunshine?" The end of the sentence dropped to a low drawl. Astarion stepped even closer, but not close enough to encroach on the man's personal space. He tilted his head to the side to encourage Gale to meet his gaze.

"Surely, someone as clever as you understands how potent your magic is. The Mother of all that's Magic wouldn't have dug her claws into you otherwise."

Astarion knew he had made a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. Gale stilled for a heartbeat, then his shoulders dropped.

"Well, yes. Mystra always thought I had great potential; she selected me as one of her Chosen, after all, the greatest honour a wizard could dream of," Gale said ruefully, like he was reading from a script. The skin around his eyes was tight, his smile an echo of the one Astarion wore when he needed to hold his tongue in polite company.

"Anyhow… This will never happen again, and I will keep my distance from now on," said Astarion with an air of finality. It was time to wrap up this conversation before they found a way to make things even worse. Gale was only an arm's length away. Astarion could have reached out, pulled him in and... he busied his hand by taking another mouthful of the vinegar-wine and swallowed.

Gale looked at him, seemingly carefully considering his next words.

"No, that won't be necessary," the wizard said, voice calm and collected now. "Let's put it behind us. I've gained valuable insights, and you seem to be doing better. We're heading deeper into the forest tomorrow, so you'll have plenty of opportunities to hunt along the way."

"Indeed."

✦

They had another dream visit from the mysterious armed figure that night, once again attempting to persuade them to harness the powers of the tadpole they had found in one of the cultists' corpses. It was unsettling that the Visitor was able to approach him even in reverie with such ease.

A part of Astarion felt a strong temptation to seize the opportunity, to grow stronger, but the idea of further corrupting his body restrained him from acting upon it. Mental images of his skin ripping open to make space for tentacles came alive in his mind. He could almost feel his bones cracking and hear the sound of squelching flesh as his body transformed.

Astarion didn't dwell on his soul, for little was left to salvage. Still, the prospect of turning into a mind flayer and surrendering control yet again to another formidable force filled his entire being with an icy dread. He had always had a complicated relationship with his vampire spawn status. To be transformed into a creature so lowly and repulsive—it was embarrassing. He knew better than to tempt fate any further.

When he finally dragged himself out of the tent, he found Gale preparing breakfast. Astarion strolled closer and peered over the man's shoulder, maintaining a comfortable distance. Gale was cooking the eggs they had looted from the goblin camp, along with a strange and unappetizing array of vegetables and dried meats, whistling tunelessly.

"I had another visit last night," Astarion said as a greeting. He took slight pleasure in the man's startling and nearly dropping the spatula he wielded.

"Halaster's beard, you startled me. Perhaps consider wearing a bell or something, and stop sneaking around!" snapped the wizard, looking over his shoulder, his heart still racing.

"Not exactly my preferred look, I'm afraid," Astarion grinned with a suggestive raise of an eyebrow.

"They have been trying to persuade me to make use of the power the tadpoles offer," Gale said, ignoring Astarion's comment as he carried on with meticulously dicing some ominous-looking meat.

Astarion circled the table, putting it between them, and leaned against it. "And what do you think?" He wanted to hear Gale's opinion, mainly to understand how to manoeuvre the conversation to his advantage.

"I distrust them. I've tasted true power; my grasp on the Weave used to be far more intimate than it is now. I won't lie to you, the idea of claiming illithid abilities is seductive," Gale started, rummaging through his meagre selection of spices. With a triumphant 'Aha!', he picked one out, then resumed, "My concern lies in the potential for irreversible transformation, not just the looming threat of ceremorphosis, but the erosion of our humanity. We're already burdened with a tadpole wriggling in our brains; perhaps introducing another would be unwise."

"It could make us stronger," countered Astarion. He entertained the notion of persuading the man to be the first to try, to consume the tadpoles and observe the consequences.

"Yes, indeed. However, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm not certain the power to be gained justifies the potential cost," Gale remarked, his knife swiftly moving over the vegetables, skilfully chopping them into neat cubes and arranging the colourful piles with great precision.

It presented an odd image, a former archmage with rolled-up sleeves, preparing vegetables while discussing illithid tadpoles, as if they were chatting about the local gossip over a sleepy holiday morning. Not that Astarion would know what that was like.

Before he could even entertain a reply, the sound of approaching footsteps yanked him from his thoughts.

"Morning, beautiful people!" rang out Karlach's voice, brimming with an exuberance that was entirely too much for the early hour, or any hour, really.

"Good morning!" Gale chimed in with a warm smile.

Astarion eyed the two of them. Karlach and Gale painted an idyllic scene, perhaps not of the traditional postcard variety, but rather something people with a penchant for the more unconventional would deem... wholesome.

They were becoming fast friends. It was hard to resist Karlach; Astarion himself had failed miserably at keeping the tiefling at arm's length. He wasn't sure how it happened, but one moment, she was just there in his tent, chatting away, completely ignoring Astarion's tantrums about wanting to be left alone.

She was a force of nature.

The wizard clearly relished fussing over everyone, as shown by his tireless culinary efforts. However, Astarion couldn't help but notice that, while some of the others often took his labour for granted—they always thanked him for his work, of course, and politely applauded his skills—it was Karlach’s enthusiasm for the food that always remained unmatched.

Gale passed a plate of eggs to the tiefling, her eagerness unmistakable, and Astarion found himself unable to look away. Something in the way they interacted held his attention as a captive audience. It stirred a blend of intrigue and a subtle, unexpected tinge of... envy in Astarion.

His eyes lingered on Gale's admiring gaze as Karlach savoured the meticulously prepared meal. Such a trivial exchange, yet it was a blatant display of care and gratitude, something Astarion would never admit but found both perplexing and oddly fascinating.

They were all distracted. Gale and Karlach were engrossed in the food, and Astarion had his attention firmly fixed on their interactions. That was probably why he missed the sound of approaching footsteps and the light thud of a young heartbeat until the smell of rotten meat reached his senses. Whipping around, he saw the owlbear cub that had been held by the goblins at the camp cautiously approaching, its wary eyes fixed on them.

"Oh my gods, look at his little beak!" Karlach exclaimed, carefully placing her bowl of food at the table's edge. She crouched on the ground in a laughable attempt to make her stature less threatening and slowly moved toward the creature. "C'me here, you doll!"

Astarion raised a brow at her ridiculous behaviour; Karlach would truly take to any gods-forsaken creature. "What a delectable little pet," he remarked, leaning closer.

The owlbear tensed. It gazed at him, fear in its eyes as clear as day, then it bolted, disappearing into the bushes as the forest swallowed it up.

"Dammit! Fangs, you scared it off. Poor little beaky fella," Karlach said, her mouth pressed thin. Then she looked away. "I hope he finds his way back."

Although Astarion harboured no particular interest in the creature or its companionship, the fallen expression on Karlach's face unexpectedly stirred an uncomfortable sensation in his chest.

"He'll be back in no time—once he gets hungry enough. Owlbears have a knack for surviving," Gale said gently. "Don't worry, he'll be fine."

Gale's words were aimed more at him than Karlach, leaving Astarion wondering whether his expression had betrayed more than he intended.

And yet, something about the infuriatingly earnest, reassuring look in Gale's eyes made him almost believe, for a fleeting moment, that somehow—not only this—but everything might actually turn out all right.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

Shadowheart impatiently pushed her long braid over her shoulder and crossed her arms. She glanced down at Karlach, who was crouched on the ground, sorting through her belongings in preparation for their journey to confront the hag rumoured to dwell deep within the nearby swamps.

"This is none of our concern," the cleric said stiffly, in an attempt to dissuade the tiefling from meddling with the business of the reckless brothers they had encountered. Despite Gale's warnings, the siblings had ventured into the bog in a foolish attempt to rescue their sister from the hag's clutches.

Karlach handed a bedroll to Shadowheart to hold while she rearranged her impressive array of knick-knacks. Gale was ready to admit that he was also developing a bit of a hoarding problem; however, Karlach's collection put his to shame.

"We are wasting our time," Shadowheart pressed.

"Fringe, you're starting to sound like Lae," Karlach huffed out a laugh. Shadowheart responded by hurling the bedroll at the tiefling's face, but Karlach caught it effortlessly and chuckled.

"Those people will likely perish without our intervention," Gale said, but Astarion, rubbing his temples, interjected,

"They're probably already dead."

"And besides," Gale continued, disregarding the elf, "if that old woman truly is a hag, talking to her might be worthwhile, as she could possess insight concerning our cerebral companions."

Karlach rose to her feet, stretching her impressive arms above her head, her back arching in one fluid motion. Then, without another word, she hoisted her bag and set off down the path where the brothers had disappeared earlier. Confident that they would not let her venture in alone, she did not glance back.

Shadowheart released a long-suffering sigh, her lips pressed in a thin line, but she kept all further thoughts to herself and followed in the tiefling's footsteps.

Walking along the path, Gale stole a sidelong glance at Astarion. The elf appeared in better shape than Gale had ever seen him, carrying himself with newfound confidence and strength. There was a renewed vigour in his movements. Yet the enduring frown that had settled on Astarion's face in recent days remained fixed as he grumbled softly under his breath. Gale could not make out the words, but he was fairly certain he caught 'imbeciles' and 'morons' among them.

The decision to allow—or worse, to ask—Astarion to feed on him had proven a lamentable misjudgement on his part. It was by sheer luck alone that nothing terrible had happened. He did not know what effect the vampire feeding on him, while the orb remained tethered to the Weave, might have had on the blight. Gale could not shake off the lingering indignation. The risk had loomed large, threatening not only his own well-being but also imperilling the lives of his companions, perhaps even half of the Sword Coast. Who was he to gamble with the safety of others in his reckless pursuit of knowledge? This was precisely what had landed him in his predicament in the first place.

And to discover Astarion's attraction, even if it was merely to the effects of his blood, added another layer of complexity to an already precarious situation.

But there was no time to dwell on yet another addition to his ever-growing list of past mistakes. They had a long journey ahead of them, and all Gale had to do was stay clear of the vampire and keep his eye on the prize. He needed to survive, find a way to remove the tadpole and then deal with the volatile orb.

Easy-peasy.

Their first task was to reach Moonrise Towers, and Halsin, the druid who had left the grove to join their group, assured them of a path through the belly of the Underdark leading straight to Reithwin Town. In order to secure that path, Halsin, along with Lae'zel and Wyll, had returned to the goblin camp to clear out any remaining enemies.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall and see those three working together. Gale could only imagine.

They were to rendezvous back at their campsite, but first, Gale, Astarion, Karlach, and Shadowheart needed to gather supplies for their impending journey. One might have expected a band of intelligent, capable fighters like themselves to handle such a straightforward task with swift efficiency. Yet, as had become the pattern of late, fate had other ideas. This became evident the moment they arrived at a riverside teahouse. The surroundings overflowed with vibrant colours, rich with the scent of wildflowers and the melodies of songbirds, as if the very setting were trying to overcompensate for something.

Gale could feel magic permeating every fibre of his body as they approached the swamp. The entire area was shrouded in a spell. He reached out gently, calmly connecting to the Weave, searching for other threads. Unsure exactly what he was looking for, he had to tread carefully. One misstep, one heedless pull of an errant strand could invite untold horrors upon them.

Relief washed over him once he felt the presence of a simple illusion spell. It was not particularly well crafted; a mere tug was sufficient to unravel it. This suggested that the caster was either a novice or, more likely, so powerful that they did not bother to conceal their handiwork effectively. The rumours of the hag seemed to be true after all.

"Gods," Astarion groaned as the illusion crumbled, revealing the swamp's true colours—predominantly grey and reeking of decay. "What is it with the stench always? Why can we never visit pleasant locales? Perhaps a trip to Calimport? I hear it's lovely this time of year. I might even put up with the bloody genies…" His complaints faltered as they neared a path alongside a murky pool of stagnant water.

It came as no surprise to any of them that the brothers were dead. They had likely died the moment they entered the noxious bog. Gale could not help but feel a pang of sorrow for their fate as he beheld their lifeless forms gently swaying in the shallow water, reminding him of a pair of grotesque, fleshy apples.

Gale squinted through the heavy fog, trying to discern a way forward.

They would have missed the man shrouded in the thick haze if it had not been for the godsawful, gut-churning stench that wafted off him, overpowering even the foul miasma of the swampland gas. The unmistakable smell of iron vine.

A quick glance at his simple attire and the imposing crossbow, embellished with the eyes and seven stars of Selûne, confirmed that he was one of the Gur monster hunters.

"Ah, stranger. Forgive the aroma," the man offered his apology as a greeting when he spotted them. His tone was casual and non-threatening as he rambled about the malagma of scent he was wearing. Under ordinary circumstances, Gale would have found himself engrossed in a firsthand account of Gur practices. However, his mind was focused solely on the potential danger before them. If this man, who introduced himself as Gandrel, discovered Astarion's true nature, he might not allow them to leave. The Gur were renowned for their formidable hunting skills, and Gale would have preferred to avoid a direct confrontation.

Astarion, on the other hand, seemed to have a different plan.

"You're a monster hunter?" he inquired, his words laced with feigned intrigue as he slipped past Gale. "I'm surprised. I thought all Gur were vagrant cut-throats," he added, clearly trying to provoke the hunter.

Fantastic.

"And more! We steal chickens, curse your crops, seduce your daughters—he list goes on," Gandrel responded without missing a beat. Gale frowned. He knew some of the residents in small towns and villages believed in that nonsense, but he had read enough about the travellers of the Western Heartlands to understand that the Gur were children of Selûne.

"I wish I had half the power settled folk think my people possess," Gandrel added, likely to clarify when he saw the confusion in Gale's expression. "Alas, I am a simple wanderer. A simple wanderer and monster hunter. But I'm no witchdoctor or cut-throat."

"What are you hunting for?" Shadowheart's voice came from somewhere behind Gale, but before the man could respond to the cleric's inquiry, Astarion interjected with a poorly veiled mocking tone that Gale only recognised because it had been directed at him so often.

"Something terrifying, no doubt. Dragon? Cyclops? Kobold?"

Gandrel chuckled. "Nothing so dramatic. I'm hunting for a vampire spawn." Gale could not see Astarion's eyes from his vantage point, but he noticed the way the elf's jaw set into a hard line.

"His name is Astarion, but I fear he's gone to ground. I hope the hag of these lands can help me flush him out, if I can afford her blood price," Gandrel continued. There was a sharp intake of breath coming from either Karlach or Shadowheart behind them, Gale could not discern which.

Bitter tension settled around them. Before Gandrel even finished speaking, Gale had already reached out to his magic, feeling the threads of the Weave and allowing energy to flow through him. He was not prepared to kill the hunter, but he readied himself for a potential fight.

Gale's mind raced, seeking any fragment of information to pivot the conversation, to defuse the tension. Astarion shifted on his feet, his hand hovering dangerously close to the hilt of his weapon.

"You mentioned a hag; we ourselves are seeking her. Any word of advice?" Gale interjected swiftly before the elf could make a move, his gaze reluctantly shifting from Astarion to Gandrel.

"Ah, yes. She is... quite the character. Keep your wits about you when dealing with her," Gandrel responded.

"As a monster hunter, wouldn't it be your duty to slay her rather than strike bargains?" Gale challenged, trying to step between Gandrel and Astarion. The elf's cold fingers curled around Gale's arm in warning, though Astarion's eyes never left the Gur. It was a fleeting touch, gone as quickly as it had appeared, but Gale, against his better judgement, heeded it and remained steadfast.

Gandrel shrugged. "Finding the vampire takes precedence." His face darkened momentarily before a smile stretched across his bearded face.

"And… when you find him?" Astarion asked, his voice dropping a few degrees. "Will you kill him?"

It was perplexing—the unexpected surge of fierce loyalty that washed over Gale, a juvenile sentiment of 'us versus them'.

Gale's hand flexed, a spark of a spell heating his palm, the incantation perched on the tip of his tongue.

"Not this time. My orders are to capture him," the hunter stated simply.

And people thought Gale was bad at reading the room.

Despite the thick blanket of hostility hanging heavy and suffocating in the air, Gandrel remained oblivious to the wordless interactions around him. In his defence, it was not every day one encountered a vampire spawn wandering in the daylight. Still, even to his own ears, Gale recognised how suspicious Astarion's line of questioning sounded.

"Oh, and bring him where exactly?" Astarion pressed, his practised polite words now edging on a flirtatious drawl, wrapping around them like a clingy perfume and making Gale's mouth twist in distaste.

"Back to Baldur's Gate. My people wait for me there," Gandrel said, his demeanour completely unaffected.

"Heard that?" Karlach stumbled next to them, a wide grin stretched across her face. "We are headed to the Gate ourselves! We are all from the wonderful city of B...ral, fresh off the boat, just looking for some adventure." She glanced at Astarion. "Isn't that right..." she faltered for a moment, then added, "Boblin?"

Gale briefly pondered whether she was experiencing a momentary lapse in her mental faculties. Then, caught off guard by a sudden wave of understanding swiftly followed by bubbling amusement, he nearly let a laugh escape, and his grip on the spell almost slipped. Karlach's clumsy attempt to deflect suspicion was unconventional, to say the least, and likely unnecessary, if Gandrel's clueless expression was anything to go by. Yet, the slow, lethal glare it earned from Astarion made it almost worth whatever price she might have to pay for it.

"Take heed," Gandrel warned. "A vampire spawn prowling these parts poses a grave threat. Even for travellers from Bral, accustomed as you are to dealing with the unsavoury, vampires are perilous. They strike when least expected, their elusive nature a constant challenge."

"Yes, I'm sure they can creep right up on you," chimed in a dark, intensely unintelligent, attention-seeking side of Gale. It was his turn on the receiving end of a sharp, unamused look from Astarion.

"We all survived so far. Let's focus on that," the vampire said, his voice carrying a stiff edge, in an attempt to steer the conversation somewhere safer, as though he had not been the one who started it all.

"And, Boblin," Gandrel said, lifting his gaze to Astarion with grave seriousness. Gale could hear a loud snort from Shadowheart behind them, which she quickly tried and failed to cover up with a cough. "It would still be wise to post guards at night. The threat is real."

Gale wondered how this man had stayed alive in his line of business for so long. The blessing of Selûne upon him must indeed be performing wonders for his fortune.

Judging by the vein that bulged on Astarion's temple, this was about to change.

"Indeed, it is. We should do something about this threat," Astarion concurred, his long finger drawing slow circles over the hilt of his dagger attached to his side. Now that his little interrogation was over, he was evidently ready to attack the man in front of them.

Before Gale had a chance to respond, Karlach marched past them with two large strides. "Well, I reckon it's time for us to skedaddle," the tiefling declared, positioning herself between them and Gandrel. She started ushering them down the path away from the hunter with shooing motions, like one might guide a toddler. "Best of luck with your search," she said hastily, forestalling any impulsive actions from the vampire.

"Wait, that's it? We're just walking away?" Astarion hissed, his voice carrying an urgent and unfamiliar tone.

"We'll be careful. Now let's go," Gale whispered sharply through his teeth, relieved and immensely grateful for Karlach's timely interruption.

Astarion subtly leaned towards Gale, ensuring his words were shielded from Gandrel's ears. "Fine. But if this comes back to bite us, it's on your head," he muttered, a deep furrow marring his brow.

Despite the prevailing sour stench emanating from the monster hunter and the rancid, damp aroma of the bog that hung thick in the humid air, a subtle hint of bergamot made its way into Gale's nostrils, sending an uninvited shiver down his spine, beckoning memories that were entirely ill-fitted for the setting.

"Go in peace, my friends. I pray our paths cross again," the man called, seemingly unaware of how close he had come to death.

"They'd better bloody not," the elf muttered under his breath, but he followed Gale, who silently thanked the gods as he sensed the brewing storm of violence dissipating.

It was not until they were well out of earshot that Astarion turned to Karlach, scandalised. "Boblin? Really?"

The tiefling shrugged sheepishly. "I panicked, you were about to go all Strahd on the poor man," she was cut off as Shadowheart strode up to Astarion, halting him in his tracks and ending the chatter abruptly.

The cleric took a menacing step closer to the elf. "There are Selûnite monster hunters after you now?" Gale was not sure if she intended it as a question, but it came out sounding more like an accusation. Her fingers flexed on the hilt of her sword, her thin brows knitted together in suspicion.

The sudden shift in the atmosphere extinguished any remnants of earlier levity.

"So it would seem," Astarion said calmly, showing no signs of emotion. "Hopefully, he bumps into some gnolls while stumbling around in the night, and that is the last we hear from him," he added, picking at non-existent lint on his outer layers.

"What if he reappears?" Karlach asked, looking at Astarion with worry clear in her expression.

Astarion shrugged. "Then we kill him. I thought that would have been obvious. There may be others, of course. If Cazador sent one peon after me, he'll send more." His indifferent tone grated on Gale.

"And who is Cazador, exactly?" Shadowheart's eyes narrowed, and she finally released her weapon to cross her arms.

"Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord in Baldur's Gate. The patriarch of his coven and a monster obsessed with power," Astarion said, his tone dipping low. "He turned me his spawn two hundred years ago."

Gale recognised the name as the senior member of the Szarr family. Baldurian rumours tended to spread far and wide, often making their way up to Waterdeep. But even if folk had mentioned the name in passing, he was most certainly not renowned as a vampire lord; Gale would surely have remembered such a notable detail.

"You're sure this Cazador's behind this?" Karlach asked.

"It was him, I'm sure. Only he would know to send the Gur after me." Astarion ran his hand through his silver curls. "It was a group of Gur that attacked me that night in Baldur's Gate. I would've died had Cazador not appeared and saved me."

Karlach's brows creased. "Saved you by turning you into a vampire slave?"

"Well, he didn't mention the 'slave' clause at the time," he said with a humourless laugh. "And now he sends a Gur monster hunter for me? It's a message. He's reminding me of his power. Even in the middle of nowhere, he can reach me. And he wants me back," Astarion explained, his nonchalant tone in stark contrast with the strange, dark expression on his face.

"But why capture you? Why not just kill you?" asked Shadowheart.

"Maybe he wants to make an example of me. To show what happens to runaways. Or maybe he thinks death is too good for me."

"So your former master is actively pursuing you?" Gale finally found his voice, emerging from beneath layers of swirling thoughts and tangled emotions. He had believed they were past the point of keeping secrets, and yet a growing sense of distrust stirred at the back of his mind. "One would think such information might have proven rather useful to share with the rest of us, wouldn't you agree?"

"If it escaped your attention, this is news to me, too. I thought I'd managed to shake the bastard," Astarion snapped back, slitted crimson eyes boring into Gale's. "One would think getting kidnapped by a group of squid and whisked away on this romantic getaway on a nautiloid ship would do the job."

"So, what's the game plan?" Karlach asked, cracking her knuckles. "We could pay him a visit and make him regret every nasty thing he's done."

"You don't understand." Astarion turned his attention to the tiefling, and Gale was secretly grateful to be relieved of the intense scrutiny. "You don't know him. Just trust me when I say we must be careful. He'll send more lackeys—he has plenty of souls to command. We just have to be vigilant. Keep our wits about us and kill any monster hunters on sight." Astarion paused, then nodded thoughtfully. "We can probably make an exception for Wyll." After a long pause, he concluded, "Probably."

"So that's your ingenious plan? Just keep running?" Gale countered, the simmering flame of frustration rekindling inside him.

Astarion's shoulders tensed. "Brave words, coming from a man who can't even get an audience with his ex-lover," he retorted without looking at Gale.

"Astarion. Ease up," Karlach warned.

"Mystra doesn't owe me a damn thing," Gale shot back, feeling a flush creeping up his neck from his now barely contained anger. He knew Astarion was lashing out because he was terrified and enraged in equal measure, but Gale had seen the elf's tendency to strike at the jugular when cornered, and he had no intention of becoming the target of that pent-up fury.

"Guys," Karlach stepped in, breaking the tension. They fell into stillness for a few prolonged moments, during which Gale managed to rein in the tempest brewing in his chest.

Astarion, with an exasperated sigh and his eyes briefly lifting skyward, turned back to Gale. "I didn't know, I swear," his voice turned earnest—or whatever passed for earnest in Astarion's demeanour—as he met Gale's gaze.

Then, like water released from a barrel, all the fight in Gale dissipated when he caught the desperate expression that washed over the elf's features.

Gale ran his palm down his face. "What I'm trying to say is, we ought to devise a strategy to keep you safe," he said. This suddenly felt too big, so he added, "To keep all of us safe."

Astarion's eyes widened in response, but he offered no argument.

"I don't mean to interrupt this beautiful moment, but we need to get going if we want to find the hag before sundown," said Karlach, pointing in the direction of the old hut in the murky distance. Shadowheart was already halfway down the path, evidently uninterested in their little squabble.

"Very well, show the way, Fire Girl," Astarion said curtly, his eyes still on Gale. Then he averted his gaze and calmly reached for his crossbow, preparing himself for what lay ahead. He shrugged slightly, as if casting off an invisible burden, then straightened.

"Let's go and kill us a hag. Who knows, you might be right, wizard. She might offer some assistance with our tadpole predicament," he remarked, his customary air of confidence now firmly back in place. Yet, an unsettling shadow clung to him. It nestled beneath the dark circles under his eyes and made itself at home in the faint crease between his brows.

As Gale watched the elf disappear into the enshrouding fog, he could not help but contemplate just how incredibly fucked they were.

As they delved deeper into the hag's lair, Gale was scarcely present throughout the whole endeavour. Things escalated quickly, as usual. One moment, they were talking to the hag; the next, he was slinging spells, dodging hexes. His body did all the work while his thoughts circled Astarion like a starved vulture searching for fetid flesh. It was a miracle they all emerged unscathed, with every limb intact, and the little sister of the deceased brothers—although ungrateful—was successfully rescued.

✦ 

When they returned to camp, Gale headed straight for his tent. With his magic depleted and the adrenaline no longer coursing through his veins, he became acutely aware of his damp clothes. The sensation was a nagging discomfort, like a persistent itch at the edges of his consciousness, refusing to be ignored.

He managed to maintain his composure until he reached the sanctuary of his tent, but as soon as he entered, his cold, shaky fingers tore at his clothes, pulling at the sopping fabric heavy with the lingering stench of swamp water. Only after stripping down, drying himself off with a cloth, and slipping into a soft, comforting sleep shirt did the overwhelming sensation begin to fade.

Yet, restlessness remained.

Despite everyone returning to camp unharmed, the mood was oddly sombre. Wyll, Karlach, and Shadowheart stood just outside the tiefling's tent, speaking in hushed tones about something Gale could not bring himself to care about. Lae'zel, as ever, sat sharpening her weapons in silent contemplation, her impatience with their sluggish progress growing more apparent by the day. Halsin had already retired for the night, leaving only the soft flicker of candlelight dancing across the canvas of his tent.

With a safe passage secured to the Underdark, they were set to depart the following day, which should have sparked some excitement in Gale. However, the news that, on top of everything else, there might be a vampire master hunting them felt utterly demoralising. They were overdue for good news because, frankly, Gale was not sure how much longer they could sustain this.

His gaze settled on Astarion's tent, which was devoid of light and any trace of the elf. Unable to shake off his unease, despite his promise to himself to keep his distance, Gale began searching for the vampire. He was not the best person for the job, but he wanted to find Astarion and speak with him before the elf did something rash, like sneaking out of camp and hunting down Gandrel himself.

Despite their campsite not being excessively large, Gale could not find him. With hasty steps, he walked past the campfire down to the riverbank and along the shore. A tapestry of unsettling scenarios started to unfold in his mind, each worse than the last. Just as anxiety threatened to take hold, he stumbled upon Astarion in the least expected place.

Standing in the moonlit waters of the river, Astarion was clad in nothing but his well-worn sleep trousers, with the hems rolled up to his knees. Gale walked closer until the water gently lapped at the tips of his shoes, and the elf was just an arm's length away. Astarion had his eyes closed, basking in the vibrant moonlight. Across his bare back, on the canvas of pale skin, stretched a ring of scars meticulously carved into his flesh, slightly raised and healed to a raw hue.

Gale's throat constricted at the sight. Astarion was tragically beautiful.

His otherworldly appearance, a figure worthy of poetic verses, stood in stark contrast to the untamed violence that resided within him.

"Always stalking me, Sunshine. Not a very good look on you," quipped the elf with a sigh, pulling Gale out of the haze he was slipping into. He was eternally grateful that it happened before he could act on his desire to reach out or, worse, say something truly mortifying.

"I simply wished to inquire about your well-being," Gale replied, avoiding Astarion's typical provocation for an argument.

The elf half-turned and regarded Gale with a calculating gaze. His ability to stand like a statue, frozen and unblinking, was unnerving even in the best of times, but especially so in the eerie stillness of the night.

Then, a splash of water shattered the silence, followed by a blur of movement.

Astarion darted forward with such astonishing speed that Gale's heart scarcely had time to quicken its pace. In the blink of an eye, they were mere inches apart, their bodies nearly touching.

Up close, beneath the cool haze of the moon, his silver hair curled around his face like a lunar halo. Gale suddenly became acutely aware of their proximity.

"My, my, aren't you sweet? So worried about me," he all but purred, his demeanour shifting rapidly. All aching sadness dissolved in an instant, replaced by a coy smile that left Gale feeling light-headed.

Astarion stared at him with wide eyes, his head tilted. He painted an oddly innocent image. "There's one thing… You could do," he whispered, his voice barely above a hush as he drew out his words, thick as molasses coating each syllable with dark anticipation.

He reached out slowly. Though Gale could easily have sidestepped, he found himself rooted to the ground. Slender arms encircled Gale's neck loosely as Astarion swayed closer, yet he carefully maintained a slight distance between their bodies. "I would give anything to taste you just one more time. Would you consider it if I said it would make me feel better?" Astarion leaned closer to Gale's throat, a soft breath playing along his skin. "I don't know much about your preferences, little mage, but perhaps we could have a night to ourselves. Forget about all this... unpleasantness," he continued, his words a gentle caress against the sensitive surface of his neck, sending a shiver down Gale's spine. He leaned back just enough to allow his eyes to drop to the elf's mouth, the hint of fangs against the plush lips. Hypnotising.

Gale's throat worked as he swallowed thickly. A part of him, buried deep in the bottomless pit of his darkest corners, layered under years of deliberating loneliness and starvation, screamed at him, begging and clawing, not unlike the blight in his chest. It would have been so easy to surrender. Orb be damned—to lose themselves in each other and forget, if only for a few hours, to forget their enemies, their missteps, and the looming shadow of impending doom and devastation. His hand twitched at his side, as if longing to reach out to Astarion of its own volition.

But Gale could not.

Despite the heat spreading from his insides to his neck and jaw, settling high on his cheekbones, and despite the shimmering, gut-churning desire steadily building up a flame, Gale could not abandon who he truly was. He was not made for this. He craved recognition beyond a fleeting night of burning passion. He desperately clung to that part of himself in the heady cloud of sweet bergamot-scented arousal.

Astarion withdrew slightly, his arm slipping off Gale's shoulder. With a gentle touch under Gale's chin, he tilted his head up. Their gazes locked, and Gale's lips parted on a sharp little breath.

Astarion's heavily lidded eyes peered out from beneath his long, pale lashes. Gale could understand what had led others to willingly succumb to their demise for a fleeting night with him. But then, there was something in Astarion's expression, something... dull, that drew Gale out of the fog.

Sudden clarity struck him like the shock of falling through ice.

"What are you doing?" Gale managed, his traitorous voice coming out thick and uneven. Summoning every ounce of his crumbling composure, he mustered the strength to grasp the elf's bare arms and gently pushed him away, creating much-needed distance between them. "I don't appreciate you trying to manipulate me into having sex with you just because you're feeling down, Astarion," Gale asserted firmly, speech coming more easily without the proximity.

Astarion blinked, and upon realising Gale was serious, he sighed, dropping all pretence of seduction. It absurdly reminded Gale of the magic that had shrouded the swamp earlier that day—how one small move had been enough to disassemble the charade.

"If it's not sex you want, why else are you here?" All flirtation vanished from his tone, replaced by a steel-cold demeanour.

Gale absentmindedly scratched the back of his still-heated neck.

"I'm aware that this might be a bit presumptuous of me, considering we are not exactly... well, like you and Karlach."

Astarion quirked an eyebrow, a faint glint of barely-there amusement in his eyes as his mouth twisted slightly. "You mean friends," he supplied.

Gale cleared his throat. "Friends," he repeated, as if testing the word for flavour. "Indeed. Would you like to discuss what happened today?"

"Discuss what, exactly? You rejecting my advances?" By now, Gale recognised Astarion's familiar tactic of dodging uncomfortable topics. With a simple roll of his eyes, he chose not to indulge in the game.

"You know, there's no need for this... this constant dance of deflection and doubt," Gale said firmly, yet not unkindly. "I know you don't trust me. Perhaps you don't trust any of us. I can understand that. Our time together has been brief, yes, but it has been anything but uneventful. We've braved dangers side by side, made choices that would break lesser souls, and we've done so together. Even when we've disagreed, we've stood by one another, and I hope that counts for something..." His voice trailed off before he added, "I want it to count for something."

A pregnant pause stretched between them, and suddenly, Gale felt foolish and embarrassed, emotions he had not been accustomed to but which were becoming all too familiar.

"It's quite all right. I'll leave you to it," Gale said finally, when Astarion continued to stay silent. They were not friends; at best, they were awkward travelling companions, barely able to exchange a civil conversation without wanting to set each other ablaze.

The elf stepped back wordlessly, turned towards the water once more, leaving Gale to grapple with the conflicting emotions of disappointment and relief brought on by their sudden separation.

"First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures. Second, thou shalt obey me in all things. Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed. Four, thou shalt know that thou art mine." Astarion finally spoke. His words flowed with the cadence of someone reciting bland poetry, as if they were lines forced upon him by tiresome tutors. The repetition drained the vocabulary of its significance, rendering it monotonous and devoid of all meaning.

Gale found himself unable to form words even if he wanted to, so he waited for Astarion to offer some explanation.

"These are my rules. Etched into my mind by Cazador." Gale had never heard Astarion speak so softly; it was awful that this gentle tone had to convey such a grim tale. "When a vampire drains your blood and transforms you into their spawn, they attain absolute dominion over you. Rendered utterly powerless, you relinquish any semblance of autonomy or free will." Astarion looked down at his own hands before curling them into tight fists. "Only their commanding voice exists within your mind, compelling you to heed their every decree, regardless of your own desires or volition."

Gale was at a loss. He desperately wanted to do or say something meaningful that would make all of this better, but no amount of books or years spent studying scrolls and traversing the Astral Plane had equipped him for this profound sense of helplessness.

"Always obeying commands, whether it meant using our bodies for seduction or being forced to snatch children from local tribes under the cover of darkness." His voice trailed off, then he added, "I can still hear them."

Gale felt a suffocating tightness in his chest, fearing that any words escaping his lips might be the wrong ones. With caution, he ventured, "The Gur?"

Astarion nodded. "I was not lying. I do not know if the man was there to take me back to his tribe or if Cazador's hands were in it. Gods, it is probably both, but I would be dead either way, or worse." Gale recalled the panic in Astarion's voice when they decided to leave the monster hunter behind, not fully realising until now that they had inadvertently allowed yet another pursuer, hot on the vampire's heels, to walk free.

Gandrel undoubtedly sought a noble cause; perhaps searching for his abducted youth or driven by a thirst for well-deserved retribution. However, a dark, possessive, selfish sentiment stirred within him, deep in his gut, and he regretted not taking the chance to eliminate the man.

Recognising the ominous direction his thoughts had taken, Gale promptly banished them from his mind.

"Seducing innocents, taking children, and as if that were not enough, one night Cazador summoned me into his room, stripped me bare, and compelled me to lie on his bed, unmoving, as he carved this monstrosity into my skin. He did so repeatedly, making corrections to fit whatever twisted purpose this served."

After a brief lull in conversation, Gale stepped closer to the elf, who stood with his back turned.

"What do the markings say?" Gale inquired, as his gaze flickered to the script etched onto Astarion's skin. He could discern that it was Infernal, but his proficiency in the language was conversational at best. Whatever was carved into Astarion's skin likely had nothing to do with potion ingredients or simple greetings.

The elf turned to him. "They are instructions for eternal youth. Apply the blood of a hundred virgins twice daily," Astarion deadpanned, his expression devoid of amusement. Gale, caught off guard by the seriousness in Astarion's tone, hesitated for a moment before realising the absurdity of the statement.

Astarion released a dark, smooth chuckle, utterly unfitting of a tale so despondent. It set Gale off, too, and a bark of laughter born out of disbelief tumbled out of him.

"I would not know. He never told me, and I never had the opportunity to find out," Astarion said finally, with a shrug.

They settled into another silence, this time a comforting one, finding solace in the serene embrace of the night. Gradually, the weight on Gale's shoulders eased, granting him the freedom to breathe deeply once more, while the heat in his cheeks subsided to a gentle warmth.

"At times, we find ourselves entangled in monstrous deeds, whether by force, intent or by the illusion of righteousness," Gale spoke quietly, not wanting to disturb the unusually vulnerable moment. "Nevertheless, I still want to hold onto faith; I need to believe that this does not brand us as inherently tarnished souls."

Gale hesitated to draw parallels between their situations. His misstep was his fault alone, incomparable to the horrors Astarion had just recounted. Yet, he felt an unspoken connection between their fates.

"I would undoubtedly sleep better if I could embrace that belief," Astarion chuckled lightly.

"You do not sleep."

Astarion tapped a finger to his temple. "Another tadpole bonus. I can when I want to," he said with a grin. "Anyway, I apologise for my misguided attempt at seduction, and for the note. I do consider you… a friend."

Gale remained sceptical of the truth in Astarion's words. It was evident that the elf had mastered the art of saying what kept people content, a survival strategy that may have left him unfamiliar with genuine friendship. Gale, in all honesty, found himself navigating the same uncertain waters. Years of solitude, accompanied only by a tressym and occasional visits from his mother, had taken their toll.

Nonetheless, as he and Astarion tentatively constructed what felt like a delicate truce, Gale believed they could forge a connection that was uniquely theirs, even if it defied conventional norms of friendship.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Astarion 

There were plenty of places in the Underdark that Astarion would have loved to visit. Drizzt Do'Urden's birthplace, the City of Spiders—Menzoberranzan, for instance—ranked high on his list. Not that he would ever openly admit any interest in some oh-so-heroic, legendary figure.

A city teeming with cut-throat drow and kobolds, however, would have presented the perfect hunting ground for Astarion. Yet, instead of the bustling caves of the Northdark, they found themselves navigating through a forsaken, deserted corner of the Underdark.

The oppressive, clammy air clung to Astarion like a sticky sheen of sweat. The echoing darkness grated on his nerves; every step reverberated from the cavernous walls. Moving in silence was impossible, and the eerie landscape was brimming with fluorescent flora, each poised to snatch life away with a single misstep.

And then there were the duergar. Bloody duergar, with their invisibility spells and ridiculous magical items.

"Interesting fact," Gale said between two heaving breaths, countering a duergar spell aimed at Karlach. "During the Spellplague, both Laduguer and Duerra, the former gods of the grey dwarves, perished. Since then, most duergar have worshipped Asmodeus. Quite a leap if you ask me, considering Duerra was..."

Astarion dodged an arrow as it hurtled towards him, doubling over to clutch his knee for balance. He glanced down at his trembling hands, the dried, putrid blood a jarring contrast against his pale skin. Even in the darkness, the contrast was stark.

His vision blurred momentarily, narrowing to a tunnel of flickering shapes. He knew he had pushed himself too far again. The wizard's words droned on, becoming an irritating buzz in his ears, and Astarion felt his patience wearing thin.

"Could we not do this right now?" he snapped, straightening up swiftly and driving his dagger into an undead lurching towards him. The movement nearly sent Astarion over the edge of the creaky wooden structure he was cornered onto. Gale's mouth snapped shut audibly, and a flicker of hurt crossed his face. Astarion rolled his eyes, which was a mistake, as it made his head spin even faster.

It had likely been several days since Astarion had last fed on a malnourished hog, just before they descended into the void of the Underdark. Deep beneath the surface, it was impossible to gauge the passage of time.

Had he been faring better in terms of overall health, Astarion would have swiftly dispatched the resurrected corpses flanking him and sunk his teeth into one of the duergar. As it was, his sluggish movements betrayed him—a foolish lapse, courtesy of his unrelenting hunger. He had fixed his gaze on what appeared to be the final standing underdwarf when, without warning, another figure materialised out of thin air.

Despite Gale's swift reaction in taking out the attacker with a single spell, the unseen assailant managed to land a blow squarely to Astarion's chest before collapsing lifeless to the ground. Astarion's legs gave way beneath him, unable to support his weight, and he crumpled.

In an instant, Karlach, Gale, and Shadowheart were at his side. Without hesitation, the cleric called forth her healing magic, bathing them in its restorative glow as a cool wave soothed the sweat-dampened skin on his brow.

Astarion screwed his eyes shut. They were all standing far too close. The restorative spell had taken care of most of the bleeding scrapes, but it could not erase the scent of blood hanging in the air. He forced himself to stop breathing—an ability he was immensely grateful for in that moment—then, with a low groan, pushed himself off the ground.

He felt fingers curl around his arm, steadying him. Looking up, he met Gale's gaze, bright with clear concern. The wizard tilted his head in silent inquiry, and Astarion answered with a small nod. He knew that if he opened his mouth, even Gale might see through the façade.

Gale held onto the eye contact for a moment longer, scrutinising, searching for something. Then, without a word, the wizard released him, and Astarion had to use every ounce of his strength to stay upright without the support.

"All right?" Shadowheart looked at him with a small frown.

"Wonderful, darling. I wish we could do this again," Astarion said, pretending to wipe some of the dirt from his armour to busy his shaking hands.

Despite Shadowheart's healing spells, he still did not feel right.

Upon stumbling back to camp, Astarion made a beeline for his bed, shed his armour, which landed with a heavy clatter on the floor, and collapsed among his ever-growing pile of cushions.

Karlach had discovered his 'hoard', and being a shameless trinket goblin herself, she found it absolutely delightful. From that moment on, she took it upon herself to maintain a steady supply. Astarion had no idea where she kept finding them, but after every visit to a town or village, she would march up to his tent brandishing a different cushion each time, as if it were a prized relic. It was infuriating, and though he would sooner stake himself in the heart than admit it, it was strangely endearing. Comforting, even. Knowing that someone occasionally thought of him—someone who was not a bloodthirsty lunatic or out for his throat—was a novelty he was not quite sure how to handle.

But even the softness surrounding him could not offer comfort now. He lay on his bed, gasping for breath, his respiration more like a vestigial reflex than a vital necessity, a lingering echo from the person he had been over two centuries ago. Despite the passing of years, he was unable to shake off some of these involuntary functions.

His body operated autonomously, attempting to force air into lungs that were now lifeless and obsolete. Every futile, ragged inhalation failed to supply not only the air he did not need, but also the lucidity he had been grasping for.

He was drenched in sweat and damp, cool humidity. The soft layer of his undershirt stuck to his skin. His vision dimmed, then doubled.

In the haze, an image formed, a figure looming over him, a grim smile stretching across a pallid face, grotesque and too large for his features, and those unmistakable red, red, red eyes. Unbidden tears distorted Astarion's already wavering vision.

Then the image shattered.

He smelled it before he even heard the sound of approaching footsteps. That stench. That unmistakable smell of bile that hid all the things Astarion was starved for. He wanted to peel it back, to skin it until he could climb inside it, to bathe in it.

Fuck.

"Astarion, are you..." Gale, pushing the fabric aside, entered the tent.

Astarion, observing the scene like an outsider, felt a surge of red-hot hunger wash over his entire being. His grasp loosened, the reins slipped, his muscles moved unbidden. In an instant, he was on Gale, crowding him into the corner of the tent before the man had a chance to finish his sentence.

A firm palm pressed against Astarion's rapidly heaving chest, maintaining a slight distance between them, but only just. Gale's form was taut with anticipation, his heartbeat a wild race that sang to the darkness inside Astarion. He could feel Gale's magic shimmering, preparing for a potential confrontation.

Astarion's mind was a storm of conflict. "I'm sorry, shit, I won't... I just..." He could hear his own words as though someone else had moulded them into his mouth. They spilt out onto the inviting, warm expanse of Gale's exposed neck, peeking through his soft sleepshirt, inches from Astarion's lips.

He felt feverish; it was like a headrush that would not dissipate, clinging to his psyche like an unwelcome leech. Having Gale so close was the most wonderful and torturous thing all at once. The memory of his taste when magic coursed through his veins... he wanted to feed until Gale was nothing but a husk, every drop of his blood gone and settled in Astarion's belly, full and satiated.

All of it—a harsh reminder of what he was. What he was made to be. And the beast craved the kill, longing to shatter bones and tear at sinew.

No.

He wanted to feed. He would even endure the bile.

 He couldn't. 

A desperate noise somewhere deep within reverberated through his ribcage as he fought desperately to gain control.

He wouldn't. 

He would never take what was not willingly given. Never again.

He had never stood a chance against his master's compulsion, but he could battle the beast within.

"It's okay, it's fine. Can we just…" Gale tried, his breath hitching. With renewed effort, he slid his hands onto Astarion's arms, pushing gently until Astarion swayed back slightly, creating more space between them. Astarion could not suppress the animalistic sob that bubbled up in response, damp and pitiful, even to his own ears.

Gale tilted his head in an attempt to catch Astarion's gaze, but he screwed his eyes shut. He could not look at the man.

"Just allow me a moment... please," Astarion whispered thickly, his jaw tense and throbbing with the effort of restraint. He prayed that Gale would not move away, further tempting the darkness within him—to hunt, to kill.

He was not sure what Gale had perceived, whether the man realised the danger or took pity on Astarion, but he simply said, "Very well," and dropped his hands. "Whatever you need."

Permission granted, Astarion closed the remaining distance between them, gently nuzzling his face into the juncture of neck and shoulder, now that he was allowed. He relished the shuddering sound that escaped Gale at the contact.

The skin, paper-thin and stretched over his collarbone, carried the wizard's post-battle musk, rich and inebriating, with the scent of strong, fast-flowing blood just beneath. Astarion's lips hovered over the smooth surface, gooseflesh rising in the wake of his breath.

He just needed a little time to find equilibrium, to calm himself.

"You know, if you need to feed... we could..." Gale's words faltered, and he cleared his throat quietly. "It would be no trouble," he said at last, his voice gentle and filled with an emotion Astarion was too far gone to even attempt to decipher. But somehow, it was enough to guide his senses back into their plane of existence.

This should have been all that Astarion needed to proceed and indulge in the supple flesh right under his mouth, ripe for the taking, but the gentleness in Gale's voice killed something dark inside him.

Like a tomb cracked open, light shone through, dispelling some of the red haze. He abruptly pulled away and took a large step back.

This was too dangerous.

He leaned against his rickety, makeshift cabinet, mustering all his willpower to regain some semblance of control. His chest rose and fell rapidly in its parody of breathing.

Astarion gave a small cough, his eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding Gale's searching gaze. "I apologise," he said, once he had regained some ability to form words.

"It's all right..."

"It's not 'all right'," Astarion snapped with furious impatience, which emerged suddenly from the fog of insanity. "Nothing about this," he pointed frantically at the space between them, "is 'all right'. I should be able to control myself better, and you should never have been subjected to my weakness. You can leave now," he finished curtly, hoping that Gale would take the opportunity to retreat.

However, Gale of Waterdeep remained as obtuse as ever. Despite his renown for intelligence, he seriously lacked any hint of common sense. Instead of seizing the opportunity to leave the tent of a vampire going feral from bloodthirst, he took a step closer to Astarion.

"I'm serious," Gale insisted. "It is clear that you are on the verge of starvation, and none of the usual healing measures are proving effective. Our initial... endeavour was a mistake, a reckless gamble that endangered everyone nearby and threatened the orb's stability. But at least now we know that is not the case." He edged a little closer. "At this rate, you will be as good as dead within days, and I can do something to help. This is a straightforward decision, a no-brainer."

"I wouldn't die," Astarion countered weakly, but Gale just gave him a pointed look of profound annoyance. Astarion's growing frustration was eroding his neatly lined-up arguments. "I can't promise you that I will be able to control myself," he added quietly.

"If your apprehension lies in the possibility of inadvertently killing me, know that I trust you. Mystra knows why, but there it is. And..."

Astarion interjected, "You shouldn't."

"And," Gale continued with deliberate emphasis, "if that assurance isn't enough, then trust in my ability to make a swift exit, should the need arise. Prodigy and all that, after all," he added with a smirk, sweeping a hand down before him in mock showmanship as he summoned a brief flicker of spelllight with a casual flourish of his wrist, a flashy demonstration.

Astarion wanted to argue. He also wanted to tell him he was a fool, dafter than a troll for trusting a vampire, especially one so ravaged by hunger that his thoughts were barely coherent.

But above all else, he wanted to let go and heed Gale's words.

Two long strides ate up the remaining ground between them, and Astarion unceremoniously shoved Gale down onto the bed. He went without protest, growing pliant under Astarion's hands. Just like last time, Astarion dropped down beside him, his body angled towards Gale.

He waited, allowing some of the tension to settle, and watched Gale with rapt attention as he cast the familiar illusion spell of the feline. Gale gave a determined nod, his expression resolute, although the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat betrayed his nerves. Without further hesitation, Astarion leaned in, drew Gale's shirt aside for better access, and sank his teeth into the tender flesh.

The taste was still somewhat different from what Astarion had grown accustomed to when feeding on thinking creatures, but the euphoria radiating from Gale's power was utterly unmatched. It was beautiful and warm, and the vicious ache in the pit of his stomach pulsed with growing satisfaction. Astarion hummed, his lips tightening to ensure not a single drop escaped. He swallowed the warm liquid greedily, his fingers curling into the soft fabric of Gale's shirt.

The voice at the back of his mind urged him to slow down. He knew that if he wasn't careful, he might actually harm the man who had just offered to save his life.

The thought helped to steady his impulses, though only slightly.

As warm blood filled him, his frantic energy began to ebb, yet the magic coursing through their connection continued to cast a hazy veil over his thoughts. Gale served as an open conduit to the Weave, and Astarion absorbed the magical energies flowing through its threads, drawn directly from the wizard and intensified by his life essence.

Delirium stirred a fierce jealousy within him for the orb imprisoned beneath Gale's ribcage, endlessly feeding on the same magic. He longed to become the blight that lived inside him.

There was a subtle shift in flavour and scent, a deepening that gradually intensified. It was then, amidst the rush of Gale's blood and the rapid thumping of his heart in Astarion's ear, that he became aware of the soft sounds escaping from Gale's mouth.

All-encompassing heat. Ecstasy flooded him as the strands of the Weave filled his body to the brim, followed by a gut-punch surge of wild desire. Without conscious thought—his mouth still pressed to Gale's neck—he lifted a leg and, with a single fluid motion, climbed into the man's lap.

One of Astarion's hands journeyed upward, fingers curling gently around the wizard's neck, where he felt Gale's throat bob as he swallowed. His other hand tangled in the dark waves of hair, cradling Gale's head in a firm, unyielding grip.

Astarion was painfully hard, his cock straining against his leather breeches, teetering on the edge of pain. The broken whimpers slipping from Gale's lips quickly plunged Astarion into an entirely different well of madness.

He shifted his hips and felt the unmistakable answering hardness of the man beneath him. A ripple of heady pleasure travelled down his spine and pooled low in his stomach.

With a gasp, his mouth broke away, blood mixed with saliva trickling slowly from Astarion's lips onto Gale's neck. The sight drew a moan from deep within him. Mesmerised, he watched the crimson liquid pool in the hollow above Gale's collarbone.

Then, all at once, the man came alive beneath him. Gale's fingers gripped Astarion's waist as he subtly canted his hips, seeking a better alignment. They groaned in unison, their lips mere inches apart. Astarion could taste Gale's hot breath on his tongue through the space between them.

Then came another slow, languid roll of his hips.

He tilted Gale's head upward, holding it steady in his unwavering grip. Leaning in, he delicately traced the sensitive skin of Gale's clavicle with his tongue before finally indulging in the scarlet reservoir that had gathered at the base of his neck. Beneath his palm, still resting against Gale's jugular, he felt the tremor of a whimper escape the man's throat.

Astarion eased back slightly, regarding Gale the way one might step away to admire a piece of art they had been diligently crafting.

His gaze lingered on the wizard's mouth—red and damp, as though he had been worrying the soft flesh between his teeth—before slowly rising to meet Gale's eyes.

Strands of dark and silver hair had escaped Gale's messy updo, now framing his face. His expression was one of blissful abandon: flushed crimson, his stubbled jaw slack with pleasure, a steady stream of soft sounds spilling from parted lips, matching the rhythm of their bodies moving together.

Astarion's grip around his neck tightened just a little, and Gale's heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat.

Gale had always been handsome, but he looked beautiful like this, and Astarion wanted to ruin him.

He ground down again, harder and more deliberate this time. The raspy moan that tore from Gale's throat was immediate and immensely gratifying. His hands slid to Astarion's hips, urging him on as he tried to set a faster rhythm for their desperate, senseless rutting.

Judging by the sounds Gale was making, he was getting close. Perhaps that was what prompted it. But then, without warning, his hands flew to Astarion's around his neck, eyes going wide. They froze, everything coming to a standstill, and with sudden clarity breaking through his expression, Gale managed a strangled, "Wait, wait, this is…"

It was as if a veil had lifted, and coherence dragged Astarion back into the frigid embrace of reality. He scrambled, his legs shaking as he moved off Gale's lap too quickly, nearly toppling over in the process.

"...too much," Gale finished weakly, barely able to form words amidst the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest as he gulped down air, his hand pressed to the orb pulsing brightly beneath the layers of his clothes.

The need to move closer and touch him was overwhelming, but Astarion resisted, desperately trying to regain his calm. Gale's heart raced, the rapid rhythm like a beacon to the predator within him, enticing a primal instinct to emerge and fulfil its purpose—either to kill him, to fuck him, or both.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Astarion squeezed his eyes shut; looking at Gale made everything a thousand times harder. "Can you fucking calm down?" he snapped, the words tumbling out in a single exhale. He raked his shaking fingers through his hair, then wiped down his face.

"I'm trying!" Gale bit back, likely not fully understanding but sensing the danger. He remained still, then took some deep breaths. Reaching out, he dispelled the illusion spell, and a choked sound broke from Astarion's throat at the sudden loss of that scent. The shift was small, but enough for him to claw back a sliver of his crumbling sanity.

Finally, once Gale's pulse slowed to a bearable tempo, the monster within Astarion calmed, settled, and crawled back into the dark depths of his psyche.

"Fucking prodigy, my arse," Astarion grumbled.

Gale released a strained laugh. "I wasn't expecting the effect to be so... strong."

Astarion watched, transfixed, as he palmed over the spot where he had bitten him, smearing some of the remaining blood around. "This was harder to resist than I anticipated," Gale admitted sheepishly, leaning back on one hand and folding his other arm over his eyes in a clear attempt to compose himself.

They remained like that for a few moments, neither of them moving, simply allowing the crashing waves of heightened emotions to thin out and ebb away.

"You know, there is no reason why you have to. I'd be more than happy to continue," Astarion offered, his lashes deliberately lowered, voice dropping an octave. But he already knew the wizard would not take the bait.

Gale released a raspy sigh, lowering his arm before meeting Astarion's gaze.

"As much as there's clearly a part of me drawn to this," he said, motioning loosely at the space between them, "even if the orb weren't a looming concern... what you want and what I need are on very distinct paths." He wiped his hands up and down his thigh. "I'm not accustomed to this. I'm not one for single nights of burning passion, Astarion." Gale shifted on the bed, sitting up straight, his dark eyes boring into him.

Astarion hummed. "If it's romance and grand gestures you're after, I have to agree—I can't be of help." He managed to keep his voice non-committal, though not without great effort, and even surprised himself with the honesty he offered so freely.

"I'm aware. Regrettably, romance and grand gestures are who I am," Gale said with a smile that felt humourless and somewhat sad.

They stared at each other for a few of Gale's now even heartbeats.

"I don't think me feeding on you is a very good idea," Astarion concluded finally.

Gale sighed and stood, taking a hesitant half-step towards Astarion but stopping short of encroaching on his space.

"Listen, the last time we found ourselves in a comparable state of... desire, nothing unfolded. We didn't cross any boundaries," Gale argued.

Astarion's eyebrows arched gradually, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he grasped the implications of Gale's admission—a delightful revelation he had not foreseen. Gale must have sensed he had disclosed more than intended, as he quickly averted his gaze.

"Well, well, aren't you just full of surprises, Great Wizard of Waterdeep?" Astarion drawled, suddenly feeling giddy.

"It must be the vampiric energy, or perhaps the effect of the blood loss," Gale said rapidly, his words tumbling out in a flurry—a familiar habit whenever embarrassment took hold of him. Desperate to salvage the moment, he grasped for the comfort of rationality, trying to reframe the incident, or his mortification, as some sort of scientific discovery.

"I've observed that during our... encounters, my breathing becomes markedly shallow, almost as though my body momentarily forgets the necessity of air. It's a curious effect, one that may contribute to the subjective sensation of suffocation."

He paced within the limited space, gesturing animatedly as he spoke.

"One could posit that this perceived hypoxia, combined with an accelerated pulse, facilitates more vigorous blood flow—an ideal state for a vampire's feeding. The infusion of vampiric energy could then offer an intensified experience. The body, overwhelmed, may suspend its usual reflexes. Rather than resisting, the subject might experience an elevated, almost euphoric state. What we could call a form of magical dysregulation." He stopped in his tracks and finally raised his head to look at Astarion. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if such a confluence of factors induced a state not unlike... arousal," he concluded.

"Or maybe you are just a deviant son of a bitch," Astarion countered.

That beautiful flush crept up with renewed intensity. Astarion was surprised the man still had enough blood in his body to conjure a blush.

"Or that," Gale said with a breathy chuckle. "Takes one to know one, I suppose."

A wide grin stretched across Astarion's face, his darkness reined back and firmly tucked away. He would never admit it, but now that he was no longer on the verge of passing out, listening to Gale's rambling and their light banter slowly untied all the remaining knots of anxiety in Astarion's stomach. He was, suddenly, more in his element.

The fact that he had just fed hit him all at once. He was feeling strong, and the nausea that he had been carrying for days had all but dissipated. He did not particularly want Gale to leave, but he knew it was best to preserve his newly regained sanity.

"Go, get some sleep. We have a long day ahead, likely filled with more gore and beheadings. I don't want to be responsible for jeopardising our wizard." He paused. "And Gale," the man looked at him with an open, unguarded expression, "thank you. I won't forget this."

A wide, rapid array of emotions flickered over Gale's face and Astarion barely managed to stifle the chuckle that nearly escaped him. "For letting me feed, I mean," he clarified.

"Ah. Yes, of course." Gale cleared his throat. "You are most welcome; it was my pleasure."

Astarion could no longer contain the bark of laughter that all but fell out of him, and Gale buried his face in his palm when he realised his poor choice of wording.

Astarion's grin softened into a smile as he regarded the man with a tilted head. He relished the crimson colour that had bloomed on the tips of Gale's ears, just visible through his dishevelled hair.

I did that.

Mercifully, before his thoughts wandered back into the gutter, Gale glanced towards the tent entrance. "Well, this is mildly mortifying. I better go before I make an even bigger fool of myself."

A whisper of something soft and weak, horrifyingly close to fondness, surfaced in Astarion.

"Good night, Sunshine," he said, a little stiff around the edges, then swiftly slaughtered the sentiment.

✦

Karlach and Astarion had once again been tasked with gathering ingredients from the duergar base. It was baffling how they still managed to earn trust for such crucial supply missions, especially given their ongoing habit of bringing back utter rubbish and forcing Gale to cook with it. Somehow, no one had caught on to their ridiculous little game yet.

"So, what's the deal with you and the wizard?" Karlach was never one to mince words, but her bluntness still caught Astarion off guard. Judging by her expression, he had not masked his reaction quickly enough.

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about," Astarion said, then picked up a crate that was only held together by the hopes and prayers of the spiders residing inside.

"You two go from barely tolerating each other to almost being friendly. Then, out of the blue, you're darting off like startled kittens when left alone, and now you're just plain weird."

Astarion firmly avoided looking at her. "Refer to me as a kitten again and you'll be feasting on your own tongue, tiefling." He needed to work on his delivery, apparently, as all this did was make Karlach laugh.

"Astarion, talk!" Karlach demanded, humour evident in her tone.

Rolling his eyes, Astarion relented. "It's nothing. You can calm down. He's just... helping me with something," he admitted finally, hoping that giving a partial truth would get her off his back.

Karlach rounded on him, making eye contact unavoidable. She squinted at him with grave suspicion.

"I like you," she said, and Astarion could feel the impending 'but'.

"But you can be a manipulative little son of a bitch, and as clever as the Magic Man is, I'm not sure he could keep up with that. He's one of the nicest men I have ever met, and if you break him, I will break your pretty face."

"Aww, you love me? You think I'm pretty? Should I be expecting a proposal?" Astarion mocked, moving a little closer to Karlach and batting his lashes at her suggestively.

She stepped back with a huff of laughter. "Everyone thinks you're pretty; that's exactly my point. And with all this nonsense on our plate, we don't need camp drama on top of it."

Astarion snickered. "You're just worried that Gale wouldn't cook for you if he were sad," he laughed.

"Am not!" she retorted with feigned offence.

Astarion sighed, finally in defeat.

"You have nothing to worry about, darling," he said. "Besides, he already made it quite clear that he's not interested in any of this," he added much more quietly, gesturing vaguely at himself.

Karlach stared at him wide-eyed, stifling another oncoming laugh and failing miserably.

"Are you seriously telling me you got rejected by a wizard who wears purple crushed velvet and constantly talks about his tressym best friend?"

"Shut up," Astarion huffed. "Anyway, speaking of camp drama, don't think I haven't noticed you ogling our resident cleric every time you think she's not looking," he added, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Karlach just grinned. She had no reason to hide her fondness for Shadowheart.

He pried open a crate that yielded with a loud echoing groan and a cloud of green dust, revealing a half-eaten apple and a bloodless pig leg inside.

"Darling, come take a look at this," he beckoned.

Karlach stepped closer and scrunched her face. "That's utterly repulsive."

"I know," Astarion said with a smirk. "It's perfect."

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale 

They stood before Nere, gnomes trembling at his feet, the molten air thick with fear and the promise of violence. The heat from the free-flowing lava was nearly unbearable, yet nothing burned hotter than Gale's swiftly rising ire.

"What? I just don't think it's any of our business," Astarion said dispassionately, crossing his arms.

Gale gaped at him.

"That drow," he said, gesturing toward the tall, silver-haired figure locked in a heated exchange with Karlach, "subjected these gnomes to unimaginable suffering, enslaving them and killing them in great numbers, and you think this is... what, acceptable?"

"I never said that, but they are… gnomes," Astarion said, emphasising the last word as if Gale should have understood his implication. "I just don't think this has anything to do with us." The elf bristled, growing defensive.

Gale recognised the signs, sensing their conversation teetering on the brink of another sharp-tongued exchange. But this was neither the time nor the place.

He bit back the barbed words that clamoured on his tongue, though his anger and frustration swelled and surged, too swift and too fierce to be contained.

"Well, I beg to differ," Gale said, then abruptly half-turned. Conversation cauterised. Then, without so much as a dramatic pause or warning, he hurled a Fireball at that arsehole Nere. Astarion merely rolled his eyes in exasperation, but nonetheless jumped into the fray.

It was a grim but brief affair, and before Gale quite registered what had happened, it was over. Karlach was already cheerfully decapitating the drow's corpse to haul back to the Myconid colony that had sent them on this hellish assassination mission to begin with.

As they finished setting up camp in a secluded and somewhat cooler corner of the now-empty forge, the gentle murmur of the freed gnomes contemplating their next moves filled the air. Nearby, Lae'zel and Shadowheart were deep in a… spirited debate over the proper method of tent assembly. Karlach sat back and watched their antics with an amused smile stretching across her face, sharing a bottle of wine with Wyll and Halsin around the crackling campfire they'd kindled for cooking.

Gale winced as the flames licked too eagerly at the pot's base. He had reminded them countless times: it should only simmer. Normally, he would have taken charge of dinner himself, but the lingering tension left him too restless, too jittery to even consider it.

His eyes fell on Astarion, standing in his tent, overlooking a clutter of weapons, gleaming blades and notched arrows scattered across the table.

Before he could stop himself, Gale was already moving toward him, pent-up emotions boiling over, seeking an outlet and finding a target.

"What in the Nine Hells is the matter with you?" Gale demanded, rounding on the vampire.

Astarion released a long-suffering sigh. "Gods, is this still about those gnomes?" he asked, not even sparing Gale a glance as he wiped his hands with a damp rag, futilely working at the blood settled in the creases of his skin and beneath his nails.

"I simply struggle to understand how someone with your history can show such a marked lack of empathy for others in similar circumstances."

Astarion whipped around, crimson eyes flashing dangerously. His fingers curled around the rag until it was clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

"I'm nothing like them," he hissed, his words strained through clenched teeth.

Gale was aware that provoking the elf could cost him more than his wounded pride, but in that moment, he cared little for the consequences. The adrenaline from battle still coursed through him, lending strength to the outrage—and perhaps disappointment—that rose from the sea of emotions swirling inside him.

Astarion averted his gaze, then turned his back to Gale and started neatly arranging the weapons on the table. Despite his resolute concentration on inspecting his arsenal, tension remained taut in his shoulders.

"Are you suggesting that you were not subjected to a similar form of enslavement as these unfortunate creatures? Forced to cater to the whims of a deranged master?"

The elf flinched, though he kept his back to Gale.

"I said," his movements stiffened, a violent edge creeping into his voice—an intensity Gale had heard from him before, but never directed at him or any of their companions, "I'm nothing like these weak vermin."

Gale scoffed. "Gods, Astarion…"

"Get out," Astarion said quietly, and for the first time, Gale would have preferred if he'd shouted.

He didn't need to be told twice.

✦

Gale was still seething hours later, unsuccessfully trying to organise the literature he had collected about the forge, when Karlach poked her head into his tent.

"Do you mind if I come in?" she asked, looking a little nervous.

"Of course. What can I do for you?" Gale pushed down the fury brewing in his chest. He didn't want to be rude to someone who had nothing to do with the source of his foul mood.

She stepped inside, then paused. "Mate, as one explosive to another, I can see you're ready to blow."

Gale felt like a jostled cup, filled to the brim and spilling over; words rushed forth like an unyielding stream.

"I don't understand it, Karlach. I can't comprehend his thinking." He didn't need to clarify who he was talking about. "After everything he's endured, how can he adopt this stance? He found himself in a position to help others, others bound to a fate as harrowing as his own, and yet..." He ran a hand through his hair. "He was ready to simply walk away, to pretend he wasn't complicit in perpetuating another cycle of abuse. He has power now. He has the power to do good."

"Listen," Karlach began, swallowing thickly as an unusually dark and serious expression settled on her features. "I have been through it, the chains, the terror, and the pain of it all." Gale's mouth snapped shut. It was easy to forget the horrors she had endured, given her typically jovial demeanour. "I don't know exactly what he's feeling, no. But I know this: getting out, breaking free, that is only the start. The real fight comes after." She placed a hand over her chest, fingers splayed, the old scars catching the light. "This thing, it digs in deep and leaves behind a darkness. And you have got to face it every single day. Maybe, someday, it will get easier. But right now?" She shook her head. "It is a battle. Every step."

Her words faltered, her golden eyes filled with a solemn, haunted sadness as she glanced away. Clearing her throat, she continued, "This is the first time he's seen his own pain staring back at him since he got out. Yes, he is an arsehole, and what he said was vile. No excuse for it. But I think he'd rather hide behind that cruelty than show weakness, especially not in front of another abuser who reminds him of the one who broke him in the first place."

"Being kind is not a weakness," Gale argued.

"I know that. You know that. But he doesn't." She sighed and let her arms fall in defeat. "Look, I want to punch him in the face half the time, too," she admitted. "He's said some truly messed-up stuff. And if I hadn't seen the cracks in that armour myself, the little moments where something real slips through, I'd have walked away a long time ago."

She studied him for a heartbeat. "But he is changing. Barely faster than a godsdamned Shrieker's pace, but it's happening, and I've got faith he will get there… eventually."

Gale exhaled, jaw clenched. He shook his head slowly. "I can't look past this."

"You don't have to," Karlach's voice softened. "But I think you should talk to him once the emotions aren't running as high as Avernus' heat."

Gale looked away, suddenly feeling exhausted, too tired to sustain the fire.

"Anyways, I found this for you," said Karlach, making a blatant effort to change the subject as she handed over a box. Gale, caught off guard, immediately reached for the offered object.

He unwrapped the dusty linen covering to reveal the treasure within—a pristine lanceboard set. With mesmerised fascination, he opened the box. Though he had owned a similar set back at the Tower, this one far surpassed it in craftsmanship. The board itself appeared to be fashioned from a light, yet durable metal. The white pieces were intricately carved from ivory, while the dark ones were made of onyx. Each piece had a small fragment of luspeel affixed to its base, granting it a magnetic grip on the board and keeping it firmly in place during play.

"I… can't accept this," Gale said in disbelief. "This would sell for a small fortune."

Karlach laughed. "Of course you can. It's a gift. Take it." Her excitement was contagious, and Gale found himself unable to refuse.

"Thank you," he whispered, his eyes still captivated by the set. "But why…?"

He looked up at Karlach, and as the whirlwind churned inside him, he was horrified to realise the unmistakable feeling of tears welling. He swallowed dryly around the tightness gripping at his throat.

"Because we're friends, Magic Man. I saw it and thought of you right away," she said with a warm smile. Then, raising her hands defensively, she added, "I didn't steal it!"

That drew a chuckle from Gale.

"I wouldn't really care even if you did, to be honest. I'm afraid my moral compass has been pointing south lately," he admitted with a sigh.

She grinned. "There's nothing wrong with the occasional misdirection."

"Ha!" Gale let out a genuine laugh, his smile broadening. "Thank you. Truly. This is the nicest gift I've received in a long time. Well, the only one, really. But regardless, it means a great deal."

"Don't sweat it," Karlach replied, her smile radiant.

Gale wished that one day he might find love in someone as profoundly kind and optimistic as her. If only he were not so certain her affections lay elsewhere...

He entertained the thought for a moment before gently setting it aside. Who was he trying to fool? The warmth he felt in her presence had grown steadily at first, then plateaued, comfortably settling into a friendship. Strangely, he found solace in that. Apart from Tara, he had never truly experienced a bond like it, and whatever entanglement he had with Astarion... well, it was best not to dwell on that.

✦

They had returned to their camp at the outskirts of the Myconid colony, relishing a well-deserved break before continuing their journey to Moonrise Towers. Three days of frigid silence stretched between them before Astarion finally stumbled into Gale's tent.

"You told me we were friends."

Gale's hackles rose at the sound of Astarion's affected voice, but as he turned to face the elf, he immediately sensed that something was very, very wrong.

He squinted at the vampire. "Actually, you'll find that you were the one who declared us friends; I merely agreed. Non-verbally, I hasten to add."

The elf was stumbling, barely holding onto a bottle of wine, with the dark liquid wildly sloshing inside it.

"Astarion, are you drunk?"

Astarion giggled instead of answering the question, but there was no humour in the sound.

"How in the Hells is that even possible?" Gale asked. His carefully maintained coldness slipped as his curiosity piqued.

Astarion shrugged. "Another tadpole bonus, I guess."

Gale sighed. Under normal circumstances, he would have found this fascinating and probably would have interrogated the vampire extensively for later research, but frankly, he just wanted to be left alone.

"Why are you here, Astarion?"

"You," he said, pointing wildly at Gale with the hand holding the bottle, "agreed that we are friends," he corrected stubbornly.

Gale hummed, noncommittal. "Where is this going?"

"Well, you have been a pretty shit friend, I have to say, so I've been spending time with my other friend. But she kicked me out and told me to annoy you instead."

He knew Karlach had been trying to get them talking over the past few days, so this didn't exactly come as a surprise.

Gale raised an eyebrow. "And what, you obeyed her? Most unusual."

"I didn't... obey," the elf replied through gritted teeth, spitting the last word like venom.

"Is there a purpose to your visit, or are you here solely to reassess the current state of our friendship? Because I must admit, the longer this conversation continues, the more tempted I am to reconsider," Gale said, knowing he was being harsh, but he was still irate.

Astarion took a step closer, the wine bottle slipping from his grasp and falling to the ground with a soft thud onto the rug Gale used to keep some of the dust at bay. Gale heard the rhythmic glug of the liquid escaping its vessel. Astarion glanced down with a frown, staring at the carpet as though it were to blame for knocking the bottle from his hand. He reminded Gale of a sulky child.

The elf then lifted his head to look at him, but Gale firmly kept his gaze on Astarion's hairline, close enough to resemble eye contact, but without the intensity of it. Astarion swayed closer with unsteady steps. He reached out slowly, giving Gale the opportunity to step back if he wished to avoid the contact.

Gale didn't move.

Astarion rested his hands on Gale's shoulders. When he showed no sign of pulling away, the elf dragged his palms down to Gale's chest, gripping the threadbare fabric of his shirt tightly, the black linen twisting between his fingers.

They were close. Much too close. Closer than they should have been, given what had transpired between them not that long ago. At last, Gale willed himself to meet Astarion's eyes.

An exhale caught in his throat. In a blink, all his rage evacuated his chest so swiftly, no other emotion had time to fill the empty void it left behind, leaving him hollow.

That maddeningly beautiful face—the canvas upon which Gale had witnessed a thousand of Astarion's expressions. He had seen the elf enraged, delighted, seductive, and, on rare and fleeting occasions, troubled or sorrowful. But now, Astarion looked at him with a bruising intensity, with something unnamed but devastating, and he clung to Gale as if he were his last reserve.

But the worst were the eyes. That ever-violent, calculating stare was now framed by skin flushed raw from the salt of unshed tears, poised to spill.

Gale's traitorous heart skipped a beat, and a renewed wave of worry crashed over him like a wide tidal surge.

He swallowed audibly. "What are you doing?" he rasped, throat constricting.

Astarion's fist twitched. "Why do you care so much about these slaves?" he asked in a voice barely a whisper.

"Astarion..." Gale didn't want this fight, but Astarion continued.

"What's so special about these pitiful creatures that they deserve saving?" He looked at Gale, gaze accusatory and face taut.

"Everyone in their position would deserve saving," Gale said, much softer than he intended, dreading the path this exchange was heading down.

Astarion stared at him, unblinking, for a long, extended moment.

"Then why didn't anyone come for me?"

Oh.

Gale only heard him because they were merely inches apart.

He opened his mouth, trying to offer something, anything... but no sound found its way out into the stifling silence that stretched between them.

Before he even had the chance to think of a response, to conjure some false ideology, Astarion was speaking, a fast staccato of words pouring from his lips.

"Where was my grand team of saviours when Cazador made me kneel for him, compelling me to lick putrid blood from the floor for his amusement?" His voice rose in volume as the breeze of sadness grew into a dark and savage storm. He loked at Gale with such ferocity, questioning him as though he had personally wronged him. Gale began to feel as though he had.

"I prayed every night, to every deity, anyone willing to listen. From Tyr to your precious Mystra, yet no one answered," he spat, his eyes glistening. "Why does a group of pathetic gnomes deserve salvation when I didn't?"

It was agonising not knowing whether it was the alcohol—still a mystery in how it affected the elf—that had loosened his tongue, or if it was simply another bout of manipulation. Perhaps it was a bit of both. With Astarion, it was impossible to tell.

But Gale was weak, and Astarion's anger proved infectious. Before he could appeal to the more rational side of his mind, his own fury returned, this time for an entirely different reason. It coiled in his chest and turned towards all deities, including his own.

They stood so close they shared the same breath, with only Astarion's hand between them acting as a barrier. Gale battled the urge to wrap his arms around Astarion, to draw him close in an attempt to console him, but that was not what they were.

There was no space for gentle touches, no room for caresses or the tender act of wiping away tears born of rage and despair. Every fibre of Gale's being ached to yield, to offer comfort, knowing the elf would likely remember none of it. It would be a fleeting surrender to impulse.

He struck a compromise. Keeping his arms rigidly at his sides, careful not to brush against Astarion, he leaned in, just slightly, and pressed his cheek to the elf's. It was awkward, a little clumsy, but it would have to suffice.

"I'm sorry," he whispered at last, his words choked, the apology getting lost in Astarion's unruly curls. "For not being there. It won't happen again."

There was a shaky sound, a puff of air that brushed against the shell of Gale's ear.

"Better not," Astarion replied, leaning back slightly, his attention fixed intently on Gale. He held his gaze for a few heartbeats before pulling away and wordlessly exiting the tent.

Gale couldn't sleep for hours that night. A pathetic part of him—one that craved to feel needed, hungered for attention, and purred and rolled over whenever anyone gave even a morsel of it—longed to stride to Astarion's tent, lie beside him, and cradle the elf in his arms until he could erase the years of suffering.

But that was not their reality.

It never would be.

Gale needed to accept that and rein in the burgeoning feelings rising in his chest every time he glimpsed a rare, vulnerable side of Astarion.

 ✦

"If you ever bring up anything that occurred yesterday," Astarion said conversationally instead of a greeting as he approached Gale at the table he used to prepare their breakfast, "I will cut your throat and soak the ground in your wretched blood."

Gale chuckled softly. Despite the lingering weight of the previous day's emotions, he found himself pleasantly surprised by how much lighter he felt. It was comforting to see Astarion returning to his usual self.

Though Gale remained unsure how to feel about everything that had been said and done, Karlach's words echoed persistently in his ears. Always a firm believer that actions spoke louder than words, and having spent the sleepless hours of the previous evening obsessively sifting through his thoughts, he had eventually arrived at the conclusion that he was willing to see if such a transformation was possible for Astarion.

"Understood," he responded with a mock salute, carrot in hand. "But I'd be lying if I said the mystery didn't intrigue me. How, in Oghma's name, did you manage to become so thoroughly inebriated?

"I had ale," Astarion said simply, picking up a round piece of carrot and absent-mindedly starting to roll it on the flat piece of wood Gale used as a cutting board.

"You had ale?" Gale repeated, puzzled. He had never seen Astarion drink malt, and the elf didn't strike him as someone with a taste for it. "Wait, does this mean—can you eat now too?" Excitement flooded Gale as he imagined the myriad of recipes he'd love Astarion to try. The elf always seemed sceptical when others praised his cooking, and Gale would relish proving him wrong.

"Nothing quite as grand, I'm afraid. At least, I doubt it," Astarion said, sniffing at the vegetable in his hand and then making an exaggerated, revolted face. "Still, our delightful little tadpole seems to have granted me a curious new perk. Apparently, I can reap certain benefits when feeding on someone who's had a bit too much to drink. And feed… I did." Astarion's voice slipped back into his usual suggestive drawl.

"Came across a goblin stumbling his way to the surface. Let's just say his journey ended a touch prematurely." He snapped the vegetable in half with a smirk. "As it happens, he was thoroughly drunk on cheap liquor, which now we know can affect little ol' me," Astarion said, wildly gesturing with the pieces of carrot still pinched between his fingers.

Gale couldn't help but snort, picturing the surprise on Astarion's face as the light-headed sensation took hold.

He wasn't fully convinced that the elf was right; after all, he had witnessed Astarion indulge in wine many times without ever showing signs of inebriation. Nonetheless, the mood had lifted, and Gale decided not to scrutinise it too closely. For now.

Gale started cutting up the herbs next, slicing through the dry leaves he had carried for weeks in his pouch. They were better when fresh, but this would have to do. Astarion stood over him, his eyes fixed on the dry plants crumbling under Gale's deft fingers.

"Are we over this stupid tiff now?" Astarion asked, eyes still averted, continuing to toy with the piece of vegetable, twirling it as though preparing for a magic trick.

"I'm still vexed with you for being an insensitive prick," Gale said, using the back of his hand to push some stray hairs sticking to his forehead out of the way.

Astarion placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "Mr Dekarios, we really need to keep that language of yours in check."

Gale rolled his eyes. "So, do you want to see whether the tadpoles have given you the ability to eat as well?"

"Doubtful, but it wouldn't hurt to give it a try, I suppose," he said, casually popping the little piece of carrot into his mouth. For a moment, anticipation hung in the air, only to be shattered when the elf's complexion turned even paler than usual. With a quick spin, he promptly spat the offending vegetable onto the floor.

Astarion straightened up, attempting to regain some composure. "I suppose not," he said primly. But as their eyes met, amusement took over, and they both burst out laughing.

"Oh thank fuck! Fringe, look, our men are back to normal," Karlach shouted back to Shadowheart over her shoulder, having likely heard the commotion and come to investigate. "So, I take it you arseholes have managed to figure things out?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Astarion, with a tone of nonchalance so convincing that Gale might have believed him, if he didn't know better.

Gale looked away and busied his hands, finishing breakfast while the others settled into their usual spots around the fire pit. He found it rather charming how, no matter how often they relocated camp, they always ended up sitting in the same familiar arrangement: Karlach nestled comfortably between Astarion and Shadowheart; Halsin beside the cleric, offering a much-needed buffer of calm between her and Lae'zel, who sat on the druid's other side; and Wyll beside her. They always left a seat for Gale on Astarion's other side.

He glanced at the group and watched Karlach riling up Astarion. Though he couldnt hear their words, the affronted expression on the elf's face was unmistakable, confirmed by the smirk tugging at Shadowheart's lips.

Astarion and Karlach's easy camaraderie was fascinating to observe. Astarion's outrageous flirtations had no effect on the tiefling; however, Karlach had a knack for ruffling Astarion's feathers with terrifying ease. It was endlessly entertaining to witness the elf, usually so calculating, reduced to something Gale could only compare to a furious, waterlogged kitten.

Warmth spread through him as he looked over his companions. They had only come together a few weeks ago, yet despite their many differences, they had managed to forge a bond. Gale had never experienced anything quite like it, and the realisation struck him, sudden and sharp: he was terrified of losing it.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Astarion

Omeluum, the friendly mind flayer. Because, of course, that was now a thing. As if the madness of their situation could not escalate any further.

They had just returned to the myconid community, presenting Nere's head on a silver platter. And now, here they were, embarking on yet another ridiculous quest for some mushrooms that would supposedly help rid them of these accursed tadpoles. Astarion, having heard variations of this hopeful promise countless times before, harboured no illusions.

Even if they were to succeed, he would likely decline. Transforming into a mind flayer was, somehow, still preferable to returning under Cazador's expert care. After all this time, he could only imagine the exquisite torment his master would devise upon recapturing him—a highly probable outcome without the tadpole's protections, and he had no intention of granting Cazador that particular pleasure.

However, something about the eager, hopeful gleam in Gale's eyes after their interaction with Omeluum kept Astarion from voicing his observation on their consistent trend of failure. He had no desire to be the reason behind Gale's next pensive sulk, at least not so soon.

Despite the wizard's assurances, an odd tension always seemed to linger whenever they were left alone. More often than not, it drove Astarion to seek out other company or, preferably, blessed solitude.

He had nearly convinced himself that keeping his distance was a noble act of maturity—giving the wizard space, allowing things to settle back into normalcy. Whatever that was supposed to mean, considering the absolute disaster their lives had been lately.

Then again, it could also, possibly, maybe, almost certainly, be seen as Astarion resorting to every imaginable tactic to avoid Gale out of sheer, blistering mortification over his own drunken antics. His memory of that night was, mercifully, hazy, but he distinctly recalled tears being involved. That alone was enough to make him consider dousing himself in grease and setting himself on fire.

And while Gale had shown some improvement from his days of brooding, he certainly did not seem to mind Astarion's avoidance. Between burying himself in books, preparing the group's meals, and now obsessively collecting mushroom samples, the wizard kept himself thoroughly occupied. He roamed the myconid settlement, eager to engage anyone willing to discuss his latest fungal research.

Well, mostly just Glut, or as Gale reverently referred to him, Sovereign Glut, who remained under the impression that they had wiped out the duergar encampment purely as an act of vengeance on behalf of his kin. Gale, naturally, had made no effort to correct him, preferring instead to cultivate the notion that Glut owed him a rather significant debt. As a result, the myconid now hovered in their midst, functioning as Gale's personal repository of fungal knowledge, which he shared through some bizarre spore connection.

Astarion could not help but feel a twinge of admiration at witnessing such deceit and unabashed exploitation of power from Gale. It was not entirely surprising; the wizard had a penchant for moral flexibility whenever knowledge and power dangled within reach. And while Astarion suspected the myconid harboured its own hidden agenda, he remained hopeful they would be long gone before any of Glut's schemes could properly unfold.

With the others off investigating a nearby Selûnite outpost, only Astarion, Gale and Karlach were left to handle the ludicrous mushroom-collecting endeavour. Although Astarion put on a show of exasperated complaints, he secretly welcomed the opportunity to test the waters with the wizard, without appearing overly eager, of course.

Which was how he found himself trudging alongside the tiefling on the outskirts of the colony, relegated to the rather undignified role of Gale's minder.

The wizard stumbled blindly through the darkness half the time, adamantly refusing to use fire or magical light sources in order to 'preserve the local flora'. That small inconvenience, however, did not stop him from meticulously inspecting every glowing, twitching, or unsettlingly vibrating creature they encountered, his magical quill and parchment always at the ready as he consulted Glut.

"Ugh, transforming into a mind flayer might have its perks after all. At least then I could float over this muck," Astarion remarked, eyeing the suspicious path filled with glistening, jellied formations that emitted an unappealing squelching sound. Gale had been on his knees investigating them, but after a brief moment of consideration, the wizard rose to his feet, jotted down some notes and opted to explore a different path instead.

"You really aren't one for roughing it, are you?" Karlach laughed.

Astarion scrunched his nose and shot her a pointed look. "Wallowing in filth is for pigs and children, my dear."

"Pigs, children, and people with a little bit of grit," she grinned, slowing her steps to fall behind Gale. Once the wizard was out of earshot, Karlach glanced sideways and asked, "Are things back to normal between you and the Magic Man?"

Astarion had anticipated this line of questioning since they had left camp earlier that day. Karlach's habit of poking her nose into everyone's business was well established, and he had not been the target of her scrutiny for days. It was, frankly, overdue.

He sighed. "Define normal? He still has a bomb in his chest, I still have Cazador on my trail, and we all have our wriggly friends deeply lodged in our skulls."

"You know that's not what I mean," she said, undeterred. Karlach never did let him get away with nonsense.

After their encounter with Nere and the whole... gnome debacle, Karlach embodied the classic 'I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed' stance. She saw right through him, saw the loopholes and contrived justifications his mind so expertly concocted, perhaps even better than Astarion himself.

Her efforts to discuss everything that transpired, however, sparked a simmering anger within him, a primal urge for violence coursing through his veins. He refrained from acting on his impulses purely because—despite everything—he liked her. While she let the matter rest for now, Astarion had little doubt she would circle back to it sooner or later. For the moment, talking about his situation with Gale seemed the far less aggravating option.

"I honestly do not know. Maintaining this... thing," he said, waving his hand vaguely, "is quite the challenge. He is exceedingly high maintenance."

Karlach gave him a look of disbelief. Coming from him, it was perhaps a touch hypocritical.

"Friendships rarely aren't," she replied, offering him a small smile. "Certainly not for our little gang of traumatised worm-brains. But all we can do is try. And, you know, occasionally ease up on the twattery," she added with a chuckle.

"Speaking of twattery," Astarion raised a suggestive brow, "how's your little dalliance with our princess of darkness?" He eagerly seized the opportunity to divert the conversation with a vulgar twist. As usual, his choice of words had little to no effect on the tiefling, or so he thought, but he was truly shocked to see that despite the fiery red skin and darkness, he could still detect Karlach's blushing. " Wow, you are utterly gone on her."

"Shut up, you prick," she barked, though a mix of embarrassment and amusement danced in her eyes. Astarion could see the restrained urge to give him a shove, but instead, she straightened and scratched at the back of her neck. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "We have been talking more, just the two of us, but... You know how she is. Very determined, mind focused on her 'Lady of Darkness's and her mission. And with the whole memory thing, I'm not sure I'd feel comfortable... You know." She shrugged. "I'm just happy to be there for her, I guess."

Astarion hummed thoughtfully, though he could not relate to the sentiment in the slightest. Karlach was sickeningly nice, yet she was the first person he did not instinctively perceive as weak or easily manipulated because of it. 

Their exchange was interrupted by a thud, suspiciously reminiscent of a man tripping over a rock, followed by a colourful string of swearing.

Gale, though seemingly recovered from his stumble in the darkness, still appeared somewhat dishevelled in the looming shadow of Glut. By the time they caught up with him, he was hunched over, inspecting a chest by his feet that was very clearly trapped.

Astarion's eyes swept over the area, noting the scattered, decaying belongings littering the ground. It had once been an encampment, either hastily abandoned or thoroughly wiped out. Not even a single bone remained to hint at its former occupants.

"Careful, blind man, that thing will blow if you so much as breathe on it," Karlach warned as Gale leaned in, squinting far too closely at the chest.

Astarion rolled his eyes, stepped forward, and unceremoniously shoved Gale aside. He had no intention of getting blown to bits because of the wizard's tragically underwhelming skill when it came to disabling contraptions. Kneeling next to the box, he carefully inspected the unfamiliar mechanism. The design was unlike anything he had encountered before. Retrieving his disarm kit, he gently traced a finger along the thin lines webbing over the keyhole and lock, analysing its intricacies.

He had learnt this skill, lockpicking and trap disassembly, from Aurelia, a tiefling turned vampire, one of his spawn siblings he did not entirely despise. He had once caught her slipping in and out of Leon's restricted chamber, and in exchange for his silence, she had reluctantly agreed to share her craft.

"Hate to pull rank, but I was once Mystra's Chosen. Allow me," Gale insisted impatiently.

"I know how to disarm a damned trap, thank you," Astarion growled, shooting a pointed glare over his shoulder. He spent the next few moments crouched by the chest, but his efforts proved futile. It seemed to be infused with some arcane energy, rendering his simple tool kit useless.

"This appears to be a warding mechanism of a magical nature," Gale observed, tone smug. "And between the two of us, I daresay I am the more magically inclined, if your feeble attempts at Firebolt are anything to go by."

Trap temporarily forgotten, Astarion's irritation flared. "Excuse me? My Firebolts are perfectly functional. Piss off," he retorted sharply.

"ENOUGH WITH THE SQUABBLING!" Karlach's shout cut through the tension from behind them.

Gale raised his palms defensively. "It seems to be a delicate system. If you observe closely, you can see..."

"I would rather you just blow us up than endure another magical theory lecture," Astarion interjected, abruptly rising to his feet, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Gale, a clear challenge issued.

Undeterred, Gale stepped closer, summoning a crackling, icy blue spell into his palm. "Dispelling the magic should do the trick," he said, flashing a far-too-confident smile.

"No!" Astarion's horror mounted, but before he could intervene, Gale flicked his wrist and unleashed the spell. The magic struck the chest, engulfing it in a blinding flash.

The arcane energy collided with the contraption, and everything promptly went to shit.

Astarion darted behind a nearby boulder just in time as the detonation erupted. The searing heat lapped at him even behind his shelter, like standing too close to a bonfire. The deafening roar of the explosion reverberated through the cavern, leaving Astarion momentarily disoriented, his ears ringing.

As the echoes faded and the heat ebbed, he cautiously emerged from behind his cover.

Gale lay sprawled on the floor, a significant distance from where the chest once sat. Amidst the lingering cacophony of crackling flames and Karlach's ragged breathing, Astarion struggled to discern the wizard's heartbeat.

The tiefling, miraculously unscathed, rushed forward and dropped to her knees beside Gale. Panic was etched on her face, tears welling in her eyes, her hands hovering helplessly above him, unable to touch the man before her.

Without wasting another second, Astarion sprang into action. He uncorked a healing potion mid-stride and moved beside Gale's motionless form, opposite Karlach. The wizard's face was streaked with soot, his hair, eyebrows and beard scorched and smouldering from the blast. Cradling Gale's head, Astarion forced the potion past his lips, but the liquid slid uselessly down his throat. It had no effect.

Karlach's mechanical whirr of a heartbeat quickened, stoking Astarion's own growing anxiety.

Where in the Hells was Shadowheart when they needed her?

Then, without warning, an apparition of Gale flickered into existence before them, startling them both.

"Well met! I am a magical projection of Gale of Waterdeep, and if you see this manifestation, that means I have prematurely perished." Astarion's head throbbed. "However, for reasons that cannot be disclosed, it is of vital importance that my death be remedied at your earliest convenience. You may rest assured that I do not speak out of self-preservation alone: many lives depend on my return to the living within the span of two days. I trust I made myself clear?"

"We already know this, just get to the point and tell me how the fuck am I supposed to bring you back?" Astarion snapped, glaring at the projection.

Raising its unfocused gaze in Astarion's general direction, it continued, "I have upon my deceased person a magical item that can accomplish my return, but such is the value and rarity that it is protected by a multi-layered security protocol." It spoke in a cool, matter-of-fact tone, reminiscent of Gale's but lacking all warmth. For a brief moment, Astarion's thoughts drifted, trying to recall Gale's manner of speech when they first met. Was this merely a magical echo of him, or did Gale sound like this before?

"I will now explain the protocol," the projection carried on, and Astarion forced himself to concentrate.

"Step one is to retrieve from my person a pouch I wear over my heart. Next..."

"You have got to be bloody kidding me," Astarion muttered, but there was no time to waste as the projection droned on without pause.

"…upon completing the tune, a magma mephit will appear, posing the following question: I'ss k'cha t'chiss n'aga? "

Astarion glanced at Karlach. She stared straight ahead, golden eyes wide with panic, muttering the strange words under her breath while frantically counting the syllables on her fingers, and already getting them wrong. Astarion rolled his eyes, secretly grateful that at least one of them possessed some semblance of short-term memory.

"Words will now appear on the letter's surface, effectively turning it into a Scroll of True Resurrection. Use it to bring me back to life," concluded not-exactly-Gale, fixing an expectant gaze upon Astarion.

Astarion's headache escalated by the moment. "Alright, alright, fine," he ground out, releasing a long-suffering sigh.

"Excellent," it responded, then continued, "Now repeat my instructions back to me, please."

"I got it. Seams, notes, names, the lot," barked Astarion, but the projection cut him off.

"I am afraid I have to insist."

Through gritted teeth, Astarion recited the steps, and with each detail he recalled, the panic on Karlach's face gave way to open admiration.

"Best of luck with the protocol! May my cold, dead hands soon be refilled with the warmth of life so they can shake yours in gratitude," said the projection finally before disappearing with a soft pop.

Astarion slid his hand into Gale's robe and retrieved the pouch. It was small, crafted from exquisite leather, adorned with red, purple and green threads. Following the procedure, he carefully pulled on the purple one in a counterclockwise fashion.

The pouch fell open, revealing a letter and a flute inside.

He picked up the small instrument, feeling it thrum with the residue of magic, causing his skin to itch. "I am not playing the bloody flute," he muttered.

"Fine, then give it to me," the tiefling said, snatching it from Astarion's hand. "What do I need to play?" she asked, her tone somewhat calmer than before.

"Let me see..." Astarion unfolded the parchment. "The letter says you need to play D, E, A, and then D again. Oh... 'dead'. Very amusing, Gale," he muttered with a scowl at the lifeless body sprawled at his knees, barely resisting the urge to kick the man. "I swear, the moment you are back, I will kill you myself."

Ignoring Astarion's rambling, Karlach raised the flute to her lips and diligently played the notes.

In a sudden eruption of lava that narrowly missed them, a magma mephit appeared. For a moment, Astarion worried the sheer heat might spark another fungal reaction, but it seemed whatever was flammable had already been claimed by the earlier explosion.

"I'ss k'cha t'chiss n'aga?" grated the creature.

Astarion cast his eyes up towards the ceiling of the cave before finally repeating the required words, "K'ha'ssji'trach'ash."

"That was pretty good," said Karlach excitedly, still sounding rather impressed.

The mephit regarded him with small, fiery eyes, its wings sending waves of scorching heat with every flap. Astarion handed over the letter, and the creature responded with a rasping string of words he had no hope of understanding, simply praying they were favourable.

Then, as the projection had foretold, the mephit exhaled a stream of hot air over the parchment, causing it to glow and curl into a scroll. "T'i n'uthrantha m'ahthra, Gale," it declared.

Well, at least the last part sounded promising.

Astarion peered down at the furled parchment in his grasp and slowly unfolded it.

At once, all sound around him ceased to exist.

A Scroll of True Resurrection. Gale's projection was not lying.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Karlach urgently gesturing for him to hurry, but Astarion's mind raced with thoughts. These scrolls were exceedingly rare, on par with the legendary Wish Spell.

The intricate safety measures alone suggested that the scroll was heavily protected with additional magic. Even if it was not, the consequences of failure would be deadly. If Gale were not revived in time, the orb inside him would detonate, obliterating them all. Two days, Gale had said. Could Astarion outrun a cataclysmic explosion in that time?

And then there were the limits of resurrection spells, even powerful ones like this. Two hundred years, if memory served. Astarion was just on the cusp of that. There was no guarantee it would work, but what if…?

His fingers tightened around the scroll.

"Astarion," Karlach's harsh voice cut through the haze, the geared rattling of her erratic heartbeat pulling him out of his spiralling thoughts.

Survival.

Immediate survival had to come first.

Strands of hair clung to his forehead from the heat of the earlier explosion and nervous sweat. He impatiently wiped them from his face, then shook out the scroll and held it over Gale's still form. Drawing a steady breath, he spoke the words inscribed upon it, each one glowing faintly on the parchment, every syllable ringing with quiet power as the magic stirred to life.

For a long, pregnant moment, silence enveloped the cavern until a raspy intake of breath broke the stillness. Gale instinctively pressed a hand to his chest, fingers splayed over the embedded orb. A rhythmic thud followed, echoing in Astarion's ears like a returning war drum—Gale's heartbeat.

Relief surged unbidden, only to twist quickly into anger as Astarion watched Gale sit up. Karlach, ever attuned to his moods, had already positioned herself to intercept him. With one hand firmly planted on his crossbow, she held him back, stopping Astarion from lunging for the wizard's throat.

Gale, oblivious as ever, looked up, dark eyes darting between the two of them with a wide smile. "My word, you did it! Ha! Oh, it is good to be alive!" he exclaimed, his words tumbling out rapidly, his hands gesturing wildly. "Thank you!"

"You..." Astarion growled accusingly, pointing a finger at the wizard. "Stupid fucking arse!" Gale blinked.

Karlach intervened swiftly, cutting off Astarion before he could launch into a tirade. "What he means is, you're welcome," she threw a pointed glare at Astarion, "and that it is good to have you back," she added, offering a warm smile to the freshly resurrected wizard so genuine Astarion had to look away.

Gale was vibrating with nervous energy. "It is a relief to be back on beautiful Faerûn. This was not exactly how I imagined my return to the Astral Planes," he remarked, rubbing his hands together as if attempting to coax warmth back into them. "The dreariness of the Fugue Plane oppresses one's soul so very quickly."

Astarion stood abruptly, turned, and walked away, feigning interest in salvaging anything left after the explosion. In truth, he needed a moment to collect himself. The sense of a missed opportunity, coupled with Gale nearly slipping through their fingers, brewed a heavy mix of emotions he preferred to leave unexamined.

He could hear Gale reassuring Karlach, what sounded like for the tenth time, that he was not about to spontaneously combust. Then, footsteps approached, announcing the wizard's arrival to survey the damage caused by the explosion, which was considerable.

"Thank you, and… sorry," Gale murmured. Now that the wizard stood beside him, breathing and alive, Astarion found it increasingly difficult to sustain his anger.

"That protocol was utterly idiotic and infuriating. If you happen to get yourself killed again, make sure it is in someone else's presence because I refuse to go through this charade again," Astarion grumbled.

"Of course. I shall ensure that if I meet my untimely demise once more, it is in the company of someone more fond of puzzles," Gale replied with a soft, breathy laugh. There was a contemplative beat of silence before he spoke again. "You could have taken it." His voice was quiet, and he stared ahead. He did not have to clarify what he was talking about.

Astarion felt caught. Seen. Something that rarely happened, especially in the company of the wizard.

"I am sure there was protective magic over it," Astarion said simply.

"Let's say there was. You could have easily found a spellcaster who could have lifted it. This could have cured you." The matter-of-fact way Gale assumed that Astarion would leave him and everyone else for dead irked him. It was one thing for him to consider it; it was another for someone else to point it out.

"Karlach would never have let me. Besides, I am likely past the expiration date by now. These scrolls only work for so long," Astarion said, not denying the thinly veiled accusation.

Gale opened his mouth to say something, but his eyes fell on the scorching pile on the ground in front of them. He frowned, then his eyes widened comically in quick succession.

"Oh, he is gone," Gale said, his voice filled with shock as he bent down to examine the remains of Glut.

"It would certainly seem so," Astarion remarked, studying the charred remnants. "And they claim I am the bloodthirsty one."

Gale turned sharply to Astarion, bewildered. "What? Why?"

Astarion, suddenly feeling lighter without the wizard's scrutiny, smirked. "I believe it has something to do with all the killing, the bloodshed, and the drinking of blood. People tend to get a bit judgmental about that sort of thing."

"No, I mean, why is he dead?" Gale frowned, pointing at Glut, or what was left of him.

"Ah, that. Well, I would wager it is because you triggered a magical trap that instantly incinerated him," Astarion offered helpfully.

"Oh," Gale said. He hummed and stood, his bad knee protesting loudly, but offered no further comment.

There was nothing left to retrieve from the chest, nor from Glut's cindered form. The scent of his scorched 'flesh' still lingered, acrid and heavy, as they gathered their scattered belongings in silence.

"Shadowheart is going to be sooo pissed off," Karlach grumbled, leading their way down a dark path lined with ominous, oozing blue flowers.

Astarion shrugged dismissively. "Not telling her is an option, you know," he said, his tone nonchalant. Karlach was overreacting.

"Oh, she will find out. She always does," the tiefling replied with resignation, her tail swishing restlessly. "She is like a bloodhound, can smell a lie from a mile away," she added, disdain colouring her voice.

Gale turned to her. "Do not worry, I will take full responsibility."

"It was entirely your fault!" Astarion looked at him incredulously, arms spread wide in theatrical disbelief.

Gale opened his mouth, clearly ready to deliver a suitably indignant retort, but Karlach cut in before the first syllable escaped. "Oh, gods, spare us the bickering, both of you." She threw up her hands. "Actually, no, I take it back. I have changed my mind. From now on, we are not going anywhere without Shadowheart. She is the only sane one in this travelling circus. Honestly, I would even take Lae, and she complains nearly as much as you two."

They both huffed and looked away. Within minutes, Gale's attention was drawn back to the softly glowing plants surrounding them. Yet, without Glut's assistance, his research efforts had lost some of their momentum, and a faint shadow was cast over his enthusiasm.

Astarion half-expected Gale to mourn the demise of his mushroom-man companion, perhaps even wrestle with a flicker of guilt over it. But if any such pangs existed, Gale buried them under a fresh layer of scholarly determination, redirecting his focus to their original mission: collecting the fungi Omeluum required.

They pressed on, a little worse for wear but largely unfazed. After all, what was a little death among friends?

It was some time later, several miles along the same path, when Gale finally found a cluster of Timmasks, the mushrooms they were looking for.

Astarion stood back, arms crossed, watching as Gale leaned in, his movements careful as he attempted to extract the ingredients they needed. Before Astarion could fully register what was happening, a cloud of spores erupted, and Gale began, what he could best describe as, giggling uncontrollably.

Astarion narrowed his eyes. He had seen the effects of Timmask before— confusion, disorientation, and a sudden, irrational urge to flee. This, however, was something else entirely.

"What in the Nine Hells now?" he snapped, silently vowing never to embark on another excursion with Gale and his insatiable scientific curiosity.

"Is he all right?" Karlach asked, clear concern in her voice as she glanced at the wizard, as if she anticipated Gale to collapse lifelessly again at any given moment.

Cautiously stepping closer, she ventured, "Hey buddy, are you...?"

But before she could finish, the question dissolved into laughter.

That was when it struck Astarion. An overwhelming wave of amusement swept over him.

He wanted to laugh. Laugh at their ludicrous predicament, at the constant mortal danger, at the sheer, relentless idiocy of it all. Laugh himself into madness.

Astarion's eyes locked onto the gleaming spores lingering in the air, dancing around them like tiny stars and, clinging to his dwindling resolve, he held his breath. The effect swiftly waned, then gradually dissipated. With a quick, decisive motion, he grasped Gale's arm and seized the axe strapped to Karlach's back, pulling them both out of the circle of particles. As they emerged from the cloud, their delight slowly faded as well.

"By the gods, what was that?" Karlach gawked at Gale once she was able to form words again.

Breathing heavily, face flushed and tears streaming from the corners of his eyes, Gale managed between half-stifled chuckles, " Proturbatis Fraudibus. Joke Cap," he finally explained. "The Timmask is right behind it. I must have jostled it, set off the spores. We should harvest the Timmask and... head back to the colony."

They should have. Truly, they should have. But laughter like this, open, easy, uninhibited, was a rare commodity these days. After the anxieties of the day, after the constant threats snapping at their heels, a juvenile, ridiculous part of Astarion craved the indulgence.

He cocked his head to the side and rocked back on the balls of his feet. "Is it safe?"

"Perfectly," Gale affirmed, still fighting for air.

Astarion's smirk widened as he closed the distance between them, his fingers splaying across the wizard's chest. Beneath the layers of his robe, he could feel Gale's rabbiting heartbeat—fast and unguarded. His touch faltered for a moment, a wordless invitation to pull away. But Gale, offering no resistance, surrendered easily. With a gentle but insistent nudge, Astarion guided him back into the cloud. The wizard's eyes widened briefly as the spores engulfed him once more, and then his laughter burst forth like a shaken bottle, bubbling into wild, helpless fits.

Astarion could not tear his gaze away. Captivated, he watched as irritation, caution, and all those tedious reminders to keep his distance were swept away, brutally undone by that radiant, careless smile Astarion had not seen in days or weeks, or who knew how long they had been stuck in this hellhole. Without a second thought, Astarion moved closer, drawing in a deep breath as he shot a challenging glance back at Karlach.

The tiefling rolled her eyes, exhaling heavily. "Oh, fuck it," she muttered, and stepped forward to join them.

Surrounded by the swirling particles, everything seemed to simplify. The relentless stream of manic thoughts slowed, dissolving into something lazy, weightless and bright. Astarion's hand remained on Gale's chest, aimlessly exploring the fabric beneath his touch. The robe felt softer than it had any right to, the result, no doubt, of resurrection magic, freshly laundered by divine forces, he supposed. His fingers traced idle patterns over the cloth, watching the material yield under each slight pressure, dimpling in a way that was oddly, stupidly satisfying.

A quiet intake of breath drew Astarion's eyes upward, realising suddenly how close they were. He had, by all accounts, been caressing the man's chest. Their eyes met, and for a moment, something unspoken crackled between them. Astarion felt another wave of amusement rising while Gale's heart pounded wildly beneath his fingertips, beating out a frantic rhythm that made Astarion's gaze wander, briefly, to the wizard's throat, where the pulse would be strongest.

The moment fractured as Karlach tumbled after them, collapsing to the ground with a graceless thud. Astarion's hand dropped immediately, his gaze darting aside. Beside him, he heard Gale release the air that had been trapped in his lungs, small, shaky exhales that swelled into a low, rumbling laughter, warm and contagious.

Astarion glanced at the tiefling, her hand clasping her knees as she struggled to breathe around her outrageous cackling. With a small, resigned shrug, he lowered himself to the ground beside her and after a beat of hesitation, Gale followed suit.

"How in the Hells did we not realise for so long that you were a vampy?" Karlach wheezed, her eyes fixed on Astarion's wide grin, which he had not even realised had spread across his face. "With those biters sticking out of your dumb face," she added, using her two index fingers to mimic Astarion's fangs, though she looked more like she was imitating a crab.

"What can I say? I am a master of deceit," he replied, flashing his sharp teeth for emphasis.

Karlach snorted and waved him off with a crude gesture. "I would keep those away from me, unless you want your insides burned to cinders."

"Do not worry, darling, I have been well fed," he purred, the spores leaving his tongue loose and his inhibitions pleasantly dulled.

Karlach's titters faltered for a brief moment as a small frown pulled at her brow. Astarion could practically see the gears in her mind begin to turn, trying and failing to fully engage.

Before her thoughts could coalesce, Gale interjected, his voice a little too quick, a little too bright. "So, Karlach, how is the new armour we found? Are the enchantments we worked into it holding up?"

Astarion, limbs lax, all sense of self-preservation whisked away by the fungi, let his head loll back as another surge of laughter rippled through him, prompted by Gale's ridiculous attempt at redirection. He tipped his head sideways to steal a glance at the wizard, catching him already staring. Gale's face was flushed a delicious shade of crimson.

Astarion's grin deepened. Gods, but he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into his lap and finish what they had started days ago—present company be damned.

"It is fine," Karlach said, her train of thought successfully derailed. "But the chafing, man. Let me tell you, it was no joke down at the forge, and it is not exactly high fashion either."

"By all that is unholy, it is worse than the crushed velvet Gale is so fond of," Astarion laughed, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the man to turn his attention to the tiefling. The armour they had found for Karlach was the most hideous thing he had ever laid eyes upon, but he had been happy to keep his mouth shut to hold onto the drow armour he had pilfered for himself and grown quite attached to.

"Excuse me," Gale cut in, sounding indignant. "Velvet is a highly functional yet fashionable piece of a respectable man's wardrobe."

Astarion and Karlach exchanged a look.

"It really isn't, Sunshine," said Astarion. "It makes you look like a cushion."

Gale huffed, crossing his arms in an attempt to sulk, although the spores swirling lazily in the air made any real irritation impossible. His lips twitched despite himself.

A few heartbeats of silence followed, giving Astarion space to gather his scattered thoughts. Once he adjusted, he found his voice again amid lingering bouts of delight.

"You did not seem too torn up when the mushroom man went up in flames," he said, peering at Gale. "I expected more lamentation and self-flagellation."

"Oh, that." Gale chuckled in return, waving a hand airily. "Yes, well, he did propose wiping out the entire myconid colony to establish his own rule." He paused to release another shaky breath of laughter. "I agreed to assist him purely to gather information on the local flora and fungi," he explained, practically beaming. "But truth be told, my plan was always to dispose of him once his usefulness had run its course."

Astarion gaped at him, momentarily speechless, while Karlach fell apart, her head thrown back, her whole body shaking with her signature hyena laugh.

"That is cold, man," she managed, wiping at her eyes. "You two really need to cut back on your quality time." She gestured between them. "Gale is starting to turn into you."

Astarion briefly considered pointing out that she had been the one championing their quality time from the start, but decided, perhaps wisely, to let it go.

"You practically roasted him," Astarion said instead to Gale, still struggling to reconcile his amused surprise.

"Do you think he would have been edible?" Karlach giggled.

Gale gave a thoughtful look, as though genuinely weighing the ridiculous idea. "I have recently perished. We stand on the precipice of becoming mind flayers, creatures of unspeakable monstrosity." His voice took on the measured cadence he often employed when delivering scholarly reasoning, which set Karlach off with even greater force. "In light of that, I fail to see how it could make matters appreciably worse."

"Omeluum is very dashing!" she countered. "Or at least Blurg certainly seems to think so."

"Do not worry, tentacles would suit you just splendidly, darling," Astarion purred with cloying sweetness, eyes flicking to the tiefling. "Who knows, maybe Shadowheart is into that."

Karlach let out a strangled laugh and kicked at his boot, but Astarion nimbly evaded with a smirk.

"Your immaculate, meticulously coiffed hair would surely withstand the transformation into an illithid," Gale added, the absurdity of the notion only adding to its hilarity.

Astarion turned towards him, affecting a mockingly flirtatious smile, lashes fluttering with great exaggeration. "Aw, Sunshine, my hair is perfect, is it not?" he drawled, barely holding back another wave of laughter.

And there it was again—the faint, unmistakable flush creeping up Gale's cheeks. Astarion's tongue darted out to wet his lips.

"Oh gods, no, nope, no way, I refuse to be caught in the middle of this," Karlach declared, already attempting to crawl out of the circle on all fours like some desperate, oversized dog.

But Astarion was faster. With practised ease, he reached out, snagging her by the handle of her battleaxe, careful not to touch her simmering skin, and tugged her back towards them.

"Ah-ah," he chided playfully. "No escaping, my dear."

Karlach tumbled back into the dirt, succumbing to another round of giggles.

As the spores settled around them, their laughter gradually subsided, although occasional bursts still erupted. Their spirits, strangely, remained high, an unfamiliar but welcome feeling.

Astarion sat cross-legged, Karlach's head resting comfortably in his lap, cushioned by a robe of fire resistance they had plundered from a fallen duergar to shield against her searing heat. Absently, Astarion gathered bits of dried leaves and brittle sticks from the Underdark foliage, brushing them gently against Karlach's skin and watching as they curled and shrivelled in the heat. Karlach chuckled at his antics—Astarion felt untamed, light, unburdened for once.

Beside him, Gale leaned against the same boulder, their shoulders lightly touching, both trembling slightly with each bout of delight.

"Do you guys think we actually have a chance for survival?" Karlach asked once they were able to speak properly, her voice quieter now.

Astarion dared not hope. "Unlikely. But we have defied the odds countless times already. So who knows?" He shrugged.

"I cannot believe I am about to say this, but I am inclined to agree. We might just be stubborn enough to cheat death," Gale nodded along with a quaking exhale, attempting to regain his composure.

"Lae'zel would probably slay death itself if it tried to come for her before she deemed the time appropriate," Astarion added. The words came easily, but a sudden tightening in his throat caught him off guard, an unwelcome reminder of how willing he had once been to sacrifice them all.

Swiftly, he pushed the sentiment aside; aided by the lingering waves of spore-induced mirth, it was easy.

"Slayzel," Karlach chimed in, and they all started chuckling again.

For a while, they simply sat there, all tension loosened and stretched thin under the dim glow of the Underdark.

Eventually, Gale turned around and gently removed some spores from the Timmask, careful this time not to trigger another fungus with brain-addling effects.

Rising to his feet, the smile still lingering on his face, he brushed off his robe.

"Alright, children, we have indulged ourselves with enough substances for the day. Let us return to camp before they send out a search party."

"I happen to be significantly older than you," Astarion countered, raising an eyebrow.

Gale mirrored his expression, then extended a hand to help Astarion up. "Would you prefer I address you as 'grandfather''?" he teased, prompting a snort from Karlach.

"I think he would prefer you calling him something very different," she quipped under her breath, accompanied by a suggestive and utterly ridiculous eyebrow wiggle aimed squarely at Astarion.

"Shut your trap, you wench!" Astarion blurted out, still battling the remnants of mirth in his mouth as he accepted Gale's hand.

Though Astarion kept much to himself, Karlach seemed to possess an uncanny knack for seeing through his façade, a talent she wielded shamelessly, though thankfully, Gale appeared as oblivious as ever.

"Come on, gramps, time to head home; it is past your bedtime," Karlach spoke slowly, her voice raised as if talking to someone elderly and hard of hearing.

Astarion planted a hand on his hip.

"For the record, I do not approve of this." He wagged a finger between the snickering tiefling-wizard duo, though despite his best efforts, a warmth crept into his voice, softening the bite.

"Look at him; he toooootally loves us," Karlach cooed, drawing out the word with a gleeful grin. Gale laughed openly at the murderous look Astarion sent their way.

"Decidedly not," Astarion retorted, then turned around swiftly and headed back towards camp.

It was only thanks to his keen hearing that he caught Karlach's whispered remark to Gale, "Well, at least he definitely wants to fuck you."

Astarion did not react, refusing even a flicker of acknowledgement, opting instead to keep his gaze fixed ahead as the two trailed behind him.

It was not until they reached camp sometime later that he allowed himself a glance in Gale's direction, and found the wizard's cheeks still aflame.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

Leaving the sun-soaked mountains for whatever horrors awaited them, wrapped up in thick, milky fog, was not Gale's ideal start to the day. Yet here he stood, on the precipice of a land blanketed by an unyielding curse, compelled forward by necessity, with no choice but to press on.

"I suppose this is it," Karlach said with grand resolve. She straightened her posture, muttering encouraging words to herself, then strode ahead, leaving the rest of them no time to reconsider.

The bitter aftertaste of their disastrous visit to the crèche still lingered, like medicine gone bad.

They had finally reached Crèche Y'llek, much to Lae'zel's subtle satisfaction. Once camp was set up, Wyll, Astarion, Lae'zel and Karlach ventured forth to confront the githyanki, while Shadowheart, Halsin and Gale remained behind, delving into futile research on the Shadow-Cursed Lands that lay ahead.

Upon their return, Lae'zel, her anger still simmering with the sting of betrayal, recounted in detail the armed hostility they had encountered and their perilous escape, which culminated in the detonation of the monastery.

They learned how Vlaakith CLVII, the current reigning queen of the githyanki, had commanded unwavering allegiance from her subjects for ages. A jealous ruler, she offered chosen warriors who grew too powerful the promise of 'ascension', a supposed reward that Lae'zel so desperately sought, but which, in truth, involved the absorption of their souls to sustain Vlaakith's eternal life and power. They discovered that, to consolidate her reign, her ancestor had imprisoned Orpheus, the son of Gith herself, and expunged his memory from githyanki records, a practice the current Lich Queen continued to uphold to strengthen her dominion.

Gale had not harboured much optimism for a cure from the githyanki, yet even he was taken aback by their willingness to sacrifice their own, cloaked in such brazen deceit.

He wanted to ask questions, to learn more about the monastery, the githyanki practices and their journey to the Astral Planes, where they had at last encountered the dream visitor and placed their fragile trust in their hands. Yet before he could speak, Astarion intercepted him with a subtle shake of his head—a gesture so uncharacteristic of the elf that, even absent any explanation, Gale found himself inexplicably trusting his judgement.

He must have been losing his mind.

It was much too soon for Lae'zel to continue the journey. Though Shadowheart had easily mended her superficial injuries, it was evident that her wounds ran deeper than mere scrapes and a couple of broken bones. Gale wished they could afford her a few days of respite, time to make sense of the world crumbling around her. But Lae'zel was not like him; she would never lock herself away in quiet ineptitude. The very next day, she emerged from her tent with her armour already fastened, commanding them to hasten their pace.

There were no more leads to pursue, no souls left to interrogate. With their options dwindling, there was little reason to delay their journey to Moonrise Towers.

As they hovered at the final bend of a mountain pass, watching Karlach's silhouette dissolve into the enveloping fog, Gale found himself once again mulling over the reckless choices that had led him to this juncture. He entertained a fanciful vision of an alternate reality, where he lay curled up on his sofa in his reading room's quietude, engrossed in a tome detailing the arcane missteps of artificers, accompanied by a comforting cup of tea or a glass of wine. Or perhaps up in the attic under Tara's watchful gaze, crafting something new and exciting.

His heart clenched at the thought. He should not have allowed his mind to wander there. The notion became tainted as soon as it took shape, swiftly decaying and further poisoning his already despondent mood. The ability to create new spells with effortless grace now lay distant, unreachable, devoured by the corruption festering inside him. Any attempt to summon that power would only nourish the gnawing hunger of his affliction.

Gale shook his head, eager to dispel the unwelcome thread his thoughts had woven. With a firm grip on his quarterstaff, he followed Karlach into the opaque realm of unimaginable nightmares.

Upon venturing into the haze, it was as if a veil had descended. Like a held breath, all sunlight vanished, and the bustling symphony of birds and wildlife fell silent, leaving only an eerie emptiness. A pervasive sense of being watched began to build with each passing minute, infusing their journey down the path with an ever-mounting tension that was impossible to ignore. The magic that permeated the air was foreign and grating, as though every particle around them carried extra weight.

"Can you feel it?" Gale murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, wary of attracting unwanted attention. "The shadow curse hasn't just stolen the light from this place. I can feel the darkness pulling at the strands of the Weave. It suffocates, extinguishing all life."

Halsin's deep voice resounded from behind him. "That is why it must be stopped," the druid said, releasing a long sigh. "Imagine, a whole century robbed of life and love, denied the chance to exist." His slow, measured words were steeped in regret.

Gale was uncertain of the full extent of Halsin's involvement in the curse, but he knew the druid carried a heavy weight of responsibility for the devastation it had wrought. The thought stirred an uneasy reflection, how he might feel if he were ever made to walk the path of destruction that a freed orb could one day unleash. He would never have to, of course; he would be long dead, along with countless others. Yet the mere thought filled him with ice-cold dread.

"Whole generations were denied their chance to thrive," Halsin continued. "I must make this right, for their sake."

Wyll, walking only a few steps ahead between Karlach and Shadowheart, gave a sharp nod. "If there is a way to make this right, Halsin, we shall find it," he said, his tone imbued with such unwavering resolve that even Gale, despite his scepticism, found it convincing.

A contemplative silence settled among them, broken only by the sound of their own footfalls and the distant screeches of unseen creatures. Gale half-expected Astarion to interject with a jest, as he often enjoyed poking fun at the druid when he grew too broody, but when Gale looked at the vampire, he saw only furrowed brows and a serious expression.

Karlach glanced back at Gale over her shoulder. "You'll still be able to do your wizard thing, though, right?"

"Of course," Gale nodded, trying to keep his voice steady. "But that does not make the shadows any less dangerous."

"Gale is right. We have to stay vigilant. This kind of darkness, such oppressive energy, I would not be surprised if we stumbled upon a herd of veserabs or a drider," Wyll agreed, his grip tightening around the hilt of his rapier.

Amidst the swirling magic in the air, Gale could feel Wyll gathering his own. Sensing another's magical energies was no common feat. It required either rare intimacy, heightened emotion, or the telltale instability of one still mastering their craft. Though he and Wyll shared a cordial rapport, their bond lacked the depth for such perception. More likely, the sensation arose from Wyll's youth and relative inexperience with the arcane, the consequence of treading his path without proper guidance.

Gale concentrated on the sensation, allowing it to wash over him.

It was an unfamiliar experience. Immersing himself in the magic of a young warlock was nothing like guiding the raw energies of novices at Blackstaff. This magic ran deeper, darker, wrapping around him like velvet on bare skin, like whisky burning smooth against the tongue. And with it came a sensation long buried within Gale, a bittersweet ache, heavy with mournful nostalgia for things lost and paths never taken.

Another ominous screech in the distance snapped Gale back to attention, and he forced himself to refocus.

"That does not sound dreadful at all," mumbled Karlach with a defeated sigh. "More monsters. Yay! One would think after escaping Avernus, things would be looking up."

Wyll chuckled. "Well, technically, driders are just drow who angered Lolth a little too much." He was aiming for jovial, but judging by the withering look Karlach gave him, he had missed the mark.

Gale surveyed their surroundings warily. "Something tells me that there are far graver threats lurking in these lands than mere driders and veserabs."

Lae'zel let out an impatient sound. "Cowering shadows lurking beneath leaves? Let them show themselves. I will spill their entrails before they take their next breath," she growled, stalking forward beside Halsin. Though her voice was as cold and certain as ever, Gale caught the distinct rasp of her blade clearing its sheath. She, too, could feel the suffocating press of the curse closing in around them.

"What's a veserab?" Shadowheart asked, ignoring the gith.

"They are large, sharp-toothed, bat-winged creatures," Wyll explained, mimicking flapping wings with his hands.

"It's quite all right. We already have one of those," Shadowheart quipped, prompting a laugh from Karlach and Wyll beside her when she threw a grin back at Astarion, who had been uncharacteristically quiet until now.

Of all of them, Shadowheart appeared to be faring the best. Her dark hair shimmered in the torchlight, her mood seemingly untouched by the foreboding atmosphere.

"The Shadovar, survivors of the fall of Netheril, once rode them," Gale added. "They found them easy to tame." He had assumed Shadowheart, as a follower of Shar, might find the tidbit intriguing. Instead, his remark was met with a chorus of snorts and snickers, leaving him with the distinct impression that he had missed some unspoken joke.

"Ha, ha. Very funny," Astarion deadpanned. "I will have you know..."

But before he could launch into his usual litany of grievances, Karlach slowed and raised her hand to draw their attention. "Um, guys? I think there's someone standing over there," she said, her voice tight with caution.

A sliver of cold air traced down Gale's spine. With each step forward, recognition slowly dawned.

Elminster stood patiently by the path, reminiscent of the whimsical wooden statues of bygone fame favoured by certain pompous wizards of great wealth as interior décor. Gale owned a few of those himself. Tara detested them vehemently, often repurposing them as scratching posts to sharpen her claws.

To his great dismay, this figure was no mere ornamental sculpture but the venerable wizard himself. Gale could not shake the unsettling suspicion that his earlier musings on the orb had somehow summoned Elminster's unexpected presence.

"Ho there, wanderer. Stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man," said the elderly mage in his typical fashion. The long-heard familiarity of it caused Gale's heart to constrict.

Gale raised his hand in a half-hearted salute. "Elminster?" There was no chance that running into his old friend was a mere coincidence. One of Mystra's Chosen, once Gale's mentor, was undoubtedly here to deliver news of an unsavoury nature. Every fibre of Gale's being urged him to turn away and leave, but he could not allow himself further disgrace. Having already proven a failure, he could not bear to add humiliation to his burdens.

"The very same, Gale," Elminster rasped as Gale stepped closer. Behind him, Gale could hear his companions sliding their drawn weapons back into their holsters, the immediate threat having passed, though the tension in the air remained. "And he is a fair bit miffed too, finding himself forced to subject his best pair of boots to so many miles of country road on your behalf."

Gale had once believed that arranging eloquent words laced with enigmatic vagueness was the hallmark of a proper mage. Now, however, he found himself oddly annoyed.

"My sympathies for your wearied soles," Gale said, borrowing a tone straight from Astarion's endlessly sarcastic repertoire. "Care to explain what you are doing here?"

If he could not avoid the inevitable, he might as well face it head-on.

"I was bid to spare neither time nor my own self to find you. She sent me, Gale. You know of whom I speak," the elder mage said gravely, casting a significant look his way.

There it was.

Gale nearly buckled under the sudden, invisible weight that descended upon him.

"Mystra?" Speaking her name outside of practised prayers felt like resurrecting a forgotten language, each syllable heavy on his tongue. "What does she want of me?" He was acutely aware of his companions' eyes fixed upon him, and worse, Astarion likely hearing the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat.

Gale fought to keep his expression impassive. He needed to stay focused.

Elminster gave him a long, scrutinising stare, and for a moment, Gale felt like a child again, snot-faced, tears mingling with the ashes of his own destruction. But this time, it was Elminster who seemed uneasy, shifting his weight nervously.

"Mystra, aye, lad. But what she wants is a matter better discussed in more comfortable environs," he said at last. Whether he was hesitantly withholding the true purpose of his visit or truly deeming the current location unfit for such discussion, Gale could not discern.

He swallowed, impatience gnawing at his throat. He had long learned that arguing with the old man was futile.

In his youth, Gale had often run amok, effortlessly weaving spells far more advanced and perilous than what was deemed appropriate for someone his age, wreaking havoc and leaving chaos in his wake. The sharp, unyielding admonitions from Elminster still echoed freshly in his mind, despite the years that had stretched between then and now.

Gale pushed the memories aside and nodded curtly. "We have yet to set up camp. Once we find a suitable clearing, we will attend to it." With that, he briskly turned away from Elminster and took the lead. He knew he was being somewhat rude, but the anxiety brewed by the unfamiliar terrain had now given way to a different, though equally unsettling apprehension. He wanted the ordeal over and done with, while simultaneously dreading the prospect of facing it all at once.

"Marvellous," said the other wizard without feeling. "Onward, then."

Astarion fell into step beside Gale, casting him a searching glance but remaining silent, much to his relief. Meanwhile, behind them, Karlach launched into an incessant stream of enquiries directed at the elderly mage, who could barely manage a grunt of agreement before she moved on to the next increasingly outrageous topic.

Gale suspected this was yet another of Karlach's subtle diversions, aimed at keeping Elminster too preoccupied to engage him further as they traversed the bleak landscape in search of a suitable place for shelter.

There was a time when he might have felt a twinge of embarrassment for keeping company so unruly and brazen.

In the past, he had surrounded himself with scholars and intellectuals who wielded words as deftly as any blade, capable of spinning hours of sophisticated discourse from even the most trivial subjects. They were impeccably dressed, masters of every nuance of etiquette, prepared for any social occasion. But when Gale had fallen from grace with the mages, they had all but vanished, scattering like leaves in the wind.

Given the choice, he would choose Karlach's company a thousand times over.

 ✦

Gale's mind began to drift as Elminster meticulously laid out Mystra's demands. The disquiet he had felt upon meeting the older mage was now curiously absent. The directive to seek the heart of the Absolute stirred nothing within Gale; the order to confront it left him equally unmoved. Even the stark, uncompromising bid for his life failed to elicit a flicker of emotion.

He heard Karlach's aborted protest somewhere in the distance, but Gale steeled himself and, with a mere nod, stepped forward. His movements were mechanical, his breathing slow and even as he approached Elminster to receive Mystra's blessing—a reprieve to forestall the orb's ravenous hunger, if only for a while—there was no feeling, no rapid heartbeat pressing against his throat.

Elminster spoke the incantation, and magic coiled around Gale, tendrils of light and shadow intertwining, binding the orb's malevolent force, connecting it to a new source, keeping it well-fed.

And still, Gale felt nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, until the air thickened with the scent of rosewater. Then, something dark began to take root, worming its way between muscle and sinew, expanding, an insidious growth, slow like a tumour devouring organs by degrees, chipping away at the days of a lifespan once destined for far greater longevity.

He swayed back, the void within him now swollen with a rancid, nauseating ache. "This is the price of Mystra's favour? Martyrdom?" he mused, the question more rhetorical than reproachful. A rueful smile tempered the bitterness threatening his voice, smoothing his tone as habit demanded. Turning his hand, he watched the last faint shimmers of magic flicker and die across his fingertips.

Before Elminster could respond, Gale looked up and continued. "Ah, so the plan is that I march into the belly of the beast, ignite myself in some grand, tragic conflagration, and Mystra, in her boundless mercy, will simply... forgive me? Just like that?" His tone turned light, almost airy—a practised veneer of joviality, his best weapon for maintaining his slippery composure before an audience.

Elminster sighed. "Remember who she is, Gale." His voice lowered into something approaching tenderness, though the weight behind his words offered no such comfort. "Mortal death is but a passing chapter to a goddess, and to those who win her favour. Whatever she can grant you is infinitely better than whatever you cling to now." He tried to reason, his words droning on.

Whatever you cling to now.

The mage's last words ricocheted in Gale's mind, setting his thoughts ablaze. Astarion stood beside him, and once again, he could feel the elf's gaze fixed upon him heavily, like an unyielding force, only adding fuel to the already raging fire within.

As Elminster mumbled hollow words of placation, Gale struggled to find the right response. What expression did one wear when, between bites of fermented cheese, a fellow former lover of the goddess he had once adored informed him that she now demanded his life as the price of her forgiveness?

Elminster's words continued, but to Gale they grew distant and empty, filled with obscure warnings muffled beneath the rising tide of emotions inside of him. He could not predict whether his response would be crazed laughter, an angry outburst, or anguished tears.

He felt like a tower of cards teetering on a shaky foundation, ready to fall apart at any moment. And fall apart, he would not do in front of onlookers.

Gale's hands flexed as he clutched the edge of his robe, not realising when his fingers began tracing the frayed fabric. He licked his dry lips, searching for words. He was sure he had finally found them, but instead, what rushed out was:

"Excuse me for a moment." His voice, mercifully, retained its lightness as it cut through the other wizard's ramblings. Without waiting for a response, Gale pivoted and strode away for the second time that day.

He walked. And walked. His heart, as if suddenly awakened and desperate to make up for missed beats, hammered a violent rhythm against his ribs. Each gulp of cold air scorched his throat as he pressed forward, until at last he reached the edge of a chasm. There, the final torch they had planted to hold back the encroaching dark sputtered and flickered.

Standing but a step from the yawning abyss, he doubled over and pressed his palm against a tree precariously perched at the cliff's edge, its roots barely clinging to the crumbling earth.

He retched, though his stomach was empty, yielding nothing but the harsh, guttural rasp of dry heaving and the bitter sting of bile rising in his throat.

The void at his feet gazed back at him, and the darkness stretching before him suddenly felt inviting. The thought of suicide had never occurred to him before, not when Mystra closed the door behind him forever, not even when he awoke on a nautiloid ship with a tadpole writhing behind his eyeballs.

But now, knowing his inevitable fate, it would be so easy. Maybe, just maybe, the world would be better for it. Just one step, he could do it for himself, not because Elminster pleaded for it, not because Mystra commanded it, but because he chose it.

"I think they want you to wait until you face the big bad guy before you go kaboom," Astarion's voice came from behind, cool, but by now Gale recognised the subtle strain beneath the elf's rigid nonchalance, the telltale sign that he was trying to conceal something real behind his wall of indifference.

"Kindly fuck off, Astarion. I'm not inclined to entertain your cryptic drivel," Gale snapped.

Astarion chuckled softly. "My, such language from the great Wizard of Waterdeep. I must agree with Karlach; he needs to stop hanging out with us. I feel like we're corrupting him."

"Well, he is a prick, so apparently, this is precisely what you should be expecting," Gale grumbled tiredly as he straightened and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, too exasperated to censor himself.

He continued to stare into the vast nothingness until he felt a shoulder brush lightly against his.

Since their time in the Underdark, things between Astarion and him had taken a positive, almost friendly turn. There had been a noticeable shift in the elf's behaviour. While Astarion's sardonic remarks and flirtatious jests remained, their edges had dulled; the barbs no longer carried the same intent to wound or belittle his companions.

Unfortunately for Gale, Astarion revealing a slightly softer side beneath his usual icy demeanour did little to serve his already precarious emotional state. Dealing with an attractive, prickly bastard was one thing; contending with an almost pleasant bastard, one who Gale knew was not opposed to exploring the more physical dimensions of their relationship, was an entirely different kind of challenge.

Gale had witnessed sides of Astarion that few others had the privilege to see, a revelation that left a steady warmth in the pit of his stomach, even as it kept his mind in constant turmoil.

"I realise it's none of my business," Astarion began, his tone far too casual for the weight of the conversation, "but perhaps you should not heed the words of a senile old wizard and the goddess who turned you into her pet, until you grew inconvenient, of course."

Gale's eyes narrowed, his composure cracking as his temper flared. "You presume to lecture me on matters you cannot begin to comprehend. This is far beyond your petty provocations, Astarion."

How dare he?

Mystra meant everything to Gale; without her and Elminster, Gale would be nothing.

He was angry. He was angry at them for abandoning him, but most of all, he was furious at himself. He deserved all of this, everything that was coming for him.

"Perhaps," Astarion said calmly, "I don't know every sordid detail. But I do know a slave when I see one."

Gale stiffened. His breath caught.

"The way I see it," Astarion continued, voice low, "you might have had freedom of movement, fine wine, warm beds. But your leash? It was every bit as tight as mine."

"Stop." Gale could not bear it. "Please," he added softly.

"It's the truth and you know it," Astarion added, and Gale could feel his shrug against his own arm.

A shaky breath escaped him.

"It's not as straightforward as it might seem," Gale said, his eyes fixed on the pitch-black horizon. With a sigh, he sank down beside the tree at the very edge of the chasm, watching as loose earth crumbled and tumbled into the bottomless darkness below. After a pause, he continued. "To become Mystra's Chosen, as a wizard, is an unparalleled privilege, one I wouldn't expect you to understand," Gale said, his hands running through his hair.

"This connection, this bond with her, Mystra, magic, and the Weave, are inseparable. You have to remember that the Weave is a living thing, both the embodiment and the extension of Mystra herself. She can give and she can take away. When Mystra and I parted ways, it wasn't just the end of an affair; it was the severing of my profound connection to the Weave. Even without the orb, it would not be the same. I still, after everything, long for her. That ache hasn't dulled. It's like an open wound that refuses to heal." Gale kept his eyes on his own shaking hands, not daring to look up at the elf standing next to him.

"As she closed the door behind me, behind us... I would have set the world ablaze just to regain a fragment of what I had forfeited. Since then, I've tried to live with my failures. To be better. To redeem myself, even if it will never be enough in her eyes. But if this is the price of atonement..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "...so be it."

He was tired. Exhausted. He did not want to dwell on Mystra and the fateful day when he opened that blasted book. The hurt was too much to endure, and delving into intrusive thoughts of painful 'what ifs' was all too easy.

He heard Astarion draw breath to speak.

"Can we... please talk about something else?" Gale asked softly, the exhaustion bleeding into his words before Astarion could respond.

Astarion let out an exaggerated sigh but kept whatever retort he had to himself. After a moment, he sat beside Gale, allowing his legs to dangle over the cliff's edge.

"You know, likely monsters are lurking in this pit, waiting to drag some unsuspecting fools straight to the Nine Hells," he lamented, though he settled beside Gale nonetheless.

Gale didn't respond, and for a while, neither of them spoke. Then, Gale broke the silence. "Do you remember your home?"

"Pardon?" the elf turned to him in disbelief.

"Your home. Do you remember it? Your family, before you were turned?"

Gale peered at Astarion from the corner of his eye and saw Astarion staring down at his hands, fingers absently tracing one another in his lap.

"I don't," Astarion admitted quietly. "Not really. Becoming a vampire spawn... You lose more than sunlight and the pleasure of a decent steak, though, to be fair, I would gladly die all over again for either," he said with a rueful smile. "But I suppose I did get to sample a rather interestingly flavoured wizard. Turned out quite... delectable, after a bit of trial and error."

Gale could not suppress a chuckle, and with the shaking of his shoulders, a portion of the heavy weight of his crippling anxiety seemed to ease, if only slightly.

"Out of all the ways to cheer me up, calling me 'delectable' has to be some kind of new low point even to our standards," he remarked. Astarion glanced at him with his usual mock shock.

"Excuse me? I am delightful company, thank you very much. And I wasn't referring to you, it was Elminster. Utterly delicious."

Gale snorted, emboldened by the strange cocktail of emotions swirling between them. "Ah. Did you also indulge him in certain... extracurricular activities? Leave him unable to walk comfortably for days?"

"Why, of course, darling," Astarion replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "It's all part of the service. Though, if I may," he added, tilting his head with a sly glint in his eyes, "I do detect a faint note of accusation in your tone. If memory serves, it was you who said something about 'what you desire and what I need being on distinct paths.' " He finished, lending a poor excuse of a Waterdhavian lilt to his words, one that Gale thought he had long weeded out since his childhood, and he was surprised that the elf had even picked up on it.

Gale huffed a laugh and shrugged his shoulder against Astarion's. They settled into a comfortable lull.

"Days?" Astarion was the one to break the silence, turning towards him with a leering gaze, a playful smirk gracing his features.

"Oh, hush. Just because I prefer intimacy accompanied by commitment does not mean I am entirely immune," Gale said, feeling heat creeping up his neck again, a sensation that was quickly becoming a staple of his conversations with Astarion.

"My, my, Mr Dekarios, you certainly do know how to flatter an elf," Astarion all but purred, leaning back on his hands. "Though, I must confess... the memory of our little encounter does occasionally resurface during my... shall we say, weaker moments of self-indulgence."

Gale gawked at him, scandalised, eyes wide.

"Gods, Astarion, I don't need to know that," he huffed.

"It's only fair," said the elf with a wicked smile, flashing his fangs, and Gale had to wrestle back the memories that threatened to surface.

Gale released another chuckle, his face aflame. Despite the chill of their surroundings, warmth rushed from his face down through his body, settling deep in the pit of his stomach. The mental image of Astarion thinking about them while touching himself was enough to keep him insulated against the frigid cold of the landscape.

But he could not allow himself to sink too deep.

Astarion did not talk much about his life with Cazador, but throughout their time travelling together, Gale had pieced together a grim tale of slavery and exploitation. What Gale sought in a partnership was not something he could have asked of Astarion.

"I wish things were different," Gale murmured. "Part of me wishes I could simply... walk away from her, you know."

"I know," Astarion replied softly, without his usual theatrics.

Side by side, they sat in silence, both lost in contemplation, imagining lives free of gods, masters, and mistakes that chained them. Could such a future exist? Gale dared not indulge too deeply.

"Whatever Elminster has done... your blood smells different," Astarion said after a while.

Gale frowned, his hand instinctively reaching for his chest. "What do you mean?"

"It is similar to when you draw upon your magic, but without the additional sprinkle of power. Subtler."

Gale hummed, considering. "Likely because Mystra allows the orb to feed directly from the Weave now. It no longer requires me to hold onto the webs to appease it, so my use of magic is no longer necessary for the process."

Gale allowed himself another sidelong glance at the elf. Astarion sat in the grey overcast of this inhospitable environment, his silver hair falling into his eyes and obscuring his expression. Gale realised that, technically, Astarion could now feed on him without losing control or becoming intoxicated by his magic, but he hesitated to offer. It was a pitiable apprehension, born of his fear of potential rejection. Thus, he chose to remain silent, finding a measure of solace in the eerie quiet that enveloped them.

✦

Upon their return to the heart of the camp, Gale felt immense relief at Elminster's absence, sparing him from facing the older man once more.

Astarion proceeded directly to his tent, though not without casting a final, fleeting smile back at him.

Gale knelt by the shimmering campfire and set a pot of water over the dwindling flames. Despite his longing for wine, his weary body and the desperate yearning for a restful night's sleep compelled him to opt for tea instead.

"Wizard," he heard a soft voice from behind him.

He forced a smile. "Ah, Shadowheart, how may I be of service?"

She approached, and Gale found himself uncertain of how to proceed. They seldom spent time alone together, leaving him unsure of the appropriate demeanour to adopt, one that would keep the conversation brief yet remain courteous.

Shadowheart settled on a tree trunk near the fire, drawing her knees up, wrapping her arms around them, and resting her chin on top. In that moment, she seemed oddly youthful. Tilting her head, she regarded Gale, her bright green eyes probing.

"I'm sorry. What has been asked of you is no small burden," she said quietly, filled with contemplation, of what, it was hard to tell with her.

"I believe, if anyone, you understand that the gods are exacting beings. Our goddesses, in particular, seem rather demanding of late," Gale responded, with a weak laugh.

Shadowheart did not share his laughter, nor did she respond immediately. Her fingers idly traced a pebble she picked up from the ground, rolling it between her index finger and thumb until all the dried dirt fell away. "What will you do?" she asked finally.

"I haven't the faintest idea, and that, frankly, is rather terrifying," Gale admitted with a weary sigh. "For the first time in my life, I find myself utterly bereft of clarity. Make no mistake, I am no stranger to poor decisions—I have made my fair share—but I have always held the conviction that I was, at the very least, moving forward upon the correct path. Now?" He tossed a slender stick into the embers, which promptly engulfed the dry wood in flames. "Now I wonder if there is even a path at all, or if I am merely hacking my way blindly through a dense jungle with bare hands, waiting for a viper's strike with every misstep."

She swayed a little closer to the fire, though little warmth emanated from the dwindling flames. The land seemed to absorb every hint of heat, claiming it as its own, much like everything else in these desolate lands. Shadowheart nodded slowly.

"This place does not affect me as much," she said at last, her gaze locked on the sparks dancing around the fire. "Lady Shar watches over me. I feel... fortunate for her guidance."

Her eyes flicked briefly into the darkness beyond, her voice dropping. "And yet... to look upon this devastation, to know it is her doing..." Her words trailed into a pained hiss as she rubbed at the scar on her hand. It was the first time Gale had heard Shadowheart sound anything less than fully committed to her goddess.

He could not help but feel that their paths were doomed. Gale bearing the accursed orb, Shadowheart marked by that indelible scar, a testament to the might of their deity and the price of their defiance.

"It is not easy to blindly heed the capricious will of the gods, to fulfil their expectations when we have all but too much humanity," Gale murmured, his eyes fixed on the embers. He could not recall where he had read the sentiment; judging by its sombre tone, it was likely from Alanis Dirgesong, a bard famously known for his melancholic tunes, but in that moment, its truth resonated deeply. They sat in silence for a time. Gale brewed tea, wordlessly offering some to Shadowheart, who declined with a shake of her head.

He held the cup close, seeking its warmth.

"Go to sleep, wizard," she said quietly, clearly taking note of the longing side glance he cast towards his tent.

"I'm sorry, Shadowheart. I think I need to rest. Today has been... overwhelming," Gale confessed, reluctant to leave her as it was clear something troubled her, but exhaustion weighed heavily upon him.

"Of course," Shadowheart replied with a gentle smile. "Sleep well."

Gale held her gaze for a moment, then yielded to his need for rest.

He knew the night would be plagued by dark dreams, woven from the day's events and his lingering regrets. Despite this foreboding, he could not resist the pull of sleep the moment his head touched the pillow, succumbing to the chilling embrace of inevitable nightmares.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

Arriving at the Last Light Inn was akin to a breath of fresh air, well—if fresh air carried the scent of mould and the lingering stench of decay, as though some unfortunate creature had perished within the walls and been left to rot, undiscovered. Still, amidst the suffocating gloom of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, the inn stood like a lone beacon, its pale light offering a fragile promise of refuge from the ceaseless dark that had dogged their every step.

Gale should have known better than to expect respite. Meeting Elminster had merely marked the beginning of yet another descent into misfortune. The Cursed Lands had a cruel sense of humour.

They had scarcely begun to acclimatise, if such a thing were even possible, before the shadows found them again. Wraiths, twisted spectres, and the corrupted remains of fallen warriors closed in, drawn to them like vultures to carrion. Magic flared, blades sang, and for a moment, it seemed the darkness would swallow them whole.

Salvation came unexpectedly, in the form of a band of Harpers. Their arrows struck true, their spells cut through the dark, and together they drove back the encroaching horrors. Afterwards, the Harpers guided them here, to the inn, promising sanctuary beneath its hallowed roof.

Yet the welcome they received was anything but warm.

The moment they passed through the gates, the air grew taut, as if the very soil beneath their feet braced for conflict. A druid strode towards them, her sharp, calculating gaze sweeping across the party. There was a cold precision to her movements, with no wasted motion, no wasted breath. The instant Wyll stepped forward, offering the first calm words of explanation, the ground itself responded to her whispered command. Vines erupted, thick and merciless, coiling around his limbs and torso, pinning him in place.

Steel rasped free. Magic surged and swirled dangerously in the air. Gale felt his own power gathering eagerly at his fingertips, the Weave thrumming now that the orb within him lay appeased. The familiar rush of power sent a shiver down his spine.

"We fought alongside your men," Wyll spoke, his voice even despite his restraints. "They know we mean no harm."

"Kindness is too often a decoy," the druid replied coolly, stepping into the torchlight.

And then Gale saw her face and recognised her at once.

Jaheira.

Elminster had spoken often of High Harper Jaheira, her name woven into tales of defiance against darkness, her courage and unshakeable will legendary. The respect in Elminster's voice whenever he spoke of her had been unmistakable, almost reverent.

As if to quiet any lingering doubt, Gale's eyes caught the glint of silver beneath her cloak—a Harper's insignia. The amulet, he knew, was a gift from the elder mage himself.

He could have spoken then, could have invoked the name of his mentor and eased the tension with a few simple words. And yet, the impulse faltered. It no longer felt like his place to trade upon that connection. Not after everything.

Jaheira's hand moved swiftly, drawing forth a glass jar. Inside, a tadpole writhed the moment she brought it closer to Wyll's restrained form, reacting to the parasite within him.

"I am not interested in the Absolute's manipulations," she said with a sneer, venom sharp in her tone. She turned sharply, her voice rising. "Harpers, cut this True Soul down!"

"Fuck," Gale heard Karlach mutter behind him.

Power surged once more in Gale's hands, instinctively forming into the shape of a spell as everything teetered on the knife's edge.

"STOP!"

The word cracked through the open space like lightning, and every eye turned. From across the grounds, a group of tiefling children came running.

The very same children who had fled the grove were now, somehow, safely here. They skidded to a halt before Jaheira, breathless and defiant.

"What are you doing?" one of them shouted, a tiefling with an eyepatch whose face Gale dimly recalled. Mol—his mind supplied, the ringleader of the troublemaking band. "They were the ones who saved us!"

"They are the ones who protected the Emerald Grove?" Jaheira asked, surprise clear in her voice.

Before she had a chance to respond, Halsin stepped forward, placing himself between the two groups. Jaheira's eyes widened as recognition bloomed.

"Halsin?"

"They are not True Souls," Halsin said gently. "Please, allow me to explain."

A tense silence followed. The air seemed to grow impossibly colder, heavier for a long heartbeat. Then, at last, the vines slowly receded, releasing Wyll. Blades were sheathed. The gathered magic dissipated, dissolving into the heavy quiet like mist.

Jaheira held Halsin's stare a moment longer, studying him as if weighing the very truth of his soul. Then, as though reaching some silent conclusion, she gave a brief nod and gestured for them to follow.

As they moved deeper into the inn, the druids settled themselves around a long table, their voices lowering to hushed, cautious negotiations. The immediate threat had passed, for now.

Gale lingered near the edge of the room, his eyes wandering. A part of him felt he ought to stay engaged in the talks; after all, they concerned their collective fate. But another part of him was drawn elsewhere.

He scanned the inn's common room, taking in the unlikely sight before him. The tieflings, so many familiar faces, were laughing, talking, even drinking. Against all odds, these people who had once fled the grove now found themselves safe and sheltered, in the heart of these inhospitable lands, if only for the moment. The sight twisted something in his chest. After misfortune upon misfortune, here was a small flicker of hope.

A faint smile tugged at his lips as his eyes settled on Mol, perched at a table, now deeply engrossed in a game of lanceboard.

But the smile quickly faded as he realised she was not alone.

Karlach's eyes followed his gaze, and darkened instantly.

"Oh, Hells no."

Without hesitation, she stormed past him, cutting a determined path towards the table where Mol played. Gale followed at her heels.

Seated opposite the young tiefling was Raphael.

The cambion sat with casual elegance, one arm draped over the chair, his eyes gleaming with familiar, unsettling amusement as he studied the board, entirely at ease.

Karlach's voice was a low snarl as she advanced. "Get away from her, you fucking devil," she spat, reaching instinctively for her weapon.

Mol's attention remained glued to the board in front of her, but Raphael looked up at their approach, an indulgent smile stretching wide across his face.

"How... astute," he remarked in his usual silken tone. He pointedly ignored Karlach as he made his next move, gently placing a piece with unhurried deliberation. Only then did his gaze lift once more, past Karlach, past Gale, landing directly on Astarion, who Gale only now noticed had silently followed.

Raphael's smile deepened. "I sense there's something you wish to ask me," he said at last, each syllable like velvet coiling in the air. His dark eyes fixed on Astarion.

Gale blinked in surprise and turned towards the elf. Astarion shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, a rare display of unease.

The cambion had been an unrelenting shadow since their escape from the Nautiloid, all smarmy smiles and suspicious offers of help wrapped in poorly crafted rhymes that were as grating as they were dangerous. He had, however, been conspicuously absent in recent tendays.

Clearing his throat, Astarion finally spoke. "I do," he said, adopting a calculated air of drama, as if performing on stage, matching the devil's theatrics. "I have a proposal for you."

"A proposal?" Gale and Raphael echoed in near unison, Gale's voice laced with shock, Raphael's savouring the word as though it were some decadent confection.

What was he doing?

"If you're hoping to taste my blood, little vampling, think again. It burns hotter than Wyvern Whiskey," the devil purred.

Gale whipped his head back to Raphael. A murky, unsettling feeling churned in the pit of his stomach at the mere suggestion of Astarion feeding on Raphael. Every instinct urged him to step between them, to shield the elf from the cambion's daunting stare, but Gale recognised the delicate balance at play. Astarion would not take kindly to any implication of vulnerability. With considerable restraint, he held himself back, resisting the impulse to intervene.

"This is serious business, devil," Astarion snapped. "My old… well, a long time ago, someone carved Infernal runes into my back. I'd like to know what they say," he finished at last, his words tight with urgency, as though afraid that any hesitation might steal his resolve.

"Have you lost your mind?" Karlach hissed, and Gale felt a flicker of relief that someone had voiced exactly what he was thinking. 

Astarion glared at her. "Stay out of it. It's none of your business."

"It bloody well is," Karlach shot back, her voice sharp. "Especially when the consequences will come back to bite you in your skinny, pale arse, and we'll have to save you again."

"When—"

"Hmmmmmm…" Raphael mused, drawing out the sound with exaggerated flair, as if trying to drown out the bickering and pull the attention back to himself. Gale could not help but suspect that Raphael stretched these moments on purpose, stalling for time while he scrambled to cobble together clumsy verses, laced with dreadful metaphors and even worse rhymes.

"It's something very important to your master," the cambion continued, examining his nails with feigned disinterest. "But is it a love letter, a warning, or a deed of ownership? I could, of course, provide you with all the gory details. But naturally, you'll have to do something for me first."

Karlach's dwindling patience visibly declined at a rapid rate. "I don't think this fucker knows anything," she muttered, her grip tightening around the handle of her sizeable war axe.

Raphael leaned in closer to Astarion, once again disregarding Karlach as though she had not spoken. "Let me think about it and get back to you."

Astarion gaped at him, all pretence of self-control slipping away. "You'll 'get back' to me?" he parroted, his voice rising. "This is important, devil. When?" Despite the gravity of the moment, Gale could not entirely suppress a smile as the image of a petulant child mid-tantrum flashed through his mind while watching Astarion. He was almost certain it was, as usual, part of Astarion's performance.

Though Gale had grown familiar with Astarion's more affable side over the course of their journey, he had noticed a marked shift in recent days. As the stakes grew, there was less room for childish antics and frivolity.

"Don't worry, I'm motivated to help you," Raphael reassured. "Scars often tell such wonderful stories. I think yours might be truly exquisite. I shall see you soon."

Astarion drew a breath, poised to present his next line of arguments, but before he could utter a word, the devil's gaze flicked to the lanceboard set. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, then, in a flash of burning embers, he vanished, leaving behind only the acrid sting of sulphur.

Karlach moved at once to confront Mol, demanding answers about her connection to Raphael. Meanwhile, Gale's eyes drifted to the board before the young tiefling, and with a flicker of admiration, he realised that amidst the chaos, Mol had seized her chance and won the game.

Leaning in slightly, his attention still fixed on the board, Gale spoke softly to Astarion. "Are you certain about this?"

"I must find out the meaning of that bloody scar on my back," Astarion replied. "Whatever it is, it's the reason Cazador pursues me." The immaturity that had coloured his voice moments earlier was gone, confirming Gale's suspicion that it had been nothing more than an act, likely meant to manipulate the cambion into doing Astarion's bidding. "Unless you have somehow acquired the ability to divine this, when Karlach, who can actually read the language, could not make sense of it, this remains my only option."

Gale wanted to argue, to lay down a litany of reasons why this was yet another ill-fated idea, to offer assurances that, despite his repeated failures to decipher the words etched upon the vampire's skin, there might still be another way. However, the resolute determination gleaming in the elf's eyes dissuaded him. The decision had been made, and no amount of persuasion would sway it. So, true to his nature, Gale resolved to do what he always did when his foolish concern for another outweighed his better judgement. He stood by their side, offering his steadfast support even if it meant traversing a path fraught with nothing but peril and ruin.

"Very well," he sighed. "Just try not to do anything overly reckless."

Astarion frowned. "As if I'm the only one with questionable decision-making in our little ensemble," he muttered under his breath. Gale pretended not to hear him.

✦

Jaheira suggested they locate Isobel, the resident cleric responsible for the protective barrier around the inn, which shielded them from the encroaching curse. Extending this shield to their group as they journeyed to Moonrise Tower seemed a prudent course of action. However, exhausted and craving distraction, they unanimously agreed to address the curse and plan their journey the following day.

Gale saw this as the perfect opportunity to retrieve his books. He intended to seek out a secluded corner within the inn, indulging in his reading without the constant vigilance demanded by every rustle of a leaf.

As he entered their campsite, now safely nestled within the inn's protective wards, he was surprised to find Astarion sitting on the ground with his back turned. Gale briefly considered approaching the elf to inquire further about his earlier interaction with Raphael. However, to his surprise, Astarion was already engrossed in conversation—with the owlbear cub, no less.

"Stop pestering me; I've already told you, you wretched creature, there's no more food," Astarion lamented to the cub, which merely cocked its head in response. "Ugh, fine," he sighed dramatically, exasperation evident in his voice, as he relinquished a piece of dried meat from their stash. The cub eagerly accepted, devouring it with the voracity of a small predator. In a blink, the food vanished, and the cub curled up beside the elf, resting its head on his lap.

At first, Astarion seemed poised to push the creature away, but he halted midway, his movement arrested. Gale could not quite see from his vantage point, but the slow, deliberate motion of Astarion's shoulders suggested he had started gently petting the owlbear's head.

Gale's chest tightened, though a sense of intrusion quickly followed. As much as he longed to witness more of these rare, unguarded moments from Astarion, this one was not meant for him. Without a word, he turned and began making his way back towards the inn; the books could wait.

His steps halted, however, as he spotted a figure approaching in haste. A flicker of concern stirred, prompting him to brace for potential conflict. But upon recognising Karlach bounding towards him, his magical defences eased. To his surprise, the tiefling appeared more animated than ever, if such a thing were possible.

"Gale, Astarion! The little tieflings say the mechanic is here! The Infernal one!" she shouted, her voice growing louder as she rapidly closed the distance.

Gale winced and whipped around to see if Astarion had caught wind of the commotion. Naturally, he had. With his keen senses, it was a marvel he had not detected Gale's presence sooner; there was no way he would have missed Karlach's hollering.

Astarion rose leisurely, brushing off his leather trousers before giving the owlbear's head a final, affectionate pat. "What's going on?" he inquired as he reached Gale, his tone composed.

Gale was now certain that Astarion had not overlooked his earlier presence, but it was clear they both intended to gloss over the matter, a notion Gale readily accepted.

"Something tells me we've stumbled upon the Infernal mechanic," Gale quipped lightly, jutting a thumb towards Karlach, just as she arrived, panting and bent over, her hands gripping her knees. Shadowheart trailed closely behind.

"By the gods, Karlach, slow down," the cleric gasped, clutching her side as she struggled to catch her breath. Her face was flushed from exertion, the colour high on her cheeks. Yet amidst her panting and the deep furrow between her brows, a smile tugged at her lips.

"Look at that, Fire Girl," Astarion chuckled, a hand on his hip. Gale glanced at him, noting the uncharacteristically warm smile that had spread across his face.

"What are we waiting for, then?" Astarion prompted, his delight barely concealed. Gale found himself momentarily captivated by the rare display of genuine warmth before Astarion motioned for Karlach to lead the way.

With a final shuddering exhale, the tiefling straightened and flashed them a toothy grin.

"After you," Gale laughed, gesturing towards the path back to the inn. A small surge of warmth blossomed in his chest; Karlach had come to them first, rather than rushing straight to the forge master.

The tiefling practically skipped all the way to the barn where Dammon had set up his workshop, her excitement radiating like sunlight after a long, storm-heavy night. It was palpable, an intoxicating, infectious joy that lifted the weight from weary shoulders. 

At last, Karlach received the coolant she so desperately needed. After weeks spent narrowly evading one inescapable threat after another, always a breath away from ruin, this moment felt nothing short of a triumph.

It was everything.

Before Gale could fully grasp the unfolding moment, he was swept into an inferno, as Karlach pulled all three of them into a single, encompassing embrace. The heat was overwhelming, yet strangely soothing, like standing before a hearth on a winter's night. Gale's face was snugly pressed into Shadowheart's nape, and Astarion's form moulded closely to his back. A curious balance of fire before him and cool spring frost behind. And all around them, Karlach's laughter rang out, low and vibrant, her body trembling with radiant delight, weaving light into the dark, sorrowful void that had long entrenched itself in Gale's chest alongside that accursed orb.

If Gale could have chosen a single moment to freeze in time, to linger within forever, it would have been this one. Suspended in this fleeting instant of happiness, he could have surrendered to it completely, content.

For the first time in Gale's life, it felt as though he truly had friends. Genuine friends. People he deeply cared for, who reciprocated that sentiment, shared their joy with him. Emotion welled up within him, overflowing, and Astarion must have heard his heartbeat growing erratic, for he pressed a cool palm against Gale's lower back.

Gale was not sure whether it steadied him or made matters worse. Being touched was still overwhelming, every nerve drawn taut beneath the sudden intimacy of so much contact, so much warmth, so much... everything.

But before his mind could fully spiral, Karlach released her embrace, and in the absence of her arms, he found himself silently grateful for the lingering pressure of Astarion's hand. Without it, the sudden emptiness might have swept him away, unmoored amidst the swell of his own emotions.

Stepping back, they exchanged shy, almost bashful smiles, smiles that bloomed into grins and, before long, spilt into bright, unrestrained laughter. And just like that, the deathly grip that had long clutched Gale's heart and throat loosened.

Dammon had made a feeble attempt to warn them about Karlach's inability to stay in Faerûn for the long run, but Karlach had decided that was a problem for future Karlach to address. Because now... now, it was time for a much-needed celebration.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

As they entered the inn, a wave of excitement washed over them, a wall of gleeful noise that seemed to swallow them whole. News had spread swiftly through the tavern, no doubt carried by the tiefling children tucked into every corner, eagerly exchanging secrets and gossip as though it were a rapidly vanishing commodity.

Strangers cheered, beer flowed freely, and though Gale suspected many did not even know the exact reason for the celebration, they welcomed any excuse for a moment of merriment and an extra round of drinks.

Making his way to the bar, Gale sought a relatively quiet corner where he could collect his thoughts and ground himself amidst the commotion. His gaze swept over the bustling room, taking in the lively scene. In one corner, Halsin and Jaheira were deep in conversation, while Wyll chatted with the tieflings he had befriended back at the grove. Just as Gale began to settle, Alfira, the bard across the room, called out in a valiant attempt to draw the warlock into her song.

Karlach, who had somehow managed to smuggle their menagerie into the tavern while Gale's attention was elsewhere, let out an over-the-top wolf whistle. Wyll flushed and scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish chuckle as the children around them erupted into laughter.

Gale could not help but smile as he watched Karlach, nestled between Scratch, the once-stray dog who had somehow become a full-fledged party member, and the owlbear cub, both of whom she was lavishing with determined affection now that she was able to touch them. Around her, a boisterous cluster of tiefling children chattered and played.

It was chaotic and utterly foolish to be so careless as to lower their defences like that, yet Gale found himself unable to summon any real disapproval. His attention, as if drawn by instinct, sought the familiar glint of silver curls amid the shifting disorder. To his surprise, he found Astarion talking with Barcus, one of the gnomes they had rescued from the forge, who was now determined to liberate his friend from the perilous stronghold of Moonrise Towers, the very destination they were bound for.

"Isn't it time for celebration? Why let your goblet sit empty?" said a woman's voice. Gale had entirely missed her approach, his thoughts still fixed on the elf.

She slipped gracefully onto a high stool beside him.

"It would be unwise for all of us to lower our guard," he said, his eyes still on Astarion. Tension coiled within him as he noted the unhappy set of Barcus' face, already bracing himself to step in if needed. But just as he was about to move to act, he saw the gnome's deep frown ease into a small, reluctant smile. Gale's eyes widened, surprised to find Astarion's expression, disgruntled certainly, but free of any true malice.

"Ah, such boundless optimism," she remarked, prompting Gale to, somewhat reluctantly, draw his attention away from the scene unfolding across the room. He recognised her, albeit vaguely, chiefly because of the ornate circlet she wore. He had taken note of it earlier, and he was fairly certain she was the leader of the Harper contingent that had helped escort them to the inn. Larissa? Kassandra?

Possibly noting his hesitation, she cleared her throat gently and leaned in.

"I'm Lassandra. Delighted to make your acquaintance."

"Gale. The pleasure is mine," he replied, offering a courteous smile.

"I must say," she continued, inching just a little closer, "you fought valiantly against the shadow creatures. They've slain many and turned even more of us. It takes remarkable skill to stand one's ground against such foes."

"I've faced far more ferocious opponents," Gale replied with a modest shrug. "But shadows and wraiths are intriguing in their own right."

"Most would find them terrifying," Lassandra said, her smile lopsided.

"Undoubtedly," Gale agreed. "They are perilous, relentless... but there is a certain tragedy to their existence." He recalled long hours spent poring over ancient texts during his time at Blackstaff, pages inked with warnings, theories, and half-whispered truths. Had he not spent so much of his time dodging blades and calamity, he might have delighted in the chance to study such beings in earnest.

"They are drawn to us, to the spark of life, the pulse of sentience, yet they cannot abide the places we call home. Light repels them, quite literally. It is a cruel contradiction, almost poetic in its irony." He caught Lassandra's gaze, her attention steady, and took it as encouragement to continue.

"There have been instances where the host of a shadow perished, only to be later resurrected. Some of these creatures have even attempted to reunite with their original bodies, a phenomenon of great intrigue. Though research on the matter is scarce, understandably so given its... delicate nature, I recall one case quite vividly. In that instance, the reunion did occur. But to reclaim their own shadow, the host was forced to vanquish it," Gale concluded.

"I see... very interesting," Lassandra replied, though her tone fell flat. "Do you think—apologies if this is too forward—would you be interested in perhaps continuing this conversation somewhere quieter?"

Gale's brow furrowed as he tried to reconcile her sudden shift in demeanour with the request. Perhaps she was simply fatigued from the battle; the bar was quite noisy, after all. Even Gale, his magic still largely diminished, could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing in.

He glanced back towards their group. Astarion, Karlach and Lae'zel were deep in a heated discussion. Gale's eyes met Astarion's for a brief moment. The elf gave him a knowing smirk, then turned away, diving back into the debate as if nothing had happened.

"Perhaps another time," Gale said, feeling slightly off-kilter, his earlier enthusiasm dimmed. "I must confess, I have had my fill of shadow-creature musings for the moment. I would much prefer to remain here and enjoy the evening's revelry with my companions."

It was unexpected. Ordinarily, engaging with someone knowledgeable about the region and possessing firsthand experience with its inhabitants would have been precisely the kind of companionship Gale welcomed. Yet, as he watched the others laugh and celebrate, a quiet reluctance to leave settled over him.

"We could talk about something else," Lassandra tried again. Gale found her insistence somewhat perplexing; he was hardly known for his skill in idle chatter.

"Maybe another time," Gale repeated, and this seemed to be sufficient. Lassandra cast him one final, searching glance, sighed, and downed the remainder of her drink in a single gulp. She excused herself, slid off the stool and walked away.

A few moments later, Astarion materialised in the now-empty seat beside him.

"Look at you, Sunshine. I did not take you for such a ladies' man," he teased, his tone light-hearted.

Gale frowned. "Discussing the horrors and murderous mysteries of the land hardly strikes me as a romantic overture, Astarion." The elf blinked at him for a moment before responding.

"Gods, you are serious," Astarion snickered. "She was quite clearly inviting you to her bed, you oaf."

"What? Nonsense. She offered to provide more information about the shadow creatures," Gale insisted.

Astarion looked skyward. "Let me guess—'She wanted to speak somewhere private?'"

Gale glared at him, but Astarion's grin only grew wider.

"She was absolutely trying to seduce you, Sunshine. Believe me, I have spent centuries refining that particular art, with far more gratifying outcomes, I might add."

"Whatever you say, oh Master of Seduction," Gale replied, now his turn to roll his eyes.

Astarion's gaze flashed with a dangerous glint. "You do not believe me? You wound me. You would not stand a chance."

"Despite what some might assume, I do not make a habit of casual dalliances. I was rather under the impression we had established that already," Gale said with an easy smile.

To his own surprise, he enjoyed these exchanges with Astarion—the delicate dance of wit and charm, the gentle teasing, the way they skirted around each other's boundaries with practised grace.

Astarion leaned in, sweeping his outstretched palm through the air as if painting a scene.

"Picture this," he began, reclining casually against the counter, his elbows propped behind him as he edged closer to Gale, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. "We find ourselves in a quaint tavern..."

Gale snorted. "How original," he remarked dryly.

"Hush now," Astarion chided, his demeanour shifting from amiable to predatory in the beat of a heart. His eyes narrowed with a primal intensity as he regarded Gale through half-lidded lashes, like a beast of prey toying with its victim. His voice descended further to a dangerous drawl. "I would tell you how delectable you look, all battle-worn," he murmured, his voice now so low it barely rose above the tavern's din. But Gale heard it—felt it, like the soft drag of a fingertip down his spine. He instinctively leaned closer.

"I can still feel your power surrounding you, radiating, almost... palpable. It was impossible to resist the pull, to come by for a little… chat," he continued coyly, his body subtly angling towards Gale, tantalisingly close but not quite touching.

With a deliberate inhale near Gale's ear, he made a show of savouring his scent. "Delicious." Gale could almost feel the word forming near his skin. Then Astarion released an indecent sound, wholly inappropriate for public ears. Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, Gale felt the familiar heat beginning to build. Ember to a bonfire in a matter of heartbeats.

He turned to Astarion, finding him unbearably close. Gale could have counted every pale lash hanging low over those crimson eyes, and Astarion's mouth curved into a flirtatious smile, slightly open, revealing a hint of fang resting on the plush skin of his lower lip.

"You would not have chosen me to begin with," Gale heard himself say, his voice a breath, eyes never straying from Astarion's lips. The words emerged before he had fully caught up to their meaning.

"Why would I not?" Astarion whispered back. "Handsome, powerful wizard, brooding alone in the corner, breaking the hearts of local women. Sounds irresistible."

Just like that, the moment shattered as Gale burst into laughter.

"I am not breaking hearts; you are delusional," he said, playfully nudging Astarion's shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to create some distance.

Finally tearing his gaze from Astarion's mouth, Gale looked up only to find the elf watching him intently.

It was suddenly difficult to breathe. He was so beautiful. That unwavering stare held for a moment longer before a quiet laugh escaped Astarion, too.

Seeking to dispel some of the dizzying tension between them, Gale turned towards the bar, only to find it deserted. His eyes landed on Rolan, slumped at the far end of the counter, clutching his drink as though it were a lifeline. The tiefling wizard's head bobbed intermittently, succumbing to the slow pull of alcohol-induced drowsiness.

He could not fault him. Earlier, Gale had overheard Wyll and Alfira discussing the ambush that had waylaid the tieflings on their way to the inn. Rolan's siblings, along with Arabella and her parents, had been among those who had gone missing.

Summoning a Mage Hand, Gale deftly manoeuvred a goblet filled with water to replace Rolan's dwindling drink. With a subtle sleight of hand, the vessels switched places seamlessly. The tiefling stirred, a faint frown creasing his brow, but he was too deep in his cups to notice the deception.

Rolan's lips met the rim of the goblet, now holding nothing but cool, refreshing water. Oblivious to the clandestine exchange, he drained it in one long gulp and slumped forward onto the wooden counter. Judging by the slow, steady rise and fall of his shoulders, he had promptly fallen asleep.

Astarion let out an amused chuckle.

"That was rather impressive," he remarked, his gaze still on the Mage Hand.

Gale's lips curved into a smug smile. "I am rather impressive."

"And modest, too," Astarion retorted, smirking.

"There is no need for modesty when I have full confidence in my abilities," Gale replied smoothly.

Astarion let out a disbelieving huff of laughter, then turned back to him. "You can be insufferable at times."

"And yet you repeatedly seek my company," Gale shot back, his grin stretching in triumph. Astarion's momentary silence made him preen; it was a rare delight to have the last word with the elf.

He was still watching Astarion, thoughts half-formed, trailing lazily behind, when Halsin strode over and abruptly disrupted the moment. Without ceremony, the druid deposited a spectacularly inebriated Wyll onto the stool beside them, as if he weighed nothing at all.

Astarion raised a questioning brow at them.

"I think it is time for young Wyll to retire for the evening," Halsin said, gently supporting the man, who could barely sit upright and would surely have toppled over if Halsin were to release him. "I am going to stay behind and help Jaheira clean up. If you do not mind, would you escort him back to his tent?"

Gale looked around and realised they must have talked longer than he had thought. The tavern, once alive with laughter and clinking mugs, now held only a few wobbling stragglers.

"Of course," Gale replied, rising to his feet. He carefully draped Wyll's arm over his shoulder and began making his way towards the exit.

"You could just leave him, you know," said Astarion, but Gale knew he was not serious. Despite the elf's penchant for maintaining the façade of an uncaring bastard, Gale now knew better. Deep down, Astarion was anything but indifferent, even if it was the warlock they were talking about, whose eagerness and pure heart he especially liked to mock.

"Wyll needs a good night's rest if he is to keep up with us. Something tells me we are in for a few trying days," Gale said.

"You are too good for your own good sometimes, Sunshine."

"One can only try," Gale shrugged, eliciting a low, pained groan from Wyll in response.

He guided the man out of the inn, casting a fleeting glance over his shoulder as he reached the threshold. Astarion was still perched on his high stool, talking to Halsin. The druid towered over him, head tilted to meet the elf's gaze. They both laughed, then Astarion slid off the chair with effortless grace, patted Halsin's formidable arm, and strolled towards the rest of the group, who were drunkenly arguing over something Gale could not make out.

"I'm not feeling too great," Wyll mumbled, and Gale took it as the cue to steer him towards camp. Managing the warlock's not-insignificant weight, especially when Wyll decided that using his legs was entirely optional, proved more difficult than expected. The walk to their campsite took three times as long as usual, thanks to his resistance to standard locomotion. Gale swore under his breath, cursing the slow return of his magic as he trudged along.

At last, they reached the tent. Gale eased Wyll onto his bed with care, then made his way to his own quarters. He rummaged through his supplies, selecting a handful of vials. One hangover remedy he left on Wyll's desk; the rest he distributed outside the tents of the others who had taken part in the evening's excess.

Gale performed a final check of their inventory, making sure they had enough supplies for a hearty breakfast to combat the inevitable hangovers that morning would bring. With his self-imposed errands complete, he noticed the glow of candlelight from the neighbouring tents—a reassuring sign that everyone had made it back safely. All but Karlach, it seemed. Still, the bursts of laughter coming from Shadowheart's corner suggested she was in good company.

A quiet warmth spread through him at the thought of his companions—exhausted but content, and, most importantly, safe. After a hard-earned celebration, they were all tucked into their beds, the night closing gently around them.

Heading for his own tent, ready at last to rest, Gale paused. Astarion's canvas was still parted. In the soft candlelight, he caught sight of the elf nestled among his pillows, a book open in his lap. Astarion looked up, and their eyes locked.

"Goodnight, Sunshine," Astarion said softly.

Gale offered a small smile. "Rest well," he replied, then turned and stepped inside.

Gale wrestled with the elusive embrace of sleep, tossing and turning in a tempest of restlessness. The vibrant cacophony of the tavern had dimmed, leaving behind a heavy silence that offered no comfort, only space for his thoughts to roam unchecked.

Though he needed rest, his body refused to yield. His senses remained sharp, his nerves pulled taut. Astarion's scent still clung to him like smoke woven into his clothes, refusing to fade, making him squirm. Even the cool sheets seemed to rasp against his unusually sensitive skin.

He considered ignoring the slow pulse of awareness thrumming through his veins, turning over, shutting his eyes, waiting for exhaustion to do its work. But before he could think better of it, his fingers began to drift, tracing a slow path down his chest.

It felt improper. Obscene, even. He seldom allowed himself such indulgence, and it had been some time since he last succumbed. Just as his power had once existed to please and satisfy Mystra, his own pleasure had always been intended as a means to serve others.

He pushed the intrusive thoughts aside, forcing his attention instead towards the growing warmth pooling low in his stomach.

There had been times when Gale used glamour—not to alter his form wholly, but to refine it. Sharpen a few angles, smooth out imperfections, when he expected to be seen. But glamour dulled sensation, too. It was the price of control.

Now, without it, every touch felt intense.

As his fingers brushed the delicate lines of the orb, its faint glow responded, pulsing softly beneath his skin—a sign of his building excitement. In the past, this would be the moment when memories and fantasies of Mystra would surface. Dreams tangled with recollection: their communion in the Astral Planes, the melding of their essences, the pleasure that followed, vivid and all-consuming, would dominate his thoughts.

However, this time, the image shifted.

Like an illusion spell sharpening into focus, what had once been abstract and distant now took on tangible form. The gentle touches he remembered gave way to something harsh and insistent, pressing into his physical form and leaving bruises in its wake.

A vision emerged—not a memory exactly, but a faint echo of a once-felt desire: the ghost of fingers tightening around his neck. This unbidden notion threaded itself into the unfolding scene, stirring an unexpected surge of longing that swept away all reason.

Modesty be damned.

Without hesitation, he reached for the remnants of his magic, casting a simplified Private Sanctum to ward off intrusion. Then, with a flick of intent, he summoned a Mage Hand to indulge the craving, letting the fantasy unfold without restraint.

The sensation was almost overwhelming. He took a few steadying breaths before guiding the Hand to press down gently, just beneath the hinges of his jaw.

Firm, but not strong enough to cut off his air completely. His own hands continued their path down his body, gliding against his skin, following the familiar trail until they reached their intended destination.

He grasped the waistband of his breeches, eased the starched fabric over his hips, and wrapped a hand around his growing hardness. His cock slowly filled out, straining against the soft plane of his stomach.

His mind raced to conjure a series of safe, faceless fantasies—constructs drawn from past indulgences, harmless and distant. But the effort fractured almost immediately, as blotches of silver and crimson bled into focus, coalescing into the vivid image of Astarion, materialising before the canvas of his mind's eye.

Fighting it was futile. With a strangled, defeated breath, Gale surrendered to the fantasy.

He imagined the elf slipping into his tent without a word, climbing atop him with quiet certainty. In his mind, Astarion was as composed and in control as ever, his every motion deliberate. Gale pictured him prying his fingers away from his cock, guiding his hands above his head and pressing them against the bed, pinning him in place. The elf's other hand replaced the Mage Hand, and Gale could almost feel the cool touch and carefully controlled bruising strength constricting his breathing.

In this vision, Astarion ground down, their now naked bodies moving together with urgent need, their lengths lined up—slick, flushed, wanting—sliding alongside one another, each movement sending fresh sparks of desire lancing through him.

In reality, Gale's hand was moving fervently on his leaking hardness, wet with his own arousal, setting a punishing pace as he chased release.

With each stroke, restraint crumbled further. His mind, unguarded now, was flooded by repressed memories of the elf flirting, standing too close—always so close —the intoxicating scent... oh gods, that scent—and worst of all, the detailed recollection of those exquisite noises, breathless and broken, that had spilled from Astarion as the elf rutted against him.

It was too much, and not enough all at once.

The heat inside him grew unbearable. He arched off the bed with a choked moan, body trembling and seizing as pleasure crashed through him. The Mage Hand gripped tight under his jaw, pressing just under his ears. He could feel his pulse hammering at his temple, the constriction of blood flow dizzying. It was the final push, tipping him over the edge.

His vision blurred. The Hand relinquished its hold in an instant, and he was left gasping, lungs dragging in breath after breath, too fast, too shallow.

He had made a mess. His release cooled across his stomach and chest, leaving him shivering with discomfort. The Mage Hand hovered beside him a moment longer, a stark reminder of what had just unfolded. He dispelled it, and with it, the moment passed, leaving only the oily residue of his shame clinging to him.

Gale lay there, lungs too tight, heart pounding a bruising rhythm against his ribs. His thoughts embarked on an introspective journey, skirting around the gravity of what he had done, trying—and failing—not to dwell on it.

He had long known that his power attracted people. The finesse with which he manipulated the Weave had captured the attention of the Mother of All Magic herself. Yet even Mystra, for all her divine fascination, had never sought physical contact with him on the mortal plane. And though Gale had once indulged in earthly pleasures, it had been years since he had truly felt another's touch.

That was, until Astarion.

Astarion, with his searing pride and carefully cultivated self-regard, his relentless hunger for power, should have been no different from the many others drawn to Gale's magic—perhaps even more so. And in many ways, he was.

Yet what lingered in Gale's thoughts, what returned to him in quiet, unguarded moments like this, was the way Astarion looked at him. Not with the blind awe so often offered to arcane brilliance, nor with the calculating glint Gale had come to expect from the power-hungry.

No—Astarion looked at him as though he saw past the magic, past the polish and pride, to something more fragile beneath. And still, somehow, he chose to see Gale with startling clarity. 

✦

The morning exacted its toll on each and every one of Gale's companions, manifesting as punishing headaches and debilitating nausea. Gratitude flowed generously as they emerged from their tents, spirits lifted by the sight of Gale's potions and the plentiful breakfast awaiting them.

Karlach and Shadowheart sat huddled together, the tiefling's head resting on the cleric's shoulder. It should have made for an odd sight—Karlach so freely touching others—but it seemed natural, as though there had never been a time she had not been able to. She fit beside Shadowheart as if she belonged there.

Karlach fought sleep and kept losing. Shadowheart, unfazed, kept to her usual morning ritual, sipping coffee and gently blowing at the steam that curled into the frigid morning air.

Gale could not help but wonder what had happened between the two of them the day before. They had been circling each other for weeks now.

It was Astarion's sudden appearance that dragged Gale from his wandering thoughts. A wave of shame and embarrassment swelled within him as memories from the night before came rushing back. He nearly dropped the cauldron containing the remnants of their breakfast.

The elf raised a perfect pale brow, his expression quizzical. Gale quickly looked away, unable to meet Astarion's piercing gaze.

"I hear we are heading to Moonrise Towers. Are you ready for this undoubtedly memorable journey into the heart of these enchanting lands?" Astarion asked, graciously ignoring Gale's peculiar behaviour.

Gale frowned. "Your idea of enchanting differs rather drastically from mine. I suspect this journey will be little more than a series of grim encounters with death and gore," he replied with a wry smile, sneaking a glance at the vampire.

"Precisely," Astarion said, flashing a wicked grin that drew an involuntary snort from Gale.

This was going to be a disaster.

✦

(Click image for NSFW version)

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale 

With a resolute tug, Gale prised the Moonlantern from the drider's frigid, skeletal grasp, its arachnid fingers stubbornly curled around the handle even in death. As he raised the lantern, its ethereal light unfurled in a cool, silvery wave, dispelling the oppressive weight of the curse that had hung over them like a shroud. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Gale's lungs filled freely, breath coming easily and untainted. His gaze swept over his companions, who collectively sighed in relief.

Since the moment he had opened his eyes that morning, everything had been an unmitigated disaster, and he had been... lost in thought.

The lingering taste of shame and embarrassment was still fresh in his mouth when they had stood before Isobel, seeking her blessing to combat the worst effects of the curse, only to be ambushed by a group of cultists. Mol had been taken. Many had lost their lives. The devastation left in the wake of the battle served as a brutal reminder of the necessity to remain focused on their mission. Gale could not afford to let his mind wander. Yet, despite his best efforts, his thoughts had scattered, slipping through his fingers like sand underwater.

The events that followed blurred into a disorienting whirlwind of tension and urgency. Fearing further assaults, Wyll, Lae'zel, and Halsin had remained behind to keep the tieflings safe. Meanwhile, Karlach, Gale, Shadowheart, and—albeit begrudgingly—Astarion had ventured into the heart of the cursed land, slowly making their way to Moonrise Towers.

Now, with clammy hands clutching the lantern, Gale stood covered in the remnants of the drider and the handful of goblins they had slain to claim it. His heart still thundered, his chest undulating with irregular upheavals. The disquieting silence that followed the fight was broken only by the steady drip of blood from lifeless bodies.

Bathed in the cool glow of the Moonlantern, Gale's eyes inevitably flitted to Astarion, as if drawn by an unseen force.

Astarion had no right to look so captivating. Blood-soaked and coolly composed, he stood with his dagger in hand, meticulously wiping it clean, his nose wrinkling in faint distaste. Some small, stubbornly rational part of Gale's treacherous mind insisted there was nothing remotely arousing about the sight before him. And yet, his gaze refused to stray.

He watched, helplessly enthralled, as those debonair fingers moved deftly over the gleaming silver blade, fully aware of how effortlessly Astarion wielded it with lethal precision. Then, with one fluid motion, the elf sent the weapon spinning into the air and caught it by the hilt in a single, seamless gesture.

Gale swallowed hard, struggling to quell the shiver that traced a path down his spine.

Astarion had been particularly distracting, more so than usual. Gale's recent late-night indulgence had emboldened a primal part of his mind, granting free rein to increasingly inappropriate thoughts. The memory of his moment of weakness remained fresh, the heat of shame simmering just beneath the surface of his skin, a constant reminder of what he had allowed to transpire. Yet whenever he tried to banish thoughts of Astarion, his mind inevitably circled back to the orb and the looming spectre of his premature death. In that light, indulging in shameful lusting over his vampire companion almost seemed preferable.

"Ugh." Astarion's face twisted as he licked his lips. "This wretch's blood tastes just like yours used to," he grumbled, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his armour.

Gale, so engrossed in his dazed staring, could only blink at the elf.

"Huh?" he managed, meeting Astarion's gaze fleetingly before quickly looking away when the direct contact proved too intense.

Karlach and Shadowheart, who had been quietly salvaging whatever they could from the corpses strewn across the floor, paused their tasks and turned to look at the two of them in unison.

After a prolonged beat of silence, the tiefling crossed her arms and raised an inquisitive brow.

"And how, pray tell, would you know what Gale's blood tastes like?" she asked, her smile twisting into what Gale could only categorise as her 'shit-eating grin'. There was an edge to her tone, a sharpness that hinted at a long-held suspicion now confirmed.

It was not as though they had been keeping it a secret, per se. It simply… never came up. It was not exactly a daily occurrence, after all.

"I know your skills of perception are not your finest attribute, darling, but surely you have noticed that the lands we have recently traversed are not exactly teeming with appetising wildlife," Astarion replied, tone light and entirely unbothered, as he retrieved a linen cloth from a hidden pocket to cleanse his hand of the foul-smelling remnants.

"Our wizard companion here," he continued, gesturing broadly towards Gale with the rag, "has graciously assisted me once or twice."

Karlach's eyes widened at the admission. "Once or twice?" she echoed, followed by a low, suggestive whistle.

"Is that what you are? 'Appetising wildlife'?" Shadowheart huffed a laugh, glancing at Gale with a hand on her hip, clearly deriving more amusement from the situation than Gale would have preferred. "I must admit, I did not expect you to be into all... that," she added, pointing at Astarion, causing the now-familiar heat to begin its ascent from the base of Gale's neck.

"I have merely allowed Astarion to take what he needed so we could continue with our mission," Gale said stiffly, attempting to stifle the wave of embarrassment rising within him. They could not possibly know about everything else that had happened between them.

"And I appreciate it, Sunshine," Astarion quipped, though a genuine note lingered beneath his jovial tone. He then cast a withering glance at the sniggering Karlach and Shadowheart. Gale simply inclined his head, choosing not to engage in a conversation that would only worsen matters.

Seeking to divert his thoughts from the disconcerting ease with which he now deciphered Astarion's shifting moods, Gale turned his attention to the Moonlantern cradled in his hands. Without a moment's hesitation, he opened the small cage and released the pixie trapped within. 

Astarion spun around in bewilderment, his disaproval unmistakable. Gale, however, remained unmoved, already engaged in negotiating their safe passage through the cursed region with the tiny fey.

Even after securing her favour and receiving her blessing, the elf's grumbling showed no sign of abating. He continued to mutter darkly about Gale's naïveté and soft-heartedness, lamenting the tragic fate that would surely befall them, all due to the wizard's misguided trust. His complaints persisted the entire way, right up until they reached the imposing gates of Moonrise Towers.

Gale, for his part, kept his gaze fixed on the path ahead and his thoughts deliberately clear, steadfastly ignoring the amused glances exchanged by Karlach and Shadowheart as they followed in silence.

As they stepped onto the cobblestoned path leading to the tower, something dark and overwhelming washed over Gale, halting his stride. The tadpole within him writhed, and an unsettling sensation of returning home—one not his own—crept into his mind, swiftly followed by a searing headache so intense it nearly drove him to his knees. He took several steadying breaths, forcing himself upright and glancing at his companions, each of whom wore an expression as haunted as his own.

"What in the Hells was that?" Karlach demanded, heaving, but none of them had an answer.

Gale's eyes returned to the ominous building before them, his chest tightening with the unmistakable herald of rising anxiety. Half-leaning on his quarterstaff, he forced his hand to be still, though his fingers idly toyed with the edge of his robe. He pulled at a loose thread, gently, just enough to occupy his restless fingers without unravelling the fabric.

He exhaled deeply, allowing his shoulders to drop slightly as he straightened and cleared his throat. "So, what is our next move?" he asked, scanning the faces of the others.

There was no turning back now.

"I will do the talking," Astarion declared with his characteristic air of confidence, maintaining his composure as though he had not been unsettled by the very same feeling that had surged through Gale. "The rest of you, keep your traps shut."

"Oh yes," Karlach scoffed, her voice thick with sarcasm, "because I would just love to get killed over something stupid that slips from your mouth."

"Excuse me," Astarion countered, placing a hand over his chest with mock indignation, "I am a master of deception."

She snorted. "At best, you are a master of dumbassery."

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Astarion challenged, "Name one time I have let you down, darling."

Gale could have listed at least five off the top of his head.

"The goblin camp," Karlach shot back without a moment's hesitation, already ticking off on her fingers.

Astarion huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine, name two times."

Before Karlach could respond, Shadowheart interjected, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "This is not exactly helpful."

"I have to agree with Astarion," Gale found himself saying, a frown already settled on his face as if he could not quite believe the words coming from his own mouth.

"Exactly... wait, what? " Karlach, caught off guard and clearly expecting Gale to side with her, whipped around to stare at him in disbelief.

Gale sighed. "While Astarion's track record may not be stellar," he cast a glance at the elf, who responded with a look of mild irritation, "he does possess a certain... proficiency, particularly in the art of lies and deception."

Astarion's lips stretched into a broad, toothy smile, fangs and all, as he purred, "I am flattered."

"This is not a compliment!" Karlach snapped, glaring at the elf. "He just called you a lying little—"

"Karlach," Shadowheart's even tone sliced through the tiefling's rising ire, bringing her to a grudging halt.

With a huff, Karlach threw her hands up in defeat, eyes rolling skyward. "Ugh, fine, whatever. But if we all die, I will have the biggest fucking 'told you so'."

As they entered the audience chamber, an elf sat upon the throne, encircled by a wreath of trembling creatures. Despite his advanced age, he struck an imposing figure. His heavy armour caught the flickering torchlight, casting eerie reflections throughout the room. Affixed to his chestplate was a brilliantly gleaming stone, vibrant and captivating, like alexandrite under incandescent light. Pure, undiluted power radiated from his form in thick waves.

There was no doubt. They were facing none other than Ketheric Thorm himself.

A handful of cowering goblins wept at his feet, snot-faced and pleading desperately. As the group edged closer, their words finally grew intelligible in the echoing chamber.

"No, no! It was Minthara..."

"Enough," commanded a burly orc woman on Ketheric's left, her voice carrying an irresistible force that seemed to choke the very air, making their tadpoles squirm. Gale could taste the metallic tang of fear as it permeated the room. She moved closer to the goblins. "You failed to retrieve the artefact. You failed to protect your True Soul. You do not deserve to live."

Gale felt Karlach shift her weight nervously beside him, and he could hardly blame her. Standing among those seeking the artefact—the very one safely hidden in Shadowheart's satchel—was a persistent source of dread, no matter how often it happened.

The goblins began petitioning their case once more, but the orc cast a disdainful glance over her shoulder. "General Thorm?" she asked, seeking confirmation and sealing Gale's fear with the grim certainty that they indeed stood before the dreaded general himself.

Thorm then turned his cold, lifeless gaze directly onto Astarion and, with deliberate, measured words, said, "Let our newest arrival speak." He paused, reclining casually in his throne, like a cat idly toying with a captured bird. "What is your judgement?"

The goblins now turned their attention to Astarion, launching into a fresh chorus of pleas. Yet Gale knew, even before Astarion spoke, that if they were hoping for mercy from the elf, they were destined for a rude awakening.

"Just kill them all. They are worthless," Astarion declared with unruffled calm, his stare unwaveringly fixed on Ketheric's. His face remained as unyielding as marble, without so much as a fleeting glance at the cowering goblins at his feet.

"And there you have it," Ketheric said, with a ghost of a cold smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "We are too close to the end, to the new beginning. I can no longer coddle failure." He rose languidly. "Kill them."

As if to make a final stand, one of the goblins spat a string of insults and snatched an axe from a guard. The soldier's surprise allowed the weapon to slip from his grasp, and the goblin hurled it with all his strength at the general. The axe struck Thorm's chest with such force that it drove him back into the stone throne.

Gale glanced around, anticipating some reaction, but both the guards and the orc disciple remained unmoved. Then Gale's breath caught in his throat as he watched the general's eyes blink open, his hands curling around the axe's handle as he withdrew it from his bleeding chest. Thorm then rose from his seat once more, approached the quaking goblin, and tossed the weapon down at their feet.

"Try again."

With trembling hands, the goblin lifted the weapon. Its unsteady arc found its mark, embedding itself in the gap where Ketheric's neck met his shoulder. Thorm's head lolled to the side, like a tree branch snapped and left to dangle. Gale braced himself for the general's body to collapse in a heap, but instead, Ketheric's iron grip seized the axe once more. With a sickening squelch, he wrenched it from the soft flesh and, in a single, brutal motion, crushed the goblin's head with his free gauntleted hand.

Gale had heard Jaheira speak of Ketheric as though he were invincible, but he had dismissed her tales as exaggerations, born of fear, battle adrenaline, or simply the distortions of memory. Yet here they stood: Thorm, towering over the fallen goblin, his own blood and flesh smeared across his armour, seemingly unscathed.

Gale's mind was reeling. Mages of extraordinary power were known to extend their lifespans into centuries, even millennia. Gale had heard tales of the Armour of Invulnerability, a legendary artefact that rendered its wearer impervious to non-magical attacks, enveloping the body in an impenetrable shield. Yet this was clearly not the case here. Ketheric had neither sidestepped the strike nor employed magic to evade it. Instead, he had absorbed the blow with full force. His body yielded to the blade, spilling searing crimson blood onto the stone floor, and yet he lived.

Such magic was unprecedented.

The general fixed his steely, resolute gaze upon the orc. "Dispose of the rest as you see fit," he commanded, then shifted his cold eyes back to Astarion. "Or better yet, put that True Soul to use. You have more pressing matters to attend to, or have you forgotten?"

"Of course not, my lord. Thank you," she replied meekly. As Thorm departed, the orc turned to face them. "You have heard the General. The goblins are yours to handle as you see fit."

Astarion gave a slight nod before she turned and followed Ketheric.

The elf swayed a little closer, wetted his lips, and looked down at the goblins shivering at his feet. Their mutterings formed a symphony of terror, and the small uptick of Astarion's mouth made Gale wonder if he enjoyed how fear must have dictated the erratic beating of their hearts. Astarion tilted his head, then opened his mouth and said in a voice as smooth as silk, "Spill your guts on the floor. I want to see you bleed."

Karlach let out a small strangled sound. Gale stood, rooted in grim disbelief, as the goblins, powerless under the siren call of Astarion's dominion, grasped their daggers. With each plunge into their soft underbellies, blood gushed forth, dark vermilion staining the cold stone beneath them. Life after life was extinguished, the chamber gradually succumbing to a dreadful silence, broken only by the sickening thud of bodies collapsing and convulsing for a heartbeat or two, until all lay supine and lifeless.

Through the thrumming of the tadpole powers, Gale could almost taste Astarion's poorly concealed dark excitement. With a slight shake of his head, Gale straightened his posture and, as though nothing had occurred, they began walking towards the nearest door.

"That was not particularly kind of you," Gale remarked, falling into step with the elf once they were out of earshot of any potential witnesses, while Shadowheart barely restrained Karlach, who seemed poised to throttle Astarion.

"I am not a particularly kind person," Astarion replied with a shrug, a sentiment Gale could hardly dispute.

He peered at the elf, his face still smeared with blood, the manic glint in his eyes undiminished, and the excited energy around him remained palpable.

If Gale had hoped that Astarion's display of profound cruelty might quell some of the heat within him, he was gravely mistaken. He grappled with the gnawing doubt about his own rapidly eroding conscience. A part of him insisted he should have reacted more strongly to the macabre scene; yet, given the suffering inflicted by the Absolutists, summoning any semblance of empathy proved difficult. Regardless, this was not the moment for retrospective self-loathing. There would be ample opportunity for that later.

First and foremost, they needed to locate the prisoners, check for any surviving tieflings, and hopefully find Wyll's father.

Believed to be True Souls, they were granted relative freedom to explore the building. Moving cautiously to avoid drawing attention, they traversed the frigid corridors of the Towers, blending seamlessly with the various cultists to avoid suspicion.

They navigated the lower levels, scanning every passage and chamber as they explored, attempting to gauge the scale of the structure and assess the number and distribution of guards and scrying eyes. The deeper they ventured, the more stifling the atmosphere became, until they finally arrived at the prison: a vast expanse of iron and stone, its imposing presence marked by a formidable guard contingent.

To avoid drawing undue attention, Astarion slipped away into the chamber alone, his footsteps silent against the cold, hard floor while Gale, Shadowheart and Karlach kept anxious vigil outside. It was best to part ways and let tempers cool, as judging by her continual grumbling, the tiefling still seemed particularly irked with the elf.

As they waited in tense silence, Gale's eyes drifted upwards, tracing the sweeping arches of the building's cavernous interior. The cold, unyielding stone loomed over them like the gaping maw of some ancient, slumbering beast, casting long shadows that seemed to absorb the light, intensifying the sense of foreboding.

Once a sacred temple devoted to Selûne, the site had fallen into the hands of the Absolutists. Gale's malaise deepened as he surveyed the desecrated remains; despite his tarnished relationship with Mystra, he would have been angered to see her altars defiled in the name of another deity. His gaze followed the shattered statues, now reduced to mere heaps of grey rubble, and the tattered, mouldy banners that hung forlornly in the stagnant air, swaying slightly with each faint draught from the creaking doors. It was a scene of profound sorrow, and he could scarcely fathom the anguish Selûne's followers must have felt witnessing such a violation of their sacred space.

Astarion's sudden reappearance, urging them to fall into step as he hastily moved away from the prison, jolted Gale from his wandering thoughts.

In a low voice, the elf reported, "The tieflings and gnomes are down there, but there is no sign of the Duke or that irritating child." He spoke in hushed tones, maintaining a brisk pace that was quick but not overtly conspicuous.

Shadowheart scanned the surroundings, her pale green eyes settling on a cluster of guards. "There are too many of them," she said, her voice laced with concern. "We cannot free the prisoners without being detected. We would have to be prepared to burn every bridge if we make a move."

Karlach's eyes widened. "You want to leave them here?"

Shadowheart shook her head, her frown deepening. "I doubt they"—she gestured towards a scrying eye hovering nearby—"would appreciate us liberating their captives."

"Shadowheart's right," Gale added, his voice steady and firm. "We need to maintain access to the Towers. Starting a fight now could expose us, and we cannot afford that risk."

"But—" Karlach began to protest.

"If you want to fight your way through an entire army, be my guest," Astarion cut in, "but do me a favour and leave me out of it."

Gale scowled at the elf, feeling a childish urge to push him, but settled for a withering look. He then placed a reassuring hand on Karlach's.

Karlach opened her mouth to argue again, but found herself at a loss. She closed it, defeated.

"We will return as soon as we can," Gale promised earnestly as he met Karlach's gaze in the dim light. He squeezed her hand gently, disregarding Astarion's exaggerated eye-roll.

Karlach sighed, resigned. With a small nod, she conceded, and they all followed Shadowheart as she opened the door to a secluded chamber.

Inside, a drow stood behind a table, meticulously crafting potions. As they entered, she glanced up from her vials, her dark eyes swiftly scrutinising the group. Her gaze lingered on Astarion a beat too long, a detail not lost on Gale.

"Araj Oblodra," she greeted, stepping forward before anyone else could speak.

The name stirred a vague recognition in Gale's mind, though its full significance eluded him. Her choice to address him rather than their female companions suggested she was a merchant more accustomed to dealing with male leadership than with the matriarchal drow elite—a promising sign, given that their potion supply was dwindling. Gale's mild optimism, however, was swiftly dampened as she continued, "Trader in blood and the sanguineous arts. It is an honour to stand before a True Soul. And your pale companion."

Although her words were addressed to Gale, her attention never strayed from Astarion. Unease settled in Gale's stomach like curdled milk—sour and unwelcome.

He moved instinctively, stepping between the elf and the drow, subtly obstructing her view of Astarion. Although the situation felt vaguely familiar, something about it was distinctly different from their previous encounter with Raphael—something Gale could not quite place.

"I would like to offer my services, if you are willing?" she continued, her deep maroon eyes finally meeting Gale's. "I trade in blood and the potions that can be wrung from it. I would be more than happy to craft one for you if you would honour me with your blood," she added, her tone as casual as if discussing the weather. "With one drop, I can brew a rather potent potion for you. The rest, I keep for myself."

Then Gale remembered. He had been wrong to assume she was merely a trader.

House Oblodra—once a powerful name in Menzoberranzan—had risen and fallen in rapid, bloody fashion. The house was notorious for its rumoured ties to illithids, and their dalliance with mind flayers had earned Lolth's wrath. Members of the family were said to have worked with, or even bred with, the illithids. The house was considered mad, even by drow standards, and had met a swift and brutal end, with no known survivors after the inevitable conflict. Gale was astonished, and deeply troubled, to encounter someone, a century later, claiming membership in that fallen house. If her words were true, they needed to distance themselves from her as quickly as possible.

"That is a very generous offer," Gale said, raising his hand, palm outward towards the drow, his tone carefully light, calculated, so as not to jeopardise their mission. "But I am afraid I will have to decline," he added, scratching the back of his head with a faintly apologetic smile.

Her expression soured, and she pursed her lips. "Fine," she replied, though her tone suggested otherwise. "But perhaps there is another matter we could discuss..." She tilted her chin towards Astarion. "Your friend." Her demeanour shifted in an instant from irritation to seductive intrigue, and Gale stiffened once more. "He is a vampire, is he not?"

Gale frowned but remained silent, hearing the soft clink of metal as either Karlach or Shadowheart wrapped their ringed fingers around the hilt of a weapon.

The drow stared at him for a few long moments, unblinking, then all but rolled her eyes. "Please, do you think someone in my line of work would not recognise a vampire spawn when they see one?" That feral, protective instinct deep within Gale's gut stirred again.

"Do not worry, we are all friends under the Absolute. I will not bite," Astarion finally spoke from behind him. Gale was surprised that Astarion allowed him to stand in front. He had half expected the elf to stride forward, as he had done many times before, but it seemed that Astarion, too, had sensed the strange disquiet that had settled over the room.

Her eyes flashed with interest. "Oh, I would prefer if you did."

Gale blanched.

A surge of horror washed over him as memories came rushing back—a faint echo of him asking Astarion for help in words not entirely dissimilar. He glanced at the elf; the overly straight posture, the unmistakable frown between his pale brows, jaw set in a tense, sharp line like the blade of a knife, and that cold, disdainful look in his eyes. Astarion appeared visibly uncomfortable, and suddenly, Gale feared he might have made him feel the very same way. Over the past few tendays, Gale had learned to read Astarion better, perhaps too well, but he worried he might have missed the now obvious signs back then.

"I assume he belongs to you," Oblodra's words jolted Gale from his thoughts.

What?

Slavery was common among drow, and elves were considered the most sought-after, but even so, Gale could not suppress his shock at such an audacious assumption.

"We are not your kind," he managed once he found his voice, the words coming out harsh. "He is his own person; we do not keep slaves." What began as astonishment quickly morphed into rising indignation, mirrored by an enraged grunt from Karlach. For a brief moment, Gale worried she might lash out, her unguarded emotions threatening to spill forth, but mercifully, she reined in her fury.

"I am sure he really believes that. How utterly adorable," Oblodra said, peering over Gale's shoulder, her attention fixed entirely on Astarion. Her eyes were half-lidded, her tone sickly sweet, as if she were addressing a house pet. "Do you have a name, spawn?" she asked, her voice dripping with condescension; the word 'spawn' delivered with a sneer, as though Astarion were something lesser. Something insignificant.

Karlach and Shadowheart shifted restlessly, and in unison, without conscious thought, a crackle of magic surged through Gale as the Weave responded to his call. Threads of magic snapped taut beneath his skin, ready to unleash devastation at a moment's notice.

"Astarion. But hold on—" the elf replied, and Gale hated how quickly the name came, how readily he complied. He battled the urge to reprimand the drow, even as he recognised the importance of letting Astarion lead this moment.

"Good. Now, Astarion," she drawled, her voice needling at Gale's brittle composure. He wanted to pry her mouth open and tear out her tongue so she could never utter his name again. "I have dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl."

"I am sorry, you want to be bitten?" Astarion huffed, disbelief colouring his tone.

Her voice shifted into something distant and reverent, as though describing a treasured memory rather than a grotesque fantasy. "To feel your life's blood slipping away? To dance on the edge between life and death? Yes, I want it."

Gale loathed her. It had been a long time since he had harboured such intense hatred for someone he had just met. He despised the way she spoke to Astarion, the way she talked about him. But more than anything, Gale hated the way he understood her. Because, deep down, he too craved the sensation of Astarion's teeth sinking into his neck, slowly feeding on his very essence once more.

He felt sick.

"I will even compensate you—a potion of legendary power that forever increases the strength of the one who consumes it. It is not for sale, but it is yours if you bite me." Gale wanted her to stop talking. 

"I will have to decline," Astarion replied flatly, and a rush of relief coursed through Gale.

"Excuse me? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you are squandering it," she snapped, her confidence fracturing with all the grace of a spoilt child unaccustomed to the word 'no'.

"I gave you my answer," Astarion retorted, his patience thinning to a dangerous edge.

The drow turned to Gale again. "Can you not talk some sense into your obstinate charge?"

The air grew heavy with the tension of unrestrained magic, the scent of an impending storm and the metallic tang of iron filling Gale's senses.

"He said no. There is nothing more to discuss," Gale replied carefully, his tone imbued with finality.

She must have detected something in Gale's expression, or perhaps sensed the magic coiling around him, for her eyes widened slightly before she muttered, "How very disappointing." With that, she retreated to her workstation without another word, though her gaze remained wary and watchful.

Gale's hand, slick with sweat, gripped his quarterstaff. His other throbbed with a dull ache where his nails had bitten into his palm. He only began to breathe freely again once the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind them.

They should have stayed longer; undoubtedly, there was more intelligence to gather. Still, no one objected when Shadowheart proposed a retreat. For now, the promise of seemingly unrestricted passage to and from the Towers, along with the knowledge of the prisoners' whereabouts, would suffice.

The tension between them hung heavy, unspoken but present in every footfall, evident in the worried glances Shadowheart and Karlach cast upon Astarion as they made their way back to the inn. The elf, however, remained eerily silent throughout their journey across Reithwin Town, his demeanour reflecting the solemnity of their surroundings. 

✦

Once they reached camp, Astarion immediately retreated to his quarters without a word, closing the flap behind him.

Gale, with a resigned sigh, made his way to his own tent, collapsing into the chair by his drawing table. He was concerned; he must have misspoken, said something wrong to provoke Astarion's dark mood. His mind was awash with tense emotions, and the entire exchange had prompted him to reassess his past behaviour with a newfound perspective. The words replayed over and over in his mind, spiralling into compulsive thoughts of self-blame and anxiety until it became difficult to breathe.

Amidst this maelstrom of unrestrained sentiments, a warmth stirred within him—a faint glow in his chest at the memory of Astarion rejecting the drow. Yet this warmth only deepened Gale's guilt. He was already grappling with enough turmoil; there was no need to stoke his delusions further.

"Gale." Astarion's quiet voice startled him out of his thoughts. Gale was about to deliver his customary admonishment about being frightened out of his wits, but his words faltered when he turned to see the expression on Astarion's face. For a moment, all his previous distress was forgotten.

Astarion stood before him, gaze lowered, uncharacteristically avoiding eye contact.

"I..." He hesitated, his fingers curling into a fist before relaxing again. "I just wanted to say thank you."

Gale blinked in surprise. "For what?" he choked out, realising he could count on one hand how many times he had heard the elf offer gratitude, and without the usual sardonic tilt, it was even more unexpected.

"For what you said to the drow. I am... grateful," Astarion replied, his voice a deep, soft murmur. Gale wanted to capture the sound, bottle it up, and keep it with him to listen to in quieter moments. He shook the thought away.

"I assumed I had somehow upset you; your silence led me to believe you were angry with me for interfering, getting between you and a powerful potion, not to mention a chance to feed," Gale said at last.

Astarion frowned, finally lifting his eyes to meet Gale's.

"I did not want to feed on her. She was... repugnant."

Gale sensed there was more to the story, but he refrained from pressing further, overwhelmed by a profound sense of relief. Instead, he offered the elf a small, tentative smile.

"There was a time when my blood was also considered unpalatable, according to certain reputable sources."

Astarion paused, then let out a snicker, allowing Gale's attempt to shift the mood.

"Your blood is practically ambrosial compared to the stench of that wretch. Gods, she was foul." Astarion's voice regained some of its usual cadence with each word.

"I am glad to know I am no longer at the bottom of your fine dining recommendations," Gale remarked, his smile slowly widening.

"Your status has certainly improved, thanks to the existence of one blood-crazed drow and some spider creature that thrives in these cursed lands."

"I shall take that as a compliment," Gale replied. Despite the light-hearted banter, Astarion remained unusually subdued, the sharp edges of his typical demeanour dulled. It was such a rare occurrence that Gale did not want the conversation to end, but he was at a loss as to how to persuade Astarion to stay without appearing too eager.

Amidst his wayward thoughts and desires, Gale came to realise how dearly he valued their tentative friendship. It was unlike any other he had experienced before, as delicate as the shell of a bird's egg. He feared that a single misstep or poorly chosen word could cause it to crumble to dust in his hands.

The elf turned slightly, as if preparing to leave.

"Would you care to join me for a glass of wine?" The words escaped before Gale could stop himself.

"It tastes dreadful."

"Humour me. I could simply do with some company, if you do not mind. We need not talk." He paused, waiting for Astarion's response. The elf stood in silence, considering the offer.

Astarion bit the inside of his cheek. "I have been meaning to ask—do you have any books on vampirism, by any chance?" the elf inquired after a few moments of contemplation.

"What is on your mind, if you do not mind my asking?"

"I know it is a long shot—utterly foolish, even—but I have to know if there's any way to craft something that might protect a vampire from sunlight. I am not deluded; our odds of surviving this little escapade are laughable. But on the off chance we do not turn into mind flayers, get butchered by savage Absolutists, blown up by you, or simply collapse from sheer exhaustion before it is all over… if, by some miracle, we survive—well, I will still have Cazador to contend with. And the sun. Glorious, murderous sunlight. And without the tadpoles…" He did not need to finish. Gale understood—the parasite was the only thing standing between Astarion and his old master, and the only thing shielding him from the sun's deadly rays.

Gale approached his collection of scrolls and stacks of books, rummaging through them until he selected four volumes. Although these would not provide immediate answers, they would lay a solid foundation for further research. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for any additional texts that might prove beneficial to Astarion in the future.

"How do you even find anything in this chaos?" Astarion remarked, a hint of scepticism colouring his tone.

"Gods, you sound just like Tara. I assure you, I have a system." Astarion's doubtful look persisted.

"I have heard you mention her before. A lover, perhaps? Someone waiting in your grand wizard tower back in Waterdeep, ready to nag you about the cleanliness once you return?" he quipped.

"Tara is a friend—a tressym, to be precise," Gale clarified.

"You have a cat?" Astarion's eyes gleamed with a hint of interest.

"I have a friend who happens to be a tressym," Gale corrected, privately resolving that under no circumstances should these two ever meet. They would never cease mocking him.

Astarion accepted the books, and Gale fully expected him to depart. Instead, the elf toed off his shoes, sat down on the bed, and crossed his legs. It was surreal to see Astarion—usually so pompous, so aristocratic—now seated on Gale's dishevelled bed, bare feet and legs crossed as if he belonged there.

Unsure of what else to do, Gale picked up his own book. He hesitated, uncertain where to position himself, not wanting to indulge in any more foolish thoughts. Eventually, he settled on the floor near Astarion's knee and began reading.

Or at least he tried, but his focus eluded him; one thought continued to gnaw at his mind. Despite the risk of incurring Astarion's ire, he needed to voice it.

"Astarion?"

"Hm?"

"When I asked for your help with my blood," he said, his eyes fixed on the page in front of him, too anxious to meet Astarion's gaze, "I hope I did not make you uncomfortable."

"No, Sunshine, you did not," he said quietly. "Your asking for help and that damned drow's demand that I feed on her like some common whore—or worse, an animal—are not even remotely comparable."

Gale summoned the courage to glance up at the elf. "I want to assure you, and I trust this goes without saying, that within our group, you always have a choice. Whatever decisions you make, we... I will stand by you. My support is yours, every step of the way," he added, his voice carrying an earnestness that surprised even himself.

These were dangerous words—a pledge that, given Astarion's history and his susceptibility to the lure of power, could lead them both down a perilous path. Yet, as he watched Astarion's eyes widen and then soften, his expression relaxing, Gale knew there was nothing in this world that could compel him to retract that promise, no matter how fraught with risk it might be.

The silence that followed was not the uncomfortable kind; it settled between them like the balmy evening sunlight after a scorching summer day, heated but not stifling.

Outside, the gentle crackling of the campfire mingled with the distant chatter of their companions. The rustle of pages as Astarion resumed his reading. With a long exhale, the anxiety that had weighed heavily on Gale's insides, pressing down on his joints and muscles like a tangible burden, now evaporated, leaving him feeling boneless and utterly relaxed. His eyelids grew heavy, and it became increasingly difficult to assign meaning to the words on the page in front of him. The last thing he remembered was his head resting against Astarion's bony knee, cool fingers idly playing with his hair. The gentle caress, the occasional twirling of a lock, felt so domestic. Gale allowed himself a fleeting fantasy of their journey's end, envisioning them all safe and sound, with Astarion by his side, as sleep finally claimed him.

When he awoke, he found himself in his bed, a warm blanket draped over him, his book placed neatly to the side, the page carefully marked with a piece of folded parchment.

He retrieved the little scrap of paper and unfolded it to find the most absurd drawing of a winged feline, its eyebrows furrowed in a deep, scolding frown. Despite his best efforts, he could not suppress the smile that tugged at his lips.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Astarion

Staying in Gale's tent after the fiasco at Moonrise had been a mistake—one Astarion recognised even before he agreed to keep the wizard company. Yet Gale was like a wound that refused to heal, an unsightly scab best left untouched, but an irresistible itch that always lured the nails back to pick at it.

Astarion cast a sidelong glance at the man in question, seated comfortably on the floor by the bed with a book in hand, reading in silence.

He knew he should not be encouraging this... whatever the everloving fuck 'this' was between them. With all the flirting and suggestive remarks, he was acutely aware of his own actions and that he needed to exercise some restraint, particularly since the wizard had made his stance on the matter abundantly clear. Despite Gale's blatant desire and obvious interest, Astarion knew all too well that such sentiments did not always imply a wish to act upon them.

All this talk of needs and wants, as if Astarion had any idea of what he needed or wanted.

Yet he found himself in a strangely unguarded mood, a luxury he had not permitted himself in the past two centuries, and as absurd as it seemed, Gale felt like a safe choice to share it with. Despite the man's habit of putting his foot in his mouth and seldom finding the right words, it was clear he had been trying not to antagonise Astarion with questions he could not answer, nor to pressure him into discussing his 'emotions'.

Gale accepted exactly what he was given: a crumb of kindness, a fleeting touch, or the barest hint of attention. And he accepted it with such eagerness that it made Astarion's mind awash with red-hot violence. A childish, ugly urge to see how far he could push until this fragile relationship they had hastily cobbled together shattered.

He brushed the thought aside. Instead, like a fool, he lowered his hand, his fingers threading through the soft waves of Gale's hair, savouring the contented sigh that escaped the man's lips. It had not escaped Astarion's notice that Gale detested being touched, yet craved contact in equal measure, a sentiment Astarion understood all too well. But the fact that Gale allowed it—worse, seemed to take pleasure in it —made Astarion's throat tighten with a dangerous, unnamed emotion. He leaned forward slightly, twisting a strand of hair around his finger before giving it a gentle, teasing tug.

He expected a hiss of annoyance or for his hand to be swatted away, but instead, Gale's head lolled back against his makeshift bed without resistance. Astarion let his gaze drift from the pages of the book he had not been reading anyway.

Gale was asleep.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, the sound of his even heartbeat a soothing backdrop nestled deep in Astarion's ear. He took a moment to study the man without the usual worry of being caught staring—a worry Astarion sometimes wished Gale shared.

The man's handsome face was now relaxed, his skin smooth, the usual deep frown unfurled. Long lashes fanned out against his cheeks, elongated by the shadows of the candlelight, concealing those dark eyes that had been relentlessly tracking Astarion's every move recently. Gale had always had a staring problem, but in the past few days, it had become near unbearable.

Astarion shook his head.

He set his book aside and gently plucked the tome from Gale's hand, placing it carefully next to his own. Rising to his feet, he fully intended to leave the wizard there to sleep, but Gale had already complained enough about his aching knees. The last thing they needed was for him to catch a cold from sleeping on the freezing ground, only to subject them all to his endless complaints and melodramatic suffering afterwards.

So, for the sake of their mission, and for that reason alone, Astarion knelt and gathered Gale in his arms.

If anyone had asked Astarion how he managed to lift the wizard, he would have nonchalantly shrugged and claimed it was no trouble at all. In truth, however, the sheer weight of a grown man was no trivial matter, and brute strength was not exactly Astarion's forte. Perhaps he should have accepted that potion the drow had offered after all. With an undignified groan and a string of colourful curses whispered under his breath, sweat trickling down his back, he managed the task with the help of a small burst of vampiric energy.

He half expected Gale to wake, but the man only stirred slightly and mumbled something incoherent in his sleep. For a moment, Astarion's arms tightened around him, involuntarily pulling his warmth closer to his perpetually cold body, as if trying to steal some of that heat for himself.

He considered unceremoniously dropping the wizard amongst his pillows to appease the growing discomfort in the pit of his stomach, but his arms would not obey. Instead, his fingers flexed slightly, curling into the soft fabric of Gale's shirt. Then, Astarion gently settled him on the bed, covering him with a blanket he found bunched up in the corner of the tent. As he straightened up and allowed his eyes to roam over the man's form, a sudden urge to escape washed over him, a desire to flee from the comforting warmth. However, just as he was about to walk away, his gaze fell on the tome Gale had been reading, and he paused.

Turning back, Astarion retrieved it and placed it carefully on the nearby table.

Taking up a small piece of parchment and a quill, he dipped the tip in ink and began to sketch. When he stepped back to admire his work, a satisfied smile touched his lips. He tucked the parchment into the book as a makeshift marker.

With one final glance at Gale's peaceful slumber, Astarion slipped quietly out of the tent.

✦

The cultists, still blissfully unaware of the deception, granted them easy access to Moonrise once again. Karlach and Shadowheart headed to the kitchens, hoping to glean some useful information from the gossiping staff. Meanwhile, Gale and Astarion ascended the grand staircase with measured, deliberate steps, mindful not to draw attention. Their little chat the night before seemed to have eased some of the nervous tension that had plagued the wizard in recent days, allowing them to walk together in a rare, comfortable silence.

Their plan was to gain a better understanding of the place, then regroup at the prison to liberate the tieflings and, if necessary, fight their way to freedom.

Astarion harboured a secret hope for the latter. He was itching for a fight. His hunger growing increasingly insatiable each day, the barren landscape offered no relief, and the vigilant scrying eyes and alert guards prevented him from indulging in a stealthy feast. The promise of a satisfying meal at the end of their mission was the sole motivation, dangled before him like a carrot before a mule.

Everything appeared to be progressing smoothly, perhaps a bit too smoothly, with all the cultists either bowing deeply or hastily clearing their path. That was, until they turned a corner and came face to face with Z'rell, the same orc disciple who had directed Astarion to deal with the goblins the day before.

Astarion was no stranger to unwanted attention; it had shadowed him for most of his existence. Even now, he was all too often regarded as little more than an object or a slave. He still burned at the memory of Raphael's condescension, or the way that foul drow's gaze had lingered far too long. And now, as Z'rell's eyes fixed upon him with that unmistakable, simmering intensity, Astarion felt a fresh wave of discomfort threatening to unravel his composure. But he knew better than to show weakness. With practised ease, he summoned a flirtatious smile, concealing the unease twisting inside him like a slick, writhing eel. He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and steeled himself to maintain the façade.

"The goblins," she spoke slowly, each syllable drawn out lazily, her eyes half-lidded with a malevolent glint. "Tell me how they suffered." Her tone dripped with sadistic pleasure.

It stirred something within Astarion—a fleeting sensation that yanked him from the present and flung him back to Cazador's bedchamber, where cruel violence and devastating arousal so often merged into a chaotic frenzy; his body beyond control, his senses overwhelmed. But before the terror could fully crystallise in his mind, Z'rell continued.

"No, better yet—show me." Her voice rumbled like a predatory growl, deep and menacing.

Astarion fully expected her to turn her attention to him, but instead, her gaze shifted to Gale, catching them both off guard, likely just as she had intended. Amid the confusing storm of emotions churning in Astarion's chest, a curious swell of worry surfaced as he watched Gale suddenly hunch over. The man's hands flew to his head, and Astarion felt the edges of the searing pain through the tadpole connection, like stepping into direct sunlight after too long in darkness—sharp, radiant, and pulsing at his temples.

"I see you like to handle underlings physically. So do I." The periphery of their connection washed over Astarion's mind, the coppery taste of her cruelty palpable.

Gale coughed and then straightened up slightly. "Got any more for us to punish? My friend here is quite capable," he said with a cocky smile. The false bravado might not have been the wisest approach—the wizard was clearly out of his depth, judging by his laboured breathing and the line of sweat pearling on his brow.

"Plenty," the orc replied, "but I hoped someone of your talents would be more ambitious. You came here to answer the Absolute's call. Let's see what you're made of."

Well, fuck.

A few horrifying things happened in quick succession. Gale's eyes widened, and then the connection between him and Z'rell erupted, spilling over and tugging at Astarion's tadpole. Suddenly, his mind was flooded with thoughts that were not his own. He could feel Z'rell probing, swift and unrelenting, before images began to surface—dread laced with a wave of suffocating arousal so overwhelming it dragged Astarion under.

In the next moment, he found himself caught in a familiar scene, looking down at Gale with his thighs firmly bracketing the wizard's. This time, however, there was nothing between them, only miles of bare skin. A flash of panic seized Astarion, as he feared it was one of his own self-indulgent late-night fantasies that were spilling forth. But then the vision diverged from its usual course: his teeth sank firmly into Gale's neck, and the wizard did not flinch, he melted under the touch, their hips meeting in a deliciously filthy grind.

It was like a fever dream, he was both himself and yet strangely detached, the desire undeniably his own, but his body felt distant.

Gale grasped at Astarion's waist, pulling him into a steady rhythm, drawing him closer so their hardness aligned in a desperate bid for friction. Blunt nails dug into Astarion's skin, and this time, there was no sign of Gale pulling back.

Want, like a whirlpool, dragged him beneath scalding waters as the scene shifted with dizzying speed.

Now, Gale knelt before him, Astarion's fingers firm beneath his slackened jaw. The wizard looked up at him, lashes damp and heavy-lidded, his face flushed as the orb cast a violet glow over them both. Astarion's other hand tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a breathless moan from Gale's parted lips.

Before he could fully lose himself in the vision, it shifted again. Naked bodies entwined, clearly the aftermath of one of these... what? Dreams? Fantasies? It was a fleeting array of skin against skin, tender caresses, fingers combing gently through hair, and then, just as suddenly, it ended. The abruptness left Astarion gasping.

Embarrassment, mingled with Z'rell's savage arousal, buzzed at the fringes of their connection, evidently aiding Gale in severing the link. When Astarion blinked his eyes open—having not realised he had clenched them shut—he found Z'rell looking mildly irritated, though, surprisingly, not bloodthirsty.

"My, my, your lust for the neck-pricker is rather succulent. I'd like to take a bite out of him myself," she purred, giving Astarion a slow once-over with unveiled desire shining in her eyes. She then began speaking of the room behind them and a man named Balthazar, but most of it was just noise in Astarion's ringing ears.

Gale then turned without a word and, with swift, purposeful strides, began walking in the wrong direction, seemingly trying to outrun his own mortification. Astarion, relieved that Z'rell had not felt the need to follow or demand more from them, quickly caught up with him.

The images clung to him like smoke, curling hot and heavy in his mind. There was no thought and no plan, only that ache, raw and ravenous, driving him forward.

He grabbed Gale's wrist, shoved him into a shadowed alcove, and slammed him against the wall. The impact ripped a groan from Gale, low and startled, his quarterstaff slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor, its echo loud in the heavy silence of the empty corridor.

Astarion crowded closer, caging him in, their bodies a whisper apart but not touching. He could taste it, the phantom of imagined heat, the memory of skin, burning through him like stolen sunlight.

"That was... Gale, what in the Hells," he panted, the images still vivid in his mind, his thoughts blurred by the heat and hunger that lingered in their wake. Astarion scrambled to summon the familiar sprouting disgust he usually felt when others showed such blatant desire for him, hoping it would anchor him in a reality where fucking Gale against this very wall made no sense. But he found nothing.

Why? Why was he an exception?

"Forgive me... You shouldn't have seen that. I… panicked. I needed something to distract her, to protect our truth," Gale whispered, his voice raspy, each word weighted with barely contained desire. "And you are quite literally the most distracting person I have ever met," he added with a weak chuckle, his eyes fixed on Astarion's mouth.

He reached out as if in a trance, caught hold of Astarion, and gently drew him closer until their bodies aligned. Astarion's thigh slid between Gale's legs without hesitation, and using his hips, he pinned the wizard against the cold wall. Gale's growing arousal was unmistakable, even through the uncomfortable layers of clothing pressed tightly between them.

A rough, punched-out sound escaped Gale, and they both froze.

The wizard's impulsive display had clearly shaken them both. The idea of Gale fantasising about him—about them, about Astarion feeding—was enough to wrench a whimper from Astarion's throat as a bolt of heat surged straight to his own rapidly hardening cock. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, drawing a guttural gasp from both of them.

Astarion had to remind himself that despite it all, nothing had changed. No matter how powerful the temptation, giving in would only lead to misery. Such indulgence was a distraction neither of them could afford, not now, not with everything at stake.

He dropped his forehead to Gale's collarbone, trying to collect himself. His body remained flush with the wizard's, fingers gripping the soft fabric of his robe as he drew slow, deliberate breaths. His body might not have needed them, but in that moment, he certainly did.

"You're making this incredibly difficult," Gale murmured, voice trembling with shaky laughter, but made no move to push him away. 

Astarion lifted his face slightly, nuzzling the side of Gale's neck.

"You're one to talk," he said, his lips brushing Gale's skin. He then pressed his cheek to the man's, the rasp of stubble against his skin was a delicious friction. It stirred a desire for more contact, a craving to press closer, like a lazy cat seeking attention. A futile attempt to satisfy a longing with touches that would not lead to ruin, but might, just for a moment, ease some of its hunger.

Gale's hand tightened on Astarion's waist, and he parted his lips to speak, only for the words to vanish as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing louder with each passing second.

Astarion leaned in briefly, his nose brushing Gale's hairline for one final inhale, his eyes falling shut for a few heartbeats before he swayed back slightly. "Better not," he finally managed, striving for a casual tone, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Gale swallowed hard, the audible click of his throat catching Astarion's attention. He found himself mesmerised by the rise and fall of the cartilage beneath the supple skin.

Gale gave a sharp nod, and Astarion reluctantly withdrew.

"Let's have a look at that Balthazar's room," Gale said, still panting slightly, his hands trembling as he reached to retrieve his discarded staff, which lay abandoned somewhere alongside Astarion's dignity.

Astarion ran a hand through his curls, then straightened and offered Gale a smirk. It was entirely fabricated, masking his uncertainty with a veneer of false confidence. He then turned and made his way back towards the room they had finally gained access to, silently thanking no deity in particular that Shadowheart and Karlach had decided to part ways. Their duo was already grating on Astarion's nerves with their constant amused, knowing glances—as if they understood whatever was happening between him and the wizard better than he did. Which was entirely plausible, considering Astarion himself had not a bloody clue, though it did not make it any less infuriating.

If nothing else, Balthazar's room certainly helped extinguish any lingering arousal. The entire space was drenched in rotting body parts and viscera. The overpowering stench of decay and herbs made Astarion suddenly quite grateful for his ability to cease breathing at will.

"Oh, gods. A necromancer," Gale gasped, struggling to hold his breath.

"Really? I thought this was just his unique approach to interior design," Astarion quipped reflexively, already knowing it was a mistake, as Gale invariably missed the mark with his sarcasm and launched into a lecture about some decidedly unamusing facts on the subject.

Gale pointed at the corpse pile. "He's evidently resurrecting the bodies; I can still sense the residual energy lingering around them."

Aaaand, there it was.

"It appears he relies on a technique where he harnesses negative energy to restore the corpses, then utilises spells to animate them. Traditionally, necromancers draw upon negative energy from other planes, with the Negative Energy Plane being the favoured choice," Gale said, his hands flitting through the air as his speech accelerated. "However, in these desolate lands, Balthazar likely finds an abundance of negative energy readily available, which undoubtedly streamlines his efforts, making his work more potent without expending as much of his own power. This is precisely why necromancers are often drawn to regions teeming with undead."

Gale's rambling left him so preoccupied that he unwittingly triggered a hidden trap while idly pulling out a book, which promptly began to fill the room with toxic gas. Astarion merely rolled his eyes and swiftly pushed Gale out onto a gloomy balcony, where the pervasive grey of the surrounding lands shrouded them.

"Just stay here, and let me handle the traps before you get us both killed," he instructed, surprised that beyond mild exasperation, no real anger arose at Gale's foolish mistake.

He could see Gale about to protest, but the wizard wisely held his tongue.

Re-entering the room, Astarion's senses were heightened as he moved cautiously towards the bookshelf. Carefully, he sifted through the array of tomes, scanning for any signs of hidden mechanisms or traps concealed among the shelves. With seasoned precision, he disarmed each obstacle he encountered until his fingers closed around a particular book. With a firm grip, he pulled it free; a soft click echoed from the nearby pedestal, the sound breaking through the tension-laden atmosphere of the room.

"All right, wizard, the coast is clear. I've found something, so bring your big brain and help me work out how to operate this contraption," he called out, raising his voice to capture Gale's attention, who had been muttering to himself, waiting impatiently at the door.

It turned out to be a magical lock, one that demanded a specific ingredient for its activation, rendering Astarion's lockpicking skills useless.

Astarion cast a quick glance at Gale as the wizard tried to place a necromancy book on the plate, only for it to be hurled back at him with alarming speed—a rather amusing spectacle. Undeterred and resolutely ignoring Astarion's sly snicker, Gale surveyed the room with renewed determination until his gaze settled on a haphazard pile of body parts. He walked up to it, selected a human heart and carefully placed it on the plate. The lock clicked, and a hidden door materialised behind the bookshelf.

"I despise necromancers," Astarion muttered, his tone laced with contempt. "Savages, the lot of them."

"And says the one who feeds on blood," Gale quipped, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, flush still high on his cheeks.

"Excuse you—blood from the living, thank you very much," Astarion retorted, adding with a pensive nod, "Until they're dead, of course, but I don't feast on corpses. And it's hardly a matter of preference. Believe me, I'd much rather have a glass of wine." He grumbled, never one to relish the messiness that accompanied his feeding. "Now then, shall we see what fresh horrors await us beyond?" He gestured grandly towards the newly revealed opening.

Gale took the lead, stepping through the door first, with Astarion close behind. The small room they entered was a grim exhibit of carnage: body parts scattered about, dead pixies, summoning circles—the whole grotesque package. Balthazar, it seemed, had been busy crafting Moonlanterns and possibly something far worse.

"I suppose not all necromancers possess the redeeming qualities of Kazerabet," Gale remarked thoughtfully as he took in the macabre scene. "She was quite renowned for her precision, you know. A tall, striking beauty, if the legends are to be believed, always draped in opulent attire. Her charm and formidable intellect captivated her guests." He picked up an unfamiliar tool, its surface marred with dried gore, and Gale's face twisted in disgust as he examined it. "Her magnum opus, The Art of Necromancy, encapsulated centuries of research, earning her the title of the Philosopher-Queen of Ysawis. Quite the résumé, wouldn't you say? Unfortunately, she was plagued by bouts of paranoia, though that's not uncommon among necromancers."

"Riveting," Astarion deadpanned. "As much as I adore your little necromancy lecture, Sunshine, if you've quite finished gawping at the gore, perhaps we should move before they", his index finger drew a circle around them, "catch up with our little charade and murder us all."

Gale met Astarion's gaze, and for a moment, a loaded silence stretched between them. Gale opened his mouth again, and Astarion thought he might say something profoundly foolish. But the wizard simply nodded tightly and set the grimy tool down, brushing past Astarion, who could not help but notice the impressive shade of red now colouring Gale's ears.

Astarion suspected the wizard's excessive ramblings were an effort to keep their minds occupied, a distraction perhaps to avoid confronting what had transpired between them. He could see the discomfort etched on Gale's face, and though a part of him wanted to mock and tease, to make Gale squirm under the weight of his own awkwardness, he dismissed the impulse, pocketed a bunch of letters from the necromancer's table, and simply followed Gale down the stairs with a low chuckle.

They had just reached the bottom of the staircase when he heard the first shouts. Astarion's hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his dagger as the sounds of commotion grew louder. Karlach came racing towards them.

"What in the Nine Hells is going on?" Astarion hissed.

"Oh, thank the gods you're here! No time to explain!" Karlach's voice boomed, her tone urgent. "Things have escalated. The prisoners are free. We need to move!"

Her axe was slick with fresh blood as she sprinted, Shadowheart right on her heels, casting a healing spell on a bleeding wound on Karlach's arm mid-stride.

Astarion muttered a curse under his breath. This was shaping up to be another disaster.

They burst into the kitchens, narrowly avoiding a group of gnolls who were inexplicably occupied with the dishes. They dashed through the next door, the sound of approaching footsteps and shouts growing louder by the second. Scrying eyes were undoubtedly summoning reinforcements, and more guards and soldiers were closing in.

They rushed through the door on the other end of the scullery and found themselves in a cramped room. Freedom seemed tantalisingly close, but Astarion's foot slipped on something slimy, nearly sending him sprawling. The moment his feet touched the viscous substance covering half the room, a sharp pain pierced his mind, the tadpole thrashing exactly as it had when they first stepped into Moonrise, but somehow much worse.

"This is it. The heart of the Absolute is near," the Dream Visitor's voice spoke out of nowhere, their words echoing ominously in his mind just as Gale skidded to a halt, his eyes fixed on the gooey vines stretching across the room.

A spell rushed past Astarion's ear, narrowly missing and slamming into the door in front of them, which flew off its hinges. There was no time for this.

"Go, wizard!" Astarion urged, shoving Gale towards the destroyed doorway.

"The heart of the Absolute is here!" Gale protested, his gaze flickering wildly between the vines and the oncoming threat.

Astarion shot him a glare. "Are you mad? We'll be slaughtered!" 

Gale's eyes then darted to Karlach and Shadowheart, who were just behind them, then back to the vines. He froze for a heartbeat, jaw clenched, then with a sharp breath and a surge of resolve, turned and bolted for the exit.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Astarion 

They managed to escape unscathed only by a miracle. Unfortunately for Astarion, their hasty retreat also meant he had not been able to feast on any of the cultists.

Once again, things were looking dire. If Astarion had thought the Underdark was bleak, nothing had prepared him for the utter desolation of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. This vast, barren wasteland offered no sustenance, and apparently eating the remainder of the tiefling children was, for some unfathomable reason, strictly off-limits.

Astarion was in a foul mood, though even that paled beside Gale's. The wizard was doing his best to maintain a veneer of composure, but Astarion could see straight through the pretence; after all, one cannot con a con artist.

Apparently, standing in the very place where a former lover had suggested a noble little self-sacrifice for the greater good can rather put a damper on one's spirits. Who would have thought?

But for the first time in his long life, Astarion felt the strange desire to be a good friend. To be... supportive, allowing Gale to be a complete arse without escalating things, but honestly, it was getting ridiculous.

"That's enough moping, wizard," Astarion said as he sauntered over to where Gale sat at his desk, the tent flap thrown open to the gloom.

"I'm not moping; I'm doing research." Gale glanced up from the papers strewn across his desk, a glorious mess of ink and vellum, but his brows were undeniably furrowed in the classic expression of the chronically despondent.

Astarion's lips quirked into a small smile. "I brought wine," he said, placing the bottle on the parchment that lay unfurled in front of Gale, effectively pinning it to the wooden surface.

"Oh?" The wizard arched a brow, examining the label.

"Don't get too excited; it's nothing extravagant, but at least it's a step up from the swill we've been drinking recently. And," Astarion added, leaning a little closer, "it's Waterdhavian."

"Ah, Blackstaff Wine," Gale mused, rolling the bottleneck between the tips of his ink-stained fingers. "You know, Waterdeep boasts an abundance of masterful winemakers. The Vintners', Distillers' and Brewers' Guilds..." He let out a slow, appreciative whistle. "They are nothing short of extraordinary. Renowned for their Zzar, controversial yet adored among Waterdavians for good reason. Personally, though, I've always had a penchant for Dark Delights."

Astarion chuckled. "Quite the surprising preference for someone like you." His memories from before the transformation were scant, yet oddly, fragments of his knowledge of wines and other scattered interests lingered. Though he could no longer truly savour the taste, the scent alone captivated him, an exquisite torment that stirred a longing for pleasures he could scarcely remember.

Gale raised his head to look at Astarion, a smirk playing on his lips. "Someone like me ?" he asked, amusement colouring his voice.

Astarion leaned against the table, drawing even closer to Gale. "Dark Delights is renowned for its potency, infamous for stirring the most 'wicked desires' in those who partake, if my memory serves right," he added, a sly, suggestive smile tugging at his mouth, "it hardly seems like the sort of indulgence befitting the esteemed Archmage of Waterdeep."

Gale's interest brightened.

"Ah, a fellow connoisseur," he replied with teasing mirth in his eyes. "Well, who knows? Perhaps that was my downfall." He scoffed at the thought. "Blaming it on the wine sounds a bit too 'politician', even for my taste, rather than the folklore hero image I'm aiming for at present." Gale ran his palms up and down his thigh before reaching out with a flicker of magic to open the bottle. He tilted it towards Astarion in an offer, but he shook his head, wanting Gale to have the privilege of the first taste. Gale then brought the vessel to his nose, savoured the aroma with a thoughtful pause, and took a swig. Astarion wetted his lips, unable to tear his eyes away as he followed the smooth movement of the wizard's throat as he swallowed the wine.

"I suppose Blackstaff will be a fine choice for this evening, and I have just the idea," he said, rising from his chair and rubbing his hands together. "May I show you something?" he asked, his gaze softening as he looked at Astarion, finally shedding the lingering shadow that had clouded his features. Astarion had no choice but to nod in assent.

The camp was quiet; the others had left to gather more information on the curse and had not yet returned. They walked side by side, careful not to stray too far into the oppressive murk, only venturing to the outskirts of their campsite. Gale set the bottle of wine gently on the withering grass beside a fallen tree and raised his hands.

Astarion could sense a wash of power enveloping them; he had been more attuned to Gale's magic of late. It felt like a gentle caress of silk, cool and soft against his entire being. Magic flowed slowly, surrounding them, filling his mouth with long-forgotten candied flavours and his useless lungs with the sweet fragrance of flowers.

Then, from Gale's palms, stars were born.

They emerged slowly, one by one, and began their unhurried ascent into the sky. Gradually, the shimmering orbs dispersed, each finding its place in the vast expanse. The murky void yielded to their light, and the milky fog dissipated, revealing a clear, ink-dark canvas embroidered with a myriad of brilliant stars.

Astarion could not suppress a gasp. "It's beautiful," he whispered, lowering himself onto the tree trunk.

"It truly is." Pride tinged Gale's voice; he practically preened. Normally, Astarion might have mocked him for his overconfidence, but in that moment, he could not argue.

As the last star drifted from his hand, Gale lowered his arm and sat beside him. "But it takes a toll," he admitted, lending his words a note of regret. "I cannot do this very often."

Astarion's lips curled in quiet amusement. "If I didn't know any better, I would think you were trying to woo me, wizard."

Gale chuckled under his breath, shaking his head, though his gaze never left the star-strewn illusion above them. His distraction offered Astarion an unguarded moment to look his fill.

The black shirt was the same as always, its laces loose enough to fall open at the chest, revealing a faint dusting of hair and those collarbones that had, more than once, intruded upon Astarion's thoughts. His attention drifted to the intricate lines of the orb, and he felt an irresistible urge to lean over and trace them with his tongue and teeth, a perilous notion, especially when he was stone sober.

"So," the wizard's voice broke the spell, drawing him back from the brink of treacherous imaginings, "what's the plan? Watch me get drunk? Wait until I embarrass myself, then hold it over me until the end of our days?"

"I'm shocked and appalled." Astarion pressed a hand to his chest in a show of mock indignation. "Is that truly what you think of me?"

"Yes," Gale said without hesitation, and took another drink. His sobriety was already slipping, colour blooming beneath the neat line of his beard, warmth climbing his cheekbones. Astarion caught himself staring again, admiring the flush, savouring the knowledge that he was the cause of it.

"Well, you're safe with me, Sunshine. Whatever happens tonight goes to the grave with me," he assured with a grin.

"I feel there's a loophole in that promise," Gale grumbled, "considering you've already clawed your way out of said grave once."

A huff of laughter left Astarion, and he leaned back slightly, hand snaking out to take the bottle from Gale's fingers.

"Your opinion of me is rather low. Perhaps I should try behaving like a model citizen, earn the esteemed approval of the Great Wizard of Waterdeep."

"Hah! I doubt you'll get far in life seeking my approval. It does not carry much weight these days." Gale's tone was light, but Astarion could sense a thread of bitterness framing the statement.

"I suppose I'll just stick to blackmail, cheating and murder then," Astarion sighed with theatrical despair before lifting the bottle for a long pull, if only to keep his hands busy. It still tasted awful, tart and sour in all the wrong notes, but he swallowed it regardless.

A lull settled over them, stretching thin and quiet as they passed the drink back and forth, taking unhurried turns.

"I can see it, you know." Gale's words came out of nowhere, low and certain, his eyes firmly back on the dark velvet sky as he spoke. "That you are starving. You think you're subtle, but the signs are there."

Astarion's thumb traced the rim of the bottle in a slow, idle circle. He wanted to laugh it off, to fling some biting remark that would send Gale scurrying back behind his walls. "The others don't notice," he said instead.

Gale shrugged. "I'm not the others."

Astarion tilted his head, eyes boring into the man's side profile.

"You mean you're a stalker." He aimed for flippant, desperate for it to land. Anything to drag the conversation back to safer ground. Dwelling on it only dragged his hunger closer to the surface.

Gale's ever-persistent frown deepened. "Keeping an eye out for my companions' well-being hardly qualifies as stalking in my books." His voice carried an edge now, flustered, defensive. And something sharp and feral stirred in Astarion, a cruel impulse begging to lash out, but equally strong was the desire to cling to this fleeting moment of peace. For a heartbeat, he said nothing as his emotions warred within him, until at last exhaustion and a yearning for quiet claimed victory.

"You can't help me, Sunshine." The words left him on a defeated sigh, softer than intended. He held the drink out in a wordless offering. Gale took it and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, the bottle dangling loosely between his hands.

At last, Gale turned to look at him, head cocked curiously. "Why do you call me that?"

Astarion met his eyes, and despite himself, a genuine smile tugged at his lips as he took in the puzzled expression on the wizard's face.

"Well," he drawled, lazy and lilting, "because of your sunny disposition, of course."

For a beat, Gale simply stared, and then a breathy laugh broke loose from him. He slumped forward, dropping his head between his shoulders, fiddling with the bottle's pout in a mirror of Astarion's earlier idle motions. When he finally tipped it back, Astarion's gaze returned to the elegant tilt of his throat, catching the subtle play of muscle as he swallowed.

Gale exhaled deeply and extended an arm toward him. Astarion frowned at the offered gesture.

"Come on. Consider this a little experiment; see if you can extract the magic, the wine, or perhaps both from my blood. Either way, it spares me the indignity of drinking alone," Gale said, his tone casual.

A disbelieving laugh escaped Astarion.

"You're drunk. There's no way you can agree to this right now. I'm not feeding on you."

"Then don't," Gale retorted easily, surprising Astarion with his lack of resistance. A small, unbidden rush of disappointment coursed through him.

"Here."

The word drew Astarion's attention to the satchel at Gale's feet, one he had not noticed until now. From it, the wizard produced a golden goblet. With a whisper of magic, a shallow gash bloomed across his forearm, and the rich, metallic scent of blood filled the air. Astarion's body reacted before his mind could intervene, breath sharpening, fangs pricking at his lip, hunger surging with a purr of wicked delight. He swallowed thickly as the smell penetrated his senses. Only years of practice kept him rooted in his seat.

Gale let the blood spill in slow, dark ribbons until it coated the bottom of the goblet. Without ceremony, he held it out.

Astarion accepted instinctively, shock seizing his movements. Then, as if nothing had happened, Gale took a rag from his pocket and hastily tied it around the wound, messy and far too loose.

Astarion gaped at him in sheer disbelief. "Are you out of your mind?" His voice rose an octave.

Gale looked up, unruffled. "If I understand correctly, and I usually do, this will not satisfy your hunger, but you should be able to combine the blood with the alcohol, much as you did before with the goblin and the ale. You claimed it was because the goblin was drunk, but I suspect there is more to it. That incident happened shortly after you had consumed my blood. My theory is that the magic I summoned strengthened the tadpole's influence, amplifying certain effects," Gale explained, his tone as matter-of-fact as if discussing dinner plans.

"So you slit your arm open and bled into a cup so that what... I can get drunk with you?"

"Precisely," Gale said with a wicked, slightly manic smile. "And to test my theory." He gestured lazily toward the bottle of wine beside them. "You might want to add a splash of that, though. As much as I'm here for scientific discoveries, you would likely need to drink me dry to get the effects of the alcohol from my blood alone."

For a moment, Astarion did nothing. He merely stared down into the goblet, watching the liquid lap against the sides with a slow, languid swirl. Under the cold starlight, it appeared almost black, thick and viscous, glistening like oil. Obscene. Intoxicating. It called to something buried deep in his bones.

He raised the goblet by degrees, his eyes flicking over the rim to meet Gale's. The wizard was watching him with a fixed, unwavering intensity.

Though Astarion had tasted drawn blood before, somehow this felt different. Gale was right; this would not relieve his hunger and might even make it worse. Yet there was no conceivable universe where Astarion could refuse a gift like this. He tilted the cup. The first mouthful slid over his tongue and down his throat in a slow, warm trickle. There was no rush of magic, no sudden flood of vitality, only the rich coppery taste.

Across from him, Gale stared, wide-eyed, lips parted, breath caught in the hollow of his throat. Astarion could hear his heartbeat, fast, uneven, hammering in his chest.

"So?" he croaked, the single word breaking the hush.

Astarion huffed, licking a trace of crimson from his lip. "No weird magic-drunkenness, but there's definitely a whisper of wine." He then reached for the offered bottle and poured a generous spill of liquor into the dark swirl in his cup.

The taste was still far from ideal, but Gale's blood had blunted the vintage's harsh bite, taming it into something almost tolerable.

They sat for a while, drinking their respective beverages slowly and gazing at the flickering sea of artificial stars above them.

Astarion was not sure if it was the liquor in his starved system taking control of his brain quicker than usual, or the jumble of emotions swirling inside him, but his head felt light, his body loose, his words skating closer to honesty than he liked.

"Gods. I can't believe you. You are an absolute terror."

"I've heard that one before," Gale replied, sounding infuriatingly pleased with himself. "You should write a letter to my tutors at Blackstaff and let them know they were right. I believe 'incorrigible' was their preferred term."

"I have no doubt they were eating out of your hand. Handsome, talented wizardling. I bet you could talk your way out of anything," Astarion teased, his tone playful as he regarded Gale with a grin.

"They were constantly exasperated. Charm could only carry one so far when posing a menace to society," Gale recounted with a wry chuckle. "Once, in my youthful and overconfident days as a mage, I deemed walking an inefficient use of my precious time. So, I attempted to open a portal to my dormitory, but I mistakenly tore a gateway to Limbo instead. Let me tell you, the slaad on the other side was far from pleased to see me. It took five staff members to pacify the creature and seal the breach. To this day, I suffer the occasional amphibian-induced nightmare. It was, without a doubt, a rather embarrassing ordeal."

Astarion barked out a laugh, sharp and bright, surprising even himself.

"I've laid bare my humiliation, now it's your turn," Gale challenged.

"That's not how blackmail works, Sunshine," he retorted, but rolled his eyes at the pleading expression that appeared on the wizard's face. "Fine. Fine," he conceded with a sigh. 

"When I was abducted by the illithid," he began, "you must understand that I've endured nearly two centuries living in the dark. So, even though the tadpole has granted me the ability to walk in sunlight once more, my eyes haven't... quite got the message just yet."

Another bout of silence followed.

Why was he doing this?

"When I woke up on that damned beach by the Chiontar," he continued, "I managed to haul myself upright, only to walk headfirst into a tree with such force it knocked me out cold. I'm certain Shadowheart saw the whole spectacle, though she's been gracious enough not to mention it... for now, at least. Still, I wouldn't wager against her having told Karlach already."

Gale blinked at him, then burst into laughter. It was an infectious sound, worming its way into Astarion's throat until he, too, could not help but join in.

They swayed closer, drawn by an irresistible force, languid from wine and softened by mirth. Gale seemed to have that effect on him lately, like a moth drawn to a flame, constantly enticing him nearer, and it was harder to resist when the alcohol and hunger blurred the myriad reasons why he should not. Memories of the images Gale had fed to the orc in Moonrise Towers filled Astarion's thoughts. His skin itched with the need to feel the man's hands on him.

Their shoulders brushed, and Astarion noticed Gale's incessant fiddling with the sorry scrap of cloth on his arm, tugging it higher each time it slipped. Instead of retying it, Gale simply pulled it back up, over and over again, slowly driving Astarion mad with his constant fidgeting.

Finally, Astarion's annoyance and his desire to touch the man won out. Putting his goblet aside, he reached for Gale's arm. He guided it gently into his lap and untied the makeshift bandage that had already begun to unravel. The wound was shallow, the bleeding mostly stanched, though the skin still glistened dark and sticky with congealed blood.

The scent was tantalising, hunger twisting the smell into something irresistible. Astarion had to fight the urge to lean in and taste it. Pushing aside the intrusive thoughts, he folded the rag neatly and bound it tight. He could feel Gale's eyes burning into him.

When he looked up, as expected, the wizard's attention was fixed on him, his heartbeat a heavy thrum in Astarion's ears. Gale's gaze dipped dangerously to his lips, and for a fleeting moment, Astarion thought Gale might lean in and close the distance. Instead, the man's eyes rose to meet his again, the intensity melting into something infinitely kind. He gently placed his other hand on top of Astarion's, which was still resting on Gale's injured arm.

"Thank you," he said simply, before turning away, though he did not move far. He remained close, their bodies nearly touching, as he drained the last of the wine in a single swallow.

They sat there, the gentle buzz of alcohol mingling with emotions and exhaustion, filling Astarion's skull with a honeyed haze that dulled the edge of craving for one blissful moment. And if Astarion's hand lingered on Gale's arm, his fingers tracing idle patterns along the tender skin of Gale's inner arm, that was nobody else's concern.

✦

His feet scraped across the marble floor, rigid fingers tightened around the back of his neck like a dog being scruffed and forced onwards. Protests and pleas choked in his throat, unformed and strangled. His body moved like a marionette, muscles twitching in response to the commands of another.

A door creaked open, and a harsh shove sent him sprawling onto the cold, filthy stone. Saliva and blood pooled on the ground, mingling as his vision blurred and focus wavered. He tried to lift his head, only to be met with a sharp, jarring pain in his temple. Before him, a cruel smile stretched like a gash across a pallid face, savouring the sight of Astarion's helpless submission.

Tears welled and spilt forth, perhaps the only part of him that could not be commandeered. For that, he should have cherished them, but instead, he despised them all the more.

The looming figure took a step forward, a low chuckle blending with the distant sound of rattling chains. Then his mind was seized once more, his muscles tensing and shifting involuntarily as he stood, eyes wide and streaming endlessly with tears. He stared at the tomb before him and then, compelled by a force beyond his control, stepped forward into its cold embrace.

Astarion awoke with a start from an evening trance stretched too long, strained by hunger and sheer exhaustion. Cooling tears traced his cheeks as the memory of the dream-vision lingered vividly in his mind. Flashes of Cazador's cruel smile as he commanded Astarion into that accursed tomb and sealed it shut behind him, the weeks in darkness stretched into endless months, plagued him.

Astarion and hunger became intimate companions that year. The relentless torment of starvation, with only trickles of blood fed to him through cracks of stone, just enough to keep him alive, drove him to the brink of madness, gradually fracturing his mind and will. By the year's end, he was convinced he deserved every bit of his suffering.

From that point on, he became a perfect plaything in Cazador's grim collection of broken toys. With his resolve shattered and his psyche crushed to ruins, he would have done anything to avoid another punishment.

Starvation always summoned Astarion's most unpleasant memories, easily avoided during the day when he had mostly full control over his mind. However, at night, when he ventured into this newfound realm of dreams, an experience he had been deprived of for centuries under Cazador's command, those memories became much harder to escape, tormenting him even in his reverie.

His companions would never understand that the tadpoles did more than simply help Astarion regain control, escape Cazador, and walk in the sunlight again. While these were undeniably significant factors, the tadpole also enabled him to reclaim a part of himself that he had long forsaken and thought dead over the centuries.

And Gale. Stupid, bloody wizard, Gale. He was the perfect distraction from all the horrors surrounding them, and now occupied far too many of Astarion's thoughts. The idea of having someone to watch his back, or worse, to look after him, was a completely alien experience. He wasn't sure which notion was more terrifying: the prospect of losing it all or becoming accustomed to this newfound companionship.

Astarion spent the rest of the day in his tent, curled up with the books he had borrowed from the wizard. However, his head was too clouded, constantly derailing his attempts at research. Fatigue and gnawing hunger weighed heavily upon him.

He was abruptly pulled from his thoughts as a heavy, rapid heartbeat just outside his tent caught his attention. Astarion found it disconcerting that he could now recognise Gale solely by the sound of his pulse.

"I thought you said you weren't a stalker," Astarion remarked, letting Gale know that his presence had been detected. He could not deny himself the satisfaction of making the wizard squirm a bit, especially after his stellar performance in the Towers mere days before. It felt like well-deserved recompense.

Gale stepped inside, balancing a precarious stack of tomes.

"I just wanted to…" His words trailed off as his gaze landed on Astarion. "Are you all right?" he asked, genuine concern tempering his voice.

Astarion lowered the book he was holding, his expression hardening as he met Gale's gaze.

"And why wouldn't I be?" His words were measured, but irritation coiled tight within him in an instant.

Gale hesitated, finally setting the tomes down on the desk before facing Astarion fully.

"What I said yesterday," he began, his voice faltering as he swallowed and continued, "my offer still stands. If you need to feed, I want to help."

How many times would they have to tread this path?

"Are you still drunk?" Astarion asked, aiming for levity, but predictably, the wizard missed the light jest entirely.

"I am not," he responded, far too earnestly.

Astarion sighed, his voice cool and level. "We've discussed this; it's a bad idea."

"No." Gale recounted without missing a beat, "You said that, and I disagreed."

Astarion felt an overwhelming urge to strangle the man. With an exasperated huff, he flung the book onto the bed, where it bounced and tumbled to the floor.

"I'm fine," he insisted, expression hardening as he fixed his attention on the wizard.

Gale gestured at him. "I can see every bone in your face, and the circles beneath your eyes are giving the hags a run for their coin."

"Oh, fuck you," Astarion growled through clenched teeth.

"That's not on the menu, but you can feed on me," Gale offered, catching Astarion off guard and momentarily undercutting his mounting ire. The wizard edged closer, his stare unyielding yet his expression open and disarmed.

Astarion averted his gaze, struggling to hold it under the weight of that look.

"I can't," he said at last, voice taut. "Things have got out of hand before, and to be clear, I'm not talking about your cock getting hard. When I've gone this long without feeding, when I'm this starved, control is... difficult. If I slip, you die."

Gale flushed furiously but did not back down. "I trust you—" he began, but Astarion interjected,

"That's because you're an idiot."

"Perhaps, but remember that I can stop you if things go awry," Gale pointed out, making his case. Astarion recognised that stubborn look on his face, the one that usually led to him conceding to whatever foolish notion the wizard deemed right.

"Besides, now you should be able to maintain better control if my blood isn't infused with magic."

Under the heavy weight of that persistent ravenous agony, and faced with Gale's unwavering determination, it was impossible to maintain the walls he had so meticulously built. Astarion groaned, feeling defeated. The prospect of feeding drowned out all reason in his weary mind.

He shot a sharp look at Gale.

"Fine. But you sit here," he said, gesturing to the chair near his bed. As Gale settled into it, Astarion rose slowly and moved behind, placing the chair's back between them like a barrier. It was a futile precaution; it would be entirely useless should he lose control, yet the thought offered a small degree of comfort. Even without the magic in Gale's blood, Astarion could not trust himself.

Gale frowned. "I really fail to see—"

"Just shut up and let's do this quickly," Astarion cut him off, leaning in with calculated precision, ensuring each movement was deliberate and every touch minimal.

However, he'd miscalculated.

For, beside the predator within him, lurking and waiting for the perfect moment to strike, resided another beast. One born of sheer terror and a fragmented mind, now roused from its dark slumber. After enduring prolonged periods of starvation, the act of feeding had often become a harrowing struggle between desire, necessity, and an all-consuming dread.

During his time with Cazador, Astarion had learned that the hollow ache of hunger was often preferable to the vulnerability of being sated, only to face the loss once more. Despite recent tendays offering some respite from his intermittent feeding habits, it could not erase two hundred years of torment and mind games.

As his fangs pierced Gale's skin, even before he could savour the taste of blood on his tongue, the torrent of nightmares, still fresh and vivid in his mind, surged back with renewed vigour. Grotesque creatures, formed from shadows with sharp-toothed grins, clawed their way into his consciousness.

You don't deserve this.

He released Gale as if burned and stumbled back. The worried look on the wizard's face was the last thing Astarion saw before his vision swam and his mind was overwhelmed by a cavalcade of colours and scents that had not been there moments before.

You are mine.

Images of his master flickered in, superimposing themselves over Gale's form. Astarion shook his head, a futile attempt to dispel the haunting illusion.

No, no, it's not real.

Ice-cold fear surged through him, tendrils of dread coiling around his heart, constricting his throat once again, and he was back at the tombs. The overwhelming urge to flee gripped him, but Astarion knew there was no escape. He was bound by invisible chains, a compliant soldier, a dutiful pet obeying its master's every whim.

Cazador's sinister silhouette loomed over him, eyes glowing like embers in the abyss, and Astarion collapsed to his knees.

The sound of grinding stone followed, and then darkness crept in, slowly descending and stealing away the last slivers of light. In the endless, timeless void, his master's dominion ebbed like a retreating tide. Pleas and begging filled Astarion's mouth, choking him as he swallowed around words of anguish. His nails, jagged and torn, scraped against the rough stone, the sharp pain a cruel anchor to a splintered reality. A frigid wash of panic filled his hollow insides.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Each word dripped with desperation as the cold terror settled in the pit of his stomach, his mind a tempest of torment, grasping for coherent thoughts but finding only fragments of fractured memories. It was like trying to hold onto smoke, slipping through his fingers, elusive and intangible.

Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the shadows that enveloped him, as he sank deeper into his own despair. He wanted to scream, to unleash the ache that gnawed at his soul. Was he screaming?

"Astarion."

A gentle hand on his shoulder made him flinch, but the touch was like a soothing balm against the storm raging within him, and a voice, soft and filled with genuine concern, cut through the thick veil of his terror.

Gale.

A whimper escaped Astarion's throat as the apparition of Cazador dissolved, replaced by the comforting presence of the wizard.

"Hey, hey, you're safe," Gale murmured, his words a tender reassurance amidst the chaos. Astarion felt a flush of embarrassment as he realised they were both kneeling on the floor of his tent.

"May I touch you?" Gale's inquiry was tentative, but after a brief hesitation, Astarion offered a subtle nod.

Like a beacon of light in depthless nothing, Gale drew him closer. Astarion surrendered to the pull, unable and unwilling to resist. He leaned into the warmth of the man, and Gale wrapped his arms around him, holding him close with unwavering tenderness.

That warmth. It was like nothing Astarion had ever felt before. A dam broke, and he began to shake, his hand clenched in the worn material of Gale's sleep shirt. The man smelled of old books, ink, and freshly cooked meals, and although musky from the road, was unmistakably Gale.

"You're safe, it's just me," Gale said, his voice so close that Astarion could feel his stubble against the sensitive skin of his cheek. Whispered words like a deep, comforting rumble emanated from the man's chest.

Astarion couldn't tell how long they had knelt there, lost in the embrace, but after what felt like an eternity, Gale gently coaxed them to stand.

The wizard guided Astarion to his bed of cushions, his hands never leaving, and encouraged him to lie down.

"You should try to rest," Gale suggested softly. "I'll be just outside when you—" 

"No." The word escaped Astarion's lips before his mind had fully processed its meaning, and his fingers encircled Gale's wrist, preventing him from moving.

"I don't think..." Gale hesitated, but he must have seen something in Astarion's gaze that dented his resolve.

Astarion was painfully aware that he must have appeared pathetic, and deep down, he knew that the sting of humiliation would come later. For now, all he wanted was for Gale to stay and keep his mind occupied. Gathering every last shred of dignity, he cast it aside.

"Please."

Gale scratched the back of his neck with his free hand and shifted his weight.

"Very well," he said, clearing his throat, and allowed Astarion to pull him onto the bed next to him.

They lay side by side, facing each other. The makeshift bed was not designed for two adults, but they kept their distance, not touching.

"Do you want to talk?" Gale asked, his voice hushed as if he were addressing a wild animal he did not want to startle. Astarion felt exactly like that: a feral creature at the end of an arrow, prey ready to be hunted.

"Tell me something. Anything."

And so Gale began, speaking animatedly, spinning tales of the Weave and the Art, recounting his journeys through magical realms. At Astarion's murmured request, he turned to his childhood, weaving stories of school days and early mishaps. He recounted his first attendance at a Magefair—disastrous—and his mother's exasperation at raising a child prodigy who conjured winged felines and lava mephits within the confines of their home when he was refused a pet companion. He spoke of the tressym, his voice full of love and affection, and Astarion pondered deliriously what it would be like to have someone speak of him with such emotion.

As a spawn, he had never needed sleep. Reverie might have offered some semblance of peace, but even that meagre indulgence had been denied by Cazador. For centuries, his body had known only vigilance and command, never the mercy of true rest.

Now, the tadpole had changed everything. It had shattered his master's chains and granted him not merely the silvered half-light of meditation, but a realm beyond memory, as distant and unreal as a mirage of sunlight.

The thought unsettled him. True sleep was surrender, and surrender had always meant pain. Yet tonight, with Gale's voice winding soft around him, for reasons he could not name, the pull came gentle and inexorable.

"Thank you, Sunshine," he whispered, and yielded to the encroaching slumber.

 ✦ 

Wakefulness arrived in slow, disjointed bouts, and Astarion became aware of a body pressed against his, long limbs and heat enveloping him. Panic began to rise in his chest, quickly transforming into searing embarrassment as his mind replayed the events of the previous evening.

Gale shifted behind him, his arm slung around Astarion, pulling him closer unconsciously. Astarion could feel the man's warm breath on the back of his neck. His traitorous body reacted immediately; he felt his cock stirring, heat pooling in his stomach, and he had to stifle a gasp. He wanted nothing more than to grind back into the wizard's body, to let pleasure overcome the bitter feeling and the heavy weight on his chest, but he would never take advantage of Gale like that. He knew how to push his buttons and make his face flush, but that was all just games. Astarion might have been a bastard who lied, cheated, and manipulated to get what he wanted, but this was different.

Gale had said before that he needed an emotional connection, that he longed for a true partnership. Astarion knew he could never offer such a thing. There was a time when he might have pretended, not thinking twice about leading the wizard on. But now, after all they had been through, anything less than genuine would feel like taking advantage.

Before he could do something he would regret, he turned and took in Gale's peaceful sleeping face once more. Every inch of Astarion's body was begging him to burrow back into the warm embrace, but instead, he resisted, pushed himself up, and gently shook Gale awake.

The man blinked his eyes open, casting a bleary-eyed glance at Astarion, a deep frown etched between his brows. Astarion saw a wide array of emotions flitting across his face as the memories of the previous night gradually resurfaced

"How are you feeling?" Gale finally asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the rumpled fabric of his shirt sleeve as he propped himself up to get a better look at him.

"I'm fine. You can go now," Astarion said, carefully keeping all emotion out of his voice. He needed Gale to leave. The night's lingering horrors, stark against the fragile tranquillity of morning, were clouding his thoughts.

Gale, the obstinate fool, however, just shook his head, his hair a mess, unruly waves falling across his brow and framing his sleep-softened face.

"You haven't fed yet," he said stubbornly, stretching his arms over his head, and Astarion's traitorous attention tracked the movement as Gale's shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of skin.

"What are you, my mother? I told you before, I don't need your help," Astarion snapped, forcing himself to look away from the tantalising bit of naked flesh. He was not sure why he was resisting again, but it did not matter, as Gale seemed utterly unaffected by his words. Resorting to old habits of insults and witty remarks was Astarion's way of keeping people at arm's length, but not Gale, apparently. Of course not bloody Gale.

The wizard merely shrugged.

"This little performance of yours doesn't work on me anymore, Astarion," he said calmly, confirming Astarion's thoughts. "We both know you're being insufferable out of embarrassment over the events of last night. Believe me when I say you have nothing to be ashamed of. I would give you all the space you desire under any other circumstances, but you are clearly struggling. The surrounding lands are distressingly barren of suitable prey, and they may well remain so for days, perhaps even an entire tenday."

Astarion gaped at him, wanting to hurt the man, to tear out his throat for his irritating assumptions and logical reasoning.

Gale met his gaze with unwavering intensity.

"Feed," he said simply.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale 

Gale was running high on emotions; it was the only explanation for how he managed to deliver his speech without faltering and resisted the urge to flee from Astarion's frankly murderous glare.

To his utter surprise, it worked.

The only warning was a low sound of irritation before Gale was dragged back into the nest of pillows. The elf, seated on the bed, deftly manoeuvred Gale between his parted legs, drawing him in until his back was flush against Astarion's chest. He then peeled the fabric of Gale's shirt off his shoulder. The surprised exhale that escaped Gale turned into a broken whimper as sharp fangs sank into the tender flesh of his neck without ceremony.

As Astarion adjusted himself for comfort, one of his feet slipped off the bed, finding purchase on the floor, while the other, bent beside Gale, rested close to his body. Gale grasped Astarion's thigh just above the knee, holding on as if it were the last fragments of his sanity, feeling the muscles shift beneath the soft leather trousers.

Elminster's spell had evidently succeeded, for the elf had not recoiled, and in the absence of Gale's magic, the manic craze had not taken hold of him either. Yet still, Astarion fed like a starved man, greedily gulping down the offered blood. It filled Gale's chest with a sickening sense of joy, the feeling of being wanted, needed, serving a purpose, entirely intoxicating.

The elf's cool lips rested against his warm skin. He became acutely aware of every subtle puff of air, each bob of Astarion's throat, and the faint, contented sounds muffled by his own flesh beneath the sharp teeth.

In recent days, it had taken little for the heat that Gale carried in the pit of his stomach to flare whenever Astarion was near. He had been walking in a state of constant half-arousal ever since the incident in Moonrise. So it came as no surprise that, upon waking up in a tangle of sheets, steeped in the heady scent of Astarion, Gale had become hard within a few heartbeats at the sight of the elf's dishevelled hair and sleep-softened expression.

From his vantage point, if Astarion were to open his eyes, there would be nothing to prevent him from seeing the way Gale's arousal obscenely pressed against the fabric of his trousers. The thought of being discovered should have sobered him, but instead, it only kindled his desire.

There was something deeply wrong with him.

The light-headedness from rapid blood loss, coupled with a deluge of poorly repressed memories from their previous encounters and the fantasies Gale had nurtured over the weeks, crashed over him at once. A solitary gasp broke free, the prelude to a cascade of soft, mortifying, and utterly unstoppable sounds. He could feel his flush deepen and spread as his want and embarrassment intertwined.

Astarion shifted closer behind him, a cool, solid presence against the searing heat radiating from his own body. Fingers traced up the side of Gale's neck, then pressed into his jaw, holding his head firm, while the other hand slid across his chest to grip his waist. He felt utterly constrained, like prey in a serpent's coils, paralysed, yet savouring every moment of it. And, deliriously, he wanted to be consumed, to be opened, flayed alive, and used until Astarion had taken everything, leaving nothing but skin and bone .

Gale sensed the exact moment Astarion became aware of his predicament. The elf's teeth withdrew from Gale's neck, and he buried his face in the same spot as if to shield himself from the sight. His ragged, damp breaths spilled across Gale's collarbone, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Astarion." Gale's lips parted, the name escaping unbidden on a sigh broken into two soft whimpers.

"Just… shut up for a moment." The slight tremble in Astarion's voice was a clear testament to his struggle to restrain himself.

They had both been fighting this for so long, but for what? Gale was convinced the elf would be his undoing, but in the face of imminent death, what purpose was there in this resistance?

Deep down, he knew this was yet another terrible idea, and that they ought to talk, but it felt far too late for reason. His hips rose of their own accord, pushing back against the elf behind him.

Astarion let out a sharp gasp, his face still hidden in the curve of Gale's neck.

His hand began a deliberate, torturous journey across Gale's form, descending with agonising slowness. Then, as if suddenly aware of himself, Astarion stopped abruptly. Gale felt the whispered, broken "sorry" against his feverish skin more than he heard it. The elf's fist clenched Gale's shirt just above the waistband of his breeches, where it had been carelessly tucked in.

"Please," the word tore from Gale's lips. He was not even certain what he was pleading for, only that he needed something, anything.

The muscles in Astarion's arms flexed like iron bands around him, and the pressure made his head spin.

"What do you want?" the elf whispered, his fingers clamping on Gale's jaw. Astarion's nose brushed against the sensitive shell of his ear, drawing another involuntary, aborted groan.

There was no magic, no external force to blame, only the undeniable truth that, somehow, Gale was genuinely, profoundly aroused by Astarion feeding on his blood. He swallowed thickly, grateful that he did not have to meet Astarion's gaze as the overwhelming tide of desire washed away any remnants of common sense.

"Touch me," he breathed.

There was a beat of silence. For a dreadful, horrifying moment, Gale feared Astarion might refuse.

But then the elf groaned. "Are you sure?"

Gale's lungs seized with mounting excitement, leaving him momentarily speechless.

"Sunshine, I need you to be certain," Astarion pressed, his tone firmer this time.

Gale's hands trembled but moved with intent. Slowly, he coaxed Astarion's grasp from the twisted fabric of his shirt. When at last the elf's hand came free, Gale caught it, slender wrist encircled in his own, and led it along its intended path.

He had never before asked so blatantly for what he needed. That alone sent his blood surging, a wild, deafening pulse in his ears.

Slowly, he guided Astarion's hand down to his inner thigh, leaving him every chance to end this madness, to pull away. It was a plea, not a demand. Just before reaching its destination, Astarion froze, as if realising all at once what Gale was asking for. His throat worked, stifling a desperate sound.

"I'm sure," Gale managed finally, the words forced out between two deep pulls of air meant to steady him. Yet with each inhale, his chest expanded, moulding him tightly against Astarion's frame, leaving him feeling even more reckless.

"Fuck," Astarion swore under his breath.

Then, as though a dam had burst, Astarion dragged him impossibly closer, and his hand moved, palm pressing firmly against Gale's aching hardness in a slow, devastating upward stroke. Gale's fingers gripped the elf's thigh with enough force to bruise.

He could feel the full shape of the elf's arousal, hard and unmistakable against his lower back even through the maddening layers of fabric. His chest and throat clenched in unison, his eyes fluttered shut as his head lolled back, his nape coming to rest against Astarion's shoulder. Gale felt as though he were losing his mind. He craved more. He wanted everything.

The words of a conversation, now like echoes from a distant millennium, taunted his near-empty mind. How could he have ever imagined not needing this? Impossible.

Astarion's fingers slid from his jaw, gliding lower until they curved into the tender hollow beneath it. Cold digits pressed against the thrumming vein, a precise squeeze that stole Gale's breath. The pressure bloomed, and the sudden choke of air wrenched a strangled sound from his lips. His vision sparked at the edges as heat flooded him, body trembling in its cage of flesh and bone, and the sheer helpless rush of it brought tears stinging to his eyes.

And then—release. Astarion's grip vanished as swiftly as it had claimed him. The sudden loss sent Gale's hips grinding back without thought, seeking more. With Astarion's firm pressure from the heel of his palm against Gale's front and his hard arousal from behind, Gale was trapped between the two, utterly lost in the sensation. He could feel the inside of his breeches growing uncomfortably damp with the evidence of his excitement.

"More?" The elf's question was a murmur, almost tender, but it felt like claws raking along Gale's nerves. His eyes squeezed shut. A sharp nod was all he could manage.

Astarion exhaled a soft, wrecked sound, his nose grazing along Gale's cheek, his breathing harsh and uneven. Relief lanced through Gale, for he was not alone in this ruin, in how easily this had undone him.

"Then untie this," Astarion said, voice smooth and commanding as slender fingers teased the ties of Gale's trousers.

Gale's hands trembled from the raw, gnawing desperation eating through his composure. The confines of his breeches had become almost intolerable. Frantically, he batted Astarion's hand away and swiftly dealt with the lacing. A low, filthy chuckle came from Astarion behind him, relishing Gale's impatience.

This should have been a moment for clarity, forcing him to focus on something so methodical, but Astarion's hand crept beneath Gale's shirt, skimming over his sides. His thumb began to trace gentle circles on the soft planes of Gale's stomach. It was something that would usually have made Gale self-conscious without his customary glamour, but his embarrassment flickered and died before it could take root. It was burned away by the way his spine arched into the touch, as if every last defence had been scoured clean.

The ties gave at last, and before Gale could so much as exhale in relief, Astarion unceremoniously shoved his hand into his breeches. Slender fingers closed around his cock, slick with need, and Gale's vision went white at the edges.

He was going to die. Gods, he was certain of it.

It had been decades since he had been touched like this outside the Astral Planes. Part of him screamed to jolt away, to flee the dizzying vulnerability of it. Louder still was the primal need, the savage yearning to lean into it, drown in it, embrace every drop of heat and suffocating desire. He wanted to tear open his chest and let all these confusing emotions spill out right there before them.

Gale watched, spellbound, as Astarion's hand worked over his cock with ruthless precision. Every pull left the elf's knuckles slick, glistening in the dim light as the flushed head of Gale's length vanished and reappeared beneath that merciless grip. The sight alone was enough to make his breath falter, a molten current spiralling low in his belly. He could do nothing but cling to Astarion, trembling, while the elf wrung shuddering gasps from him with every slow, devastating stroke.

He tore his gaze away before the sight alone sent him to ruin, fixing instead on the tent's roof stretched above them. The pale fabric was bathed in the violet glow of the orb, which seemed to pulse with the waves of his excitement. His age-old worry that the pounding of his heart might somehow trigger the blight lingered on the fringes of his consciousness.

Then Astarion's other hand gently tightened around his throat again, just enough to take control over Gale's ability to breathe. In an instant, Gale's mind went gloriously blank. He turned his head slightly, enough to catch the crimson flash of Astarion's eye through his tear-blurred vision.

The elf was watching him with such intense, single-minded focus that Gale was certain Astarion could see him slipping away.

"All good?" Astarion murmured, the syllables a soft rumble against Gale's temple. The hold eased, granting him a shallow gasp, but when he tried to shape a response, his mouth betrayed him. Nothing came out but broken moans, thin and pathetic.

"I need you to answer me." This time, the words had steel in them, and Gale's heart lurched. Astarion's hand stilled on his cock, then drifted lower to squeeze his balls, trapping them lightly in his hold.

Words were difficult, but defiance felt unthinkable.

"Yes," he gasped, voice cracking into a plea. "Good. Please."

"Please what, Sunshine?" Astarion's tone was velvet over a blade, and Gale felt the smile curve against his cheek, sharp, knowing, wicked. "What do you want?" he asked again.

"You," Gale choked out. "Your hands. Anything, anything."

Astarion rewarded him with a soft hum of satisfaction, then his hold tightened around Gale's throat once more while his other hand resumed its slow, unrelenting pace over his dripping wet cock.

Desperate sounds filled the air, heavy and broken. Gale tried to move, to rut shamelessly against the body behind him, to seek selfish pleasure, but Astarion's embrace was a vice, denying him everything except the tormenting drag of that hand.

"You know," the elf drawled, sending another tremor down Gale's spine, "I've also been thinking about you. That little show of yours at Moonrise. Gods, I nearly had you against that wall." His voice curled like smoke around Gale, rich with hunger and cruel amusement. "You would have let me, wouldn't you?"

The question knifed through him. Heat roared under his skin as the pressure on his throat vanished, granting a dizzy rush of air. He sagged back into Astarion, lashes fluttering shut, and nodded helplessly, because yes, yes, he would have.

Astarion's voice in his ear, his body pressed close, and the savage, intimate imagery he spun were the only things that existed in that moment.

A tear brimmed and trickled down Gale's face as he opened his eyes.

Astarion tilted his chin towards him. The elf's scent, no longer a whisper but a drowning tide, now enveloped him with full intensity, fresh and citrusy, mingling with a deep, rich undertone and a sweetness that should have been cloying but was instead beguiling. Then, without warning, Astarion's mouth followed the tear's salt-stained path in an unhurried trail: damp tongue, soft lips, and the faint scrape of teeth against skin and stubble.

Astarion's other hand now quickened its pace, setting a steady rhythm, sliding easily before his grip firmed and twisted around Gale's cock.

Gale's entire body seized, and one hand flew to Astarion's, fingers curling around his arm, not to stop him but to have something to hold onto.

"I'm going to..." The words tore ragged from his throat.

"Do you want to come, Sunshine?" Astarion's question was met with Gale's moans and nods as more tears gathered on his lashes.

"Then come for me."

Gale's eyes screwed shut; he did not stand a chance.

Those cursed fingers pressed gently on either side of his neck once more, while the other hand never faltered in its relentless pace.

Gale's vision dissolved in a searing white heat, blinding in its intensity. He was vaguely aware of the gasps falling from his lips, but the thunderous pounding of his heartbeat drowned them out.

His release spilt hot over Astarion's hand as his body convulsed, shaking apart, breath coming in gulps as if he could claw back the air he had lost. Still, the strokes lingered, wringing out every last tremor until the touch grew unbearable and Gale's hips jerked weakly away, his body spent and trembling.

Only then did Astarion relent. The hand withdrew, and Gale collapsed boneless against him, all strength leeched from his limbs.

The elf shifted behind him, sitting straighter, pulling Gale deeper into the cradle of his legs. His own erection pressed firm against the small of Gale's back, a need momentarily set aside. His fingers rested on Gale's neck, applying just enough pressure to remind him of their presence without restricting his airflow.

Gale, feeling like a boneless deadweight against Astarion, rested his head on the elf's shoulder, his lashes heavy. It felt as though his entire body had been stripped of its muscles, while he remained acutely aware of every single one.

"Will you be good for me just a little longer?" Astarion's voice came, nothing but a low purr in Gale's ear.

In that moment, the elf could have asked for anything, anything at all, and Gale would have given it freely, gladly. His vision blurred, movements languid as a slow tide, and he managed another single, hazy nod.

Cool fingers grazed his lips, slick with the evidence of his own undoing. Astarion eased them forward, and Gale parted obediently, letting the digits slip past his teeth. The elf's fingers pressed against his tongue, firm enough to make his breath falter. The taste bloomed, dark and musky, as Gale closed his lips and drew them in, sucking them clean with quiet, mindless devotion. His tongue traced the spaces between each finger in reverent silence.

When Astarion withdrew, he dragged wet fingers lightly down Gale's jaw, smearing spit and salt across already heated skin. "Are you alright, Sunshine?" The words were soft, almost gentle, as he brushed a thumb along Gale's cheek, still damp with tears he had not even realised had fallen.

Gale could not trust his voice; he felt too full, too raw, too close to breaking. If he opened his mouth, he feared everything inside him would pour out unchecked. So he simply nodded once more, a small, shaky motion.

At last, Astarion released his hold on his throat, sliding both arms around Gale's waist in a loose, possessive embrace. He bent his head, lips ghosting over the tender spot beneath Gale's ear, and began a trail of kisses down the curve of his neck until they reached the mark left what felt like an age ago. He lapped at the small wound slowly, eliciting another soft moan and shiver from Gale.

Lucidity seeped into the periphery of Gale's mind, granting him a sliver of clarity. He twisted slightly, reaching for Astarion's persistent hardness, but the elf caught his wrist and shook his head.

"Enjoy this for now. You did great, Sunshine," he said softly, as he brought Gale's palm to his mouth and planted another gentle kiss on the skin forever marked by ink stains. Gale felt a pang in his chest at the sound of the praise.

His muscles slackened under the words, obedience flooding through him as he melted back into Astarion's hold. The elf's fingers threaded into his sweat-damp hair, then glided down the side of his face, moving further along his form: from his underarm to his waist, slipping beneath the half-open folds of his shirt, then drifting over his chest, careful to avoid the softly glowing orb.

Gale gazed down, mesmerised, breath hitching as Astarion's feather-light touch drifted closer, tracing the edges of the blight beneath his skin. But just as Gale braced for contact, those fingers veered away.

A quiet whimper broke free from him before he could stop it when the elf's hand fell away entirely. Astarion's soft laugh followed, warm and amused, as he drew back to pick up a folded rag from a precarious stack of books at his bedside. He wiped his hands first, fastidious as ever, then turned his attention to Gale, cleaning the worst of the mess from his front before reaching down to fix the ties on his trousers.

It was only then, when the heat began to ebb and silence crept in, that reason returned like an uninvited guest, muddy boots trampling fine carpets. It barged past Gale's dazed haze, scattering fragments of pleasure with shards of shame.

His muscles tensed, shifting from mellow and relaxed to coiled like a cat ready to bolt.

He grappled with the unsettling notion that he might have exploited Astarion's vulnerability, allowing the situation to spiral out of control and, even worse, deriving pleasure from it without offering any form of reciprocation.

He straightened up abruptly, breaking free from Astarion's relentless gravity, and the elf's hands released him without resistance.

"Shit—sorry," Gale blurted, words tumbling out like stones. "I'm usually a much more gracious companion. I apologise; that was unforgivably rude of me, and I can't, there's no excuse for such thoughtless behaviour. I—"

"Gale."

Astarion's voice cut through his rumbling, carrying weight, as if the single syllable of his name held deep meaning. 

Gale took a shuddering breath, then slowly pulled away, torn between the need for space and the desire to stay. Looking Astarion in the eye was entirely too much. His heart beat a relentless rhythm in his tight throat.

"I—" he tried again, but faltered. He wanted Astarion to say something, anything, but the elf just stared at him with an unreadable expression.

"I'm going to..." Gale gestured vaguely towards the exit of the tent, then stood abruptly, relieved that Astarion had not taken enough of his blood to leave him too light-headed and that they had not progressed to removing any clothing.

Astarion remained motionless on his bed, a light dusting of flush still high on his cheekbones and his hair slightly dishevelled, yet otherwise showing no signs of what had just happened. In contrast, Gale felt his face aflame, the heat spreading down to his chest. His shirt was open and rumpled, and his breeches were still damp from the remnants of their encounter, cool and uncomfortable against his skin.

"I'll see you later," Gale finally said.

Astarion offered no response, but his piercing, calculating gaze remained fixed on Gale until he backed out of the tent. He knew he was running away again, but it was painfully clear that thinking in Astarion's presence was not his strong suit, and thinking was something he urgently needed to do.

✦

Gale stood beside Halsin, observing the still-motionless body of Art Cullagh. He was only half listening to the discussion about the curse, how it might be lifted, and a boy named Thaniel. For the second time in his life, he found himself disinterested in the arcane forces enveloping the lands.

Was it intriguing? Absolutely. Important for aiding the people? Unquestionably. Could the discussion have benefited from his insight into magic and history? Without a doubt.

Yet none of these considerations stilled the storm in his mind as he struggled to make sense of what had happened in Astarion's tent only hours before.

"So, what, you want us to lift the curse?" Astarion's voice rang out, dripping with disdain as he addressed Halsin. "I know everyone seems to be under the delusion that we're some sort of travelling charity, but do understand, our hands are quite full as it is."

"I'm aware that this is yet another substantial request, but I can't accomplish this without your help," the druid replied, his low baritone carried a note of plea. Astarion merely scoffed.

"You're fortunate I like you, bear-man," he said, arms folded across his chest.

Gale's mind reeled. The figure before him seemed worlds apart from the one who had held him close and guided him to release.

He was both surprised and grateful that no one remarked on the transformation Astarion had undergone. The dark circles beneath his eyes had faded, and his movements had regained their lively animation. To Gale, it was glaringly obvious that Astarion had fed, yet no one else seemed to have taken note.

"So, it's agreed, we're helping, right?" Karlach chimed in. "I'm ready for a break from getting slapped around by these cultists."

Despite the humour laced within her words, Gale knew the burden of her impending return to Avernus loomed over her. The prospect of cleansing these lands and aiding the local populace filled them all—well, most of them—with a sense of hopeful anticipation, a much-needed distraction.

Even Shadowheart seemed eager to lend a hand, despite knowing her own deity was responsible for the plight of this region.

Gale absently pondered how difficult this must have been for her, witnessing her goddess wreak havoc and shatter countless lives in petty rivalry. Regardless of one's unwavering faith, such devastation must have been deeply disillusioning. He had considered reaching out to her on numerous occasions, but with his tarnished reputation and fractured bond with his own deity, he doubted he was in any position to offer comfort.

After settling a few remaining details with Halsin, his attention only half-engaged, Gale made his way towards the cellar to prepare their rations for the next leg of the journey. Near the bar, he stumbled upon Astarion, surrounded by the gnomes: Barcus and his long-lost friend Wulbren— recently freed from the Moonrise prisons by Karlach and Shadowheart—now reunited at last.

"Listen to me, you wretched little fucker," Astarion's voice sliced through the chatter, his glare fixed squarely on Wulbren. The venom in his words struck Gale like a thunderbolt. He had hoped they were past this.

"Unfortunately for me, you are my friend. Rescuing you from mortal peril is my right," Barcus interjected lightly, his eyes never leaving Wulbren, letting Astarion's barbs slide past without notice.

Wulbren crossed his arms. "But you didn't rescue me, did you? I rescued myself—with the aid of this... helper," he said, sounding both bored and disdainful as he gestured at the elf.

"Gnome," Astarion said coolly, his gaze boring into Wulbren with such intensity that Gale would not have traded places with him for all the magic in the world. But when Astarion cast a quick sidelong glance, it was clear his words were meant for Barcus. "Are you telling me you expected us to risk our lives to save this arsehole?"

"He is my friend," Barcus insisted. Wulbren opened his mouth to interject, but Astarion was quicker.

The elf regarded Barcus with a mixture of pity and incredulity. "This prick," he jabbed a finger rudely in Wulbren's direction, "is not your friend. Go find yourself a better playmate."

Gale's mind was working overtime until he realised that Astarion was, in his own acerbic way, trying to be kind to Barcus.

All Gale's complicated feelings were momentarily forgotten as a startled chuckle escaped him, relief mingled with the sheer absurdity of the scene. The sound earned him a sharp, withering look from Astarion.

Gale released a long sigh, simply shook his head in bemusement, and continued his descent to the cellars, entrusting the gnomes to Astarion's dubious care, fervently hoping their little domestic would not escalate into violence.

The basement was steeped in dim light, the musty tang of ancient mould making each breath an effort. As he set to work, his mind conjured unsettling images of tiny particles infiltrating his lungs, filling him up, bursting, his cells sprouting into intricate patterns of myconid, until he became part of a greater whole. He clung to such grotesque notions as a distraction, desperate to keep his thoughts from circling back to Astarion. Anything, even the prospect of turning into a human mushroom, was preferable.

His efforts were cut short, however, when footsteps echoed. His heart sank as he glanced up and saw the figure descending the stairs. Like a spectre conjured from the depths of his own mind, Astarion approached quietly.

"Did you kill Wulbren?" Gale asked, foregoing pleasantries, eager to break the silence before Astarion broached the one subject he did not want to offer up for discussion. They had not spoken since Gale had left the elf's tent; he had retreated to his quarters until duty summoned them both to Halsin's meeting.

"He isn't dead," Astarion muttered. "Yet," he added with ominous weight.

Gale kept his eyes fixed on the table, focused on the task at hand, and dared not look up. "I'm surprised you cared enough to intervene," he said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Astarion shrug, offering no further comment on the exchange with the gnomes.

A dense, uneasy silence settled between them, broken only by the faint rustle of Astarion opening the small boxes stacked near Gale's workstation and setting their decidedly unappetising contents on the table for preparation. The tension in Gale swelled, pressing against his ribs as if his chest had grown two sizes too small.

"My apologies for leaving so abruptly," he blurted, his voice cracking the silence. He cast a quick glance at the elf, feeling absurdly like an awkward adolescent fumbling through his first entanglement, a notion that might have been comical had it not felt so excruciating.

To his surprise, Astarion did not appear angry. Nor even mildly offended. Instead, he set the box he was holding down with a measured sigh.

"It was… rather more than a delightful little indulgence." His head tilted, and a faint smile touched his lips. "Though I do hope I haven't overstepped. That was never my intention." The sincerity in his tone, rare and unguarded, unsettled Gale more than any display of temper ever could.

Gale frowned. "Of course not." In his surprise he forgot his resolve to avoid the elf's gaze, and their eyes met. "In fact, I was more concerned about you. I shouldn't have... It was clear you were overwhelmed with emotions. I can't shake the feeling that I might have somehow manipulated you into this."

Astarion let out a short, incredulous laugh. With a few unhurried steps, he rounded the table where Gale stood sorting ingredients and slid onto its edge. The surface was just high enough that his boots dangled, toes grazing the grimy floor.

"Believe me, Sunshine, when I say I was more than happy to participate," Astarion said lightly. "But this," he gestured between them, "shouldn't happen again." His voice was gentle as he looked at Gale, head tilted slightly as if searching for an answer he would not ask aloud.

Gale opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He wanted to tell Astarion to disregard everything he had said before, that his longing for romance, for the whole grand affair, was meaningless when death shadowed his every step. Yet fear of rejection held him fast.

Now that the heady desire had subsided and its tide had receded, only the aftermath remained, like a nerve exposed to harsh sunlight and open scrutiny. Worse still was the thought of jeopardising the fragile friendship they had forged.

Gale had never really had friends before. Beyond Tara, his life had been one of solitude, without anyone to share his private musings, his laughter, or his silences. He had been a lonely child, forced to grow up too quickly, skipping the rites of youth, steps that had seemed insignificant at the time but now left him with a profound sense of emptiness and isolation. Despite Astarion's brashness, mockery, and penchant for unnecessary cruelty that often drove Gale to the brink of madness, he was still terrified of losing the fragile connection they had built.

"Your desire and my need," Gale said, half-quoting and not meaning a word of it, but it was easier to fall back on that than to confess the embarrassing thoughts clamouring in his head. He busied himself with sorting through a worn, dusty bag of vegetables that was coming apart at the seams. He tried to keep the disappointment from creeping into his tone, though the weight of it clung stubbornly to every syllable.

He drew out a bunch of carrots and began trimming away the blackened, wilted tops. They were shrivelled and dry, a thoroughly disheartening sight, likely bereft of any real flavour. Still, they would do, enough to lend a whisper of sustenance to a thin stew.

"Something like that," Astarion said at last, after watching him in silence for a few moments. His tone carried a trace of something uncharacteristic, almost subdued. "But I wanted to thank you."

"For what? Coming in my breeches and running away?" Gale forced a half-hearted chuckle.

"No," Astarion replied smoothly, though a curl of amusement threaded the word. "I mean, that was quite remarkable as well. But I was referring to earlier. It seems you've witnessed me at my most tragically beleaguered far too often of late. Rest assured, I don't make a habit of playing the helpless damsel, unless, of course, it serves my purposes."

"Don't do that," Gale said firmly, his knife coming to a halt mid-motion. He kept his gaze fixed on the mangled carrot in his hand, jaw taut. "Don't… trivialise it. What you endured, though I may never know every detail, I know it was nothing short of harrowing. That you stand here now, having come this far, is a profound testament to your strength." Gale set the knife down and turned fully toward Astarion. "I've come to understand, through my own trials, that confronting our inner demons isn't a singular act of defiance. It's a relentless struggle, facing those shadows as they return, again and again, night after night." His lips curved into a faint, wry smile as his eyes met Astarion's. "But I have recently discovered that allowing others to share in that burden can make the journey a touch more manageable."

Astarion's brows knitted into a thoughtful frown.

"Fine," he said at last, his voice low, gaze locking onto Gale's with startling intensity. He lifted a hand toward Gale's shoulder, a slow, deliberate movement that made Gale hold his breath without meaning to. But just shy of contact, Astarion hesitated. His fingers curled inward, forming a fist, and after a heartbeat's pause, he let his arm fall back to his side.

With a final, unreadable nod, he slipped down from the table. His boots tapped softly against the stone as he made for the stairs. Only then did Gale let out a slow breath, doing his best to ignore the faint sting of disappointment.

Shaking his head as though to scatter such foolish thoughts, Gale turned back to the workbench and pried open a crate Astarion had been rummaging through earlier. Inside, neat stacks of dried goods met his gaze. His frown deepened.

"Hang on," he said abruptly, his tangled musings grinding to a halt.

Astarion paused mid-stride and looked back over his shoulder.

"This crate is full of food," Gale said, incredulous. "So why, in the names of all the gods, did you hand me that miserable scrap of fish and nothing else?"

For a beat, Astarion simply blinked at him, then let out a soft laugh, lifting one elegant hand in a careless wave.

"See you later, Sunshine," he called, offering no clarification before sauntering up the stairs with infuriating ease.

Left alone, Gale stared after him, feeling, as he often did, that he was missing something. Most likely yet another jest at his expense.

✦

(Click image for NSFW version)

Chapter Text

✦✦✦
Gale

"Arabella?" Karlach's voice cut through the silence from somewhere ahead as they trudged towards the abandoned cemetery, retracing Art Cullagh's steps to the local house of healing. "Are you all—" Gale caught her voice again, though it faded quickly into the thick unnatural fog that surrounded them. An uneasy sensation settled over his shoulders, urging him to quicken his pace. Judging by the hurried footfalls behind him, he was not alone in his concern.

Karlach's form emerged as the mist parted, her silhouette solidifying within the ghostly veil.

Thrum.

Thrum.

Thrum.

Gale felt it first—deep, primal magic surging through him before his vision could register the scene. The world warped and buckled as the energy slammed into him with a violence that left him reeling and unmoored. He was but a leaf caught in a maelstrom, tossed in the raging squall; for a fleeting, irrational moment, he feared it might tear him asunder, obliterating him into nothingness.

Invisible threads of power knotted and twisted even before he could reach for his own magic, dragging him forward, each step heavy with a burden that strained the very fabric of their existence. The air crackled against his skin, sparks of raw energy snapping and biting, pulling and pushing as though intent on unravelling the very essence of his being.

Behind him, someone gasped; the wave had struck them with equal ferocity.

Shaky steps carried him forward until he finally reached Karlach. Gale peered over her shoulder as the scene ahead sharpened into focus.

Arabella, the tiefling child from the grove who had stolen the druid statue, stood at the eye of the magical tempest of her own making. Her small frame seemed at odds with the raw power she channelled. Her eyes were wide and unblinking; she stood caught in the thrall of her creation.

Gale watched, mesmerised, as she bent the Weave to her will with an unbridled force. Her movements were fluid, words half-formed, mere fragments of syllables rather than complete incantations. Yet the magic responded as though eager to obey, surging like an unchained torrent, as she subdued two shadows with relative ease; an achievement that might have daunted even the most seasoned spellcasters.

In an instant, Gale's awe curdled, rotted, and decomposed into something dark and vile, coiling like a carrion crawler in the pit of his stomach. He stood there, feet rooted to the ground, hollowed out, like an empty shell: a brittle effigy of the once-great Gale of Waterdeep.

For in her, he glimpsed a reflection of his own past, a time when his command of the arcane had been so extraordinary that even a deity had taken notice. All these dreadful sentiments germinated in his mind, blossoming into a wave of loss and mournful nostalgia.

He tore his gaze away, unable to look upon her, unable to face the ghost of his past embodied in a child.

From the corner of his eye, he watched Karlach and Halsin cautiously approach her. Gale knew, deep down, that he should have been with them. As someone well-versed in the Arts, he should have stepped forward to guide her, to shield her and everyone else from the force she had summoned.

But he could not. He could not even bear to look at her.

Arabella had stopped casting. And while some of the intensity of her arcane power had ebbed, the energy still clung to her like a living thing.

Gale needed to get away. His eyes roamed, desperate for escape, for anything to divert the rising tide of despair. He searched frantically for some distraction, something that might demand his attention. He caught Astarion's raised brow, unsurprising given the turbulent hammering of his own heart, but for once, Gale successfully ignored the elf. A hysterical laugh nearly broke free as he realised that, in this dreadful snarl of emotions, he had finally discovered something potent enough to eclipse his ever-growing infatuation with the vampire.

He pivoted and took a few unsteady steps towards a nearby crypt. Pressing his palm against the frigid stone, he tried to steady the tremor in his breath. He could hear Halsin's low rumble and Karlach's quiet murmurs, but their words seemed to slip through his grasp as he desperately sought his elusive calm. They must have spoken the right words, as the oppressive energy around them began to wane and the tight coils around Gale's lungs gradually loosened.

Only when his mind began to clear and his senses sharpened did he feel it—a faint, insistent pull. A subtle compulsion urged him to examine the tattered rags clinging to a heap of skeletal remains, abandoned and forsaken by the crumbling tomb. The bones lay discarded in the withered grass, bereft of the dignity of a proper burial.

Gale crouched and gingerly peeled back the ragged cloth, searching for a pocket, a hidden seam or any item of value. At last, his fingers closed around something metallic. Slowly, he opened his hand, and there, glinting against the bleak backdrop of the desolate landscape, was a ring of such brilliance that its magical nature was unmistakable.

He slipped it into his satchel, knowing he would need time to study and unravel its properties. Yet, as the ring settled within the depths of the bag, another sensation stirred: a strange, persistent tug, drawing his attention farther still.

Rising to his feet, Gale cast a glance at his companions. Relief swept through him when he saw the group preparing to part ways, with Halsin and Wyll already escorting Arabella down the shadowed path, heading back towards the inn or perhaps their camp. He watched her small figure recede into the gloom, flanked by the druid's towering silhouette and the gentle glow of light Wyll had conjured to guide their way. The relief of her departure outweighed the anxiety of their impending reunion at the sanctuary of their campsite.

Shaking his head slightly, he turned to the restrained shadows still bound in wild, beautiful vines. Summoning his magic, he finished the task, dispatching the ensnarled creatures with a single, decisive blow. He might have taken pride in the precision of the strike were it not for the fact that Arabella had already rendered the creatures helpless and weakened.

"Well, that was a perfectly ordinary reaction you had there, Sunshine." Astarion looked at him with a bemused smirk, but Gale, not trusting his voice, walked past him without a word. To his surprise, Astarion let him go, following in silence and refraining from needling him further.

For a fleeting moment, Gale had forgotten the ring resting in his satchel. But as they approached the foreboding edifice of the house of healing, the strange pull grew more insistent.

It thrummed relentlessly throughout their skirmish with Ketheric's resurrected, deranged kin—a trait that seemed to pervade the family as a whole—while Gale dodged spells and unleashed his own. The tug did not abate, even when the battle ended. It persisted as his companions examined the lute they had unearthed, speculating whether it once belonged to Art Cullagh and might serve as the key to his awakening.

The feeling remained relentless, drawing him inexorably onward until they reached the chambers where Arabella's parents lay lifeless.

Gale surveyed the cold bodies, his gaze settling on the undead nurse that hovered nearby, performing her grotesque mimicry of care as though her charges were still alive. The sight twisted his stomach with deep-seated unease, choking back the surge of sorrow rising in his throat as he tried to ignore the horrified sound that escaped Karlach.

He shut his eyes, both to concentrate and in a desperate bid to banish the image from his thoughts.

The presence of the strange, magical tether had grown almost tangible now, tugging at his senses with unwavering insistence. He stepped aside, scanning the floor. The source of the sensation lay somewhere across the hall. He could feel Astarion's gaze burning the back of his skull, yet the elf made no move to follow, a small, unexpected mercy for which Gale felt a flicker of gratitude.

He crossed the dilapidated, windowless room, dust and mould swirling through the stagnant air with each groan of the rotting floorboards beneath his boots. Then he saw it—another skeletal form, slumped in the shadows, its withered fingers curled rigidly around a leather-bound journal, clutching it still, as though even death had failed to break its grasp.

He prised the book free and turned its decaying pages with care. It had once belonged to a Sharran priestess, her writings recounting a tale of profound cruelty, chronicling the deliberate unmaking of a bond sanctified by love. The text spoke of a matching pair of rings, one to embrace, one to caress. A Warding Bond—a spell meant to shield and protect, twisted instead into a weapon of control. She had used her husband as a living bulwark, draining his strength and life to preserve her own.

As Gale gazed down at the remains of the priestess, his eyes caught the ring upon one bony digit, dulled by time yet unmistakably the counterpart to the one that now hummed faintly in his satchel.

With the rings and journal carefully stowed away, Gale rejoined the group. His brief absence had gone largely unnoticed, as Lae'zel, Shadowheart and Karlach were deeply engrossed in their hushed deliberations about their next course of action. Only Astarion's gaze lingered on him, offering no more than a single arched brow.

That evening, Gale fully expected the elf to confront him about his undoubtedly peculiar behaviour. However, once Gale retreated to his tent, he remained blissfully undisturbed for the rest of the night.

He lay in his bed, turning the rings slowly in his palm, their cores still thrumming with pure, potent magic. Closing his eyes, he reached into the Weave, coaxing and unravelling the currents that curled about them, beautiful and vibrant in ways no mortal language could articulate. He sought any harm, any imprint the Shadow Weave might have left behind through its malevolent use, for Sharran magic lived between the strands of Mystra's Weave.

At last, he stumbled upon a solitary patch of blight. Emotions so intense often left residues that persisted, frequently dismissed or misconstrued as bad luck or misfortune.

There was no incantation for magic like this, and Gale, with his connection to the Weave weakened, had not felt strong enough in years to even contemplate such a spell. Recently, however, particularly since Mystra's blessing, he had sensed a gradual resurgence of his power. It was worth a try. Crafting enchantments, or reshaping existing incantations to better serve a purpose, had always been notoriously difficult, even for mages whose names had endured the test of time.

In his youth, Gale had relished the challenge, treating it as a favoured pastime. He would hum the words like a song, experimenting with their shape, rolling them around his tongue until something clicked, a talent he had been immensely proud of, and one that had driven his tutors to the brink of madness. Newly born spells were often said to be unpredictable, but Gale had never believed that. He knew they simply needed to find their perfect anchors.

Now, with newfound courage, and, if he were honest, a little private showing off to bolster his spirits after the Arabella incident, he tugged at the tiny speck of darkness. Words began to form on his lips, a hum accompanying them to help shape and guide them smoothly from one to the next.

Removing a curse like this would have been a simple task for a cleric. Hells, he should probably have asked Shadowheart to handle it rather than attempting to create an entirely new spell just for this. But he did not want to answer the questions that would surely follow.

The decay resisted at first, straining to pull away. Then, with a violent surge, it broke free, severing its connection with the host and washing over Gale in its forceful departure.

The headache that followed was blinding, his magic temporarily depleted. But the rings were, at last, cleansed.

✦

The following evening found Gale in a foul mood once again. He truly believed that their fragile companionship was worth more than the mess they were tangled in, but that did not make it any easier to endure Astarion shamelessly flirting with Halsin within earshot.

They had successfully awakened Art Cullagh, found Oliver—Thaniel's other half, a fragment of his soul torn away by the Shadow Curse, and reunited the two. Their final task in lifting the curse, which conveniently aligned with their original goal, was to eliminate Ketheric Thorm.

Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, and Halsin had chosen to remain with their party to aid in the fight against the Absolute. Under normal circumstances, Gale would have welcomed the decision with genuine delight; he liked Halsin, and the druid was a formidable ally. Tonight, however, Halsin was testing Gale's patience without even realising it.

They were seated around a large table in the Last Light Inn, the druid's broad arm draped along the back of Astarion's chair as the vampire animatedly recounted the time Karlach had made a goblin kiss her feet in front of the entire goblin camp. Halsin, wearing that infuriatingly handsome smile, listened with rapt attention, which only served to fuel Gale's irritation. Astarion, head tipped back in laughter, wore a genuine smile that tightened Gale's chest with an uncomfortable emotion.

He was acutely aware that Astarion did not belong to him. They had not even kissed, for gods' sake. Yet watching the elf, who only days ago had his hand wrapped around Gale's cock, now sweet-talking another stirred something raw and restless in his already tangled web of emotions.

He desperately tried to keep the tumult of thoughts, these fragile and self-conscious things, at bay, striving to keep them from tainting his mind and confining them to the dark recesses where they belonged. But the harder he tried, the more they slipped through his grasp, like a slick fish writhing free of his fingers.

Halsin's low, rumbling laugh yanked him back to the present. Amusement glittered in the druid's eyes at something Astarion had said, and he regarded the vampire with clear interest.

It did not help that they made a striking pair, Astarion nestled beneath Halsin's arm like a missing puzzle piece, their personalities opposite yet seamlessly aligned—Halsin's unshakable calm to Astarion's storm. Gale could see it unfolding right before his eyes.

He needed to step away before he said something he would regret.

Without thinking, he pushed to his feet, the sudden movement jolting the table as his knee crashed against the hard wood. Pain flared sharp and bright, but he bit back the sound that clawed its way up his throat, unwilling to add humiliation to his growing list of grievances.

"Apologies, just need a breather," he muttered, the words tumbling out in quick succession as he made for the door.

He felt like a fool.

Out in the biting air, his fingers slipped into his pocket, closing around the small, round pieces of metal. The magic sealed within them radiated a gentle warmth against his chilled skin, a quiet reassurance in a night that felt anything but.

It was absurd, he knew, to even contemplate giving Astarion matching rings, considering the tenuous nature of their relationship. But the elf was running on borrowed time. With no telling how much longer they would be trapped in these cursed lands, and with Astarion feeding on him now firmly off the table for the sake of their collective sanity, the ring could provide a measure of protection during their fight to escape this wretched place.

Gale had almost convinced himself he could present the idea calmly, outlining the practical benefits without a trace of awkwardness. Almost. But the memory of his own traitorous surge of jealousy at the sight of Astarion flirting with Halsin told him otherwise. He was utterly, irredeemably fucked.

For gods' sake. He was a man who had once bedded the Goddess of Magic herself, possessed a profound command of poetry, and ranked among the most formidable wizards Faerûn had ever known. Yet here he was, faltering at the thought of asking his vampire companion to wear platonic matching rings. What was wrong with him? He had always revelled in grand gestures, whether to woo a lover or coax a smile onto his mother's face. What had rendered him suddenly so weak?

The answer was obvious. Gale felt like a beast, sprawled on the ground belly-up, exposed and vulnerable, with Astarion looming above him, not as a gentle master but as a vampire with a mouth full of sharp teeth and sharper words. The possibility of rejection was terrifying, even though Gale realised this was a misguided gesture born of desire-lured sentiments. His thoughts consumed him, looping endlessly until quiet contemplation warped into a feverish obsession.

The sound of approaching footsteps snapped him to attention. Astarion turned the corner, evidently having come out to find him, but Gale was already moving, two strides carrying him forward too quickly, too intent, until the elf was crowded against the wall.

Astarion stilled. Crimson eyes fixed on him, unblinking, offering nothing. In the breath that followed, the rush drained away, leaving only the cold realisation that Gale had miscalculated and now they stood far too close. Heat rose to his face, his pulse hammering as the fragile thread of air between them grew taut.

For days, they had skirted touch, careful and distant. And now here he was, breaking that fragile accord. Gale reached out, fingers closing around Astarion's wrist—an electric jolt at the first contact—turning that pale hand so the soft palm faced upward. He set the ring there.

"It's a ring of protection," he said, stiff with formality. For an instant, he nearly swallowed the truth of its twin, but something in him refused the lie. "It's part of a matching set. Wear it. Please."

He folded Astarion's fingers over the metal and turned away, not daring to meet his eyes.

Smooth.

He cursed himself as he re-entered the inn and sank back into his seat. A few minutes later, Astarion strolled in, unhurried, and resumed his place beside Halsin, but the ring gleamed on his finger as though it belonged there. Gale could not suppress the small smile that crept across his face. He was pathetic.

It did not take long for him to realise that, like everything associated with Astarion, the ring proved to be another mistake, driving Gale one step closer to the brink of insanity.

Gradually, all their companions arrived, taking the last of the empty seats as they gathered around the table for a shared meal, a rare occasion in recent days.

Astarion, with nothing better to occupy him, watched them idly. He dipped in and out of their trivial conversations, but his fingers never stilled, restlessly toying with the golden band Gale had given him. They traced its curve, twisting and turning it in an unending, graceful dance.

Gale longed to banish Astarion from his thoughts, to sever the hold the elf had over him. But once a notion took root in his mind, it clung like ivy, impossible to tear away. And Astarion ruled every passing thought that crept into his consciousness like a cruel emperor, untouchable royalty.

Despite every fibre of his being urging him to make the grand gesture, to pursue Astarion ardently and shape this consuming desire into something more tangible, Gale held back. These feelings were not born of reason but of desperation, loneliness and pain, and the elf had made it abundantly clear that romance was not what he sought. It was Gale's burden to let go, however arduous the task, especially now that Astarion had softened, grown friendlier, more open than before. 

Still, Gale would not endanger that fragile, hard-won vulnerability. No amount of misplaced feelings or ill-advised longing would be worth the risk of losing that, especially when his own days were numbered. So he locked his jaw and imprisoned the words that begged for release. He would not yield to impulse. He would not. Even as he sat there, watching those deft fingers—fingers that had once traced the planes of his body—now idly toy with the band of gold.

Gods, he could still feel them. Cool against his skin, yet burning everywhere they touched. That claiming hand curling around his throat. The memory struck like a blade, and heat surged low in his belly, molten and merciless. His trousers tightened in the space of a breath, unbearably so, and still the thoughts refused to leave him. They clung, relentless, a torment he could neither master nor escape.

Astarion's movements suddenly ceased.

To Gale's horror, when he raised his eyes, crimson met his own—unflinching, knowing. Whatever composure he had imagined shattered in that instant; he felt it, the raw, unmistakable want etched across his face, laid bare for Astarion to read.

And Astarion—the insufferable bastard—smiled. Slow. Wicked. A cruel curl of lips promising nothing but ruin. His gaze swept over Gale, obscene in its leisure, a touch without contact, before he reclined with feline ease, draped in smugness, radiating sin like perfume.

✦

Some time after the torturous meal, Gale was hunched over a cauldron in camp, coaxing potions from the dregs of their remaining ingredients, when a small figure slipped into his peripheral vision. He looked up to see Arabella quietly settling onto the ground beside him.

She had only just learned of her family's deaths. Gale felt he ought to offer something—a few words of condolence, some semblance of comfort. Yet such matters were never his strength. The best he could manage was I'm sorry your parents are dead—a sentiment that sounded crude even in the privacy of his own mind. Years of tutors drilling refinement into him had long ago taught him to keep such blunt impulses to himself.

Having never known his own father, and with no true understanding of what it meant to lose a parent, Gale doubted anything he said would matter. Any attempt at consolation would likely ring hollow.

Karlach had tried to convince him to deliver the devastating news to the young tiefling, but Gale had refused outright. The twisted, unwanted thing that stirred within him whenever he looked at her would have made the task abhorrent, and he would not allow that darker side of himself to surface again.

Jealousy. No, not quite. Something deeper, more corrosive. A gnawing envy. She was no rival, merely the embodiment of what he had once been, in an era long past. That he was now so pathetic was not her fault, and yet the reminder burned all the same.

Gale stirred the stew and glanced at Arabella once more. She sat with red-rimmed eyes, staring into the fire.

He felt wretched. This poor child had lost everything, and here he was, consumed by envy, unable to summon even a few kind words to ease her suffering.

They sat in silence for a long while, undisturbed. Gale quietly tended the cauldron while she watched, her gaze following every measured movement of his hands. At last, when the redness had faded from her eyes and her mouth no longer trembled, she rose to her feet.

A small, hesitant sound drew his attention. He looked up, meeting her gaze—eyes dark as polished obsidian, her golden irises glimmering in the firelight, stark and penetrating.

"Thank you, wizard," she said quietly, and Gale blinked at her in surprise.

"I… didn't do anything," he blurted before he could think better of it.

She merely shrugged. "Everyone wants to talk. I know they want to help, but I don't know what to say. I don't know what they expect me to say. So… thank you for letting me sit here and say nothing."

He stared at her, wide-eyed. "You're… welcome," he managed at last. She gave him a small, shaky smile before making her way back to where she had set up camp beside Withers.

Gale watched her go, unsure what had truly passed between them. Yet, for the first time in days, the weight pressing on his chest eased—if only slightly—at the thought that, perhaps unknowingly, he could still offer a fragment of solace.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

16/II.

Astarion 

The lands remained as crippling and unwelcoming as ever, but with Gale's blood warm in his belly and his hunger finally sated, things seemed a little less grim.

Gale.

Fucking Gale.

Things were quickly spiralling out of control in directions Astarion did not exactly feel fond of.

He remembered the man's body before him, the taste of his blood trickling down Astarion's throat. The way Gale had arched his neck, cartilage jutting beneath soft skin like a jagged ridge. Astarion did not even need to summon the sound of the man's desperate moans, or the way his arse pressed and rubbed against his aching hardness, for his traitorous cock to swell uncomfortably in his leather breeches.

For a moment, Astarion had wanted nothing more than to take, take, and take until they both came undone together. And yet, just as he was about to surrender to the heat of selfish pleasure, he stopped himself.

Gale's presence had been mercifully enough to keep most of the dark memories at bay, but they circled, relentlessly prowling the edges of his consciousness, waiting for his thoughts to stray, for the smallest crack in his defences. Waiting to flood his mind with echoes of uninvited, coerced touches under the iron grip of magical obligation.

He could not allow that abyss to intrude. Not then.

His pleasure had been tainted long ago, and he had feared that it would somehow corrupt Gale's beautiful, bright desire as well.

More than anything, Astarion had longed for the freedom of indulgence without Cazador's shadow looming over him. When that moment finally came, the realisation nearly startled him: how intoxicating it was to watch someone unravel beneath his hands, how exhilarating, how impossibly new.

And the power. Oh, the sweet, perilous taste of power over Gale's want. It was overwhelming, maddening. He held complete control over the wizard's body; he could have done anything to Gale. That thought awakened something primal, something uncharted, deep within him.

Sex had always been a weapon, a complicated tool Astarion had wielded for decades to inflict pain and suffering on others and on himself. But this was different. He could still taste Gale's blood on his tongue, as the man came undone for him. The grip of old anxieties had eased from Astarion's chest, leaving in their place a strange, almost tender pleasure he had not thought possible.

He was not particularly surprised when Gale left in a flurry soon after. Astarion did not take it personally; by now, he knew the wizard had a tendency to grow skittish when flustered. Mostly, he was simply relieved not to be left with one of Gale's astral projections delivering half-baked apologies.

Afterwards, things were awkward, though not nearly as uncomfortable as Astarion had expected. It was clear that Gale wrestled with what had happened between them, likely chastising himself for some perceived lapse in moral conduct. To Astarion's surprise, however, the man displayed far more emotional composure than he had ever imagined, though admittedly, the bar had never been high. Still, Gale refrained from any dramatic measures, such as detonating the orb and obliterating them both to spare himself further embarrassment. Astarion considered that a rather significant victory.

Realistically, Astarion knew they ought never to tread that path again. Yet turning away from something that had brought him such dazzling delight had never been his strong suit.

They had settled on some boundaries, but that did not mean Astarion could not have a bit of fun with it.

And Gale, infuriatingly, continued to surprise him. The wizard's peculiar behaviour at the House of Healing had not escaped Astarion's notice, but it was Gale's reaction to Halsin's unguarded desire that truly caught him off guard and left him feeling almost giddy, for reasons he dared not examine too closely.

His body had moved before thought could intervene, chasing after the retreating wizard, only to find himself backed up against a stone wall and presented with a ring? Astarion's first impulse was to laugh. Did Gale truly see him as some blushing bride? But the jest died on his lips when he saw the earnestness etched into the man's face.

Beyond the vague explanation of "it's for protection", Astarion had little notion of what the trinket was meant to do. But he understood what it represented: trust. Fragile, tenuous trust. And, begrudgingly, he realised he trusted Gale more than he had trusted anyone in a very long time.

Weeks of travelling together had worn away his steel armour of solitude, leaving cracks wide enough for his companions to slip through, waltzing in and out of his private life as though they belonged there.

And, as if the universe sought to underscore that realisation, he returned to his tent to find Karlach sprawled comfortably across his bed, leafing through one of his scattered books, while Shadowheart sat at her feet, legs crossed, calmly sipping wine.

"What in the Nine Hells are you two doing here?" Astarion demanded harshly.

Karlach waved him off without looking up. "Oh, unclench, Fangs. Gale will be here soon. We're having a little pre-Thorm Mausoleum drinking."

"Not in my tent you aren't," he spluttered.

Shadowheart simply poured a fresh goblet of wine and held it out to him, while Karlach leisurely turned a page, ignoring him entirely.

"Oh, by the gods, whatever," he muttered, exasperated. Snatching the offered wine, he sank into the chair beside his makeshift bed, now drowning beneath the mountain of cushions gifted by the very tiefling currently lounging across them.

A few moments later, Gale entered, arms laden with an impressive array of freshly cooked meals. He set the pots and bowls neatly on the desk behind Astarion, the clink of metal filling the silence.

Astarion's gaze drifted to the goblet dangling carelessly from Shadowheart's fingers. "If you spill so much as a drop on the place I sleep, I'll personally gut you all," he said coolly, though even to his own ears it sounded forced.

"You don't sleep," the pair chorused without missing a beat or sparing him a glance.

Astarion put his goblet down and crossed his arms. "Not the point," he grumbled. "So why, exactly, are we having this little picnic in my tent when there's a perfectly functional firepit outside, not to mention the actual inn?"

Karlach sighed and finally looked up, her expression weary but fond. She closed the book with a soft thump. "Tomorrow's going to be tough. I just wanted to enjoy the evening with good company and decent food. Everyone else is wrapped up in their own business, so I figured…" She gestured vaguely around the space with a resigned shrug.

"And did you mistake the address?" Astarion raised an eyebrow.

Karlach rolled her eyes. "Stop being an insufferable git. You love us."

Astarion muttered a chain of curses under his breath but made no further argument, earning a too-soft smile from Karlach and a satisfied grin from Shadowheart.

He averted his gaze, suddenly unsettled, his fingers idly flicking a quill he had plucked from the table.

The next day, they would be heading to the Thorm Mausoleum, hoping to track down Balthazar, and with the necromancer, the key to destroying Ketheric. Once again, it would be the four of them advancing into the burial chambers, while the others remained behind at the inn to assist the Harpers in preparing their pitiful forces for a potential clash with the cultist army and securing the inn for the children.

For once, Astarion did not mind. Killing necromancers was infinitely preferable to watching over children and arming a handful of hapless fools destined to be slaughtered. He had to admit, though he would never confess it, that the four of them worked rather well together.

"Um," said Gale, with all the eloquence of a man tripping over his own thoughts. Astarion had nearly forgotten the wizard was still in the tent, despite the faint quickening of his heartbeat and the scent of him lingering in the air.

He lifted his gaze to the man with a hint of irritation, his patience wearing thin at Gale's awkward hovering. "What is it, wizard?"

Gale shifted his weight, his fingers curling and flexing around the handle of the pot he still held. "I've… made something for you as well."

Astarion gave him a long, disbelieving look. "That's very kind of you, Sunshine, but in case it slipped your brilliant mind, I don't eat." His tone dripped with sarcasm, if only to keep his own sanity intact.

"It's not that…" Gale began, stepping closer and lifting the lid of the pot. A wave of warm, deep, metallic aroma spilled into the air between them. "I had to improvise, so I can't promise it's any good. But…" His eyes lingered on Astarion's face, steady and searching. "I must admit, I'm curious to see if you can eat it."

The sharp trace of blood hit Astarion all at once, threaded with something else he couldn't place. His eyes widened. "Did you cook with your own fucking blood?"

Karlach let out a bark of laughter as she pushed herself up to sit next to the cleric. "That's so fucking disgusting, I can't deal with the two of you."

"Aww, I think it's sweet," Shadowheart drawled, nudging her shoulder against Kalrach's but stifling a laugh of her own. Gale flushed scarlet.

A thousand emotions clambered inside Astarion, fighting for dominance, until he settled on the one he knew best how to wear. His lips curved into a wicked, teasing smile. "You really are so eager to bleed for me, Sunshine."

As expected, the warm hue in Gale's cheeks deepened. "Fine. Well, if you don't want it…" Gale pouted and began to turn away.

"I never said that," Astarion countered quickly. Then he stood and crossed the few steps between him and Gale with languid movements. The tang of blood hung thick in the air now, potent and heady. It had only been a few days since his last feed, yet he reacted like a well-trained hound catching the scent of a treat, every nerve sharpened, every instinct clamouring. Heat pooled low in his gut, an ache that had little to do with hunger and everything to do with desire. He could feel his body responding in ways that were decidedly impolite in the present company.

He plucked the container from Gale's hands and peered inside.

Blood, so dark it was nearly black, sloshed in slow, hypnotic ripples, thicker than any soup. Stray fragments of other ingredients drifted within, their mingled aromas curling into Astarion's senses: unusual, but not unpleasant.

This would not provide the same effect as feeding on a living being; vampires needed the essence of their victim to truly feed, but Gale had already known that.

This wasn't sustenance, it was a gesture. A meal for the sake of inclusion. Gale wanted to cook for him, as he did for everyone else.

And Astarion knew he would drink it. Even if it tasted like trolls' feet, he would gulp it down without complaint.

"There had better be no garlic in this," he said, his voice edged with mock severity.

Gale let out a soft chuckle. "Only vampire-safe ingredients, I promise," he replied, eyes crinkling with quiet delight.

Astarion held his gaze, unblinking, as he raised the vessel to his lips. The taste that met his tongue was unlike anything he remembered, rich with familiar coppery notes, threaded with something undeniably Gale, and grounded by peculiar earthy undertones. Surprisingly… not offensive.

Astarion hummed. "What's in this?"

"A chef doesn't kiss and tell," Gale replied, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

Astarion shoved down the deranged ideas the word kiss instantly conjured and simply said, "It's good."

Gale shrugged, his trademark confidence settling over him like a well-fitted cloak. "I'm a good cook."

Karlach coughed, the sound suspiciously resembling, "Oh, for the gods' sake." Shadowheart elbowed her, but when she tried to retreat, the tiefling snagged her arm and dragged the cleric on top of her, and they both dissolved into laughter.

"Not on my bed!" Astarion growled, though he couldn't muster the heat.

"I'm sure worse things have happened here before," Shadowheart cackled. 

Astarion clung to his well-practised mask of nonchalance, but only just. Judging by the predatory smile curling across Karlach's face, Gale was not as successful. If the tiefling had pieced things together, she gave no sign. Instead, she planted an exagerated kiss on Shadowheart's cheek. The cleric let out a most uncharacteristic, undignified squeak before scrambling off Karlach, both of them laughing.

Watching them, Karlach and Shadowheart all smiles and easy warmth, stirred something in Astarion, something sharp and treacherous he wanted to crush before it could take root.

Partnership born of necessity was one thing. But this… this soft, insidious warmth purring in his chest at the sight of these people was dangerous. And wholly unwelcome.

This will all end in tragedy.

His mood darkened in an instant. He lifted the remainder of the freely offered blood and downed it in a single gulp. When he turned to return the container, he found Gale staring at the two on Astarion's bed, his expression impenetrable yet steeped in a sadness so profound, Astarion wanted to either stab him or pull him close, anything to make it disappear.

He did neither. Instead, he nudged the wizard gently, breaking through that suspended misery, and offered him the pot with a wry smile. Gale accepted, their fingers brushing in the exchange. For a moment, neither let go; Astarion should have released it already, but he gave the slightest tug to draw Gale's attention.

"Thank you, Sunshine," he said softly, forcing as much sincerity into those two words as his foolish pride would allow.

Gale's eyes softened, and for an instant, the faintest glimmer of warmth broke through the gloom.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale 

"Vanquish the beast, and all will be revealed." 

The instant Gale's eyes fell on Raphael, poised at the mausoleum's entrance, a sharp throb seized his skull. The devil was as insufferable and smarmy as ever, his honeyed words dripping with deceit, each rhyme a portent of further suffering and despair.

With a grandiose flourish, Raphael proposed a pact: slay the beast lurking beneath the mausoleum, and he would unveil the mystery of Astarion's scars.

What could possibly go wrong?

Karlach was the first to break the heavy silence that followed the cambion's swift departure, leaving behind a sulphurous cloud that churned in Gale's stomach.

"Are you really going to trust that devil to keep his word if we kill this orthon?" she asked, her arms crossed.

"I trust a devil over a vampire any day," Astarion replied with a weary sigh, then added with a hint of humour, "I think he likes us."

The tiefling's brows knitted together. "Just be careful," she warned, her gaze shifting to the elf, who responded with a toothy grin meant to be reassuring but falling short.

"Am I not the very definition of 'careful'?" Astarion queried with a veneer of feigned nonchalance. Gale could not help but scoff, earning him a crude gesture from the elf.

In truth, Gale wanted to tell Astarion no, they should not sully themselves with the foul dealings of a cambion. He longed to scream his frustration into the void, to have it claimed by the wraiths and shadows. He wanted to rage against the fact that Astarion, who baulked, grumbled and threw tantrums like a petulant child whenever their aid was needed, was now ready to risk all their lives for Raphael's twisted schemes. But the words seared onto his tongue like acrid smoke in a blazing inferno when he glimpsed that rare, fleeting glimmer of hope crossing Astarion's features.

Instead, like a loyal hound—or a complete fool—he followed the elf into the mausoleum without a word.

The moment they crossed the threshold of the foreboding structure, discomfort settled over Gale like a coarse woollen shroud, prickling against his skin and making the hairs at his nape stand on end.

Deeper they went, down through the Thorm family's catacombs, until the air grew heavy and stale. At last, they emerged into an imposing temple. The vastness of the hall seemed endless, its walls of cold marble and shadowed stone soaring into a cavernous darkness that defied comprehension. And yet, for all its breadth, the atmosphere felt stifling under the scrutiny of a colossal sculpture, masterfully hewn from obsidian and dark granite, its form accentuated with veins of gold that glimmered faintly in the gloom.

If the décor had not betrayed the true nature of their surroundings, the magic suffusing the air would have. The oppressive aura and the now-familiar sensation of warmth draining away recalled the curse that shrouded the lands, yet here it felt far stronger, almost alive.

Celestial grandeur entwined with latent malignancy, waiting to be unleashed.

They had entered a temple of Shar.

Gale instinctively glanced at Shadowheart. She stood transfixed, gazing up into the abyss above them, her lips parted in what seemed a mingling of awe and trepidation. With a slight shake of her head, she ripped her eyes away, studied the corridors ahead, and began to lead them forward.

They navigated the traps set to catch the uninvited off guard with ease, their teamwork now as seamless as a well-rehearsed spell. This was surprising, as Gale had never been one for collaboration. Whether in the quiet sanctity of his studies or during his tenure as an archmage, solitude had always been his chosen companion. He preferred challenges on his own terms, unimpeded by the fumbling hands of others whose contributions seldom met his exacting standards—standards that few understood, and fewer still matched.

And yet, here they were, functioning with the precision of a well-oiled machine. A curious symphony of strengths: Karlach's raw power, Shadowheart's focused divine energy, Astarion's deadly finesse and Gale's ever-expanding arcane mastery.

Their bond had grown into something far beyond convenience. They no longer merely anticipated one another's movements in battle; they trusted, utterly and without reservation. And in that trust lay a quiet, unexpected comfort.

Lost in his thoughts, Gale barely noticed where his steps were taking him until he collided with Karlach, who had stopped abruptly before a door. The tiefling turned, one brow arched in amusement.

"Perhaps less sightseeing and a bit more attention to the deadly traps?" she teased, her large hand coming to rest on his shoulder, steadying him. The warmth radiating from her was a welcome balm against the temple's cold, frigid air.

Shadowheart, misreading the reason for Gale's distraction, said lightly, "I can't blame you. It's quite striking, isn't it?" Her eyes swept across the temple's grandeur, tracing the dark splendour around them.

"That's one way to put it," Astarion muttered, his attention following hers with a languid disinterest.

The cleric turned towards the elf. "Aren't you even a little impressed?"

"Please," Astarion scoffed, "size isn't everything. At least, not when it comes to temples." Gale, caught mid-swallow, choked and let out an undignified sound, but they paid him no mind.

Shadowheart chuckled, shaking her head. "So, what would impress you?"

"Oh, I don't know," Astarion drawled, dragging out his words as he cast a critical gaze around the shadowed space. His eyes eventually settled on Gale, giving him a pointed, meaningful stare, his mouth quirking as Gale quickly looked away before his mind could stray. "But a touch of colour wouldn't go amiss. All this black and purple just makes me think of bruises; it's rather dismal," the elf continued as if nothing had happened.

Shadowheart raised a brow. "That's unexpected, coming from you. I thought grandiose underground hideouts would be right up your alley."

Astarion grinned. "What can I say? I prefer my pillows silk and my bed luxurious. Besides…" But they never learned what he was going to say, as Karlach chose that moment to push open the heavy oak doors. The grating screech of metal against stone tore through the silence, and Gale flinched at the sound, followed by a brittle clatter that sounded disturbingly like bones skittering over stone.

In the centre of the chamber stood an altar. Behind it loomed a skeletal figure, poised as if to deliver a sermon. Slowly, it raised its head. Green flames guttered in its eye sockets. Where organs should have been, fire burned instead, but Gale had no doubt it was watching.

"You prowl my battleground. Why?" it rasped, the words flowing with unnerving clarity despite the absence of a tongue or lips. "Are you a friend? A foe? A thieving scavenger?"

Before Gale could fully grasp what he was seeing, a familiar wave of stomach-churning discomfort surged through him. The tadpole within writhed and twisted, reacting to the presence of another.

Impossible. An empty skull, devoid of a brain, could not harbour an illithid parasite, yet the skeleton radiated the presence of a True Soul.

No. Not the bones. The host was something else, something that moved them like a grotesque puppet. Whoever, or whatever, had reanimated this lifeless form carried the tadpole.

Gale focused. A vile miasma of death hung heavily around them. The stench was a sickly blend of overripe fruit and pungent decay, but beneath all that, a darker current pulsed, an unmistakable signature of necromantic power. This was precisely what they had been seeking.

"Ah, a friend, an uninvited friend. I did not request help," the skeletal figure droned once the overwhelming connection subsided, allowing Gale to draw breath again.

Astarion, seemingly unruffled by the tadpole's connection, met the figure's hollow gaze without flinching. "Z'rell sent us to find someone called Balthazar," he said, his tone measured.

"Did she now?" The voice was tinged with amusement. "Enter, and I will see if I have any use for you."

But before they could move, the earth began to quake. Overhead, the magical lanterns flared violently, flames leaping higher and swinging in erratic arcs.

The skeleton spat a string of curses as the ground bucked, forcing them all to their knees. Around them, portals began to tear open.

Shadowheart's lips parted as if to speak, but her voice broke into a gasp when a fresh surge of magic rippled outward. Her eyes widened as whirling voids of dark matter yawned open in the air. From one of these swirling maws, a menacing figure in hollow armour stepped forth, weapon drawn and ready to strike.

Gale immediately recognised the insignia on their breastplate, the golden embellishment twisted into shapes mirroring those carved upon the statues. It was unmistakably the mark of the Nightsinger.

Before he could cry a warning, the air thickened with arcane energy. A sudden burst of light cleaved through the darkness. A spell narrowly missed Gale's shoulder and struck one of the animated dead, which collapsed into a heap of clattering bones.

Then, from the dark corners of the room, more reanimated husks emerged, their vacant eye sockets staring like gaping voids in the dim light. Tension coiled as they advanced, ancient chainmail groaning with each step.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed frozen. Then, all at once, the silence shattered.

The chamber erupted into chaos as the clash of weapons and the crackling of spells filled the air with a deafening cacophony. Steel struck bone with brutal force. Flashes of magical energy tore through the gloom, casting flickering, ominous light across the unfolding carnage.

The four of them turned sharply, realising too late that they were trapped between two opposing forces. They had to choose a side. And they had to do it now.

Astarion raised his bow, sighting one of the undead Sharrans. He hesitated, eyes flicking to Shadowheart. Their gazes met, and with the faintest nod from her, he loosed the arrow. It struck true, and with that, the choice was made.

Gale had not expected Shadowheart to turn against her own, but again, he had never claimed to fathom the Sharran mind. Their doctrines on murder and death were anything but conventional. Still, he was grateful, especially since they needed to maintain their fragile pretence of allegiance to the Absolute, at least until Balthazar was found.

His gaze swept the chamber, fixing on the swirling vortexes from which more Sharrans emerged. He reached out with his magic, mindful to conserve his power, uncertain when they might next find respite. He launched a well-aimed spell at one of the portals just as Karlach brought her weapon down with a mighty swing, obliterating the gateway into dark particles.

They both stopped, breaths coming in uneven bursts, and shared a determined look. This could work.

"Go for the portals!" Karlach bellowed.

Gale dodged one spell and deftly countered another, his movements fluid and precise. He straightened and unleashed a Magic Missile, his eyes narrowing in satisfaction as not one but three portals collapsed under its force. He pushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead and met Astarion's gaze. The vampire's mildly impressed expression drew a confident grin from Gale that only widened when Astarion's lips curled into a faint smirk.

But before he could savour the moment, a spell hurtled towards the elf from behind, striking him squarely in the back.

Gale's vision dimmed at the edges, darkness encroaching as a sudden, searing jolt drove him to his knees. Bones struck stone with a brutal crack, sending fresh torment surging through his body. Pain lanced through his skull as though threatening to cleave it in two, leaving him momentarily adrift in a sea of agony and confusion. His fingers clenched his staff with desperate fervour, seeking an anchor amidst the nausea and disorientation. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. For several moments, he stayed there, one hand pressed to the icy marble floor, the other gripping the quarterstaff, until at last the agony ebbed. As his vision cleared, so too did the shrouded fragments of his memory.

A Gentle Warding Bond.

One to embrace.

One to caress.

It was, perhaps, a quiet embarrassment that had driven Gale to enchant his own ring, ensuring it would not appear as part of a matching set with Astarion's. So subtle was his work that even he had forgotten the enchantment lay upon it.

He forced his eyes open, squinting against the searing light that threatened to overwhelm his senses. Through the haze, he saw Astarion's legs buckle under the force of the spell, but then he straightened in surprise, seemingly unscathed. Gale, however, staggered upright, his vision still flickering as he summoned his magic and unleashed a spell towards the last open portal. It erupted into a swirling cloud of darkness before another figure could emerge.

Doubled over, Gale braced one hand against his aching knee, gasping for breath as he fought to steady himself while the final sounds of the battle waned around them.

"I didn't see you get hit," Astarion remarked coolly as he approached. He appeared slightly winded but otherwise unharmed. Gale averted his gaze, wary that if Astarion glimpsed his expression, he would read him like an open book.

Raising a hand in a wordless plea for a moment to compose himself, his eyes firmly on the ground, Gale felt the cold press of a healing potion vial in his palm. He accepted it without meeting the elf's searching stare and tilted his head back, imbibing its contents in measured gulps. A wave of warmth swept through him, leaving him steady, restored, and somewhat more prepared to face Astarion standing before him.

"Ah, yes," Gale croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. "Quite a sneaky one," he offered, hoping his words wouldn't sound like a blatant lie. Astarion narrowed his eyes in open scrutiny but, to Gale's surprise, let the matter drop. Still, the weight of that crimson gaze lingered, and Gale could not shake the sense that Astarion was watching him closely, as though expecting him to collapse at any moment.

Shadowheart moved towards the tall, gracefully arched door behind the altar, from which an unbearable stench emanated. As they crossed the threshold into the room beyond, the sweet, suffocating scent of decay grew exponentially stronger, clinging to Gale's throat and burning his lungs. The foul odour alone was enough to confirm to Gale that they had reached their intended destination.

At the centre of the room stood a generous table, its surface laden with a grotesque assortment of severed limbs and glistening organs. Beyond it loomed a man, unmistakably undead, his face disfigured by gruesome gashes that formed a sigil, likely the mark that bound his soul to the rotting shell of his flesh. At his side towered a hulking creature that could only be a flesh golem.

Wonderful.

"Finally, we can talk face to face," the man said, glancing up from a pile of bones.

Balthazar was every bit as repulsive as Gale had imagined, his personality no more palatable than his appearance. Though the urge to incinerate the necromancer with a well-placed Fireball the moment he opened his putrid, rot-filled mouth was tempting, Gale knew he had to remain diplomatic.

The plan was simple enough: temporarily enlist the necromancer's aid, extract whatever information they could about the orthon and the other lurking threats, and secure his assistance for the battles ahead. Once the more immediate dangers were behind them, they could turn their attention to Balthazar himself.

"Not just any True Soul could have navigated the path I left behind. You should be pleased with yourself," Balthazar remarked, his tone level.

Astarion stepped forward, one brow arched. "And who are you?" The question was for show; he already knew the answer. They had pieced together enough over the past few days. Balthazar was a powerful necromancer, proud of his craft and his close ties to Ketheric Thorm. Astarion, as was his wont, was merely baiting him.

As predicted, Balthazar bristled at the question, and Gale could not help but be mildly impressed by how swiftly Astarion had managed to irritate him into losing composure.

"You are a True Soul," Balthazar snapped. "There is no excuse for your failure to recognise your betters. But never mind, your potential outweighs your ignorance. I am Balthazar, Chief Adviser to General Thorm, entrusted with a mission of the highest importance. Do you even comprehend what is at stake here?"

Gale's gaze drifted over Balthazar's form, his eyes catching on the intricate insignias and the gold-embroidered markings that adorned his robes. Just above where his heart ought to have been rested a small, delicate Calishite symbol, a curious detail that tugged at the edges of memory. He recalled the many hours spent in Elminster's study, hunched over dusty tomes that had long been off-limits to him. Gale had never found his mentor's half-hearted enchantments or stern warnings much of a deterrent to his curiosity. Now, standing before Balthazar, Gale felt a rare gratitude for the rebellious streak of his younger self; for he knew precisely who this necromancer was.

Elminster had written extensively about the fallen monk, a tyrant who once ruled over the monastic order in Amkethran, a desolate village on the edge of the Calim Desert. Balthazar had kept the villagers in check through fear, enforced by his hired mercenaries. More importantly, he had been a Bhaalspawn, whose mad ambition had driven him to slaughter all his kin in the hope of being the last, before attempting to drag Bhaal himself into death alongside him.

But according to Elminster's notes, Balthazar had failed. He had died long ago. So, how was he here now, standing before them?

Gale took a measured step forward, a polished smile now firmly in place. "Balthazar? The Balthazar?" he began, allowing a tinge of excitement to season his words. "Former head of the monastery at Amkethran?"

Balthazar's expression darkened briefly with suspicion. "The very same," he said cautiously.

"My apologies for not recognising you at once. I had always understood the legendary Balthazar to be a monk, not a necromancer of such… renown."

At the compliment, Balthazar visibly preened, his mood lightening, and Gale noted the shift. Good. He was playing into it.

"What brings a man of such reputation to a place like this?" Gale gestured at their surroundings, keeping his voice smooth, probing.

Balthazar's golden eyes flicked over Gale's face, searching, as if trying to gauge the sincerity behind the words. But after a moment, he seemed to relax.

"There is a relic here. One that General Thorm desires. No, one that he needs. I shall recover it for him, and you," Balthazar paused, as though struck by sudden inspiration, "you will aid me."

Suppressing the instinct to recoil from the stench that clung to the necromancer, Gale leaned in slightly, his charming smile never faltering. He needed just a little more information.

"And why, pray tell, is this relic so vital to General Thorm?"

To his satisfaction, Balthazar continued without hesitation. "The relic grants the General his strength, his invulnerability. It must be recovered before his enemies can exploit it. He…" However, Balthazar's words faltered, and his face contorted into an enraged grimace.

The plan had been simple.

The only thing they had not accounted for was Astarion's incessant need for chaos.

Though Gale had been acutely aware of the vampire's presence most of the time, he only noticed his brief absence when Astarion reappeared beside him. Gale followed the necromancer's furious glare and realised that Balthazar's anger was directed squarely at the vampire. Gale shot the elf a questioning look, but Astarion merely shrugged, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. The mocking glint in his eyes told Gale, without a shadow of doubt, that they were well and truly fucked.

It soon became clear that stealing the ashes of the master necromancer's mother was, in fact, a dreadful idea. Who could have predicted that?

"Out of everything," Gale shouted, his chest heaving as he forced the words out amidst a volley of spells and Balthazar's enraged screams, "why would you take that cursed thing?"

Astarion deflected an attack from a skeleton. "Family members usually make excellent blackmail material!"

"Not if they're dead!" Gale snapped, then unleashed the Fireball he had been itching to cast since their arrival.

"My apologies for not waiting for you to talk him to death. We can try that next time," Astarion yelled back, sweat glistening on his forehead even in the cold, stifling room.

Karlach's voice cut through the din from across the room, her blazing form igniting the space with a fierce, menacing glow. "Shut. The. Fuck. Up, both of you!"

With a swift motion, she cleaved one of the remaining undead in two, and the room fell into an eerie stillness; only their harsh breathing and the clatter of bones echoed in the chamber.

"Always with the fucking bickering. You're driving me insane," the tiefling added. She released a thunderous breath, then jabbed a finger at Astarion. "And YOU!"

What followed was a barrage of curse words hurled at Astarion that clearly had absolutely no effect on the elf.

Turning away from the one-sided argument, Gale's eyes fell on Shadowheart, who had wandered back to the door and crouched on the floor. She gently picked up the helmet of one of the Sharrans they had fought earlier. Gale watched with rapt attention as she lifted it and simply stared at it for a long, pregnant moment before gently placing it back on the ground.

"We should probably find a place to set up camp," Gale found himself saying, his eyes still on the cleric. "If we are to face an orthon, we all need rest."

Karlach released a huff, her words clearly wasted on the vampire, and she brushed past Astarion, heading for the door. The rest of them followed in silence.

Tensions mounted with every step they took further into the temple. Gale's instincts whispered incessantly in his ear, urging him to turn around and flee. Even the cursed lands outside seemed preferable to delving deeper into the domain of his goddess's dark nemesis.

Just as Sharran magic lurked within the webs of the Weave, Gale could feel it infiltrating his very being, filling every empty space within him. His patience began to fray, irritation swelling inexplicably, and the uneasy quiet that hung over them as they moved through the corridors suggested that his companions shared the same growing anxiety.

Footfalls ceased as they arrived before another intricate marble carving of Shar. This statue differed from the others decorating the cavern; the Nightsinger's arms were outstretched, and in her embrace, she cradled a golden bowl. Gale stepped closer and peered inside, spotting flakes of rust-stained residue at the bottom. It took him a heartbeat to recognise it for what it was: old blood, a sacrificial bowl.

His mind reeled. Vague memories of Sharran initiations, of the Dark Justiciars—an esteemed and secretive faction within Shar's clerical hierarchy—began to swirl through his thoughts.

His reflections, however, screeched to a halt as the escalating sounds of an argument abruptly drew his attention back to the present.

Karlach was shouting. That alone was hardly unusual, but seeing Shadowheart as the target of her fury was a new and unsettling development. Karlach's voice reverberated off the walls of the vast hall, making Gale wince. He feared that their commotion might awaken some ominous presence waiting within the yawning depths of the structure.

"Shadowheart, you can't be fucking serious!" Karlach bellowed.

Gale had heard the tiefling unleash such invective upon Astarion, Lae'zel, and even Wyll, but this was the first time he had witnessed her frustration directed at Shadowheart with such intensity.

For a fleeting moment, even the cleric seemed taken aback before her expression hardened into a mask of cold fury. All warmth drained from her, the mere memory of once-shared laughter swallowed by the darkness.

"I fail to see how any of this concerns you, tiefling." Shadowheart's voice turned a chilling tone Gale had never heard her employ with Karlach. "This is my mission. Should you choose to meddle with me and My Lady Shar, so be it. I will slit your throat and offer your blood as a sacrifice," she spat, her face flushed with incandescent rage.

"Me-ow," Astarion whispered, leaning over Gale's shoulder, earning a glare in return. "What? Oh gods, if you want to get between those two, be my guest, but I'm staying well clear while they're so bloodthirsty."

Gale rolled his eyes and decided to ignore the rest of Astarion's monologue, approaching their female companions, who looked moments away from drawing steel.

"Could everyone just take a moment and—"

"I swear by the Gods, if you tell me to calm down, your blood will hit the floor first," Karlach growled at Gale through gritted teeth, her golden eyes never leaving Shadowheart.

"This has nothing to do with you," the cleric snapped at him, then shifted her attention back to Karlach. "With either of you." Her hand flexed on the hilt of her weapon. "If you don't accept my decision, we'll part ways, or we'll fight and see who's the last one standing."

Her words were harsh, but Gale could see the cost of them in her eyes.

Shadowheart was adept at guarding her emotions, expertly concealing them from view. Yet even for Gale, who was not usually the most perceptive of others' emotions—unless he devoted tendays to obsessively noting their every reaction—it was evident she was bracing for a conflict she desperately wished to avoid.

"You are fucking mad," Karlach exclaimed, before turning abruptly, pushing past Gale and storming off.

Retreating into the ominous embrace of the dark corridors while consumed by anger might not have been Karlach's wisest choice. As she departed, Gale sent a meaningful glance towards Astarion.

"What? Oh, for the love of... you want me to..." Astarion gestured between himself and Karlach's rapidly vanishing figure, clearly weighing his options. With a resigned sigh, he seemed to conclude that chasing after the tiefling was preferable to remaining and risking his luck with Shadowheart. "Fine, whatever," he muttered, before turning to follow Karlach.

"Try to find somewhere to set up camp, but don't stray from the main path," Gale called after him. Astarion merely waved him off without looking back.

Gale wordlessly prayed to the Gods that Karlach would not actually try to 'snap Astarion like a twig', as she had so often threatened. Though, in fairness, part of him wondered if the elf might have finally earned it.

With a long sigh, Gale turned his attention to Shadowheart.

She remained where she stood, her gaze fixed unblinkingly on the golden bowl. Her fingers gripped its edge so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

Gale took a hesitant step towards her. "Look, I'm not very good at this, but I think I might be able to offer some insight," he said, breaking the silence.

"I've wanted to become a Dark Justiciar since I was a child. This is what I want, my dream, my purpose," she declared, her voice catching on the last word. A slight tremor. For a terrifying moment, he thought she might cry.

Gale knew he could not offer words to lift the immense burden she carried, but he hoped to ease some of her suffering.

"Purpose is an interesting word," he mused. "I felt it too, when I was with Mystra. My existence felt purposeful while I luxuriated in her light, you know. The only thing nobody tells you is the price the gods demand for their attention."

Shadowheart was still avoiding his gaze, but she did not tell him to stop, so he continued.

"I don't know exactly what becoming a Justiciar entails. The followers of Shar are quite skilled at concealing and protecting their knowledge and sacred traditions. But based on what I've gleaned, the trials are brutal and bloody; most never succeed."

The cleric looked as if she might argue, so Gale added gently, "I have no doubt you will succeed."

Shadowheart finally looked at him, a small frown of confusion creasing her brows.

"I thought you were going to try to talk me out of it," she said quietly.

"Would that work?"

"No."

Gale released a small, humourless chuckle.

"There was a friend who warned me, who tried to dissuade me from becoming Mystra's Chosen for years," he said, a wistful smile touching his lips as sorrow washed over him like rain filling a well. The memories surfaced vividly. "Her warnings began when Mystra first watched over me as a child, grew more insistent during her mentorship, and even more so when she became my lover." He could still hear Tara's voice—reprimanding, then pleading—echoing in the quiet corners of his mind.

"I never heeded her words. And I'm under no illusion that if this is the path you've chosen, there is anything I can say that will change your mind."

"Good, because you can't," Shadowheart hissed stubbornly.

Gale raised his hands in surrender. "And I respect that. But before you stride into this, prepared to shed your own blood and make those who care for you bleed for your cause, I ask you to reflect on one thing. Truly consider whether the gods we worship are worthy of the love and devotion we offer so readily. Are they deserving of the ultimate sacrifice: our humanity?"

His own words struck a profound chord, tightening his chest with their resonance. These thoughts had long circled his mind, ever since Elminster delivered Mystra's demand. Now, they spilt forth and lay bare between them, heavy in the charged silence that followed.

To speak them aloud was both a release and a terror. Thoughts gain weight when voiced, and Gale found himself suddenly overwhelmed, crushed beneath the gravity of his own declaration.

"Careful, mage; you're speaking blasphemy," Shadowheart warned.

Gale moved a step closer, forcing himself to swallow the emotion lodged in his throat. It felt suffocating.

"I assume you know what became of Telamont Tanthul," he said, grasping for a new thread, something to pull his thoughts away from Mystra, away from his own faith.

Shadowheart looked back at the bowl before her, but once again offered no response.

"The High Prince of Thultanthar, an archmage of the Shadow Weave, sought to aid Shar in her attempt to become the new goddess of magic. His efforts led to his demise at the hands of Elminster, and with it, the catastrophic fall of the flying city of Thultanthar—a collapse that obliterated not only the city itself, but also Myth Drannor, which lay beneath it." He paused, letting his words sink into the darkness around them.

"Did you know that Myth Drannor was once known as the City of Love?" he continued without waiting for a response this time. "A place of beauty and prosperity, demolished by the greed of both mortals and their deities. The city endured conflict for centuries, and just as it began to rise from its ashes, it was ruthlessly destroyed once more. All its growth and splendour, lost forever. Innocent lives, sacrificed for the ambitions of gods and the misguided devotion of mortals. Two people who would do anything to appease their deities. Two Chosens of the goddesses we also serve so blindly."

Shadowheart's shoulders tensed. Only a faint tremor betrayed her inner turmoil, but her lips remained resolutely pressed into a thin line.

Gale sighed softly. "My apologies. I don't mean to overstep. I'll leave you to your thoughts. We'll be waiting for you at the camp."

He turned to go, but paused, glancing back at the cleric.

"I'm confident that once Karlach has had a chance to—pardon the pun—cool down, she will agree with me when I say this: we're all here to support you, Shadowheart. But whatever decision you make, you must choose it carefully. Consider what the highest price might be, and decide whether it's a sacrifice you're truly willing to make."

She gave a curt nod, then suddenly her entire body tensed. Her spine went rigid, and her fingers clasped around the cursed scar on her hand, though no sound escaped her mouth. Gale took a step towards her, but her sharp shake of the head halted him in place.

Silently, she lowered herself to her knees and returned her attention to the statue.

Gale lingered for a moment, then made his way down the path after the others.

He found Karlach and Astarion a short distance down the corridor, already setting up camp. He should have joined them; magic would have expedited the process. But he needed a moment alone. Just a moment's respite from the gnawing worry that coiled around his heart like some cumbersome beast.

He sought solace in his own solitary misery.

There was a small alcove, likely once intended for prayer, with a stone bench and shelves carved into the walls. He idly examined a few tattered books resting there, most rendered illegible by water damage and age. A few, however, piqued his interest: treatises on the undead, a Sharran prayer tome, and what appeared to be a children's book designed to encourage worship of the Nightsinger. Without much thought, he tucked the books into his satchel.

From a distance, he watched the firelight dancing on the walls of the camp, the shifting shadows brought to life by the flicker of the flames. He sat on the cold stone bench for longer than he probably should have, eyes closed, attempting to steady his breathing, to release some of the nervous tension and stiffness from his muscles. Only partially successful, he let out a long, final exhale before rising and making his way to the others.

Upon reaching the camp, Gale was greeted by the sight of Astarion and Karlach once again locked in a heated exchange. Though the moment they spotted him approaching, all their frustration abruptly redirected at him.

"You left her there alone?!" Karlach lashed out, her voice carried across the hastily assembled camp as she registered Shadowheart's absence. All the unease Gale had briefly shaken off now settled firmly back in his throat.

"She needs some time, Karlach. Let her clear her mind," Gale said, trying to keep his tone even.

But Karlach stepped in close, eyes blazing.

"I swear to the Nine Hells, if anything happens to her..." she all but growled, jabbing a finger at his chest that immediately tightened.

Being on the receiving end of Karlach's true anger was nothing short of devastating. He wanted to point out that she was the one who had stormed off in the first place, but opening his mouth felt distinctly unwise.

"Stop coddling her. She'll do what's best for herself," Astarion interjected, voice nonchalant. "Her goddess is offering power beyond our imagination. She'd be a fool to refuse it."

Gale wasn't exactly surprised. Astarion had never tried to hide his insatiable hunger for strength, his need to protect himself. Gale did not hold it against him; he was all too familiar with the craving for more.

After all, despite everything that had happened, he could not say with certainty that he would unequivocally refuse an offer to reclaim his place as Mystra's Chosen.

He understood that someone like Karlach might never fully grasp the profound experience of being favoured by a deity, of basking in the radiance of their divine power and affection.

"It's fine, Karlach. Let them be," Shadowheart's voice emerged from behind them as she stepped into the glow of the fire. "I just needed time to think."

Karlach let out a frustrated groan as she took three swift steps towards Shadowheart. For a moment, Gale feared she might unleash her formidable strength and strike the cleric, but instead, she enveloped her in one of her characteristic bear hugs.

"You are so fucking stupid, Fringe," Karlach muttered softly, holding Shadowheart tightly. The cleric clung to her in return, offering nothing more than a harsh exhale into the tiefling's shoulder.

Gale, not for the first time, found himself wondering how his life might have differed had he had someone like Karlach by his side—someone who challenged his decisions, held him accountable, but also supported him without condition.

He had Tara and his mother, of course. But never someone who stood with him unwaveringly as an equal, as a partner. Everyone in Gale's life seemed to be someone he needed to impress or please. Coupled with his considerable talents, it had always been a recipe for disaster.

He wondered whether his path had been set from the moment he began walking, leading inevitably towards destruction, with no possibility of deviation.

He looked around to find Astarion gone. His thoughts turned to the books he had collected earlier. Though he did not hold out much hope they would be of any real use to the elf, they offered a convenient excuse to slip away to his tent.

He entered without ceremony, well aware that Astarion would have sensed his approach long before.

Inside, the memories of the previous day still lingered—the sound of Karlach and Shadowheart's laughter clinging to the canvas like a cruel spectre, mocking the quiet that now surrounded him.

Another harsh reminder that everything they had, everything they had built, was frail, susceptible to loss.

Astarion sat at the edge of his bed, deftly sharpening a dagger. Without lifting his gaze, he gestured to the stack of books, and Gale placed the new additions on top. It was clear Astarion had no interest in idle conversation, but as Gale turned to leave, he paused, casting a look back at the vampire.

"I don't think she'll go through with it," he said, unsure whether he meant to convince Astarion or himself.

Astarion set the dagger aside and reached for his short sword.

"Why wouldn't she? It's a no-brainer," he replied coldly, his disinterest unmistakable.

Gale frowned. It had been some time since Astarion had spoken to him in that tone—clipped and distant—and not knowing what had prompted it, suddenly rekindled his anxiety.

"Not every power is worth sacrificing for, Astarion," Gale said, surprising even himself. His words felt like an empty echo, a stark reminder of his own hypocrisy.

"Only someone with power would say that," Astarion retorted, his gaze sharp as he looked up.

Gale narrowed his eyes, suspicion beginning to churn beneath the surface.

"Why are you trying to provoke me into a fight?"

Astarion abruptly stood, weapon still in hand, and stepped closer, his anger palpable, etched in the tight lines of his face and the set of his jaw.

"I don't know, wizard. Why don't you explain how you got injured?" he demanded, his words pressed through clenched teeth.

Gale frowned. "I have no idea—"

"Don't fucking lie to me," Astarion's voice was a low, contemptuous whisper as he closed the distance between them. Gale's traitorous gaze was drawn to Astarion's lips as the vampire wetted them. They stood there, suspended, Gale's pulse pounding in his ears like a turbulent current.

He should have known it was too good to be true, that Astarion dropping the subject of his injury had only been a temporary reprieve.

"I'm not lying," Gale lied, like a liar. 

His thumb instinctively brushed against the ring encircling his index finger—the twin to the one he had given Astarion.

"Fine," the elf said evenly and exited the tent without another word.

Gale stood there, disoriented. What had he been expecting? A fight? Sex? At the very least, some sharp words that would lay bare his vulnerable human heart. Instead, he was left alone, his blood still thrumming and the lingering scent of bergamot filling the air.

For a fleeting moment, he entertained the deranged idea of lying down in Astarion's bed, burying his face in the cushions, and allowing himself to cry amidst the overwhelming scent of the elf. He considered stubbornly waiting for Astarion to return, forcing a confrontation.

Instead, he steeled his resolve, gathered his composure, and made his way to his own quarters.

Everything was already set up, his belongings meticulously arranged in a way he would never have bothered with himself. In truth, the only person he knew who cared for such precision was the one who had just walked out on him.

With a weary sigh, Gale approached his bed, retrieved a few books from his desk, and began reading, hoping to find something that might aid Shadowheart.

He had not noticed when sleep overtook him, but he stirred at the sound of rustling fabric as Karlach poked her head into his tent, rousing him from slumber.

It was time to move on.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his voice thick with fatigue.

She shrugged. "Like shit."

She swayed slightly inside the tent, her fingers still curled around the flap. "I don't want her to do this, but in the end, I'll have to part ways with her one way or another."

"Don't say that," Gale murmured thickly.

She looked away, releasing a small, hollow chuckle devoid of any emotion, making her next words all the more devastating. "I'll lose her either way. So the best I can do is stay by her side and keep her safe while I still can."

"We'll find a way," Gale insisted, though uncertainty gnawed at him. Whether it was the oppressive atmosphere of the temple or Shar's insidious influence clouding his thoughts with creeping cynicism, he could not summon the reassuring smile he wanted to offer.

If even Karlach could not hold on to her unyielding hopefulness, how could they hope to persevere?

The tiefling stepped fully into the tent, walked up to him, and gently squeezed his shoulder. Then, without another word, she turned and left.

Though the absence of the previous day's hostility should have brought Gale some measure of relief, it only deepened his sense of helplessness.

He buried his face in his palms, struggling to regain composure.

He could not even offer comfort to those he cared about.

Pathetic.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Astarion 

Astarion shoved past Gale with brisk steps. It was not until he reached the fire pit that he realised he had stormed out of his own tent. He cursed under his breath.

He wandered to the far edge of the dilapidated alcove they had claimed as camp, sinking onto a crumbling stone bench. His gaze dropped to the shortsword still clutched in his hand, fingers locked tight around the hilt, knuckles white with tension.

His eyes lingered on the blade, as they often did, searching for a reflection that would never materialise. His jaw clenched, anger smouldering just beneath the surface, stubborn in its refusal to fade.

The quiet crunch of footfalls reached his ears, followed by the unmistakable rhythm of a heartbeat: familiar, steady, irritatingly unthreatening in a moment when all Astarion wanted was a fight. In the faint glimmer of steel, pale green eyes caught the firelight.

"May I?" Shadowheart's voice filled the quiet air, gesturing at the half-broken bench. The seat was tight, but Astarion huffed and shifted over with little more than a grumble.

She sat with all the grace of a rockslide, two chalices precariously balanced in one hand and a bottle clutched in the other. Astarion arched a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips despite himself as he watched her—likely already a few cups deep into the very wine she carried.

"Something tells me this isn't a toast to our victory, but rather a drink to drown the misery of a truly shit day," he quipped, keeping his tone light.

She merely shrugged, uncorking the bottle and filling both cups without so much as a word.

Hurried footsteps echoed in the distance. Her gaze flicked towards their makeshift lodgings, and Astarion followed it—just in time to see Gale dart out of his tent, only to retreat swiftly into his own.

Turning back to Astarion, it was Shadowheart's turn to raise a questioning eyebrow. She took a sip of her wine, then handed him the other cup. He accepted it but resolutely ignored her stare, his thoughts drifting back to the last time he had indulged in a drink. The memory of Gale's blood mingling with the wine, dulling its sharpness, igniting that dark thrill.

"You should do it," Astarion finally broke the silence, speaking mostly to keep his traitorous mind from wandering. "Seize your chance. Take the power. Make sure no one can ever take anything from you again." His words carried a bite, his tone deceptively casual given the gravity of the sentiment.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm.

"I don't even know what has been taken," she muttered, her eyes fixed on the swirling dregs of wine in her cup. "If anything at all... save for my memories. But those belong to Lady Shar."

Astarion scoffed. "Memories are overrated," he said with a careless shrug, though the words tasted hollow. He knew better. The absence of memory was not freedom; it was an itch he could not scratch. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he knew another life had existed. He had been someone—someone who had not been buried beneath six feet of dirt and dragged back into this shell of an existence. A person with identity, now stripped bare, reduced to nothing but a walking ghost bound in flesh.

His lips curled into a wry smile. "Well, at least the fashion isn't entirely abhorrent," he added, keeping his tone playful in an attempt to chase away the bleakness prowling at the edges of his thoughts.

Shadowheart let out a snort. "You called it 'dismal'," she retorted.

Astarion chuckled under his breath. "Interior design may not be a Sharran speciality—dreary shadows, endless gloom... terribly on the nose," he mused. "But the armour? That has some flair. Gold, silver, a touch of drama—you can never go wrong with that." He raised his cup slightly, letting the firelight catch the gilded rim in lazy demonstration.

Shadowheart shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "So," she said, her voice flat, "you think I should become a Dark Justiciar... for the power and a wardrobe upgrade?"

He tilted his head, grin sharpening. "What more could you possibly want?"

"Sex," she replied, flat as stone, but her eyes gleamed—whether from amusement or wine, it was hard to tell.

Astarion's laugh was immediate, low and smooth. "Sex," he echoed, nodding along, his grin stretching wickedly enough to flash his fangs. "Well, yes, of course, darling, but I'm not sure that's quite how your dark goddess conducts initiations."

Shadowheart let out a theatrical sigh, setting her cup down with a flourish as she stretched back, limbs loose and feline. "Gods, I'd give anything for just one night, no looming danger, no murderers on our heels, just a single night of unrepentant debauchery."

Once, Astarion might have taken her up on that—oh, he certainly would have. For someone as powerful as Shadowheart, there would have been no hesitation.

But a lot had happened since then; for one, he preferred not to die with a tiefling's fingers ripping his throat out.

The implication of her words landed a moment later, and his curiosity got the better of him. "Wait, you and the tiefling...?"

Shadowheart straightened abruptly, her ears flushing with a blush that didn't suit her usual composure. "What? No!" She snatched up her cup and downed the rest of the wine in one go. "Not that I'd be opposed... those arms," she added, muttering into the rim. "But I don't think she's interested."

Astarion's mouth twitched, a mocking laugh of disbelief threatening to escape.

Oh no. Absolutely not. He was not about to involve himself in that mess. He had enough to deal with without adding yet another tragic, ill-advised camp dalliance to the pile—gods forbid.

Shadowheart stared at the empty goblet as though it held the answers to all her problems, then glanced back at him, her cheeks still tinged with a warm hue.

"You want to know something truly ridiculous?" She leaned in closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "My memories might have been erased, but I've held onto a few... fragments."

There was a teasing lilt to her tone now, her words dripping with suggestion. Astarion could relate to clinging to those remnants, though he found them more cruel than comforting. The sly smile tugging at Shadowheart's lips only puzzled him further.

"Some of the more... intriguing literature I've encountered," she added.

Astarion's brow quirked as understanding dawned. "You surprise me, Sharran," he drawled. "Not exactly pious, is it?"

She shrugged again, utterly unfazed. "Oh, please. You can't tell me you haven't indulged in a few risqué tales. I'd wager my last coin you've got a collection tucked away somewhere."

Astarion raised his glass in a wordless toast. "Let's just say, my experiences in the Underdark were nothing like those described in the 'Sinful Songs of Menzoberranzan', " he said with another laugh.

Shadowheart threw her head back, and an uncharacteristic sound—awfully close to a giggle—escaped her.

"That's a vast understatement. Gods, the bit about the dragon orgy at the drow palace is still seared into my mind. Even Lady Shar couldn't claim that. I imagine she took one look and thought, 'No, thank you. You can keep that one'."

Astarion breathed out a mirthful sigh. It was rare to see Shadowheart at ease; though a trace of tension lingered in her shoulders, she seemed almost relaxed, and the sight was oddly refreshing.

The conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, the fire of a torch crackling softly between them. 

Eventually, Shadowheart spoke again. "Astarion?"

"Hm?"

"You should talk to him." Her tone left no room for ambiguity.

He froze, his expression carefully neutral.

"I've no idea what you're talking about, dear," he replied airily, a little too flippantly, turning away before his face could betray him. Then, with a few long drinks, he finished the wine. 

She chuckled softly, poured herself another glass of wine, and offered the bottle to Astarion, but he shook his head. He needed to get back to his tent before some unsavoury truth came to light—one he would only regret later.

He stood, his expression schooled, and cast one last glance at the cleric, now settled comfortably into the seat that seemed more spacious without Astarion. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

He did not seek out Gale.

Instead, he strode towards his own tent, though his pace faltered as he passed Karlach's. Her voice filtered through the canvas, growing more animated with each word, a self-directed pep talk, no doubt. Astarion stifled an amused sound before slipping into the sanctuary of his, now blissfully empty, quarters and sprawled across the threadbare mattress.

His mind replayed the day's events, particularly the moment when Gale collapsed just as Astarion got struck by the spell. He retrieved the ring from his pocket, its weight a familiar burden. He had removed it the moment he finally understood what Gale's cryptic "it's for protection" had meant.

Astarion turned the gold band between his fingers, the chrysoprase gem catching the faint light with a mocking gleam.

A Warding Bond. Of course, it was a fucking Warding Bond. Astarion should have known that Gale would try something ridiculous like this.

Stupid, insufferable wizard.

The urge to barge into Gale's tent and hurl the ring at him simmered within, accompanied by that sharp, unyielding anger that still refused to dissipate. Gale had made a sacrifice for him, for him, and the thought only fanned the flames of his fury. He did not need Gale's protection. He did not need anyone's. What he craved, what he had always craved, was control. Control over his fate, his choices, and the delicate balance that kept him alive.

No. He was not some fragile creature to be shielded. He was a predator, a hunter, one who manipulated others into safeguarding him, twisting their desires, shaping their emotions until they bent to his will. That was his power, his careful orchestration.

Now, because of some foolish sentiment, Gale believed he owed Astarion something. And worse, that their... entanglement had somehow given the wizard the right to assume the role of protector.

But Gale's unasked-for sacrifice unsettled everything. It had robbed Astarion of the control he so fiercely guarded, leaving something far worse in its place.

Vulnerability.

His grip on the ring tightened, the metal biting into his palm as tension coiled through him, a volatile mix of anger and uncertainty. He wanted to discard it, to toss the cursed thing into the flames. Yet still, he hesitated.

There was a persistent doubt at the edges of his thoughts, a question he could not quite face.

What did it mean if someone could care for him without being coerced? And why did that fill him with more dread than anything else?

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale 

It had been an age since Gale had last offered a sincere prayer to his goddess. A yawning chasm stretched between the days of blind devotion and the curious void that now festered within him. Had he paused to reflect on the toll it had taken, rather than brushing the thought aside like a guilty child hiding the shards of a mother's cherished heirloom, he might have realised sooner that he was slowly slipping away, little by little. Once ablaze with unwavering faith, Gale now drifted through this plane of existence, hollowed by an ever-deepening vacancy that widened with each passing day.

He should have thought of his goddess, especially now, as the battle swelled around him, a savage crescendo of fire and ruin. Suffocating heat swept through the crumbling chamber as they clashed with the orthon, the air heavy with the acrid stench of charred decay. Flames devoured the rotting corpses that hung from the ceiling and lay strewn across the floor, their grotesque forms twisted in chaotic heaps.

They had been there for what felt like years. At last, only a handful of fiends remained.

It was a moment ripe for a desperate plea to the divine. This could have been it: a chance to capture Mystra's gaze, to prove his valour, to seize an opportunity for atonement instead of awaiting her final reckoning. Yet, in this grim instant, this heartbeat dilated into eternity, he found he cared for none of it. Not for his life, not for his power, and not for his goddess.

Gale watched, dislocated from reality, as Astarion's pale form crumpled gracelessly. His body folded in on itself like a marionette abandoned mid-dance, then lay unnervingly still amid the chaos. Gale's heart faltered as a veil descended, muting all sound and leaving only the rush of blood in his ears. The world seemed to warp; every fragment of reality stretched thin under the heavy pall of terror.

He moved without thinking, though his body felt distant. Each step was burdened as if he were wading through viscous liquid. An explosion ripped through the air behind him, shaking the ground beneath his feet.

Breaking from cover, he threw himself into the uncharitable disarray of the battlefield. One of the last remaining merregons seized its chance, slashing its blade across Gale's thigh and sending him crashing to the ground. Before the sting of it could truly register, Gale murmured a quick incantation. The spell surged with far more force than was strictly necessary, and the fiend erupted in a sickening spray of viscera. Its remnants had not even hit the floor before Gale was already pushing forward, scarcely noticing the warm flow of his own blood seeping through the fabric of his robes, the dark cloth concealing most of the damage.

Half-crawling through the mire of gore, his hands and knees slid across the blood-slick ground, shards of splintered bone slicing into the flesh of his palms as he dragged himself forward in a frantic, agonising scramble When he finally reached Astarion's motionless body, all he could see was blood—too much blood, glistening in the firelight from the explosions. His hands trembled, erratic sparks of magic flaring at his fingertips as he searched desperately for any sign of life. Panic surged through him as he grasped the elf's hand, and with rising hysteria, he realised Astarion was no longer wearing the ring.

Gale's head whipped around, smoke stinging tears into his eyes as he scoured the battlefield for Shadowheart. His heart sank when he found her at last, locked in a brutal struggle with the orthon on a far-off balcony, too distant to help.

A scroll. He had a scroll. Somewhere.

How long had Astarion been unconscious? Gale had only moments left before a scroll would become useless. But Astarion had to be moved, had to be taken from the battlefield littered with explosives, or neither of them would survive long enough for Gale to try.

"Karlach!" Gale's voice came out garbled, unfamiliar and strained, but loud enough to cut through the booming blasts from the orthon's bombs. It reached the tiefling's ears. "I need to—"

He couldn't finish, urgency choking off his words as he gestured helplessly at the elf.

"Go! Get him outta here before another one of these damn bombs goes off!" she roared, throwing a quick, worried glance at Astarion as she cleaved through the last of the fiends. "We've got this!"

As if to underscore her words, another blast detonated, shaking the ground beneath their feet and sending dust and debris cascading from the ceiling.

Gale needed no further prompting. He pulled Astarion closer, heaving the limp body through filth, the effort tearing at his own wound. His thigh and knees throbbed with a vicious ache, but he did not care. Not now. Not when every second counted.

The spell rolled from his lips with practised ease. He focused on the mental image of the rubble-strewn chamber below, one he had marked even before the battle began—a contingency plan he had hoped he would not need.

Just as the shimmering veil of Dimension Door began to envelop them, he caught one last glimpse of Shadowheart standing over the orthon's now lifeless body. In the next instant, they were gone, whisked away to their intended refuge.

They were plunged into sudden, stifling silence. With the searing heat behind them, the sweat clinging to Gale's skin turned ice cold. Debris littered the ground, shadows from broken pillars stretching like dark spectres across the desolate ruins. He released Astarion at once, letting him slump against a crumbling wall.

Gale's fingers fumbled, slick with blood—his own or Astarion's, he couldn't tell—as he hastily unfurled the scroll. Time was his enemy, mocking him with its cruel advance. He had only a heartbeat left to make this right. He rasped the incantation, more a prayer than a spell, and light flared, searing and blinding as it poured over Astarion, suffusing the still, cold figure.

Nothing.

Gale's heart lurched, anxiety writhing under his skin like a living thing.

He reached out, his fingers brushing across Astarion's face, trailing over the marble of his skin, smearing blood and sweat across the elf's pale cheek. His thumb pressed into the bruised flesh beneath his eyes.

There was nothing. No flutter of silver lashes. No needless breath. A cold sliver of dread twisted deep within Gale, coiling tighter with each passing second, gnawing at the edges of his mind as the unspoken 'what if' pounded louder.

But then, a desperate, reflexive gasp—and Astarion jolted awake, his body surging forward, stopping just short of colliding with Gale. They heaved the same air, and for a heartbeat, Gale was suspended between paralysing shock and a wave of crushing relief.

His grip on the front of Astarion's armour remained firm, while his other hand slipped to the elf's neck, shaking as it settled against the cold skin.

"You are alive," Gale whispered, his voice a tremor, barely audible.

Astarion huffed. "'Alive' is a generous term," he muttered, the familiar sardonic edge in his voice—usually a source of Gale's ire—now ushering in a fresh surge of relief.

In an instant, all reason dissolved, swept away by a frenzied, primal need to feel him, to grasp at any trace of life his undead form could offer. Gale wanted all of it, to imprint it onto his own skin.

His hand drifted down to Astarion's sternum, pushing him back against the cold stone wall. The dull throb in Gale's thigh flared in protest, but he ignored it, along with Astarion's shocked expression, as he climbed over the elf, straddling him. He buried his face in the hollow of Astarion's neck and inhaled deeply, desperate for the scent to ground him.

"You are alive," he murmured again, and again. The words spilled out in a desperate mantra, a soft chant that barely registered in his mind, carried on the exhale of every ragged breath.

Astarion froze, his body going rigid beneath Gale's weight. Gale braced himself for rejection, for the inevitable shove and the same cold indifference that had greeted him the day before. He expected Astarion to rise, to walk away and leave him stranded in this peculiar, broken moment.

Instead, a hand slid to the nape of his neck, cool fingers pressing firmly at the base of his skull. Astarion tugged his head back just enough to bring their faces level, his eyes flicking between Gale's, searching his expression.

Another distant explosion echoed through the ruins, but Gale could not tell if it was the earth trembling beneath them or his own thighs quivering.

"What's going on?" Astarion asked. His tone was a cool rasp, void of all discernible emotion.

"You... the ring..." Gale's voice cracked, the words stumbling before they could form properly. "You were gone. Truly gone. I tried... gods, I tried, but it wouldn't... it took so long. Too long. I thought, I thought..." His chest tightened around the unfinished thought, the weight of it threatening to break him.

Instead of letting the words unravel completely, he barrelled on, desperate to explain, to make sense of what should have been impossible.

"Revivify should have worked. It should have been instantaneous. The Weave, the threads, they were there, all aligned, but something felt wrong. Sluggish. The magic wasn't connecting. Not like it should. You... you aren't quite..." He faltered. "Your soul... it wasn't tethered properly. Not in the usual way. The alignment was off, and—"

"Gale."

Astarion had always wielded his name so effectively. Just one word, and the torrent of splintered explanations pouring from Gale fell silent in his throat.

A beat passed. The silence stretched, disturbed only by the rush of Gale's pulse in his ears.

Astarion's gaze flicked towards the ceiling, his false breath arrested as he sat motionless, still as marble. Listening. Waiting. Gale could only guess he was checking for any lingering signs of battle. Then the elf's eyes dropped to the scroll discarded beside them, the bloodied fingerprints stark against parchment even in the faint light, as he wordlessly assessed their situation.

"Takes more than a hulking beast with a bad attitude to kill me, darling. It's almost embarrassing, really," he said at last, easing his grip, though his palm remained at his nape. "Besides, who else would be there to remind you what a bloody fool you are?"

Without that support, Gale's head lolled forward, coming to rest against the curve of Astarion's neck. A breathless, wet laugh escaped him, hot and humid between his lips and Astarion's skin. The pressure building behind his eyes made him afraid to blink, terrified that the tears, borne of panic and near loss, might finally spill over. Beneath him, Astarion shuddered faintly.

"Is it dead?" the elf asked evenly. He did not need to clarify—Gale knew he meant the orthon.

He managed a nod, not trusting himself to speak.

Astarion's free hand slid down to rest on Gale's thigh, his fingers brushing against the forgotten wound. Gale hissed, the sting sharp as sweat-salt seeped into the raw, broken skin, but he did not flinch. Astarion glanced down, then raised his hand slightly. The pads of his fingers were slick.

"You're bleeding," 

With great effort, Gale swayed back just enough to glimpse the damage.

"I was careless," he mumbled. The words tasted strange and distant in his mouth.

Astarion's gaze latched onto him, half amused, half irritated.

"That you were," he replied. His voice was smooth, though the words carried a weight Gale suspected had little to do with the wound itself.

The elf brought his hand up, pale fingers glistening vermilion in the dim light—Gale's blood. Holding his stare, Astarion slowly drew his tongue along each one, savouring the taste up to the knuckles.

Gale watched, mesmerised, unable to look away. Something twisted deep in his gut, sharp and sick and wanting, a yawning ache he couldn't quite name. His breath hitched, too loud in the thick hush that held the space between them.

Crimson eyes flashed, studying, dissecting him.

The shift, when it came, was unmistakable. The honed anger that had marked Astarion's every gesture and word since the day before began to unspool. His gaze softened for a heartbeat, then darkened again as he reached whatever conclusion he had drawn.

Slowly, Astarion leaned in. His movements were measured as he pressed his lips to Gale's cheek, then dragged his tongue along the curve of his stubbled jaw. Gale had not noticed the wound until the sting of the gash registered, muted and distant beneath the disorienting, searing intimacy of Astarion's touch.

It should have been enough to make Gale recoil in disgust, but the adrenaline warped his senses, flooding his veins. His pulse pounded behind his teeth. Magic crackled under his skin, wild and directionless. The boundaries between terror, violence and—disturbingly—arousal blurred in the storm of it all.

Astarion's lips traced the slick path of blood and sweat down his neck. Gale, untethered from reason, tilted his head in surrender, baring the vulnerable line of his throat without thought or hesitation.

A low groan vibrated against his skin, thick and involuntary, the sound of something giving way.

"For gods' sake," Astarion muttered, his voice hoarse and a little uneven, laced with something that sounded almost like defeat.

Then the elf's hand found his side. Gale barely registered the movement, only the slight tilt of the world and the flare of pain in his wound as Astarion guided his injured leg between his own.

Astarion's grip tightened, pulling him close. But the drag of his thigh caught Gale high. The contact sent a violent jolt lancing up his spine, white-hot like lightning, collapsing his breath in his chest and wrenching a strangled, guttural moan from deep within before he could think to smother it.

His hips canted forward of their own accord, desperate for more friction, need outpacing shame by several frantic heartbeats.

The realisation hit him a half-second too late, like a sudden drop; his stomach swooped as if the ground had vanished beneath him. Astarion must have felt it too. There was no mistaking the rigid line of his cock, flush against the vampire's thigh.

No bite followed. No merciful puncture to cut through the heat with pain, no sharp distraction from the humiliation of what had just been laid bare.

Instead, a rough, possessive hand fisted into his hair, yanking hard enough to drag him back into stillness.

They froze, locked in place. The air between them was drawn so taut it nearly sang with tension. Their eyes met. A slight parting of Astarion's mouth was the only sign of his shock, for his stare was blazing.

Gale knew he should have felt mortified, but that notion was distant, swiftly drowning beneath the sheer gravity of that look.
Astarion's fingers flexed in his hair, testing the grip. His legs remained wedged between Gale's, unyielding, pressing up and making his trapped cock throb in time with his heartbeat.

The elf's tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaze fixed, pinning Gale like a blade to bare skin. Their breathing grew harsher, laboured in the narrow space they shared. Then he lifted his knee slightly, nudging Gale forward. Astarion's thigh rose to meet him in a way that left no room for misinterpretation.


All remaining thought scattered like startled birds.

Gale's mouth fell open around another broken, warbled moan as a violent shudder ripped through him, buckling his already tenuous resolve. His hips stuttered forward again, unbidden, seeking more, but Astarion held firm. Gale's lashes fluttered shut, helpless under the surge of sensation ravaging every fibre of him.

Astarion had almost died. They had nearly lost him. And yet now, with Gale perched on his lap, heart pounding and blood roaring in his ears, all he could feel was heat. Thrumming, molten, impossible heat.

The elf nuzzled his nose against Gale's temple.

"Look at you," Astarion murmured, voice like silk, stripped of all earlier venom. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you had a taste for danger, Sunshine."

Gale flushed. His throat worked soundlessly as Astarion's hold in his hair slackened. The moment he was free to move, Gale leaned in, brushing his cheek against the elf's. His mouth parted around shallow, uneven gasps. He wanted nothing more than to grind against him until they were both painfully hard and panting, a raw, desperate confirmation that they were still alive.

Astarion's hand clamped at his side, fingers digging through the fabric into flesh, bruising in their insistence. Gale's fevered mind sparked white as the elf shifted beneath him, all sharp angles and tense muscle, adjusting just enough to offer better leverage.

Instinct overtook him. There was no thought, only need. Gale rolled his hips forward, his aching hardness rubbing along the leather-clad line of Astarion's thigh, and the elf let him this time. They both gasped, the sound stark in the charged air. The angle was still wrong, the friction too harsh, biting at him until pain blurred into something darker. Something ruinous.

He whimpered into Astarion's neck, and pitiful vowel sounds began pouring from his lips when the elf's grip cinched tighter. Ruthless fingers urged him into a relentless, punishing rhythm. Each drag of his hard cock along that pressure sent fire through his nerves.

He let his sweat-dampened forehead drop against Astarion's. He braced for it—the cruel tug, the hand twisting in his hair to yank him back, to reimpose distance. But it never came. Astarion allowed the closeness. Worse still, he leaned into it, breath mingling with Gale's in the scant, blistering hush of proximity.

When Gale finally peeled his eyes open—he had not even realised they were clenched shut—he found himself staring at the delicate veil of Astarion's pale lashes. The crimson irises were half-lidded, fixed on the point of contact between them. Astarion's lips were parted, soft sounds slipping past them, quiet and unguarded.

Then Gale followed his line of sight downward and saw—

Gods.

The obscene press of his own clothed length, grinding against Astarion where his robe had parted and his breeches did nothing to conceal the evidence of his desire. The image tore another shameful sound from his throat, utterly beyond his control.

Astarion's grip never faltered, guiding Gale's movements with unyielding control, demanding a steady pace until Gale was trembling. He clung to him, fingers flexing helplessly on the rigid surface of the elf's armour, searching for something solid as everything inside him threatened to unravel.

"That's it, Sunshine," Astarion said, his voice low and wrecked, as though he were the one on the verge of falling apart. "Let go."

Gale was powerless.

With a shuddering exhale, like a snare pulled too tight, he came undone, heat unfurling with searing intensity deep within. His breath stuttered into a moan as he spilt into the tight confines of his trousers.

The reality of what had just transpired crashed over him before the final tremors had even faded. The magnitude of his mistake filled his lungs with ice water.

Air snagged in his throat, trapped by the onslaught of emotion that left him struggling to inhale. His hands grew cold, palms stinging with a thousand tiny pinpricks, and his vision swam, flirting with the edge of darkness. His already rapid pulse stumbled into an erratic beat and throbbed through his entire skull.

A gruff curse escaped Astarion's lips, and his grip on Gale's nape suddenly grew firmer again, curling in his hair just enough to keep Gale anchored.

"Sunshine," Astarion murmured in his ear, his voice a velvet lifeline threading through the haze of panic and the dregs of desire clouding his mind. "Breathe."

His tone was unnervingly calm, far too composed for someone who had just been ripped from death's cold grasp and led Gale straight to his undoing. But he suspected Astarion's poise was nothing more than a calculated performance for his benefit.

"I said," Astarion whispered again, this time firm and commanding, "breathe."

It was not a request. Gale was not given a choice.

The dam inside him finally broke, and the pent-up air rushed out in a trembling release. He clung to the slow, measured rise and fall of Astarion's chest, matching his rhythm as though his life depended on it.

"Now," Astarion added with a drawn-out, languid chuckle, his tone softening just enough to tease, "we wouldn't want that orb of yours getting any ideas."

It was not the orb—surely it couldn't be. It had stabilised. He wanted to tell Astarion that it was not the orb pressing against his ribcage now, threatening to tear him apart at the seams, but the words refused to emerge, dissolving before they could solidify into anything coherent.

Instead, he focused on the elf before him, a pillar amidst the bedlam. Astarion guided each breath, every inhalation carefully measured, coaxing him from the storm within. Gale, in turn, forced his burning lungs to obey, his robe pulling taut as he drew in a deep mouthful of air, only to release it in a slow, near-agonising exhale. The inundation in his mind began to still. Though it was not peace that settled in its wake, but a fresh wave of self-loathing and humiliation. Astarion had nearly died, and still, it was Gale who needed comfort.

Pathetic.

Summoning what little resolve remained, he nodded, squeezing his eyes shut in a feeble attempt to regain control.

"As much as I'd love to stay here, darling," Astarion said at last, his voice still raspy but free of reproach, as he reached out to tuck a damp lock of hair behind Gale's ear, "we should probably check on our lovely companions." There was no trace of the cool detachment he had worn the night before.

Gale offered another nod, this time steadier. They did not move at once, granting themselves a few more moments to breathe in the cloying air in silence.

Gale's slowly sharpening awareness settled on a creeping unease. Discomfort skittered up his spine like a cold shiver when he became acutely aware of the mortifying evidence in his breeches—a humiliating testament to yet another one of his grandiose mistakes.

"Who knew you could be so... enthusiastic about battlefield strategy," Astarion teased as if his playful jibes—and the incident itself—were perfectly reasonable. As if they had not both agreed that giving in to such reckless impulses had been a mistake best left unrepeated.

The elf's fingers trailed a lazy path along the side of Gale's face, skirting the wound on his jaw, before drifting down to his neck and dipping just beneath his collar. Astarion's cool touch was a sharp contrast against Gale's feverish skin, and the simple sensation sent a tremor rippling through him. His eyelids fluttered in response.

As Astarion's words finally sank in, an involuntary, embarrassed groan escaped Gale, followed by a strangled, almost laugh that shook loose from his chest. And with it, the world seemed to expand around him again. The muted colours and muffled sounds—distant, familiar voices drifting through the air, and the soft clatter of what sounded like someone sifting through rubble—rushed back, growing sharper with each breath he drew.

There would be time later, if they survived this accursed place, for reflection. For now, they needed to get back to Karlach and Shadowheart. The longer they remained apart, the more likely something horrible would happen. They had already wasted too much time.

So Gale forced himself to cast aside the memories already forming, pushing them down into the dark recesses of his mind where regret, pain, and sorrow already lay in wait. He buried them deep, alongside every failure, every instance of shame, and the burden of every choice that had carved indelible scars into his soul.

Without a shred of grace, Gale hauled himself upright, his knees and wounded thigh protesting under the strain. Swallowing his mortification, he called upon his magic to clean himself up.

Astarion rose with far more leisure, a smirk ghosting across his mouth as he casually retrieved a health potion and downed it in smooth, unhurried gulps. Gale made a valiant effort—and failed spectacularly—not to stare at the mesmerising bob of Astarion's throat.

"See, Sunshine? Good as new," the elf proclaimed, tossing the empty vial with a flamboyant flick of his wrist. It sailed across the decrepit cellar and shattered against the stone, glass spraying in all directions.

Gale's lips parted, instinctively poised to deliver a familiar, scolding remark about the careless waste of a perfectly good potion flask. Yet, for once, the sharp retort withered before it rose to speech. The weight of everything pressed down on him like a slab of stone.

It was strange, unsettling, for someone who so often sought refuge in words to find himself voiceless. But there had been moments—rare and dreadful—when emotion overwhelmed reason, when the sheer force of feeling smothered every consonant and vowel before they could form, trapping sound in the narrow confines of his throat.

Beneath the surface, frustration simmered. A quiet fury built at the unending litany of his own inadequacies.

Then, a sudden, deafening blast shook the ground, jolting him free from the murk that had held his tongue.

He forced himself into motion, his hand reaching out to grasp Astarion's arm just as magic surged around them. In an instant, the battlefield—or what remained of it—materialised once more before his eyes.

The balcony had been all but obliterated, reduced to a mound of shattered stone and churned-up dirt. Atop the rubble sat Karlach, breathing heavily, while Shadowheart knelt beside her, tending to her seemingly superficial wounds.

"Ah, thank the gods you're alive!" Karlach exclaimed, and before Gale could fully register what was happening, he and Astarion were swept into one of her inferno-like embraces. "The sneaky little bastard had a bomb stashed away. It went off and nearly blasted me off the bloody balcony," she laughed, stepping back to regard them. But when her attention settled on Gale, her expression fell, sobering in an instant. "Hells, Gale, you alright?"

A cold dread rippled through him. Had he let something slip? Had his turmoil been laid bare for all to see? But then Karlach's eyes dropped to his leg, her brows knitting together.

"You're bleeding, mate."

"Let me," Shadowheart interjected, already on her feet, her steps brisk as she approached. Her healing magic swept over him in gentle waves, easing the deep, throbbing pain in his thigh, as well as the ache that had simmered like an undercurrent in his skull.

He watched as the wound slowly knitted itself closed. It had been deep, but fortunately, it had missed any major arteries. A small mercy, as damage like that could have led to far more serious consequences.

Karlach's piercing gaze held him fast, concern etched plainly across her face as he desperately clung to his composure, painfully aware of how transparent he must seem—like a schoolboy fumbling to convince a room of sceptical tutors of his sobriety, despite the telltale signs of intoxication.

Before the tiefling could press further, or worse, turn to Astarion and start asking questions, the corrupted air beside them shimmered and parted, revealing the unmistakable silhouette of Raphael.

Gale had never imagined he would take comfort in the cambion's appearance. But desperation, as ever, made for strange allies.

"We had a deal," Astarion said, offering no greeting. The orthon lay vanquished, and now it was time for Raphael to honour his end of the bargain and deliver the answers they had fought so hard to claim.

"Indeed, we did," Raphael drawled, his smile all teeth. "I discovered all there is to know about those scars of yours. It's a rather grim tale, even for my tastes." Gale's mind, still in disarray, silently willed Raphael to dispense with the theatrics and get to the point.

"Stop stalling." Astarion voiced what they were all thinking, impatience lacing his tone.

Raphael offered a dramatic sigh but relented. "Carved into that ivory skin of yours is one part of an infernal contract between the archdevil Mephistopheles and your former master, Cazador Szarr."

Gale felt his muscles tense, the mere mention of that name setting his teeth on edge.

"In full, the contract states that Cazador will be granted knowledge of an infernal ritual so vile it has never been performed..." Raphael's tone took on a sinister edge. "The Rite of Profane Ascension."

He paused, savouring the weight of the revelation before continuing.

"It promises to be a marvellous ceremony. Very elaborate, incredibly ancient, and entirely diabolical."

Astarion shifted his weight next to Gale but said nothing.

"If he completes the rite, he will become a new kind of being. A Vampire Ascendant," Raphael declared, beginning to circle them like a vulture sizing up a carcass. "All the strength of his vampiric form will be amplified, and alongside them, he will enjoy the luxuries of the living."

Gale's thoughts spiralled, sluggish and disjointed, struggling to grasp the implications. A ceremony of such ostentation? Unheard of. The idea of Mephistopheles conspiring with Cazador? Preposterous. Why would a devil of such standing bestow that kind of power on a mere vampire lord? Cazador would become untouchable, eternal, his soul forever beyond reach, even for an archdevil as powerful as Mephistopheles. It defied logic.

Raphael pressed on. "The arousals and appetites of a man will return to him, and unlike you, he will have no need of a parasite to protect him from the sun." he did not need to look to know Astarion's mind was also racing, calculating every consequence of those words. "But the ritual has its price, as all worthy things do. Lord Cazador will need to sacrifice a number of souls, including his vampiric spawn, if he is to ascend."

Gale felt his stomach drop. This was it—the true reason the archdevil had struck a bargain.

"Imagine how he felt, then, when one of those precious spawn simply disappeared into thin air. The only missing ingredient is you," he said, pointing at the elf as he continued, pacing lazily as though recounting a mere trifle. "You are the final piece he requires to complete the ritual. Your scars bind you to it. Your soul will set off a very wave of death, bringing Cazador his twisted life."

He stopped, his circuit complete, and regarded Astarion.

"And that, my tragic, toothsome friend, is that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business elsewhere."

Without waiting for a response, he vanished once again in a flurry of red, leaving behind a tension so dense it felt as though the very air had been sucked from the chamber.

Astarion hummed softly, fingers trailing down his chin in thought.

It was Karlach who finally spoke. "Hmm? That's all you've got?"

Astarion exhaled, his gaze distant. "I'm... contemplating. It's a lot to take in." Then, turning to face them, his expression hardening, he asked, "What do you think I should do?"

Gale nearly choked on his own surprise. Astarion, asking for guidance? Clearly, the end of the world was nigh.

"You will never be free until Cazador dies," Shadowheart said bluntly.

"I hate how right you are," the elf muttered, a pensive look overtaking his features. "I knew he wouldn't leave me alone, even when I was just another wretched toy for him to play with. But if I'm the key to this power he craves..." His words tapered off, a shadow crossing his face. "He'll hunt me to the ends of Faerûn if he has to." His gaze steeled. "I have to end this. I need to take the fight to him, and I need all of you to stand with me."

There had been a time when Astarion would have effortlessly manipulated them into aiding him, perhaps without them even realising. But Gale saw it clearly now. Beneath the elf's carefully curated nonchalance, this was no casual request. It was an unguarded display of trust, a rare glimpse of vulnerability that Astarion scarcely, if ever, allowed himself to show.

"Without a doubt," Karlach affirmed with a grin, and though Gale longed to say something profound, to offer reassurance or wisdom, exhaustion clung to him like a lead weight. The battle, the revelations—everything had worn him down to his core. Instead, he met Astarion's gaze, hoping his sincerity shone through the weariness as he gave a firm nod.

✦

The dim corridors echoed with the rhythmic fall of their footsteps, a steady beat that briefly soothed Gale's tattered nerves. But then the cadence shifted. A subtle change; one set of steps falling out of harmony with the rest. Frowning, Gale stopped and turned. Karlach and Astarion followed suit, coming to a halt.

Shadowheart stood before an open chamber, its doors yawning wide. Gale's eyes swept into the room, and he recognised it as the one that housed the sacrificial bowl.

The cleric stared at the statue cradling the basin. Her shoulders were stiff, but her face betrayed no emotion.

"I... I have to do this." The words left her lips in a whisper, spoken with eerie calm.

"Shadowheart..." Karlach's voice waned as she took an aborted step forward. Gale did not dare look at her, too afraid to see the pain surely written on her face.

The tension hung heavy, like the moment before a storm broke. Slowly, Shadowheart turned to face them fully.

"There is no other choice," she said. "It's not just the Absolute and the tadpoles we are up against."

"Astarion has a vampire master hunting him down, and you," she pointed at the tiefling, "have the Lord of the First on your heels, ready to drag you back into the wars of Avernus. Gale still needs a way to remove the orb. This is too much; we're barely staying ahead of the chaos."

"None of these are your fights," Karlach protested hoarsely, but Shadowheart's expression held no room for argument.

"Don't pretend you believe that. We both know you wouldn't let Astarion face Cazador alone, just as I won't let you go after Gortash without me. We need every advantage, every scrap of power if we're going to make it." She paused, her tone lowering to something almost reverent. "And I have to do this. Lady Shar has given me everything. I owe her my faith."

There was no rebuttal, no words strong enough to counter her calm conviction. Karlach's shoulders sagged in quiet resignation.

Their longed-for rest abandoned, they stood in silence, eyes fixed on Shadowheart as she approached the ceremonial bowl. Astarion was the one who followed, his expression a mask of indifference, though an odd, unspoken understanding seemed to flicker between them. Without a word, he extended his dagger. Their fingers brushed over the hilt, gazes locking. Then, with the barest nod, Astarion relinquished the blade.

Without hesitation, Shadowheart dragged the sharp edge across her skin in a swift, thoughtless motion. Dark vermilion spilt from the wound, pooling into the bowl, the blood glinting black in the muted light as it poured into the basin. The hollow sound of viscous fluid dripping onto metal echoed through the quiet.

No one moved. No one spoke. They only watched as Shadowheart, steadfast in her purpose, offered her lifeblood to the Nightsinger, sealing her fate—and perhaps theirs along with it.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

Gathered around a hastily built campfire, bloodied and bruised, they took brief solace in its warmth and flickering glow. It was a fleeting reprieve, the last they would know before steeling themselves for the pool ahead, the final challenge awaiting in the chamber beyond.

The trials had been more brutal than Gale could have imagined. More than anything, he longed to escape this cursed place, silently vowing to bury the harrowing memories. Yet deep down, he knew the bitter truth: there would be no escape. The spectres of their confrontation with those grotesque reflections would cling to him, etched forever into the darkest corners of his mind.

He had seen Astarion's eyes widen as he faced his distorted likeness, an abominable caricature. Corrupted beyond recognition, it was nonetheless the closest he had come in centuries to seeing his true self. And then he had been forced to slaughter it without mercy.

Already, Gale could feel the shadows of those encounters curling into his dreams, poised to taint his nights with hellish visions, replaying the darkest fragments of these tragic ordeals.

Though he had always known Shar to be a goddess of unforgiving cruelty, the horrors she inflicted upon her own faithful surpassed even his bleakest imaginings. Each trial, every sacrifice, had left Shadowheart more broken, more bloodstained than the last. Where once her eyes had gleamed with resolve, they were now dulled by the slow, deliberate erosion of her humanity. The unravelling was agonisingly methodical, as though each offering, every prayer whispered through cracked, bleeding lips at rust-eaten altars, was a piece of herself willingly surrendered, never to be reclaimed.

Gale shook his head, trying to dispel the haunting images as he glanced around at his companions. They sat in weary silence. He and Shadowheart nursed cups of coffee, the warmth doing little to chase away the lingering chill of memory. Karlach, her gaze fixed on the flames, gnawed absently on a strip of dried meat.

Astarion lounged beside Gale, his eyes subtly tracking the wizard's every movement. It was making Gale's skin itch. But mercifully, he kept his thoughts to himself, leaving only the occasional pop and hiss of the fire to intrude upon the silence between them.

Gale took a sip of the now-lukewarm coffee, bitter and harsh, just to busy his shaking hands.

"Only one challenge remains," he murmured, his voice nearly lost to the crackling flames. It was an idle attempt to fill the quiet with something other than his own restless thoughts.

"Yeah, just one more murder on the list. Brilliant," Karlach muttered, resting her chin in her palm. She chewed thoughtfully, her displeasure evident as she glared into the fire. After her final prayer, Shadowheart had revealed that the last rite demanded a blood sacrifice.

The cleric took a long sip from her mug. "It's part of the trials."

Karlach's eyes flashed with a sudden intensity. "Doesn't make it right."

The cleric's thin brows knitted together, her mouth opening as if to retort, but before the tension could rise, Gale interjected. "Perhaps it'll be some despicable criminal, a black-hearted villain, even," he said, the jest weak and strained.

"Aye," Karlach said dryly. "And maybe pigs'll sprout wings and roost on Mount Celestia."

"Anyone can be a villain, darling," Astarion purred, and Gale allowed a narrow side glance at the elf just to see his lips curling into a smirk. "If you squint hard enough."

"Spoken like a true magistrate," Gale replied with a disdainful look, rolling his eyes.

Astarion leaned back, resting on his hand. "I can't say I remember, but I'm sure I was exceptional at my job."

Shadowheart snorted derisively. "Probably what got you killed in the first place."

Astarion's head fell back as he laughed, but the sound felt empty. Gale noticed a shadow of something darker behind his expression, but it vanished almost immediately. Astarion rarely spoke of his past, and never of his death, leaving Gale only to wonder.

Karlach straightened, reaching for more food. "I bet he had people tossed in the stocks for suggesting he looked better with less pomade."

Shadowheart raised her cup in mock salute, all previous tension now gone. "Reckless endangerment of noble vanity. Can't let that sort of dissidence run wild," she snickered. "And I'm sure more than a few poor artists met a tragic end for the heinous crime of not capturing your best side," she added with a grin, glancing at the elf.

Astarion gave a satisfied little hum, reclining back with theatrical ease. "Please. If your brushwork doesn't honour the divine architecture of this face, you deserve whatever's coming."

The chorus of quiet laughter that followed felt surreal, almost vulgar against the backdrop of their grim reality. It was as if they were trapped in a fragile bubble, suspended in time, pretending they were mere travellers sharing stories around a campfire. For a moment, Gale could almost believe they weren't marching towards Shar's final trial or facing the looming threat of Ketheric. He found himself wondering how long the illusion could last before it shattered.

Karlach cackled, tilting her head as she slipped into a dramatic mockery of Astarion's affected diction. "High treason through artistic sabotage—deliberately underplaying the magistrate's cheekbones."

Gale huffed a laugh at her attempt, despite himself, nearly spilling his drink.

Astarion sighed theatrically but played along. "If I am to be immortalised, I expect nothing short of perfection, not some amateur's botched attempt."

Shadowheart's smirk deepened. "And if someone forgets to compliment your new doublet? Public flogging, I assume."

Their laughter, now a little louder, echoed in the stillness of the night, discordant and strange. Despite everything, Gale found himself falling in line.

"Criminal negligence by omission of appropriate praise, thereby inflicting grievous harm to the magistrate's ego. Truly unforgivable!" he declared, adopting a tone of mock seriousness as he pantomimed sealing an imaginary decree.

Astarion nudged Gale's shoulder playfully, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "It's really the least people can do. If they can't appreciate the effort I put into looking this magnificent, they're simply wasting air," he said, gesturing to himself. His armour was battle-worn, caked in dried blood and dirt, his face equally smudged, yet despite it all, Gale still found him nothing short of beautiful.

Astarion's eyes lingered, locking onto Gale's for a beat too long. Gale's heart stuttered, and a flush crept up his neck as he tried, and failed, to hold the vampire's intense stare. His gaze faltered, darted to the side, and he quickly downed the last of his coffee, hoping it might steady his nerves.

✦

Gale watched as Karlach shifted her weight restlessly, her shoulders tense and fists clenching, barely containing her worry as she tracked Shadowheart's every move. Even Astarion, whom Gale could scarcely bring himself to look at directly, seemed unsettled as the cleric approached the grand statue for the final prayer. Shar's spear was already strapped across her back, the dark gleam of a Justiciar's armour catching the cool light of the lanterns around them.

A part of Gale felt a fleeting sense of relief as Shadowheart waded into the crystalline pool, a fragile hope that their agonising trials might finally be nearing an end. But the feeling vanished as quickly as it had come, lost entirely when they followed her into the depths.

The moment his feet touched the water's surface, Gale knew precisely where they were headed. The enchanted liquid, cool and unnaturally still, did nothing to cleanse the blood and grime clinging to him. It did not soak into his clothes, did not wash away the sweat, and offered no comfort.

He felt oddly hollow, as though his bones had been whittled empty, the marrow sucked out and replaced with rigid cold. His frame was left brittle, held together by nothing but loss and sorrow.

If tragedy were a place, it would be the Shadowfell.

As they descended into the Plane of Shadow, a voice broke the silence, sending a shiver through all of them.

"I have felt your arrival."

They edged closer to the source of the sound in the weightless void.

"The first in a century," she continued, her tone laced with dark amusement. "You have come to seek the favour of your wicked goddess. You, who intend to drive a dagger through my heart."

Before them stood a woman, restrained in shackles, the air around her thrumming with potent magic.

The final trial. She was the ultimate sacrifice Shar demanded. A Selûnite, destined to be slaughtered as an offering.

Gale's heart clenched as he stood by, a silent observer of the scene unfolding before him, not for the first time that day feeling like an outsider in his own body. It was like watching a performance at the local theatre, but one with an unfamiliar narrative; its script unknown, each line creeping forward with dreadful unpredictability.

Gale despised the theatre.

"Not a dagger," Shadowheart corrected, raising her weapon with a trembling hand. "A spear." She spat the words, then turned back to the group, her expression steeled. "Her fate is mine to seal. Let me handle this."

"The fate you seal is your own," the bound woman interrupted, her eyes narrowing. "To be a Dark Justiciar is to turn your heart from everything but loss. You will know no love, no joy, only servitude."

Gale's gaze instinctively fell on Karlach, who stood beside Shadowheart, every muscle in her body taut, staring ahead.

"Until, of course," the woman continued, "your mistress inevitably discards you. And there is much she does not tell you, a terrible blood price that may extend beyond my own death."

Karlach fidgeted with the edge of her gauntlet, her gaze flickering to the ground. "Is this really what you want, Fringe?" she murmured.

Shadowheart hesitated. "I... yes. I think so. My entire life has led to this moment. There's no turning back now," she said, her voice wavering despite her conviction.

"Well, well, well. A spear aimed at my heart, a divine weapon for a divine target. You think your goddess's power will be enough to kill the child of a god?" the woman said mockingly. "Do you know what I am, little assassin? For I know you, merely a lost child, frightened by wolves in the dark."

Shadowheart's lips parted. "What did you say?" Her composure cracked, unprepared for a fragment of her own childhood to be dragged into the light like that.

Gale blinked rapidly, his mind snagging on an entirely different revelation. A child of a god? It couldn't be.

He focused, reaching for the Weave, instinctively pulling at the webs of that curious magic which permeated the air around him. Normally, it would have been second nature, but here, within the oppressive grasp of the Shadowfell, the Weave felt distant and elusive. The atmosphere was dense, as though working against him, making the threads of magic feel like forlorn cobwebs drifting just out of reach. Still, Gale persisted, his attention honing in on those tenuous strands of power.

When the connection finally sparked, it hit him like a lightning strike, an overwhelming rush of undiluted divine energy threatening to buckle his knees beneath him. The force of it burned through him, wild and untamed, setting his pulse racing and his senses ablaze.

Despite the filthy rags that draped her and the chains that bound her, she exuded an aura of immense strength that throbbed through the air. The space around her crackled with energy, bending to her will despite her apparent captivity. Gale could hardly comprehend how any mortal, any being, could have restrained her. It seemed ludicrous to imagine that anything less than an entire battlefield—littered with the bodies of warriors who had fought and failed to subdue her—had been sacrificed in the attempt to bind this power.

The truth dawned on him slowly, his mind sluggish as he struggled to piece together the bits of information that would have been obvious under different circumstances.

A Daughter of Selûne. An aasimar. She was not merely a Selûnite to be sacrificed.

She was the Nightsong.

The very same Nightsong sought by the weary adventurers they had encountered in the grove, a relic of a bygone era, long thought to be no more than myth or a forgotten artefact. Yet here she stood. Not a relic, but a living, breathing entity. And the very being who empowered Ketheric Thorm's immortality.

And the final trial demanded her death.

The Nightsong's voice was calm but cutting as she spoke. "Much has been promised to you, hasn't it? But what has been taken from you? What do you know of your own heart... your own life?" She held Shadowheart's gaze, unblinking. "I sense more in you than you realise."

"Whatever you think you know of me won't matter once I become who I'm meant to be," Shadowheart hissed.

"Shads, she clearly knows something of your past," Karlach tried, her tone soft with a pleading edge. "Maybe see what she has to say."

Despite the profound wrongness of it all, it was not Gale's place to pass judgement on Shadowheart's desperate bid to win the favour of her deity. Even if he knew all too well the bitter futility of such pursuits, how they invariably led to ruin.

Walking his own path of redemption, fully aware of where it would lead, he often wondered whether foresight would have changed anything. Would he still have arrogantly believed he could reshape his destiny, become something more, something better?

He wanted to believe that, given another chance, he might have chosen differently. But deep down, he knew the truth: he would have made the same mistakes, drawn once more into that endless pursuit of Mystra's love and approval, blindly chasing the impossible.

In the end, what had it been but a pitiful grasp for power? Gale had deluded himself into believing he could restore what she had lost, meld divinity with mortality, and stand as her equal. To love her, to exist alongside her in perfect harmony, to complement her celestial grace with his mortal soul. It had seemed to him the perfect symmetry, a flawless union.

But reality was a cruel mistress, and she had left Gale broken and abandoned, endlessly treading the waters of self-loathing.

Gale, of course, was a fool.

Shadowheart was not.

The cleric's gaze locked with Karlach's, as though the very world had paused. Then her eyes darted back to the aasimar. She raised her weapon in an unwavering grip and, in one seamless, resolute motion, turned from the woman and drove the spear forward. It sliced through the heavy air like a javelin hurled into the dark maw of the Shadowfell.

The moment of stunned silence that followed was pregnant with inaction. Then Shadowheart's expression shifted—a flicker, then a flood. Her breath hitched; her eyes widened, blinking as if waking from a trance. She looked down at her now-empty hands. One slowly curled into a fist, then opened again, grasping at nothing.

"What have I done?" she whispered, the words catching in her throat. "Lady Shar will disown me for this." Her hands flexed uselessly once more before she whipped around to stare at them. "What will happen to me?" Shadowheart's voice trembled, thick with rising panic.

"Not what will happen," the Nightsong replied. "What will you do? Your past is not yet lost, and your future is not yet fixed. Lay your hand on me in friendship, not-quite-Sharran, and I will fight the battle I have waited a century for. Then... oh, then, we will have much to discuss."

Shadowheart's stare was vacant, her face devoid of any discernible emotion as she stumbled forward, her shaking hand reaching out to rest on the woman's formidable shoulder. The connection, a simple touch, unleashed a tidal wave of divine power as the aasimar tore free from her restraints, her wings unfurling in a blinding blaze of radiant light. Tattered rags gave way to chiselled armour. She was speaking to Shadowheart, but Gale could scarcely register her words over the deafening pounding of his own heartbeat. Then, with a few powerful flaps of her enormous wings, she was gone.

Shadowheart's face, slack with awe, swiftly twisted into horror. The mask had fallen, revealing her inner turmoil for all to see.

Gods, always playing their cruel games, bending mortals to their whims, distorting their destinies and breaking their spirits. It was a dance as old as time. Gale knew it well, but even now, after everything, standing on the precipice of ruin, he couldn't help but mourn the lost love of Mystra.

Pathetic.

Without warning, a loud noise erupted, dark energy swirling violently around them, a harbinger of Shar's malevolent wrath. Whether the thunderous roar echoed through the air or merely reverberated within his mind, Gale couldn't tell. Through the overwhelming din, Karlach's voice barely pierced the storm, her desperate cry urging them to flee through the portal that had materialised.

But for a fraction of a second, Gale couldn't move. Suspended, frozen, every muscle in his body petrified.

This place would be perfect.

He would never find redemption, but did he truly deserve it? Perhaps fading from existence was the best course, disappearing without a trace. The world would carry on without him, none the worse for his absence. He had become irrelevant, stripped of the power that had once defined him. Tara and his mother might weep for a time, and his companions might feel a brief pang of loss, but beyond that, the ripple of his departure would fade quickly, a fleeting murmur in the unending story of life.

Suddenly, a hand gripped his shoulder with firm, unyielding pressure. His gaze drifted upwards, meeting Astarion's, and in that brief instant, the surrounding noise dissolved into stillness, like standing in the eye of a storm.

"That's your 'stupid face' ," Astarion snarled, a low growl of annoyance. "Wipe it off and let's go."

But Gale remained motionless, seized by hesitation. It would be so easy, a mere blink, and the others could escape, leaving him behind to succumb to the void, lost and forgotten.

"Gale, now!" Crimson eyes flashed, sharp with impatience, dragging him out of his muddled thoughts, as though Astarion could peer directly into his mind. Despite the biting tone and the deep frown etched between his pale brows, there was something else, something unguarded and vulnerable that Gale couldn't quite name. It struck him deeply, sending a pang through his chest and freeing him from his paralysis.

Astarion's hand slid down to his forearm, the elf's grip tightening around his wrist. The sudden sting of sharp nails pressing into his skin finally jolted Gale's body into motion.

With an unsteady gait, he followed Astarion through the portal, the elf's hand still gripping his arm, grounding him, tethering him to reality, pulling him back from the brink of oblivion.

As they tumbled through the portal, Shadowheart's unconscious form crumpled to the ground the moment they were thrust back into the inhospitable embrace of the Cursed Lands.

She stirred slowly, pushing herself upright as she rubbed her face, a myriad of emotions flitting across her features. Gale watched in silence as she fought, unsuccessfully, to regain her composure, quietly wishing she had more time to gather her strength before facing the inevitable consequences of her decisions. Yet such mercies were seldom afforded to people like them.

He understood the crushing weight of this moment all too well, the stifling finality that bore down on her. It was a sensation he knew intimately: the realisation that a life once lived, a self painstakingly constructed, had been obliterated. With a single, irreversible choice, everything had crumbled into desolate ruin, leaving behind nothing but a barren expanse of irretrievable loss. No amount of begging, pleading or futile clawing at the remnants could restore what had been destroyed.

Karlach crouched beside Shadowheart, her hands hovering hesitantly before she reached out and gently rested her palm on the cleric's shoulder.

Shadowheart stiffened at the contact.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped, her voice like the crack of a whip. It was followed by a guttural, agonising cry as she clutched at her scar, her pain no longer hidden behind her usual stoic mask. Her tears flowed freely now, mingling with the grime on her face, her grief unrestrained, the full weight of what she had lost crashing over her.

Karlach, stunned by the outburst, slowly withdrew her hand. Her posture grew rigid, but after a heartbeat of uncertainty, she sank into the dirt beside Shadowheart. She offered no more words, only her quiet, comforting presence.

As what felt like an eternity slipped by, Shadowheart's sobs gradually subsided. Her tear-streaked face lifted towards Karlach, and for a fleeting moment, her gaze sharpened. Her brow furrowed, as though she might lash out once more. Her muscles tensed, coiled with the volatile anger still simmering beneath the surface. But it rested on fragile ground, and soon disintegrated as she collapsed into Karlach's waiting embrace.

The tiefling, arms open, enfolded her without hesitation, ready to shoulder her sorrow. With soothing strokes, she ran her fingers through Shadowheart's dishevelled hair, now cascading over her shoulder after slipping from its braid. Then, gently taking her scarred hand, she kneaded the tender flesh of her palm, as if her touch alone might ease the pain.

Just a few feet away, Gale was consumed by a wave of misery so intense it felt as though his ribs might crack beneath its weight. He averted his gaze, unable to endure the scene any longer; the rawness of it all was simply too overwhelming.

"Oh, so we're just going to pretend that bit of inspired idiocy never happened, are we?"
Gale jolted, his frayed nerves betraying him as he momentarily forgot there was anyone else nearby. Astarion's voice had regained its frosty edge; any trace of the almost tender interlude they had shared around the campfire was now gone.

"Charming. Delusion suits you," the elf added, when he didn't respond immediately.
Gale pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes as exhaustion seeped into every fibre of his being. He did not want to do this, had no desire to speak, let alone argue or endure this relentless back and forth.

"What exactly do you want me to say? I saw an opportunity to end it all without anyone else getting hurt. It shouldn't come as a surprise that I considered it," he said at last.

Astarion's eyes flashed with incredulity. "And here I thought you were on some grand quest for redemption."

Gale's patience thinned rapidly. "What is it you expect from me?" he retorted, with clipped words. "As I said, there was a chance. I considered it. But I'm still here, aren't I? What more could you possibly want?" He gestured sharply, a hand sweeping through the air before it dropped heavily back to his side.

Astarion's frustration boiled over first, his features contorting with anger. "What about us?" he snapped, his voice rising. Then his eyes widened, as if startled by the force of his own outburst. He recovered quickly. "The rest of the damned party, Gale," he corrected sharply.

Gale's response was measured, almost indifferent. He had no more emotions left to offer. "As I said, you would have been safe. I would have waited until you were all out."

Astarion stared at him, mouth agape in stunned disbelief. "That's not what I..." His words faltered. Then, with a sigh, some of the hard edges of his expression softened. "You really are an idiot," he added, now sounding more defeated than angry.

Silence stretched between them, the furious heat of their argument simmering down to a tepid glow. Then Astarion spoke again.

"In the Sharran temple..." A strange look crossed his face, churning something deep within Gale. The edges of a buried memory stirred, threatened to re-emerge, and his breath caught. He found himself desperately willing the elf to leave whatever he was about to say unsaid.

"Please, just... don't," Gale pleaded stiffly. He was not sure which of the many missteps or regrets from that wretched place Astarion meant to drag to the surface, but whatever it was, he couldn't face it. Not now. A knot of wordless emotion constricted his throat.

Astarion held his gaze, a palpable tension crackling between them. His jaw clenched, muscles working as if he were wrestling with the words threatening to break free. After a heartbeat, he drew a slow breath and gave a single, decisive nod.

Gale cleared his throat. "I shall go and set up camp. We need to rest. There is no sense pressing on to Moonrise in our current state."

Astarion gave him another small nod of agreement but said nothing.

Turning away, Gale made his way down the path to a small clearing. He set about preparing camp with meticulous, practised movements, his hands working almost of their own accord, as if the familiar ritual might drown out the thoughts clamouring for attention.

Astarion did not follow.

It was a dance they knew well, playing with fire until, at the first sizzle, Gale would feel the overwhelming urge to flee.

He was truly pathetic.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

As expected, their brief rest had been an ordeal—a feverish whirl of restless half-dreams and shallow meditation, besieged by night terrors. When they finally rose, no words passed between them, only the grim silence of resolve as they donned their battered armour, each movement laden with the weight of what lay ahead.

The sight awaiting them at the Towers was bleak. The bridge leading to the main entrance was strewn with the bodies of cultists, lying still and cold. Gale's fingers flexed nervously around his quarterstaff.

As they reached the entrance, he braced himself for the tumult of battle—the clash of blades, the violent eruption of spells tearing through the air. But they were greeted only by an unsettling silence. An uncanny stillness hung over the area, broken only by the faint, lingering thrum of residual magic saturating the atmosphere.

The heavy oak doors to the main hall groaned open, revealing only the remnants of chaos within. The corridors leading to the throne room were awash with blood, littered with the fallen. Gale's heart thundered in his chest as his gaze flitted from one corpse to another, tension tightening like a vice around his throat, haunted by the thought of finding familiar faces among the dead.

They should not have rested. They should have come straight here. They should have been part of the fight. They should have—

Air rushed from his lungs when he finally spotted their companions amidst an unexpectedly large gathering of Harpers on the far side of the hall—worn, wounded, but still on their feet. He surged forward, nearly slipping on the blood-slick stone. Each step was a precarious dance through the grisly carnage, his gaze locked on their distant figures, as though looking away might make them disappear.

Wyll was the first to close the remaining distance, his hand clapping Gale's back with a warmth that felt jarring in the grim surroundings.

"By the gods, it's good to see you. When that aasimar turned up without you, we feared the worst." There was a slight, uncharacteristic tremble in his voice, but the solidity of his touch was steadying nonetheless.

Gale managed a faint, breathless chuckle, but it faded as his gaze drifted, watching Astarion being drawn into Halsin's embrace. The druid's hold was gentle despite his immense stature. For a moment, the vampire's mask slipped, and his expression softened. He patted Halsin's back with a small smile, and that ugly thing inside Gale stirred like a lovelorn animal—juvenile, and entirely unwelcome.

Along with it came that other sensation again, prowling the borders of his consciousness, like an intruder knocking insistently on a door he had bolted shut. A silhouette of memory, an outline of a moment, the faint taste of something left unsaid, words swallowed and left to rot. They swelled like waves, washing ashore a sense of guilt and shame, only to be forced back by his stubborn refusal to confront them.

Weary and worn, he wanted to keep that door firmly closed. But a part of him, restless and relentless as a bloodhound, was already nosing at the edges, trying to prise it open. And then it came, the memory uncoiling like a serpent in the dark—the ring, Astarion, his body moving against the elf's.

Gale's breath snagged, and with brutal resolve, he thrust the thought back into the depths of his mind, burying it in that festering pit where he hid all the things he could not face.

The thought splintered as he was abruptly enveloped in the scent of sweat, earth and rain-soaked leaves. It seemed to be his turn for a hug, as Halsin's arms wrapped around him.

Gale tensed, still unaccustomed to this kind of closeness. He trusted Halsin, but their time together had not yet deepened into the kind of familiarity that made such intimacy feel effortless or eased his usual discomfort.

But this was different. Halsin's touch bore no weight of expectation; it was unassuming, born of sheer relief. Exhaustion had worn down Gale's barriers, and after the hellish trials they had endured, this simple hug offered unexpected solace, comforting in its unspoken sincerity.

He hesitated, muscles rigid and unyielding. Sensing his tension, Halsin began to withdraw, but Gale's grip tightened—almost imperceptibly—his fingers curling into the fabric of the druid's light leather armour as he allowed himself to lean in, just for a heartbeat longer than he would have under any other circumstance. He wasn't ready to let go. Not yet.

The quiet rumble of Halsin's amused laughter reverberated through his chest, and Gale felt the ghost of a smile buried in his hair as the druid's arms encircled him once more, drawing him closer.

When they finally separated, Gale felt an unfamiliar lightness settle over him, as if an invisible burden had been lifted, if only for a moment. He offered the druid a genuine smile, then his gaze swept over his companions.

Shadowheart and Lae'zel were already embroiled in a spirited exchange, their voices rising above the ambient clamour. The echo muddled their words, but it was clear there was no real malice in their confrontation.

If anything, Gale felt a sense of ease, catching a glimpse of Shadowheart's old self. He could not suppress a grin when he caught the look on Lae'zel's face—wide-eyed and almost, dare he say, content, at odds with her bristling tone and rigid stance. Karlach's booming laughter resounded through the chamber, a reassuring sign that this was more a ritual of familiarity than a true clash of wills.

"An aasimar has arrived some time ago," Halsin said, recapturing Gale's attention. "She flew straight to the roof where Ketheric had barricaded himself. Could your efforts to weaken him have drawn her here?"

"Yes, we... Shadowheart freed her," Gale replied, lowering his gaze as he rubbed his arm, reluctant to revisit the events of the day before. "If she was telling the truth, she's a daughter of Selûne. Ketheric has been siphoning her immortality, using it to sustain his own invulnerability."

Halsin hummed thoughtfully, his brow creasing with concern. "If she's seeking him out, it's likely to put an end to it all, but Ketheric won't be an easy foe. We should head upstairs and offer our aid; she'll need it."

Gale nodded absently, his gaze straying. He spotted Astarion standing a short distance away, his eyes—always piercing—fixed on him with that inscrutable look. Gale held the stare for a heartbeat, his thoughts caught between that impenetrable gaze and the looming task ahead. But when Karlach stepped closer, he tore his eyes away with a reluctant sigh.

"Wyll, you, Lae'zel, and Halsin stick with Jaheira and the Harpers. Keep the tower secure. This," the tiefling gestured broadly to their surroundings, "isn't their entire force. When we rocked up, there were thousands out there. If it all goes tits-up, we're close enough to use the tadpoles, but only if there's no other choice. No telling who's eavesdropping." She clasped Wyll's shoulder with a firm hand.

He flashed her a broad grin, his features splitting into a roguish smile. "You got it."

"Good lad." She winked at him before turning towards the stairwell, her gaze sharp as she motioned for them to follow. Gale noted, with no small amount of surprise, that Astarion fell into step behind her without his customary complaints.

They climbed the spiralling staircase, the narrow passage choked with bodies. Each step was treacherous, the thick, congealed blood slickening their boots, producing a wet squelch with every movement.

Halfway up, Gale's gaze fell upon a familiar cadaver—Z'rell's body, contorted in a final, ignoble sprawl. He felt a twisted satisfaction at the sight, an odd sense of vindication as he stepped over her remains. From the corner of his eye, he caught Astarion delivering a petulant kick to the lifeless form, a gesture so absurdly childish, so jarringly inappropriate, Gale couldn't smother the small smile that tugged at his lips. 

✦

His body trembled, every muscle protesting with the effort of remaining upright. A patchwork of bruises and half-healed wounds made each movement an act of sheer endurance. But failure was not an option, not now. Not when everything hung in the balance, when those he held dear were poised to march into death's gaping maw.

Exhaustion clouded his thoughts, leaving them sluggish and fragmented. He remembered Ketheric—brought to the brink of defeat by the Nightsong—slipping free in a desperate attempt to escape. A single moment, one breath, and he had her, subdued, dragging the aasimar with him into the depths below the building.

They had pursued him blindly, down into what could only be a mind flayer colony sprawling beneath the Towers. There, a ceaseless tide awaited: illithid and undead, each wave crashing harder than the last. Spells collided with steel, Gale's voice growing hoarse from shouting incantations into the frenzy.

Every motion blurred into the next, a breathless dance of violence and desperation, dodging blows that came too close, the air around him searing with the heat of Fireballs and the jagged crackle of lightning.

By the time the world snapped back into focus, he found himself in a chamber constructed entirely of flesh. Pools of bright, viscous green fluid dotted the ground, casting warped, spectral ripples of corrupted light. A metallic tang clung to the air, thick and fetid, settling like lead on his tongue. The faint glow spilled over the walls, revealing organic, membranous formations twisted into grotesque, unnatural patterns. Calcified protrusions and slick tendrils lined the walls, some twitching as if sensing their presence, giving the impression that the entire space was one vast, living entity.

"There is Ketheric," Shadowheart whispered, her voice tense as she brushed sweat-dampened hair from her face. She was covered in blood, dark circles visible even beneath the grime, but a spark of determination lit her eyes. She was ready to finish what they had started.

They peered over the edge of a shadowed ledge, eyes glued to the scene unfolding below. Ketheric Thorm stood tall with his back straight, defiant as ever. The Nightsong was nowhere to be seen; instead, he was surrounded by three figures, none of whom Gale recognised.

"Fucking Hells, that's Gortash!" Karlach growled under her breath, her eyes narrowing with flame-lit fury. "What is that slimy bastard doing here?"

Gale's brow furrowed, mind racing. Why would Gortash conspire with Ketheric? His gaze settled on the third figure—a woman—perched atop a hunched man. The man looked up as she rose to her feet.

A strange noise escaped Karlach's mouth, too loud, earning a disapproving look from Shadowheart. The tiefling lowered her voice, still stunned. "Guys, I think that's Wyll's dad." Gale squinted, trying to make out the shapes in the murky distance—the similarities between father and son, the unmistakable gleam of his ornate armour. She was right. It had to be the Duke.

What in the Nine Hells was going on?

Shadowheart pointed towards the woman. "Who is she?"

Her appearance was grotesque. Her long, braided silver hair hinted at a trace of grace, yet it only heightened the disquiet she inspired. Her skin was a sickly blend of fresh milk and congealed blood, marked with patterns that writhed beneath the surface as though alive. Pale eyes stared from beneath a circlet of rubies, and her garments appeared to be woven entirely from flesh and sinew.

"I have no idea," Karlach whispered back. The fact that she had not already leapt down to start carving up Gortash was a testament to her unease.

"I'd much rather keep a very, very safe distance from that abomination," Astarion murmured, peering over the tiefling's shoulder, looking at the woman. "Wearing so much flesh—ugh, how terribly pedestrian."

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. "And what's the acceptable amount of flesh-wearing, in your refined opinion?"

"Is this really the time?" Karlach hissed. "I can't hear what they're saying. We need to get closer."

"I just said I want to stay far away. That's quite the opposite of 'need to get closer,' " Astarion grumbled, and Gale was almost relieved to hear the elf complain again.

Regardless, he followed. Moving quietly, never leaving cover, they crept closer, holding their breath in suspense until voices drifted up to them. The words, sounding suspiciously like an argument, finally reached their ears.

"Pathetic," Gortash sneered, gesturing towards Ketheric. "A band of rogue True Souls flaunting it under your nose all this time. And you ran from them."

Ketheric bristled, his voice a sharp retort. "I was certain they would follow and deliver it into my hands here. If you would cease these distractions—"

"The distractions have been yours, Ketheric," Gortash interrupted, his voice calm yet edged like a honed blade. "Perhaps we should never have dug your daughter up."

Ketheric's daughter?

The general lunged, fist poised to strike, but before he could make contact, the woman's dagger was already at his throat. Gale had not even seen her move.

Gortash's eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "So, you haven't lost your edge. But I'd wager you're still not as sharp as Orin."

The pale woman—Orin—let out a laugh, wild and unhinged, the sound carrying with a childlike glee that echoed through the chamber.

"Bah!" she yelled, the sudden outburst making Gale flinch, as though she had physically struck him. He felt a steady palm press against the small of his back, and he leaned into the cool touch, if only slightly, before forcing his attention back to Orin.

"But he must lead the murder march to Baldur's Grave," she crooned.

"If the weapon is truly in your grasp, Ketheric," Gortash's voice turned cold, calculating, "might I suggest closing your fist? Orin and I can wait no longer. The plan proceeds. We're going to the city, and we expect you to follow, army and weapon in tow."

Shadowheart's hand flexed over her pouch that held the very artefact they spoke of, but her eyes never left the scene.

Then, Gortash stepped forward, approaching the largest pool of ominous-looking liquid. Without a word, he raised his gauntlet. "The edict of Bane!" he shouted.

Orin followed, lifting her blade, which had been pressed to Ketheric's jugular mere moments before. "The lash of Bhaal!" she bellowed. Only then did Gale notice the stones they held, glowing with a sinister brilliance.

His thoughts halted as a tremor shook the ground beneath them. From the liquid emerged something vast and malevolent. An enormous brain slowly took shape, its grotesque, fleshy form glistening in the dim light. The tadpole in Gale's brain began to squirm, then thrash violently, bringing tears to his eyes. He glanced at the others; they were all clutching their temples, faces contorted in pain.

The brain's tendrils writhed, yet Ketheric stepped closer to it, palpable hesitation etched across his features.

"The testament of Myrkul," he declared after a tense silence.

That curious gem in his breastplate lit up, and, as if in answer, all three stones connected. A trail of light shot forward and struck a crown resting atop the brain.

An elder brain.

The Dream Visitor's voice murmured in their minds, laced with fear, confirming Gale's exact thoughts. An elder brain, one of the cruellest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals.

If Gale had not thought they were doomed before, he certainly did now.

Bhaal, Bane, and Myrkul.

The Dark Gods.

"They're all Chosen," he whispered, his gaze trained on the brain. "Bane is the Lord of Darkness, Bhaal the Lord of Murder, and Myrkul the Lord of Bones. They're doing the bidding of the Dead Three."

"What does that mean?" Astarion demanded.

Gale turned to meet his stare, aware that his own disdain was plain on his face. He did not know how to break the news, how to put it in a way that would not crush their already dwindling hope.

"It means that if we want to end this, we'll have to fight their gods," Shadowheart spoke up, taking on the burden of delivering the dreadful truth. Her eyes widened as she realised the gravity of her own words.

Gale's gaze settled on the brain, purposefully avoiding the shock and fear spreading across Karlach's and Astarion's faces.

There it was, at last. The heart of the Absolute.

He had expected this moment to crash over him like a wave, a visceral reckoning, brimming with something profound. But there was no surge of defiance, no great, climactic fury. Instead, a strange emptiness unfurled within him, a gaping fissure where outrage or terror should have been.

A jolt rippled through him as his eyes locked on the crown resting upon the elder brain. Magic radiated from it in dense, suffocating waves, each pulse as compelling as it was oppressive, each beat pressing into the air with a tangible weight. The power called to him, a siren's lure, seductive and perilous, and that void inside him began to fill, slowly and insidiously, with each pulse of energy flowing from the crown.

Oh, how tempting it was to heed that call. To reach out and feed that ravenous hollow within. He could almost taste the possibilities, the vision of the worlds he could shape, the freedom of it all.

He tore his gaze away, clenching his jaw as a rational part of his mind fought against the allure. The crown would be enough to reclaim all he had lost, but it was also the seal of their doom, for there was no salvation here, only the cold certainty of despair. Against the Chosen and an elder brain, only one course remained, and he knew it was his alone to take.

He wanted to believe he had learnt from his past mistakes, that he had grown over the years. But with a single glance at the crown, he saw the sickening truth: a part of him still clung to his old failings, the yearning for power that dwelt in his chest, unyielding and consuming.

But this was his chance to bring an end to it all. He was ready. He owed it to Mystra.

"There's only one way to stop this," he said, rising, ready to move forward, when cold fingers suddenly closed around his arm.

"What in the Hells are you doing?" Astarion demanded, the scenario eerily familiar.

"This is it, Astarion. This is the heart of the Absolute," he said, gesturing to the brain. "My path to redemption lies just a few steps away. I must do as Mystra commands."

Astarion rose to his feet as well and stepped closer. "Not this shit again," he retorted impatiently.

"There has to be another way," Karlach interjected, her eyes wide with urgency as understanding dawned on her. "You can't do this, Gale."

"You were so worried about killing us before, and now you'd risk us all for your goddess?" Astarion whispered harshly, his words tight with frustration, his grip on Gale's wrist firm as iron.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gale saw Karlach's golden eyes flickering between them, confused, before she added, "And besides, I want to kill Gortash myself. You can't take that from me." Her tone was half-joking, but Gale turned to her, meeting her gaze fully.

"Would it be worth it? Risking the lives of thousands for petty personal vendettas?" he countered, his words cutting.

Karlach's expression fell. "Go fuck yourself," she spat, though her voice lacked venom. "You know that's not what I meant, but there has to be another way. We always find another way."

"Isn't that what we all want? To die for a worthy cause?" he pressed, ignoring her words. "What choice do I have? More than just a goddess counts on my courage; whole worlds hang in the balance. If I don't act now, we'll have to face not one but three Chosen and their gods before they can wreak devastation on all of Faerûn."

"Consider the highest price that may be asked of you, and decide if it's a sacrifice you're willing to make," Shadowheart's words sliced through their hushed exchange.

Gale frowned. He recognised them.

"Your own advice, wizard," she added, and Gale's mind reeled.

Death.

The thought itself was hardly unsettling. Death was an inevitable epilogue, etched into the existence of every mortal from their first breath.

Some, through magic, blessings, or sheer fortune, managed to delay it, stretching the thread of life ever thinner until it snapped all the same. Gale had never feared the end, but nor did he wish to hasten it.

He did not want to die. Not now. Not yet. It was foolish, of course; if he was not ready now, he would not be in a tenday, or in two. The perfect time was now. The stakes had never been higher, and his death was the key to it all. And yet, looking at his companions—his friends—he realised it was not fear of death that stayed his hand.

For a wizard fulfilling his goddess's will, death was not an end but a transcendence, a chance to become one with magic itself. Mystra's grace would see him woven into the Weave upon his passing, the greatest honour a wizard could hope for.

No, it was not death he feared. It was losing them.

This realisation struck him with a force no divinity could match. For the first time, he saw it clearly—this was no longer just a mission, no longer a quest to regain Mystra's favour. It was about them, about the people he had come to care for more deeply than he had ever imagined possible.

The thought of losing them, of sacrificing them, felt like a cruelty even the gods could not demand of him.

His eyes met Astarion's, and his heart clenched painfully. He could not bear the thought of being responsible for their deaths.

"Fine," he said, defeated, "but we need to deal with them. Now." He jutted his head blindly towards the Chosen.

They all nodded in unison, Karlach's lips curling into a satisfied smile.

"Ah, shit," Astarion muttered, turning back to the scene below them. "The other three are gone." He was right; Gortash, Orin, and the Duke had vanished, and while Gale wanted to be angry, a part of him felt relieved.

"Well, I guess we can kill Ketheric. Gortash won't escape what's coming to him." A manic glint sparked in Karlach's eyes as a grin spread across her face, wide and bordering on madness as she reached for her battle axe.

✦

The image of Ketheric's broken body and Myrkul's colossal form crumbling before him haunted Gale, coalescing with fleeting visions of Mystryl's death replaying in an endless, torturous loop. His thoughts painted false images of a future marred by another collapse of the Weave, the dawning of a new Spellplague—an era without the arcane.

He wondered, when Karsus had wrought his ruin upon magic itself, had it been a spectacle or a quiet death?

The prospect of a life devoid of magic loomed large, but this time it was not the Spellplague that threatened him—it was his own defiance. He imagined days slipping by, swift and frail, severed from the arcane. It was unthinkable. A fate far worse than death. And for Gale, such a fate felt terrifyingly possible.

They stood in the throne room, surrounded by familiar faces, though Gale had no recollection of how they had made it back. A cold, uneasy certainty gnawed at him—he had truly, spectacularly, fucked things up this time.

Mystra had seen his blunder. Of that, he was sure.

His thoughts darkened, guilt and regret marching in time with the pulse pounding in his temple.

Gale, submerged in his own sorrow, nearly missed the moment the oak doors were flung open.

"Aylin!" Isobel's voice rang out across the room, cutting through the quiet murmur of conversation.

The Nightsong—Aylin—stopped mid-sentence, her gaze snapping to the door. For a heartbeat, she stood still, breath caught, eyes wide with disbelief. Then Isobel was there, and the space between them vanished.
Aylin moved as if compelled by instinct. She caught Isobel in her arms with a force that was almost reverent, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. Their mouths met in a kiss that burned with a century of longing, fierce and unashamed, the kind that rewrites the years and makes the world fall away.

Gale stood back, observing the scene with a kind of calm detachment. His mind flickered to Gortash's words—the resurrected daughter. The revelation now felt strangely secondary to the raw humanity of the moment.

His eyes fell on his companions, bruised and exhausted, yet smiling broadly as they spoke with a small group of Harpers. A fragile thread of hope wove itself through the room.

Perhaps it had been worth it.

Not succumbing to death, not perpetuating destruction, not surrendering to the path that led, inevitably, to his end.

Holding on a little longer, he realised, might have just been worth it after all.

He rose on shaking legs and left the chamber, carefully stepping over the corpses still strewn across the floor as he made his way to the main entrance.

Outside, the grey fog persisted, and though the curse still lingered, the air was already easier to breathe.

Leaning heavily on his quarterstaff, weariness soaked into Gale's bones and every aching muscle. Beneath the weight of his fatigue, he gave in, easing himself down onto the cold stone steps.

Fear gnawed at him, the nagging thought that if he closed his eyes for too long, he might never open them again. He had skirted the edge of death too many times in recent days to risk it once more.

Astarion's quiet voice came from behind. "May I sit?" he asked, uncharacteristically polite.

Gale nodded, though he did not look up at him.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, simply watching the procession of people around them attempt to corral the mayhem into some semblance of order.

"I've truly outdone myself in poor judgement this time, Astarion," he heard himself say.

Astarion released an exasperated sigh, as if he had expected Gale's words, then turned to him; Gale, however, kept his gaze resolutely on the horizon.

"I'm not about to pretend I understand exactly what you're going through, but believe me when I say I do know what guilt tastes like," Astarion began. "Shocking revelation, I know," he added with a dry chuckle, his voice trembling slightly with emotion, barely audible unless one knew what to listen for.

"It was... early on. The first few years of my charming little enslavement, when I met someone I simply couldn't bear to deliver to... him," he faltered, unable to utter the name Gale knew all too well. "He was one of my firsts, you know. In the beginning, it was difficult. So I ran instead of hurting that sweet man."

He swallowed thickly, and Gale wanted him to stop talking, wanted to tell him he had no more space for tragedy. But more than anything, he wanted Astarion to give him pieces of his past, pieces of himself as morbid tokens, so he could press them beneath his ribs, tucking them behind the orb and his own beating heart, to keep every word safe.

"When Cazador caught me after that... well, let's just say I never tried to defy him again. Hunger can teach you interesting things; it can reshape you, even after death, apparently," he said, with another mirthless laugh.

"Don't I know it?" Gale muttered, his voice bitter. He knew hunger all too well—the kind that devoured the soul, paired with guilt like a fine wine. "It wasn't your fault," he offered quietly.

"And what, you telling me what's happening here is yours?" Gale could feel Astarion's eyes on him.

"Astarion, I made the decisions," he finally turned to meet his gaze. "Nobody forced me. I wasn't under any influence. I wanted power. I'm past trying to make excuses for my foolish, pathetic behaviour."

"But it's never that simple, is it?" Astarion countered, his tone rising a notch, tinged with anger that Gale did not think was meant for him. "I told you before—I know a slave when I see one."

Gale did not say anything. He could not.

"Your prison wasn't made of stone or iron," Astarion pushed on, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. "But it held you all the same. Manipulation is as vicious as any blade. I should know, I've wielded it often enough. Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll never speak of this again."

He paused, but Gale could not find his voice, could not summon the will to argue.

"The way I see it... she built you up, moulded you into exactly what she wanted. Isolated you, guided you, shaped you to suit her needs. That's what gods do, after all. And I'm sure she loved you, in whatever way they're capable of love—so long as you stayed obedient and adoring. But the moment you dared to want more, to stand beside her rather than bowing at her feet, she cast you aside. And now she wants you to make the ultimate sacrifice, while she could fix everything with just a flick of her finger." He snapped his fingers, his words as sharp as they were true.

"She hides behind Ao and all those tiresome rules about not meddling, but has no qualms about bedding mortals and stirring up chaos whenever it pleases her," he spoke with bitterness in his voice. "Quite convenient, isn't it?"

Gale felt like he was going to shake apart.

"She is everything," he gasped at last, staring down at his hands. The ink stains were long gone, replaced by flaking blood and the dried dirt caked beneath his nails and clinging to his fingers. "I don't expect you to understand, but to me... she is quite literally everything. She is magic itself. Without her, I am nothing."

"So you've said," Astarion grumbled. "You keep repeating this like some sacred mantra, but honestly, what in the Nine Hells are you even talking about?"

Gale sighed, his fingers curling into the fabric of his robe. "Magic is all I have, Astarion. I don't know if you've noticed, but all my powers, everything I can do, are tied to Mystra. Without her, I'm of no use."

"No use?" Astarion spluttered, incredulous. "Have you gone completely mad? Gods, you're even more dramatic than I am, and that's saying something." He brushed his shoulder against Gale's, as if to take the sting out of the statement. "You are the most insufferably clever person I've ever met, and I've met many. Yes, you are powerful, and your magic is rather impressive, and quite frankly, attractive—"

Gale huffed. "Not helping."

"Right, yes. But really, as much as it wounds me to admit it, you're irritatingly brilliant, insatiably curious, and despite your penchant for monologues, there's more to you than flashy incantations and explosive flourishes."

"That's hogwash, and you and I both know it," Gale retorted.

"You stupid oaf. How can someone so full of himself have so little self-worth?" Astarion moved and knelt a step down in front of him, positioning himself to meet Gale's gaze properly, but Gale glanced aside.

"Look at me!" he demanded sharply, and this time Gale could not deny him.

Astarion reached out and cupped his face in his hand. The cool palm against his heated cheeks felt wonderful, and Gale once again had to wrestle back unwelcome memories riding on curling waves of shame. But Astarion's continued words vanquished them in an instant.

"After all we've been through, after all the horrors we've seen, all the delightful parade of near-death experiences, you're still disgustingly kind, always trying to help everyone."

Gale tried to look away again, but Astarion squeezed his face harder, disallowing it.

"You're the one who keeps this merry little band from falling apart. Slaving over those ridiculous meals every night, even when you're about to keel over, just to make sure everyone gets fed. Even me. Hells, even me. You fuss over potions and supplies because half of these witless fools wouldn't survive a day if left to their own devices. But of course, they don't have to, because you're always there, aren't you?"

Gale had never heard Astarion speak so many kind words, and they were all wasted on him.

"You think no one notices?" Astarion's eyes were burning into his as he spoke each word. "We do. So now, shut up, march your stubborn arse back to camp, sit down with your damn friends, and celebrate the simple miracle of another day we didn't fucking die."

Gale struggled for breath, caught between the urge to weep and a heated rebuttal—to list all the ways Astarion was mistaken. But once again, the words eluded him. Thus, they remained in silence, perched upon the steps of the towers, the headwaters of all this pain and suffering. Yet a fleeting sense of selfish relief stirred within Gale. The tadpoles had granted Astarion a chance to escape his cruel master, to walk in the sun again, and if nothing else, Gale would do anything in his power to make that worth something.

Astarion rose to his feet, then extended a hand in silent invitation, and Gale acquiesced, allowing himself to be pulled up from the cold stone steps.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale 

As they passed beneath a weathered wooden sign that had once proudly welcomed travellers to Rivington, the bright skies gave way to an early summer shower, catching them unawares. Fat drops pelted down, warm rivulets running across Gale's face. The rain did not quite wash away the lingering amalgam of terror, guilt, and embarrassment that had plagued him over the past few days, but it loosened something lodged deep within his chest, granting him a brief, unexpected reprieve.

The downpour relented as abruptly as it had begun, leaving them soaked to the bone. With no immediate danger in sight and no need to guard his every move, Gale could finally afford to expend some of his energy. He raised a hand, fingers weaving through the air with practised precision, and murmured a quiet incantation. A warm current rippled outward, dispelling the damp and sparing them the discomfort of clinging, sodden clothing. Only the scent of fresh earth remained, mingling with the promise of a new day.

Gale glanced over his shoulder at Halsin, who stood with his face tilted towards the sky, eyes half-closed in reverence. The druid seemed to bask in the elements, as though savouring one last embrace of nature. A low hum of appreciation escaped him as the magic washed over his broad frame. A warm smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, though Gale struggled to discern the exact emotion behind it. Still, he supposed it was something akin to bittersweet relief.

Gale knew Halsin had wanted to stay and help rebuild Moonrise Towers and Reithwin, but they all understood that nothing would be left to restore if the cultists seized control. Only Jaheira had remained behind with Isobel, promising to join them once a new order had been established to protect the town and ensure Reithwin remained in strong, capable hands.

But Halsin was not the only one forced to face reluctant change. Gale's gaze shifted to Shadowheart, and unexpectedly, to Lae'zel walking alongside her. He took in the cleric's altered appearance for what felt like the hundredth time, watching as she turned the Astral Prism thoughtfully in her hands, the sun catching on the metal surface.

After defeating Ketheric, Dame Aylin had kept her promise, unveiling the truths the Sharrans had kept from Shadowheart—that her family had survived, hidden somewhere in Baldur's Gate.

Gale's heart ached for her. He had bent under Mystra's demands, nearly broken by them; yet the trials that had shaped Shadowheart eclipsed any hardship he had endured. Her family stolen, her faith distorted, corrupted, and her memories shattered into jagged fragments. It was cruelty woven with such elegant malice that language could scarcely contain it.

Looking at her now, it was hard to believe they had ever truly thought she belonged to Shar. Her now-silver hair spilt around her like a radiant halo, scattering the shadows that had once clung to her. She lifted her head, her gaze meeting Gale's for only a moment—a small smile and a nod of gratitude passing his way—before she turned back to the githyanki.

Lae'zel's sharp yellow eyes never left the prism in the cleric's hand as their conversation continued in low tones. Gale had not considered the possibility before, but it made sense that Lae'zel might understand Shadowheart's struggles on a deeper level; both had rejected goddesses they had once served blindly. With much of the animosity between them tempered by a camaraderie born of necessity, they seemed to have formed a peculiar friendship, even if most of their exchanges still bordered on violent, with drawn weapons and flaring tempers never far behind.

"What do you intend to do?" Gale heard Shadowheart ask Lae'zel.

The gith's eyes narrowed, "I know not yet," she said, far calmer than Gale had ever heard her speak. "I would see Orpheus freed. Aid my kin and destroy Vlaakith. But if that ghaik worm speaks truth, and it is his power alone that keeps us from the transformation..." She trailed off, a trace of anger darkening her face. "There must be a way to crush the elder brain and free the prince," she clicked her tongue with annoyance. "The Emperor... a mockery. Nothing more."

Shadowheart released a long sigh, her fingers gliding over the hard edges of the prism a few more times. Then, to Gale's utter astonishment, she extended it towards Lae'zel. The gith's eyes latched onto the small object, her expression flickering through an array of unspoken emotions, before settling into a firm shake of her head. Without a word, she turned back to the road ahead.

The previous night, Gale had volunteered to accompany Halsin into the nearby woods to forage for potion ingredients—now in alarmingly short supply. Admittedly, the timing had been less than ideal; he had already been irked at missing an impromptu excursion to the Astral Plane once, and now it had happened again. Still, he could not complain too much. As Karlach had cheerfully reminded him, he had at least been spared the delight of getting 'slip-slapped' by a squad of hostile githyanki, only to discover that the Dream Visitor was not a selfless saviour after all, but rather an illithid who now went by the name Emperor.

When he and Halsin stumbled back into camp laden with herbs and ingredients, they arrived just in time to witness Vlaakith's spectral image manifest before Lae'zel, her goddess's demands ringing through the air.

Orpheus, she claimed, would bring ruin to his own kind, his rebellion a path to destruction. She demanded Lae'zel return to the Astral Prism and slay him. In doing so, Vlaakith promised, Lae'zel would ascend—a reward they long understood to be a death sentence, veiled in glory, designed to ensure Vlaakith's supremacy remained unchallenged.

But this time, her queen had offered more. She had dangled the title of her Chosen before Lae'zel, a prize gilded with power and prestige. Gale, watching from the edge of the firelight, understood the temptation all too well. The lure of such an offer was nearly impossible to refuse, and he had been certain Lae'zel would accept.

Yet, to everyone's astonishment, she did not kneel. With the Astral Prism in hand, she stood resolute, her spine straightening, her chin lifting in defiance.

"Orpheus will live, and I will hear his creed. This is my word." Her voice rang out, clear and unyielding, and Gale could still feel the resonance of that moment. The fire in her tone and the steely conviction struck like a blade against stone.

But her resolve was not without conflict. Even before the tadpole connection overflowed with her thoughts and emotions, Gale had seen it—the tightness of her jaw and the whisper of doubt that crossed her face. It betrayed the turmoil she grappled with before her words crystallised into a vow.

Orpheus, the rightful ruler of the gith, remained imprisoned within the Astral Prism, his immense psionic power siphoned to shield them from the Absolute's thrall. The barrier it provided held the transformation into illithids at bay, a fragile bulwark against unimaginable ruin. His chains, impervious to any weapon, would demand something far more potent to shatter—a tool or power still beyond their reach. Yet even if they could free him now, it would come at a terrible cost. The moment those bindings shattered, the Absolute's influence would be unleashed upon them all, condemning them to an irreversible fate.

A sharp curse from Karlach jerked Gale from his thoughts.

The tiefling, Wyll, and Astarion were leading the group, and what had begun as a debate over where they should head first once inside the city gates had quickly devolved into Karlach loudly demanding that Astarion settle a debt she claimed was long overdue. Astarion snapped his teeth at her jokingly, and the tiefling responded by shoving him, so forcefully that he would have toppled into a ditch brimming with muddy rainwater had Gale not sent a quick spell his way.

"Traitor," Karlach called over her shoulder, though a wide grin stretched across her face. Wyll was trying his best to stifle his laughter but was failing miserably.

"Thank you, Sunshine. It's comforting to know at least one of you still remembers loyalty, unlike the rest of you dagger-happy turncoats masquerading as friends," Astarion said, smoothing the wrinkles from his loose shirt with a huff of dramatic indignation.

"Threaten me one more time, Fangs, and see what comes your way," Karlach laughed, flexing her arm muscles.

Astarion drifted back, falling into step beside Gale, and he suddenly found himself at a loss for words. He felt the urge to break the silence, but fumbled for something to say. Before he could manage a thought, Astarion casually tossed a coin purse at the back of Karlach's head.

"Here, Fire Girl. Keep the change," he called out with a smirk.

In one swift motion, Karlach flicked her tail, snatching the purse from the dirt where it had landed. She rubbed the back of her neck and cast a baleful glare his way.

Gale chuckled, watching the tiefling pocket the leather pouch—one that looked... rather familiar. He reached for his own coin purse at his side, and his mouth fell open as his fingers curled around nothing but air.

"Astarion!" He turned to the vampire, a barrage of uncouth vocabulary at the ready, but his breath hitched as he took in Astarion, head tilted towards the sky, face bathed in early morning sun as he grinned.

Memories of the elf's words outside Moonrise came flooding back, and Gale felt his heart stutter, a warmth creeping up his spine. Caught in the moment, he failed to avert his gaze quickly enough, and Astarion, likely sensing the scrutiny, met his eyes. Gale braced for taunting, or at least some mild mockery, but the soft, fond smile Astarion gave him was nothing he expected.

Karlach could keep the gold.

✦

"Gods, I'm so fucking tired of this," Karlach sighed, her frustration clear as Orin vanished, leaving only the pungent stench of rot, a smell Gale would pay anything never to encounter again. "Can't we have just one day," she raised a finger for emphasis, "one day without murderous maniacs trying to kill us?"

Gale could not have agreed more, teetering on the verge of his own frustrated outburst. They had barely set foot in town when a Sharran lookout accosted them, spitting threats at Shadowheart. This was swiftly followed by an encounter with Orin, who, as fortune would have it, turned out to be a shapeshifting piece of garbage with a penchant for chaos, and a mind so far gone it made madness seem mundane.

"Oh, but darling," Astarion cut in with a theatrical flourish of his hand, his tone as dry as the sands of Anauroch, "I'd be positively devastated if we reached Baldur's Gate without a warm welcome of threats and a splash of violence. It would feel as if we'd lost our touch."

Wyll lifted a hand, a gentle motion meant to quiet Astarion, as he glanced around, his brows furrowed with concern. The road ahead was flanked by tattered tents spilling onto the path, makeshift shelters flapping weakly in the breeze. Gale's gaze followed the warlock's cautious sweep, taking in the crowded lanes of Rivington, teeming with villagers and refugees. The air felt thick with the tension of impending conflict.

At first glance, the town appeared lively, chatter filling every corner, a refreshing change after weeks spent in haunted silence, wandering cursed lands and barren forests. But beneath the noise, an unpleasant truth emerged. A man's voice rose above the din, railing against the refugees. His words sliced through the cries of children lost in the crowd, searching for their parents. Nearby, desperate folk hawked what few possessions they had left, hoping that enough gold might buy them safe passage through the gates.

"All right, let's find a place to set up camp. Something tells me it won't be easy getting past Wyrm's Rock," Wyll said quietly, barely audible over the clamour. Then, without another word, he started down a path leading towards the heart of the town.

Gale turned instinctively, searching for Astarion, a habit ingrained over recent tendays. But the space beside him was empty; the elf who had been there moments ago had vanished. Panic flared in his chest, catching like dry tinder, and he spun on the spot, eyes roving over the churning sea of people. His heart pounded as he scanned the crowd.

Then, the throng parted, and he glimpsed familiar silver hair. Relief swept through him, only to freeze and sharpen into dread as he recognised the figure Astarion was speaking to—Gandrel, the Gur monster hunter.

Without hesitation, Gale surged forward, shoving his way through the crowd, silently praying they could reunite with their companions without resorting to the tadpole connection.

Not far ahead, a woman stepped back from a towering pyre, thick grey smoke spiralling into the sky. Clad in ornate plate and leather, her silver hair swept back from a face lined with age and scars, she murmured a final benediction over the ember-eaten remains before turning her piercing gaze towards Astarion. There was a weathered hardness to her features, and an unmistakable authority radiated from her as she regarded him.

Gale reached Astarion just as the woman approached. The elf acknowledged him with a quick glance and a slight nod before turning his attention back to her.

"So, the impossible spawn walks among us in the blazing sun," she said, each syllable measured, yet her voice carried a quiet foreboding.

Gale's magic stirred before he was even aware of it. As so many times before when Astarion was threatened, it rose unbidden—second nature now, sparked by instinct rather than conscious thought.

He knew she had every reason to want Astarion dead then and there. The Gur had hunted his kind for generations, and few had as much cause as she. Yet something in the way she held herself, in the calculation behind her steady gaze, stayed his hand.

"We have been searching for you," she continued. Curious. Gale had not expected Gandrel to recognise Astarion after their brief encounter in the swamp. At the time, he had assumed Gandrel had not realised who he was dealing with. So much for Karlach's 'Boblin' cover.

"The last time your friend came to our camp, he stole our children. Our future." Though her words were aimed at Gale, her gaze remained fixed solely on Astarion.

Gale, of course, was no stranger to this particular, gruesome chapter of Astarion's past—he remembered the elf's retelling by the moonlit riverbank, each horrifying detail etched into his memory as if spoken only yesterday.

He felt the weight of her grief. He truly did. And yet, something in her accusation roused his temper. To lay blame on Astarion for acts committed under his master's command? That was a simplification he could not abide.

"If, as a monster hunter, you've yet to grasp how a master vampire binds his spawn, perhaps it's time to reconsider your calling," he replied coolly, raising an eyebrow in sardonic challenge.

"Gale," Astarion interjected, his tone light, chiding but carrying a subtle hint of warning. Gale nearly laughed at the irony of it—the roles reversed for a moment, with himself as the instigator and Astarion as the voice of restraint.

"When I was hunting you, I was tasked with bringing you back here. To interrogate you, uncover how to save our children, and then destroy you," Gandrel said, ignoring Gale entirely.

Gale's gaze snapped to him, and his fingers twitched. Right or wrong be damned—if Gandrel so much as moved to harm Astarion, Gale would incinerate him without a second thought.

Perhaps sensing the subtle shift in the atmosphere following Gandrel's words, the woman lifted her palm to placate him. She seemed intent on avoiding a scene in the centre of the town, particularly in broad daylight when curious eyes could so easily turn hostile.

The Gur, as wandering folk, were seldom welcomed in towns; locals often regarded them with suspicion and prejudice, shaped by whispers and unfounded tales. For the Gur, discretion was essential—just as it was for Gale and Astarion.

"But..." Her voice lost some of its harsh undertone as she pressed on. "Things have changed. You have changed."

Astarion straightened, his shoulders easing, though his expression remained cautious.

"Is it true you left your master? That you broke the spell binding you to him?" she asked, her head tilted slightly as she crossed her arms.

"Well, I mean... kind of? It's a long story, honestly," Astarion replied, feigning nonchalance. His tone remained friendly, but to Gale, it was clear he was trying to weasel his way out of the conversation.

"We tried to save our children," she said, her gaze following the grey-white smoke curling up from the pyre. Gale wondered how many lives had been lost in that effort. "We attacked Cazador Szarr's palace at first light. Even then, it was too well defended."

As she spoke, Gale glanced at Gandrel, and even he could see the unmasked pain and loss etched into the hunter's face—brows drawn tight, eyes shadowed with bitter regret.

After a long, weighted silence, she turned her attention back to Astarion.

"But if his own spawn were to approach," she gestured at him, "someone he believed he could control, he would throw his doors open and welcome you in. And once inside, you could accomplish what we could not. You could save the children you damned."

And just like that, all trace of levity drained from Astarion's face, leaving behind a dark expression.

"You don't know Cazador like I do. He's merciless," he muttered, his lips pressed into a thin line before he looked away. "You want me to march into the lion's den and save your children, but I promise you, they're already dead."

"But are you certain?" Gandrel pushed, raking a hand through his long hair.

The elf's eyes slitted. "I spent two hundred years bringing him victims. Each and every one was whisked away and fed on that night."

"But you never saw him feed yourself? He could keep prisoners before killing them," the woman cut in, her hand curling into a clenched fist.

Gandrel nodded. "I know our plight is grim, but if there is even a chance to save them, we must take it."

"If our children are truly gone," she said, jaw tightening as she released a slow breath, "then we ask for blood."

Her eyes locked on Astarion.

"I know you can understand that, spawn," she added, possibly realising that a blood price was more Astarion's currency than grief ever could be.

The elf shifted his weight, a strange, renewed smile stretching onto his face. "I suppose... yes. Revenge, I can do."

An unwavering look took over her expression. "If you can do this, we will be in your debt. You have lived a life of violence. You have broken families and caused immeasurable grief. Doing this will not right those wrongs." Her voice grew gravelly, the only sign of her emotion. Gale opened his mouth, a rebuttal poised on his lips, but a hand settled against his abdomen. Astarion, rolling his eyes, stepped forward slightly.

"If you are trying to encourage me, you are failing abysmally," he retorted. The lightness in his tone returned, but there was a strange lilt to it that Gale had not heard before.

"But it will be a start. You may still be redeemed," Gandrel insisted.

Gale nearly scoffed. Redemption? For Astarion? The idea had never occurred to him as something the elf might value. Yet as he glanced over and caught the faint widening of Astarion's eyes while he stared back at the hunter, Gale found himself less certain. And in that moment, an inexplicable surge of hope stirred within him—hope for what, exactly, he wasn't sure.

Astarion gave a shallow nod and turned on his heel, striding down the path. Gale cast a wary glance over his shoulder, half-expecting the Gur to pursue them, but as the dusty road stretched farther behind them, his nerves began to settle.

They walked in companionable silence, Astarion now seemingly in much better spirits, as they retraced their steps towards the last place they had seen the others. Somewhere along the way, however, they must have taken a wrong turn, for instead of the crowded refugee tents and desperate faces, they found themselves amidst a road abuzz with chatter and laughter.

Then, rising above the din, a voice rang out, unmistakable and unrestrained.

"PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, FRINGE, PLEASE!"

Karlach's exuberant plea cut through the crowd like a flare in the night. It drew a smile from Gale, and when he glanced sidelong at Astarion—who was rolling his eyes skyward—he caught the faint smirk that betrayed him too.

They followed the sound, weaving through clusters of people.

It was not long before they spotted her. Karlach's towering frame was hard to miss as she bounced eagerly by a large gate, her boundless energy drawing curious looks from those nearby.

She whipped around mid-bounce, eyes locking onto them. A grin bloomed across her face as she waved them over with both arms.

Beside her, Shadowheart stood with arms crossed, but nodding along patiently, likely just to mollify the tiefling enough to keep her from attracting even more attention.

"Everything all right?" Karlach called out as they drew closer. "I thought you two had gone with the others to find a place to set up camp."

"Had to deal with a small diversion," Astarion replied with a shrug. At her narrowing eyes, he added, "I'll explain later." That seemed enough to satisfy her, and soon her excitement reignited.

"What's going on?" Gale asked, glancing between the tiefling and the cleric.

Karlach whirled back to the gate, gesturing wildly towards the colourful array of posters hanging on the fence. Gale's gaze shifted to the sun-bleached sign outside the gate. The lettering was bold, if a little tarnished.

The Circus of the Last Days.

How fitting.

"It's a circus!" she shouted with childlike glee. "It's supposed to be incredible. We have to go!"

Shadowheart sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in defeat, casting a look at Gale and Astarion. "She's been begging since we arrived."

"Pleeeease!" Karlach repeated, spinning back to them with wide, imploring eyes. "When are we ever going to get another chance to see something like this?"

Astarion raised an eyebrow. "What exactly is it you expect to find in there, darling? Cheap food? Questionable magic tricks?"

"Fun!" Karlach said, hands firmly on her hips. "You know, that thing you probably haven't had since the Year of the Awakening."

Astarion's mouth fell open, caught off guard by the jab, but before he could fire back, the tiefling had already turned to Gale, grinning brightly. "What do you say, Gale? A little break from all the doom and gloom?"

Gale hesitated, his gaze flicking towards the entrance. The colours and sounds pressing beyond the gate already suggested the kind of unrestrained chaos he usually preferred to avoid, but they had been through so much. With the weight of recent days—burdens he felt partly to blame for—and the uncertainty looming over Karlach's future, he found he could not bring himself to refuse her.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to look around," he said at last.

The tiefling let out a triumphant cheer, while Astarion and Shadowheart groaned in perfect unison.

"That's the spirit!" Karlach whooped, already marching towards the gate, dragging the cleric and the vampire behind her.

As expected, the circus pulsed with energy, a riot of life brimming with creatures and humanoids from every imaginable realm. Laughter mingled with strange, otherworldly melodies in the air, thick with the scent of too-sweet smoke. And yet, here, with his friends beside him, it was tolerable—even oddly charming.

Karlach's uninhibited delight seemed to cast a glow, infectious enough that, despite himself, Gale felt a flutter of excitement take hold.

By the entrance, a mummy peddled face paints in lurid colours, one of many eccentric vendors lining the tented paths. Gale loitered near the stall, idly flirting with the idea of picking up a jester's kit. He could complete the picture, after all—paint his face to match the role he seemed so intent on playing.

The thought faded as quickly as it had come. His hand dropped to his side, brushing empty pockets: a quiet, thoroughly unamused reminder of just how well the image might suit him. If ever a metaphor were needed, this one would do.

He sighed, shaking his head as he moved on, a quiet laugh escaping him when Karlach seized Shadowheart's wrist and hauled her towards the nearest food stall. But his attention was soon captured by the next act—a djinni brandishing an oversized wheel of fortune. Gale's frown deepened as he watched the elemental creature skillfully fleece patrons with a rigged game, manipulating the results with the subtlety of a well-placed Mage Hand.

"Not a bad use of Mage Hand, though I can think of far more... creative applications," Astarion drawled, his voice low and unexpectedly close to Gale's ear.

The words summoned a swift flood of memories from Gale's unguarded mind, his pulse quickening, colour rising to his cheeks. Surely Astarion did not know about that particular misuse of the Weave...? Yet Gale's reaction must have given him away, for the elf's expression turned into a leer, a single brow arching with devilish delight.

"My, my, Mr Dekarios," Astarion said with feigned innocence, resting an arm lightly on Gale's shoulder as he leaned in just a touch. "I don't wish to jump to conclusions, but gods, your reaction does paint a rather intriguing picture."

Gale cleared his throat and hastily pointed towards a vendor in the distance. "Look, a kobold over there. Selling... wares," he said, his voice strained in a poor attempt at diversion.

Astarion chuckled, clearly unconvinced but willing to play along.
They passed a sculptor next, a gargoyle-faced imp presiding over an impressive display of grotesque statues. Astarion, the absolute bastard, offered to pay five thousand gold pieces for a nude sculpture of Gale, a proposition Gale firmly declined.

"What has gotten into you?" Gale managed, biting back a laugh at the elf's theatrics. "I am beginning to suspect you, too, are a doppelganger."

A flash of a sharp-toothed grin. "Would a shapeshifter know what noises you make when you finish in your breeches, Sunshine?" Astarion replied without missing a beat, and Gale very nearly lost his footing on a loose stone.

"Well," he said briskly, straightening with a sniff, "that would depend on the species. Changelings only mimic appearances. Doppelgangers can read thoughts, but even then, one would have to choose to focus on… that. Which is an unsettling application of psionics, frankly." The words came fast, running ahead of his sense.

"Intriguing," Astarion said lightly. "But I am afraid you are stuck with the genuine article. Though I do think we should have a little chat about a certain… recent development."

"Ah, yes, Orin turning out to be a doppelganger was quite the surprise to me as well," Gale said weakly, part of him desperately trying to derail the conversation, keeping it idle and steering away from dangerous waters.

"Mm. We both know that is not what I am talking about, Sunshine," Astarion said, seeing right through his pitiful attempt. His voice dipped, the teasing tone softening around the edges. "You may be a fool, but playing stupid does not suit you. So tell me, what is actually going on in that overcomplicated head of yours?"

Gale let out a dry scoff. "That is your grand inquiry, is it? 'What's on your mind?' How very conventional of you."

Astarion folded his arms, a wry smile playing at his lips. "Last I checked, that is how people inquire after one another's well-being."

Gale rolled his eyes but said nothing.

Astarion glanced away, running his fingers through his silver curls, and when he spoke again, there was a strange tightness to his voice. "Look, I am not particularly good at… this."

"Talking?" Gale raised an eyebrow. "You seem quite proficient, considering you rarely stop."

"Oh, how very droll. And rich, coming from you," Astarion deadpanned. "What I meant was that I wanted to ask—after our little affair in the Sharran temple... a lot has happened since, and we never quite circled back to it, did we? Probably a mistake."

And that was all it took. The lock creaked open in Gale's mind, the carefully tucked-away memory slipping free. He had almost convinced himself he had dreamed it: a fevered, delirious vision conjured up in the midst of exhaustion and conflict. But here, in the piercing daylight, under Astarion's unrelenting scrutiny, he could no longer deny the flashes of images that rushed forth—climbing into the elf's lap, breathless, his body feverish with desire.

Heat rushed under his collar as the full weight of the recollection crashed over him, sending his pulse thrumming in his ears.

"Right," he managed, swallowing hard. His eyes flitted to a caged displacer beast, and for a fleeting moment, he toyed with the idea of setting it free and letting the creature devour him.

But instead of scrambling to banish the recollection, Gale finally allowed it to take full shape at last.

Once the initial wash of panic and embarrassment subsided, he found himself contemplating Astarion's reaction. Surprisingly, the elf seemed... calm. There was no hint of judgement, only that familiar teasing note, playful rather than mocking.

Looking back, Gale realised Astarion had always been this way after every shared moment of intimacy. He guided Gale through the storm of his emotions, patient and steady, waiting for him to emerge on the other side.

On the surface, Astarion always seemed uncaring and flippant, as if other people's feelings were beneath his lofty regard. But Gale had long seen through that. He knew Astarion cared—often begrudgingly, and not without complaint—but he was always there, diving headfirst into danger alongside them. He would brush it off, claiming he kept them alive only to protect himself. Yet there had been no need for him to stop Gale in the Shadowfell. No reason for him to kneel on the cold stone of Moonrise and talk sense into him.

Gods, even the memory of the words spoken against the backdrop of that desolate landscape made Gale's heart do unadvisable things.

He peered at Astarion, and the open expression the elf offered made him think that maybe, just maybe, they could have this. For a moment, Gale allowed himself to entertain the thought, relishing the possibility of the indulgence.

And then, for once, he opted for the simple truth.

"It's rather peculiar, really," Gale began, quietly, careful not to be overheard by the passing circus-goers, his thumb grazing the tattered trim of his robe. Don't misunderstand me; I'm still rather mortified by what transpired..." He saw Astarion's brows furrow, and the elf parted his lips as if to protest, but Gale pressed on. "But, after all we have endured... I find myself reconciled to the notion that the end, inevitable though it may be, draws near. I could, I suppose, squander what little time remains in quiet despair, bewailing the cruelty of fate. Or," he allowed a faint smile, "I might choose instead to savour the days left to me, and devote them to... rather more pleasurable pursuits without subjecting them to excessive contemplation."

Astarion stopped in his tracks and looked at Gale with an unreadable expression.

"Stop saying that," he said, suddenly serious.

Gale sighed, unwilling to shatter the levity they had shared just moments before. "Say what? That I'm going to die?" He gave a rueful smile. "Honestly, Astarion, I can't imagine any other conclusion to this tale. If I fail, I'll either succumb to ceremorphosis—setting off the orb as a result—or I'll be forced to trigger it myself when the time comes. Even if we somehow find a way to survive, do you truly believe Mystra would simply let me walk free? I defied her. Again. I'm struggling to see what choices are left."

Astarion frowned, his gaze intense. "But you didn't, you know"—he mimicked an explosion with his hand—"last time."

Gale rubbed his palms together, feeling the tension seep back in. "And, as you so astutely reminded me at the time," he said quietly, "you were all there. I couldn't bear the thought of dragging you down with me."

Astarion raised a pale brow, giving him a look that seemed to question his very sanity. "And what? You actually believe we won't be right there with you when we face the elder brain? Think again, Sunshine."

He had a point, but Gale was working on it. Well, sort of.

"Do you have a suggestion?" he replied, more of a challenge than a real question.

Astarion was ready with one anyway. "The ritual Raphael mentioned." He paused, his tone growing conspiratorial. "But imagine... what if I were the one to complete it? We could hunt down Cazador; put an end to him. I could seize his ascension, claim his power." A sly smile curled on his lips. "Then, we'd have everything that devil promised. Think of it..."

"We?"

"Well, technically it would be me, but we're a team, aren't we?" Astarion tilted his head, his gaze trained on Gale. "A shared tadpole, a halved tadpole, if you will," he added, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes.

Gale felt his lips twitch upwards.

"And then, together, we could seize the crown. You could finally grasp those glorious ambitions of yours. Just think of it; all that unimaginable power." He curled his hand into a fist.

Gale stared at him, not entirely dismissive. "And the cost?"

The question seemed to jar Astarion from his thoughts. He blinked, looking momentarily startled. "Pardon?"

"The cost of your ascension," Gale clarified. "Such power never comes freely. Raphael mentioned the lives of Cazador's spawn. Would you sacrifice them for this?"

Astarion didn't respond immediately, so Gale added, "We need more information."

A slow smile crept across the elf's face. "Sunshine, you're full of surprises. I expected you to be the first to dissuade me."

Gale shrugged, a hint of resolve hardening his expression. "Shadowheart wasn't wrong; the more power we wield, the more effectively we can protect Faerûn. If there exists even the slightest chance to redeem a fraction of my past mistakes by safeguarding the realm, I'll take it."

They rounded a corner, and a melodic voice drifted towards them. "This city of stone and steel is an endless scream in nature's womb. I have felt no peace here. Until now." A dryad stood nearby, her gaze distant as she addressed the air around her.

"She should probably talk to Halsin," Astarion snickered as they approached.

The fey, quick to spot potential customers, focused her unnerving gaze on Gale. "Your eyes, stra. There is pain, endless and deep. But also devotion; blazing like the sun. You're in love, are you not?"

Gale nearly choked on his own breath, fully aware that this was merely a performance, a harmless bit of fun for couples or friends passing through. And yet, he couldn't shake the worry that Astarion might not recognise it as such... and that it would lead to yet another profoundly embarrassing conversation.

"Ha! That is... no, we are not." Very good, Gale, excellent work. "I'm afraid not, but there's a tiefling and a half-elf coming along behind us—you might have better luck with them," he added with an awkward laugh, forcing a touch of his trademark self-assurance into the final words, hoping it would be enough to salvage his dignity.

All the while, he offered a silent prayer that he might survive once Shadowheart learned he had thrown her under the carriage.

"Wow, you are breaking my heart, lover," said Astarion with a sardonic leer, silver lashes fluttering. "I thought we had something special."

The jest was unmistakable, yet it did nothing to stop Gale's treacherous heart from skipping a beat. Even more mortifying was the certainty that the vampire hadn't missed it.

If Astarion noticed, he gave no sign. Instead, he gifted Gale with a broad, indulgent smile and gestured for him to continue down the path.

✦

The balmy weather, with the promise of more rain lingering in the air, ushered them back to camp.

It was well into the heart of the night, and by all accounts, Gale should have been fast asleep. Yet he remained awake, seated at his desk, thoughts spiralling in restless currents. Nearby, Astarion was sprawled across Gale's bed, leafing through a book with the languid ease of someone who belonged there—effortlessly at home, as though his place had always been beside Gale in these dim, quiet hours.

Since departing from Moonrise, their nights had settled into a familiar rhythm: the two of them sharing the same space, sometimes in silence, sometimes drifting between the soft ebb and flow of Gale's musings and Astarion's frequent complaints about fleeting matters—Lae'zel's relentless sword maintenance, Gale's questionable choice of clothes, Scratch's dog hair finding its way into his wine, Gale's clothes, Wyll's dancing, Gale's clothes, just to name a few. Eventually, tiredness would win out, and only when Gale finally succumbed to restless sleep would Astarion slip away for a few hours of meditation.

Gale often wondered when the elf's patience would wear thin, when he would tire of hearing Gale ramble on about the mysteries of the Weave, the intricacies of magic, or the histories of the lands they traversed. Yet Astarion always listened. Even when his gaze drifted back to the pages of his book or to something invisible in the distance, he remained tethered to Gale's words, following his thoughts with a quiet, almost unsettling attentiveness.

Gale was not accustomed to being the centre of someone's unwavering attention.

At first, he hesitated, fearing he might overstep. It was unnerving, but as the days passed, he allowed himself to speak more freely, let his voice fill the quiet spaces between them. He hoped that Astarion would stop him if he ever became too tiresome.

Gale was taking notes, trying to organise his thoughts around that blasted crown and the elder brain, his fingertips and the side of his palm freshly smudged with ink.

Astarion had been silent beside him on the bed for a while, no rustle of paper or shift of movement. Gale glanced up, only to find the elf's piercing eyes boring into him, making him squirm slightly.

"What?" he asked, head cocked to the side.

Astarion hummed in soft, appreciative contemplation. "I'm just picturing you in a crown."

"Oh? And?" Gale turned slightly in his chair to face him fully, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Handsome, would I be?"

Astarion stood, his movements fluid, like a fey panther on the prowl.

He approached and leaned casually against the table. Gale tipped his head back to gaze up at him and... gods, he looked like a vision.

In the candlelight, Astarion seemed flawless, as if carved from marble—all long limbs and irresistible allure. The sight alone made Gale's heart ache.

In that moment, he was overcome with gratitude that he was alive. That they both were.

Astarion reached out slowly, as he always did when touching Gale, giving him the chance to pull back. But as the soft skin of the elf's fingertips brushed against his jawline, a shaky sigh escaped Gale's lips. Being touched still held a sense of novelty, as such moments were rare and mostly followed dramatic, near-death events.

When Gale did not pull away, the elf slid his hand along his cheek, then further, gently pinching his chin and turning his head from side to side, as if measuring him for a crown, imagining him adorned from every angle. Gale was pliant under his ministrations, as always, yielding to the gentle, steady hold.

"Very," he said simply, and Gale's throat worked, drawing the elf's attention.

Astarion's gaze lingered on his neck, pupils blown wide.

"When was the last time you fe—" Gale began, but Astarion cut him off.

"I don't need to feed." Short and to the point, leaving no room for second-guessing.

"Oh." Gale swallowed thickly. Suddenly, it felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the tent, the space between them growing charged, dense with crackling tension. 

Gale needed to look away, just to gather a fragment of his scattered thoughts. But as he tried to lower his gaze, Astarion's hold shifted back to his jaw, his grip firmer now, compelling Gale to hold his stare.

A shiver ran down Gale's spine. If this had been anyone else, he would have felt uncomfortable, but with Astarion, it was grounding. It kept him in the present with such heated intensity that all resistance abandoned him.

Astarion had never responded to Gale's remark at the circus about being open to intimacy, yet it quickly became clear that the elf had not let the suggestion slip from memory.

The elf's thumb traced over his pulse, and then his fingers curled lightly around Gale's neck. All the blood in his body rushed southward so swiftly, it left him light-headed.

Astarion pressed just beneath his ears; the contact was loose, not constricting, but enough to leave Gale's breath shallow and unsteady.

"Fuck, you are so gorgeous like this," Astarion whispered, his eyes roaming over Gale's face as if he wanted to drink in every minute detail. He sounded as though he were speaking more to himself than to Gale, so Gale said nothing.

"You like this, don't you?" Astarion tightened his hold just a little to emphasise his words, coaxing a small gasp from him. Gale nodded, obedient. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

"Have you done this to yourself before?" Gale was almost surprised there was any blood left in his face to allow his flush to deepen, but he nodded again.

"Your reaction earlier..." Astarion mused quietly. "Mage Hand, was it?" His voice was dark and smooth, like velvet pouring into Gale's head, and he felt as though he might die from either embarrassment or arousal—he wasn't sure which.

Astarion didn't wait for a reply. "Gods, you're so easy to read. Can I touch you more?"

The raised brow and the deliberate pause in his movements left Gale scrambling for breath before he rasped out, "Yes."

Astarion stepped closer, nudging Gale's legs apart to make room between his thighs. Instinctively, Gale's hands found his hips, tightening at the elf's slim waist.

Leaning in, Astarion let his mouth brush the shell of Gale's ear. "If you'd rather not put on a show for our friends, now would be a good time to use some of that magic of yours," he whispered.

Gale probably should have cleared his mind before murmuring the incantation, but heat clouded his thoughts, and his magic, ever eager, responded at once. He felt Astarion's smirk deepen, followed by a pleased little sound as the protective spell shimmered into place around them.

"If you want me to stop at any point, tell me," Astarion murmured.

Gale simply nodded again, squeezing his eyes shut under the onslaught of desire and excitement crashing over him.

Clever fingers slipped beneath his collar, dancing over sensitive skin and drawing a quiet whimper from him. Astarion leaned down, breathing into the curve of Gale's neck before pressing cool lips to the exposed arch of his throat.

Then—light as a threat—sharp fangs grazed his skin. Not piercing, not breaking the surface. Just enough to remind him of the danger, of how easily Astarion could kill him like this.

Slowly, the elf straightened, prompting Gale to let go of his waist, his hand falling to the edge of his seat.

An overwhelming urge to beg for something—anything—swelled in his chest, but the words caught and dissolved in his mouth as Astarion began to sink slowly to his knees, his intentions unmistakable.

As he descended, he parted Gale's shirt, pushing the fabric aside. His lips and teeth continued their exploration, trailing down Gale's sternum to the sensitive skin of his now-bare abdomen. He widened Gale's legs further, creating space as he knelt between them.

His pupils were blown wide, leaving only the barest ring of vivid red—a striking contrast against his pale complexion, even in the warm glow of candlelight. It felt like he was peering straight into Gale's very soul through those damned silver lashes.

The elf's hands slid along Gale's thighs, charting a path down to his knees before reversing course, slowly, torturously, inch by inch, up... up... up... until he was palming the prominent bulge in Gale's trousers. Gale's entire body tensed as he fought the urge to press into the touch, unwilling to seem too eager.

"All right?" Astarion asked.

Gale wanted him to stop and to never release him; he wanted to run and be shackled to Astarion so they would never part again.

He managed a nod.

"Remember, I need you to use your words, Sunshine. Can you do that for me?"

This, Gale realised, was proof of it all—the crack beneath Astarion's carefully constructed façade. The subtle care in every measured step, in the way he navigated Gale's unspoken boundaries. And somehow, knowing that made the heat burning within him flare even brighter.

"Yes. Keep going," he choked out, desperation jailed between two trembling breaths.

A moment of silence followed. Astarion remained still, waiting.

"Please," Gale added—and his reward was a satisfied grin.

The elf pressed the heel of his hand firmly against the rigid line of Gale's hardness. He did not move, but the pressure alone drew a sharp, shuddering breath from Gale's chest, breaking into a strained keen as his head tipped back, jaw clenched with restraint.

With his other hand, the elf reached for Gale's, still gripping the edge of the chair with white-knuckled strain. At the soft brush of Astarion's fingertips, Gale loosened his hold, turning his palm upward in silent invitation.
Astarion laced their fingers together without a word, binding him with that simple, tender connection amidst the heady intensity, anchoring him before he could drift too far.


For Gale, sex had always been about power, about magic; it had never felt so raw, so human. It was utterly terrifying and completely addictive.

After what felt like an eternity, though only a fleeting moment in truth, Astarion finally released his hand, offering a final, affectionate squeeze before moving on to deftly unfasten Gale's trousers. He raised his hips as Astarion took hold of the waistband, easing the fabric down just enough to free his cock, fully hard, flushed, the head glistening with anticipation.

"Fucking gorgeous," Astarion repeated, slightly winded, his voice parched. Without hesitation, he reached out, and Gale hissed through his teeth as that cool hand wrapped around him, a startling contrast against heated skin. Then, leaning in, Astarion traced a slow path with his tongue from root to tip, pausing only to lap at the bead of white already gathered there, savouring it with a soft, appreciative hum.

Gale was suddenly reminded, vividly, of another occasion, far more innocent by comparison, when Astarion had nestled between his thighs, lips parting around Gale's fingertip to taste his blood. It felt as though an eternity had passed since then.

Astarion drew back slightly, peering up at him. They were still mostly clothed, which, oddly, made the moment feel even more intense—less planned, more reckless. As though caught in a haze of longing, they had collided not by intention but by some inescapable force beyond their control.

The elf's eyes fixed on him, searching for something, and whatever it was, he must have found it. He dove straight back in and dragged the flat of his tongue along Gale's cock, agonisingly slow, before taking him into his mouth.

The sounds escaping him were growing increasingly delirious. Astarion hollowed his cheeks, tongue swirling expertly over the sensitive underside. A low hum thrummed along his length, sending a jolt up his spine. The elf's fingers curled firmly at the base, controlling the pace as pleasure threatened to pull him apart.

His breaths faltered, catching with every exhale. Each laboured sigh fed the heat coiling low in his belly, that searing, breathless ache mounting with every wet glide of Astarion's lips, every flick of his tongue. The intimacy of it was devastating, threading through him like a thrill. A knot of tangled emotions tightened in his throat, and he fought to maintain composure. If he let go, he feared he might break completely.

He could feel tears begin to gather at the corners of his eyes just as Astarion reached up and gently guided Gale's unsteady hand into the tousled softness of his curls.

An illusion of control.

Gale couldn't tear his gaze away from the sight before him. He watched his cock disappear between those sinful lips, and a primal urge rose within him to pull Astarion up and taste himself in his mouth.

Gale's fingers threaded more firmly into Astarion's hair, gripping tight. The response was immediate: a low moan from the elf, followed by the graze of sharp teeth that nearly sent Gale over the edge.

Astarion, of course, didn't miss his reaction. He immediately ran a careful fang down the length of his shaft again, deliberate this time. Gale's head snapped back, and Astarion had to pin down the helpless buck of his hips with a grasp of steel, preventing him from causing himself harm. But even that restraint only added fuel to the already raging fire inside him.

Astarion pulled off with an obscene, wet sound, leaving Gale exposed and throbbing, slick with spit. The sudden absence was a torment all its own, forcing a curse from Gale.

"Careful, Sunshine," Astarion drawled, his voice husky, a wicked smile curling his reddened, glistening mouth. He was so close Gale could feel his breath ghosting over oversensitive skin. But he offered no mercy. His grip around Gale's cock tightened, and his hand began to move with intent, slow strokes, twisting at the head, a rhythm that teased more than it satisfied.

Gale was losing his mind. His fingers flexed in Astarion's hair, skin-tight with desperation, nails digging into his scalp. But the elf only chuckled low in his throat as he continued to deny him. He mouthed at the tip, lips gliding in slow, maddening passes, tongue pressing just beneath the crown, taunting, but not yielding.

Gale wanted—gods, he wanted—to thrust into that perfect, tormenting mouth, to fist Astarion's hair tight, and bury himself deep and hard until he was spent and senseless. But something held him back.

Instead, he drew a shaking breath, fingers loosening in that sea of silver. He let his defences bleed away, every muscle unwinding in surrender, and allowed the elf to reclaim what had been his all along.


Astarion's eyes gleamed with something close to triumph as he offered a smug smile, and then, without pause, he sank down. His lips stretched wide, the flushed head of Gale's cock gliding over his tongue and across the soft palate, then deeper still, until the elf's nose was pressed to the smooth planes of Gale's abdomen.

Muffled, enthusiastic sounds spilt from him, and Gale could feel every rumble on the very surface of his cock in the tight clutch of Astarion's throat.


A reward.

The rhythmic flex of muscle around him, the sting of Astarion's fingernails digging into his thighs to hold him down—it was overwhelming, punishingly exquisite.

Gale trembled, muscles taut, every fibre hypersensitive to every inch Astarion touched. Euphoria twisted through him, threaded with something older, lonelier—the ache of solitude, the phantom chill of years without touch. It mingled with the pleasure, forming an uncontrollable elixir of sensation and memory. It was like slipping into the Weave at its most volatile, letting it course through his body, unbound and wild, feeling its arcane currents pulse through his veins.

A bolt of lightning lit up the tent in a flash of white, illuminating Astarion in bursts—the flush in his cheeks, the glisten of spit around his mouth, the tension in his jaw as he swallowed around Gale's cock. The thunder that followed resonated in Gale's chest, falling in rhythm with his erratic heartbeat. He was panting, moaning, disobedient, broken words falling from his lips, mingling with Astarion's name in a fractured, desperate mantra.

He wasn't going to last.

"I'm..." Gale began, a warning on his tongue, but Astarion only tightened his grip and quickened his pace. Gale's pulse raced, his breath stuttered, muscles tensing. A raw, unfamiliar sound tore from his chest, dampened only by the patter of the pelting rain against the tent.

And then Gale was coming, his length buried deep in Astarion's mouth as the elf took every drop, his gaze unwavering.

Gale had known intimacy before—with those untouched by magic, with spellcasters, Hells, even with the goddess of magic herself. But nothing had prepared him for the wild surge that coursed through him now, watching Astarion kneeling before him, lips wrapped around his cock in a soft, possessive claim.

Astarion might have been the one on his knees, but all control, every ounce of it, belonged to him.

The elf's hands moved with purpose; one held Gale steady at the hip, while the other slid beneath his shirt, drawing slow, soothing circles over bare skin as he rode the cresting waves of pleasure.

At last, Astarion withdrew, leaving Gale shivering as cool air brushed over his oversensitive, spent cock. The elf wet his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue and dragged a finger along Gale's slick length. Then rising between his legs, he gently cupped Gale's face, clearly pleased with his handiwork.

Gale leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut to avoid the intensity of Astarion's stare as he regained his breath. The elf's other hand found its way into Gale's hair, fingers threading through the waves, eliciting an involuntary gasp when he applied just the right pressure to his scalp, sending a lazy, smouldering tickle of pleasure down his spine.

Gale slowly opened his eyes, his gaze falling on Astarion's evident arousal. But before he could even form a response, Astarion took hold of his wrist and gently guided him up from the chair, leading him to the bed.

"You all right, Sunshine?" Astarion asked, his voice hoarse.

"Yes, I would say so," Gale replied with a feeble laugh, his own voice rasping.

Astarion adjusted Gale's trousers before gently coaxing him onto the bed, and Gale, still in a haze, complied without hesitation.

"You were perfect, darling," the elf murmured as he settled beside him, pulling Gale close and brushing a light kiss to his sweat-dampened temple. Though Gale wanted to protest, to insist it was Astarion's turn, the elf's tender touch lulled him into surrender. Astarion drew him closer, fingers tracing comforting patterns along his side, draining the last remnants of tension from his weary body.

"Look at you, like a well-fed cat," Astarion chuckled.

"Shut up," Gale grumbled, without any real bite. His words were marred by his still breathless voice, and he felt Astarion's smile against his skin. The even sound of the rain felt like a protective blanket over them. Gale nestled closer, burying his face in the cool, rich scent of bergamot, and gave himself over to the embrace of sleep.

✦

Morning arrived with startling clarity, yet devoid of the usual wave of shame and confusion.
Astarion was already gone. For a moment, Gale felt a pang of worry, but when he glanced outside, he realised the sun was already high in the now clear sky. If they wished to keep their newfound pastime private, it was best that Astarion did not emerge from his tent first thing in the morning for all to witness.

Gale understood and agreed, though a subtle wave of dejection swelled in him nonetheless. It lingered like a wistful ghost at his shoulder as he readied himself for the day, cleaned up with a flick of magic, slipped into a fresh set of robes, and stepped out into the morning light. It stayed with him as he made his way to the coffee pot suspended over the dancing campfire, poured himself a generous serving, and took a sip, savouring the bitter taste.

It was not until he looked up and saw a familiar pair of crimson eyes through the curling steam rising from his cup that the feeling began to shift.

Across the camp, Astarion appeared engrossed in conversation with Halsin and Karlach, but when their gazes met, a smile crept across the elf's features. Heat rose in Gale's cheeks and pooled low in his belly as memories from the previous night came rushing back. He watched as Astarion's casual smile stretched into a predatory grin, making Gale acutely aware of his own expression.

It was then that it dawned on Gale that perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew.

✦

click image for NSFW

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

Sharess' Caress was, as brothels went, a surprisingly decent establishment. The place was relatively free of grime, and the staff were welcoming enough to encourage patrons to return. They hoped to gather information on Astarion's spawn siblings or, at the very least, glean some insight into what awaited them beyond the Gate, which remained firmly closed to outsiders.

While Karlach, face set with uncharacteristic severity, questioned the brothel's feline resident, Gale hovered nearby, sneaking glances at Astarion—a habit fast encroaching upon the bounds of obsession.

Until recently, Gale had been certain that whatever lay between him and Astarion was simple in its foundation, rooted solely in Astarion's attraction to his blood and power. He had dismissed their encounter in the Sharran temple as an anomaly, a desperate moment born of life-or-death stakes, which, by all logic, had served only to benefit Gale.

But a couple of nights earlier, Astarion had touched him without any intent to feed, sparking within Gale the faintest glimmer of something, misguided perhaps, yet powerful enough to threaten a conflagration of longing he could neither dispel nor dare define.

He needed to rein in his traitorous, wandering thoughts before they caused real trouble, but that was easier said than done, especially since Astarion had developed an unfortunate habit of touching. All. The. Damn. Time.

Astarion's hand would settle on the small of Gale's back to guide him forward, glide along his arm to catch his attention, or land in a brief, casual pat on his thigh whenever they sat side by side at the campfire. To any observer, these gestures might have seemed innocently platonic, but to Gale, each cool touch left maddening heat in its wake. Every contact felt like a test, one he was failing miserably, with every shiver and stolen glance.

The elf snapped him out of his thoughts by doing exactly that, leaning in close, his blasted hand sliding onto Gale's waist as though it had every right. Gale had to wrestle back a shudder, along with the urge to lean into the steadying line of Astarion's frame behind him.

"As utterly delightful as this feline inquisition is, might we consider pursuing something actually useful?" The elf's voice slipped into his ear, each word brushing against his skin. Gale's eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat, betraying him before he forced them open again.

He willed his focus onto Karlach, who was now cheerfully coaxing gossip from the lounging cat, while Shadowheart leaned over the counter, exchanging sharp words with a disgruntled bar attendant as she fished for a bottle of halfway decent wine, not even pretending to be useful.

Gale nodded stiffly, allowing himself only a brief look behind him as the elf stepped away. He watched Astarion saunter off, feeling equal parts relieved and disappointed at the sudden loss of contact.

He shook his head in a miserable attempt to dispel the thoughts that trailed after Astarion's every step, until the elf disappeared behind a set of red velvet curtains.

Gale moved closer to Karlach to tell her of their plan, but she merely waved him off with a vague shooing motion over her shoulder, not even looking up. With a sigh, Gale turned and followed after Astarion.

He hesitated before the drape. Vibrant music drifted from beyond, accompanied by the rhythmic beat of what sounded like a dancer's movements. The scent of amber wafted through the air, its intoxicating embrace suffusing the room.

As Gale pulled the fabric aside, his gaze fell upon a beautiful woman commanding the stage, her form glistening beneath a sheen of sweat or oil—he could not quite tell. Every curve of her figure was revealed, artfully clad in garments that skirted the line between allure and indecency, yet somehow remained just shy of scandal. Her movements were slow, deliberate, and sinuous, tracing the air with an artistry that left Gale's skin prickling with heat. He felt the pulse of the music like a heartbeat beneath his own, each note coiling tighter, leaving him suspended between the urge to flee and the helpless inability to look away.

He steeled himself and averted his gaze, quickly scanning the room for Astarion. When his eyes finally found that distinctive head of winter curls, Gale saw that he was already deep in conversation with a pair of drow in the corner.

They bore a striking resemblance to one another, unmistakably kin, with matching dark skin and silver hair aglow like spun gold in the flickering candlelight. Together, they reminded Gale of a coveted pair of jewels in a collector's treasury. They appeared at ease, their scant attire suggesting they were likely employees, with a comfortable familiarity toward the comings and goings of those around them. They would undoubtedly make a good starting point for inquiries.

Gale almost managed to convince himself that his feet carrying him straight to them were motivated solely by practicality.

"My, my, I can tell you're a special one from a single glance," the female drow drawled as Gale approached. Her words continued to flow, but they barely registered, brushing faintly against his consciousness. His attention remained fixed on Astarion, who was engrossed in conversation with the male drow, all charming smiles and a wicked glint in his eye. A faint itch began to crawl at the back of Gale's neck, a tension he could not quite shake.

"Don't be shy," the female drow teased, mistaking Gale's silence for bashfulness.

Reluctantly, Gale tore his gaze from the elf and turned to face her. A breath caught in his throat as he took in her features up close. Graceful brows arched with subtle elegance, lashes drifting low to veil a lascivious pair of grey moonstone eyes that seemed to bore into him with great intensity.

He realised, with some chagrin, that he had likely missed a fair portion of the conversation. But her expectant look made it clear it was now his turn to contribute and, wishing to avoid seeming even more foolish, he blurted the question that had circled his mind since spotting Astarion cosying up to the male drow.

"What... sort of services do you offer?"

An inquiry which, in hindsight, he had no real desire to probe too deeply.

"Darling, they're inviting you to join them in bed," Astarion supplied helpfully, pausing his exchange with the other drow. He half-turned to Gale with an eye roll, his tone nonchalant, verging on encouraging.

It was a peculiar yet familiar feeling that rose in the pit of Gale's stomach, that of being unwanted, of being quickly cast aside. But just as the sentiment threatened to slip through the cracked door of his mind, Astarion let out a high-pitched laugh, brimming with exaggerated confidence and theatrical flair.

Despite his intellect, Gale had often been told he struggled to pick up on subtleties. But this laugh—this he knew. He had archived its cadence over months of careful observation. He could not possibly have missed it.

Astarion was uncomfortable.

Though Gale could not entirely discern the cause, the urgent desire to get them out of the establishment swelled in his chest so rapidly he thought he might drown. Questions could wait.

He cleared his throat. "I'm honoured... but I must decline," he stammered stiffly, prompting a real chuckle to tumble from Astarion's mouth this time.

"No, Sunshine, they would do it for gold," he clarified, sounding dangerously close to fond.

"Ah," was all Gale managed. His head was so full, so preoccupied, that it took a few extra moments for his thoughts to align, leaving him flustered. "In that case... thank you for your consideration, that is," he amended awkwardly, "but I've neither the coin nor the desire."

The woman huffed a laugh under her breath. "Aw, he's adorable. I'd probably take you for free," she practically purred.

Before Gale could conjure a response, Astarion's voice sliced through the room, cold as a drawn blade.

"He said no."

The sweet, inviting smile dropped from his face in an instant. With a final, pointed glare at the drow twins, he hooked his arm through Gale's, steering him firmly towards the exit.

Gale tried to reason with his unruly, galloping heart, telling himself this was merely Astarion protecting a friend, a gesture he would extend to Karlach or Shadowheart just the same. Yet, despite his efforts, the traitorous organ persisted in its ascent, lodging uncomfortably in his throat, threatening to suffocate him.

As they stepped outside, the brisk morning air greeted Gale like a refreshing slap against his burning face. Astarion let go of him, his hand falling to his side as they began walking down the street together.

Gale took a deep breath, trying to clear his senses of the opulent smell of desire and quiet his ever-turbulent mind. He could have sworn there was a time when he had navigated such situations with greater composure, or at the very least, with a touch more dignity.

"You've never been with a prostitute," Astarion said, more as an observation than a question.

"What? Of course not," Gale spluttered,  with a vehemence that surprised even himself.

"You wizards do have a reputation for indulgence, you know. I certainly met my fair share back when I was... working for Cazador." He let out a soft, insincere chuckle, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though sharing a private joke only he understood.

"I've always preferred more... mutually inspired arrangements," Gale replied. Then, after a pause, he added, "But correct me if I'm mistaken, I thought you hadn't drunk the blood of sentient beings until quite recently?"

Astarion's mouth twitched in what might have passed for amusement. His eyes, however, remained cold and devoid of humour, a look Gale had come to loathe.

"No, darling. I'm talking about sex. Fucking strangers. Quite a few of them, actually," Astarion clarified, his words laced with a hint of purposeful vulgarity.

But Gale recognised it for what it was: Astarion's tendency to employ coarse language either to elicit a reaction or to shield himself from uncomfortable truths. Gale suspected it was both, in this instance.

"You do realise, don't you, that when I spoke of my duties for Cazador, this is precisely what I was referring to," he said, waving a hand lazily towards the brothel behind them. "Well, perhaps with slightly more refined trappings back at the Palace, but otherwise, not much different."

Gale had long harboured suspicions, but the elf had never openly spoken of all the horrors he had endured under Cazador's thrall. The confirmation of his speculations, however, ignited a fresh wave of red-hot rage within Gale, rage directed squarely at the master vampire.

"You were forced into it," Gale countered, quietly hoping to cloak some of the emotion in his voice.

"Oh, not always," Astarion replied with a light shrug, his tone bordering on indifferent. "Sometimes, it was a way to escape the miserable reality I was shackled to." He drummed his fingers lightly against his arm. "And sometimes? Simply for my own amusement."

"Why are you telling me this?" Gale asked with a frown, feeling provoked.

"Well, I thought, given our recent... private activities, a little clarification might be in order." Astarion paused, brushing a hand down his arm before straightening his cuffs. "Judging by your reactions, perhaps I wasn't quite as transparent as I imagined." His eyes sharpened in scrutiny as he tilted his head slightly. "And the way you responded to that drow's offer..." He let the words trail off, leaving the implication to linger.

"I realise I may have sounded... prejudiced. That wasn't my intention," Gale began, then halted to weigh his next words with care. "It is not the nature of the work I object to, so long as it is entered into freely. I enjoy physical pleasures as much as the next person. I simply prefer... familiarity. Trust. A matter of personal comfort, nothing more."

Astarion glanced at him. The faint curl at the corner of his lips stretched into a smile, and at last, some warmth reached his eyes.

"Oh? And do I fall into the 'familiar' and 'trusted' category, then?"

"Yes. I've said as much before. And I meant it," Gale replied without hesitation, hoping to convey the depth of his sincerity. A flicker of surprise crossed Astarion's face at Gale's earnest response.

Then he looked ahead and fell silent. They walked on in companionable quiet until Astarion spoke again.

"I can't say I'm fond of it myself," he said, eyes fixed on a point in the distance. "Being touched by people I don't trust."

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air between them. Gale's chest twisted at the thought of all the strangers' unwanted hands forced upon him, everything he must have endured.

But then, thoughts of their own shared intimacy crept in, memories of their time together worming their way between his thoughts.

"Is that why you never..." Gale began, then stopped, realising abruptly that this was not a conversation for sunlit streets and public spaces, but he had been itching to ask, not knowing how.

Astarion huffed. "Does it bother you?"

"I'm... not certain. Perhaps. If it's a matter of trust..." Gale admitted, "It leaves me feeling selfish, like I'm the sole beneficiary of this... arrangement."

Astarion remained silent for several long heartbeats, and Gale began to wonder if he would say anything at all. But before he could speak again, Astarion turned down an alley that opened onto a wooden balcony overlooking the sea, then spun around to face him squarely.

"Listen," he began, his gaze piercing as it locked onto Gale's. "Once, I'd have taken you to bed and thought nothing more of it." He leered, though his expression softened as he gestured between them, his tone slipping into something more genuine. "But... whatever this is, it's given me a taste of something different. An opportunity to feel... in control."

He hesitated as if the admission were foreign on his tongue. "And, gods help me, that's exactly what I need right now."

And in that instant, it all fell into place, like the final tome finding its home on an empty shelf.

After years of feeling powerless, of being used, this was Astarion's way of reclaiming something vital, a means of asserting his will, his agency. It made perfect sense.

And with that understanding came a humbling clarity—Gale now knew he would step into whatever role Astarion needed of him, not out of submission, but as an offering. If he could soothe even a whisper of Astarion's pain or offer him a sliver of peace, Gale would find fulfilment in that.

"Very well," Gale said, a small, unbridled rush of excitement cascading down his back.

He turned, his gaze falling upon the expanse of sea beyond the balcony. Even as dregs of his disquiet pressed heavily upon him, he found himself transfixed by the light dancing on the waves, a scattered spill of sunfire, as if a thousand gemstones had been cast across the surface. Liquid gold melted into the deep indigo of the water, glinting like the lost treasure of some ancient wyrm.

Astarion stood next to him, brushing his shoulder against his, and Gale finally allowed himself to lean into the touch.

He drew in a steadying breath; beneath the layered scents of city life—metal, spice and smoke—there lingered the faint, clean edge of brine and the parched musk of sunbaked earth. Reluctantly, he relinquished the view and turned his attention back to the elf.

He cleared his throat, splitting the tense silence. "I couldn't help but notice, though, for someone so wary of proximity, you're remarkably generous with your personal space when it comes to us," he said, hoping to steer the conversation back to safer territories.

The tension shattered like glass. Astarion threw his head back with a groan of theatrical suffering, arms flailing as he turned on his heel and strode towards the main street.

"Oh, marvellous. Insight from the great wizard at last," he sighed, clearly aggrieved.

Gale followed, a poorly suppressed smile tugging at his lips.

"Truly, your gift for the obvious knows no bounds. Yes, fine—congratulations. For some unfathomable reason, I trust you lot. Gods help me, I trust you. There. Does that appease your relentless curiosity?" He finished with a flourish, looking simultaneously indignant and endearingly flustered.

Gale's grin only widened, savouring his small triumph.

Realising he had been cornered into a confession, Astarion's eyes flashed with annoyance. "You self-obsessed prick. I'm almost impressed."

With another dramatic sigh, he produced a small tart from seemingly thin air and shoved it into Gale's hands. "Here. Eat this and spare us any more of your conclusions. You'll need your wits sharp, if such a thing is possible."

Gale held the pasty aloft, inspecting it with bemusement. Astarion had not stopped to buy anything at any of the stalls they had passed. "You stole this, didn't you?"

Astarion rolled his eyes. "Oh, bravo, Gale. Your powers of observation are truly unparalleled today."

"I am always perceptive," Gale grumbled, picking at the crumbling crust. "It's simply that much of what goes on around us hardly merits my undivided attention."

Astarion's lips twisted into a sly, predatory smirk. His eyes gleamed as he leaned in close, voice dropping to a low, silken taunt.

"Yet you always seem to keep such a watchful eye on me, don't you?"

His words cracked like a whip, catching Gale off guard and sending a shock of heat up his spine. Colour rose to his face, warmth creeping up his neck as he realised he had walked straight into Astarion's expertly laid snare.

A payback.

Normally, this would have been the moment Astarion seized on that vulnerability, twisting it into something deliciously humiliating, savouring the taste of Gale's discomfort.

But he did not. Instead, he chose something far more devastating—a single, unguarded act that would haunt Gale in ways mockery never could.

It started as a low, rumbling sound, a tremor that began deep in Astarion's chest and rose, gathering strength until it broke free: a rich, full-bodied laugh that spilled from him in waves, resonant and unrestrained. It was a sound so alive, so wholly unexpected, that it stunned Gale into silence.

He knew that the elf's amusement was, in part, at his expense, but he found himself disarmed, helplessly entranced.

Over time, Gale had meticulously catalogued all the ways Astarion conveyed his emotions with the precision of an academic, dissecting each subtle shift as if studying rare artefacts. And yet here he was, utterly floored, unable to box this one neatly in his mind.

Every time he thought it impossible for Astarion to become more breathtaking, the elf proved him wrong. But this? This was devastation, a tragic, ruinous end. Gale felt as though he were being pulled out to sea by wild waves, lost to the tides with no magic to anchor him.

He wanted to join Astarion, to revel in his mirth, and yet, a part of him wanted to break down entirely. More than anything, he wanted Astarion by his side, laughing like this, uninhibited, carefree. Lover or friend, it mattered little, so long as Astarion was safe and content.

Something in Gale died and came alive all at once, and in that moment, he knew with grim clarity just how utterly, completely, monumentally fucked he was.

For he was a fool in love, and it was only a matter of time before he made a colossal ass of himself.

He wanted to confess it all, right there and then, in the middle of the sunlit street, with the air between them still filled with that laughter. He wanted to shower Astarion with the affection that had taken root inside him, pressing against each organ, growing wilder by the day.

But his desires were his own to bear. Despite the increasing closeness between them, Astarion had drawn his boundaries long ago, making it abundantly clear that grand displays of affection and sweeping declarations held no allure for him.

Mystra had taught Gale the price of overstepping, the pain of crossing lines not meant to be breached. He had overreached once, and it had cost him everything. He would not make the same mistake again.

So he swallowed the words that hovered on the edge of his lips, reined in the warmth threatening to rise in his cheeks, and forced himself to move forward, step by painful step, the weight of his unspoken emotions bearing down with every stride.

"Come now, wizard. Finish your little tart, and let us be off to that dreary flophouse. Our tiefling mentioned heading there after the brothel," Astarion said finally, once his laughter ebbed, though his good mood still held.

Under any other circumstances, Gale might have delivered a short lecture on Astarion's light-fingered tendencies, especially in times of war and crisis. He would probably have made a pitiful attempt to return the stolen goods in some sad effort at reverse pickpocketing.

Looting the bodies or homes of their enemies and pilfering from those who scarcely had enough to feed themselves were, in Gale's view, worlds apart.

But today, he had done the noble thing once already, suppressing his ill-advised feelings and sparing the elf an uninvited flood of sentiment. So, he figured it was only fair to indulge himself, just a little. Cloaking his logic in the finest threads of sophistry, he took a bite of the tart, fully aware that his self-justification was perched on perilously thin stilts.

"You are a nightmare," Gale grumbled around a mouthful of pastry, then followed Astarion.

✦

The flophouse was, predictably, a simple establishment with an overwhelming sense of... brown. From the rugged stone tiles underfoot to the solid wooden furnishings, every element seemed steeped in that same earthy hue. It was modest, certainly, but it served its purpose with diligence.

As they made their way upstairs, hoping Karlach and Shadowheart had already arrived, Gale found his thoughts drifting. He imagined himself living a life of obscurity, just another faceless wanderer passing through the city, either biding his time for entry or enjoying the freedom to leave in search of fortune elsewhere, perhaps in Waterdeep. Or better yet, the distant shores of Mintarn, far from the looming spectre of war and wrapped in anonymity. What a tantalising thought.

The stairs creaked beneath their feet as they reached the upper floor, but there was no sign of the cleric or the tiefling. Gale turned, about to suggest they return to the brothel, when he felt Astarion go suddenly, unnaturally still beside him.

It was that unsettling, statuesque stillness. In Gale's eyes, it was Astarion's clearest tell, an unmistakable glimpse of his true nature.

A faint twitch in the elf's jaw, a barely perceptible pause in his breathing as he listened for something just beyond mortal range. Then, without a word, Astarion pivoted sharply and stormed into the nearest room. Gale followed, muttering a curse under his breath, bracing himself for the worst.

Inside stood two figures: a female elf and a blond man, both seemingly unfazed by the sudden intrusion. Given the number of beds crammed into the room, Gale suspected they were well accustomed to people coming and going.

The pair were locked in a whispered argument, bodies tense, their words exchanged in a low, hissing stream of sound.

"We should go. I don't want to face the master if we're late," the elf said, her voice sharp with urgency. Her anxiety was plain, almost tangible.

Her companion raised his hands in a half-hearted gesture of reassurance. "Soon, sister, I just need one more mark."

She scrunched her face, lowering her voice to a barely audible whisper, and Gale had to strain his ears and hold his breath to hear her. "We have enough for the master; no more are needed," she insisted.

The man jutted his chin, adopting a determined stance as he met her gaze. "It's not for the master. It's for me. I spent one hundred years eating rats and dogs, but soon I'll be able to feast," he said with great conviction.

Clarity struck Gale in a single, cold moment. These were no ordinary travellers.

He took in their pallid skin, stretched tight over sharp bones; the vivid red of their eyes, brighter than Astarion's but unmistakably the same hue; the subtle way they angled their bodies away from the shafts of sunlight streaming through cracks in the wooden walls.

"I want someone there ready for me. And once the Mass is complete and our lord grants us our freedom, I can celebrate by drinking them dry," declared the man Gale now recognised as one of Astarion's spawn-siblings.

"Cazador promised you freedom?" Astarion's disdainful snort cut through their argument, and both of them whipped their heads around with an uncanny speed. "And you believed him?" Another scoff. "You were never overburdened with intelligence, Petras, but your load seems especially light these days." 

Gale let out a brief, amused breath at the scathing remark, finding it oddly satisfying when it was not directed at him.

"Astarion? It... it cannot be..." Her voice trembled with emotion, throwing Gale momentarily off balance. He had not known what to expect, but a display of sentiment was not it. It clashed sharply with his haphazardly constructed image of the Szarr household.

"That's no way to welcome back a brother, Dal. Didn't you miss me?" Astarion responded, though, unlike Dal, his words were void of any true sentiment.

She stared at him, her scarlet eyes wide with disbelief.

"Why would you come back? You escaped; you were free," she uttered the final word as though it were something sacred and unattainable. Knowing what Gale knew, it was close to the truth for someone like her.

"Isn't it obvious, sister? He wants to ascend with the rest of us," Petras interjected, and though Gale could not see Astarion's face, he was certain he rolled his eyes. "He heard about the ritual and the power our master will bestow upon us, so he came back with his tail between his legs, hoping it would all be forgiven."

Astarion had been right; Petras was indeed an idiot.

"You always were an idiot, Petras." Gale nearly laughed outright as Astarion voiced his very thoughts, but the sound snagged in his chest when, without warning, Astarion lunged forward, seized Petras by the throat, and shoved him straight into a stripe of sunlight.

In one swift, brutal motion, he yanked Petras' face close to his own.

"Where is he hiding?" Astarion snarled. "TELL ME!"

The acrid stench of burning flesh hit Gale like a wall, overwhelming his senses at once and bringing bile to the back of his throat. Petras writhed and whimpered in agony, his skin blistering and blackening as the sunlight seared through him.

"Brother, please..." Dal's pleading words finally broke through Petras' pained wailing and pitiful sobs.

They were bound to attract unwanted attention if they had not already.

"Astarion, careful," Gale murmured, nudging the door shut with the tip of his boot.

Astarion peered back at him over his shoulder, his fingers digging into the sizzling flesh of Petras' neck.

"Fine." He spat the word and thrust the other vampire to the floor at Dal's feet, where he landed in an undignified sprawl. "You owe your wretched life to my friend."

Gale forced himself not to dwell, not to examine too closely how he felt about Astarion calling him a friend—and doing so in front of his so-called family. Yet a curious wave of belonging spread through him all the same, touched only faintly by a trace of errant disappointment.

"Now," Astarion said, cold and clear, "tell me what I need to know."

It was Dal who broke first, "The master is preparing the Black Mass. Underneath his palace, there's a defiled chapel. It was hidden there the entire time, concealed from us all." Her eyes brimming with tears as they met Astarion's. "Do you really think you can stop him?"

Astarion's expression turned sombre as he responded, "I'm the only one who can. The sun can't harm me, Cazador can't compel me. I don't need to fear him any more." A lie masked by a serious façade. "Now go, before I change my mind about roasting you, brother," he added, his words dripping with deceptive sweetness.

He did not have to say it twice. Petras scrambled to his feet, and with a flicker of darkness and a shimmer of crimson dust, they vanished.

"I didn't know you could do that," Gale said half-joking, his gaze fixed on the spot where the two had stood moments before. Astarion let out a low chuckle in response.

"Not any more, I'm afraid. It's one of the very few perks of Cazador's delightful 'employment benefits'." He shook his hands as if to brush away some invisible filth. "Poor fools, they actually think Cazador will save them..."

Gale hummed in agreement. "I'm glad you let them go."

"You sound surprised," Astarion said, his brows climbing high on his forehead. "I am capable of doing the right thing on occasion." Gale knew that, of course, but had not expected to hear Astarion admit it so openly.

"They aren't a threat to us, and they have no choice but to follow Cazador's orders. I pity them. Worst of all, they don't even realise their fates are already sealed. They're doomed. The only question is whether their lives will be sacrificed to a monster like Cazador or serve a higher purpose."

Gale nodded slightly and pondered aloud, "Seven sigils, on seven spawn, and Cazador has the other six."

"I'm going to find that bastard," Astarion declared, his expression blazing, "and I'll take everything from him."

Karlach chose that exact moment to all but explode through the door. "What's going on? We heard yelling!" she demanded, her chest heaving, likely from racing up the stairs.

"Not much, just a family reunion," Astarion said airily, waving a dismissive hand as if brushing off a trivial inconvenience.

Gale looked past Karlach and noticed the innkeep shifting uneasily on his feet. He, too, must have overheard the commotion, but years of dealing with dubious patrons had likely taught him it was better to wait until tempers cooled before stepping in.

"We need to go," Gale murmured, not wanting to draw any more attention in case someone decided to involve the guards.

"We need to get back to Sharess' Caress," Shadowheart corrected. "Raphael is there."

Astarion released an exasperated sigh. "Wonderful." With one last glance at the spot where his siblings had disappeared, he made his way to the staircase.

Gale's gaze did not leave him as he followed. The elf was already catching Shadowheart up on what had happened as they stepped outside, and Gale jolted when Karlach leaned in, her eyes narrowing in that way she had when she was about to sniff out something suspicious.

"Oi, you alright there? You look a little peaky, old man."

Gale idly scratched his arm and exhaled. "The day's only just begun, and already it promises to be an exercise in endurance," he remarked, lips curling in a wry half-smile.

"Feels like every day's like that lately, eh?" She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity. As they settled into an easy pace together, she looped her arm through Gale's—just as Astarion had done not long ago—and drew him close. Warmth radiated from her in soothing waves, and his heart faltered briefly at the ease of the gesture. Yet even this seemed only to underscore, almost mockingly, the stark contrast to the way his body responded to Astarion's touch.

The thought lingered as they strolled along the road. The brothel lay just across the narrow street, but Shadowheart had chosen a small detour and was now continuing her conversation with Astarion by a small stand table, idly perusing knick-knacks and mostly useless trinkets.

"Y'know, I was gonna check in after Moonrise, see how you're holdin' up, but I figured you might need to catch your breath first," she said, letting out an amused snort. "Not that you ever really get a moment alone. Your guard dog keeps a close watch."

Gale's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, c'mon—Fangs," she laughed, jerking a thumb in Astarion's direction. "He's glued to your side these days. I swear I haven't seen him more than a step away from you since we left the Towers."

"That's... not exactly..."

Gale opened his mouth to protest, but Karlach's pointed look stopped him short. He was not entirely sure what notions she had conjured about his relationship with Astarion, but he knew one thing—she did not know the truth of it. He could not let her easy assumptions lend fuel to his own wishful delusions.

They both glanced at their companions. Shadowheart was holding a hairpin in the shape of a night orchid, turning it over in her hand before gently setting it back on the table.

Karlach faced Gale again, her gaze softened, still studying him with care. "You're not, though, right? You know, planning on doing anything... drastic?"

Gale's lips quirked into a rueful smile. "No, nothing dramatic on the itinerary this evening—you have my word."

"Good." Karlach nodded, humour crinkling the skin around her eyes. "Because I reckon he'd be the first to knock some sense into you if you tried," she said, nodding towards the elf. "And I'm right behind him."

They trailed after the other two, Astarion now ushering Shadowheart towards the brothel door. As Gale and Karlach passed the small stand Shadowheart had lingered at, Karlach’s eyes fell on the delicate silver pin the cleric had admired, and she plucked it from its place in one fluid motion. A gold piece spun from her fingers to the vendor, who caught it with ease and gave a curt nod of approval.

Gale could not help the small, fond smile stretching across his face. Karlach caught his look, flashing him a quick, conspiratorial wink as she pocketed the accessory.

When they re-entered the brothel, Gale kept his gaze fixed ahead as they ascended the stairs, hoping—praying—they would not run into the drow siblings again.

At the corridor where Raphael's room was rumoured to be, Gale stepped aside to let the familiar, fuming form of Kith'rak Voss storm past. The githyanki knight emerged from the very door Astarion and Shadowheart had entered moments earlier, offering only a curt nod before striding away. Gale and the tiefling exchanged raised-brow looks, then quickened their pace towards the door.

Gale was just about to push it open, a chiding remark poised on his lips to remind his companions not to charge into danger without the rest of the team, when a strange stillness swept through his turbulent mind. It was as though a low, incessant background hum that had haunted him since the nautiloid crash had abruptly fallen silent.

The Emperor was locked out of their minds.

With that realisation, he threw the door open and strode inside, only to find Raphael already mid-monologue, while Astarion and Shadowheart stared at the cambion with pained expressions.

"But no matter how far you come, you're still on the road to ruin," Raphael purred, his gaze flicking briefly over Gale in cool acknowledgement. "A road that leads directly to a confrontation with the elder brain. At best, it will kill you and everyone else in this city. At worst, it will assimilate you, and you won't even have enough free will left to wish you were dead. Yet you hold the key to destroying it in the palm of your hand."

Shadowheart frowned, her mind working. "The prism… Orpheus?" she asked finally.

"Very perceptive. Yes." The cambion's smile widened, his voice dripping with approval as hollow as it was condescending. He leaned forward. "I can give you the means to break him free."

Her frown deepened, her scepticism plain. "Go on."

Raphael's eyes gleamed with the pleasure of a well-played card. "The Orphic Hammer. An artefact capable of shattering the chains that bind the prince, held securely in my House of Hope, even now," he explained.

Astarion scoffed, folding his arms. "How convenient."

"Isn't it just?" Raphael's gaze slid over Astarion, lingering a shade too long. Gale felt the familiar churn of revulsion twist in his gut as the devil's eyes raked over the elf in a slow, calculated appraisal. "And how convenient it is that you can give me exactly what I desire in return. I give you the Orphic Hammer, you free Orpheus, and in doing so, save the city, the Sword Coast, perhaps even the world… and your own precious skin, too. And you give me the crown that dominates the elder brain."

His voice, for once stripped of its usual lyrical cadence, carried the weight of a careful, poised promise. "I have craved it ever since the archwizard Karsus created it, long centuries ago, bringing doom to the empire of Netheril."

The world seemed to lurch to a halt. Gale's eyes widened, breath arrested. How had he overlooked this? That crown—perched atop the elder brain—a Karsite relic.

"The Crown of Karsus…" he breathed, the words barely audible over the torrent of thoughts tearing through his mind. Each was a shard of desperate realisation. The Crown of Karsus—crafted in a reckless bid for power, the very artefact that had once fractured the Weave. His heart thundered, a chill snaking through his veins. "It was designed to usurp Mystril." The words were spoken as much to himself as to his companions, whose confused gazes fixed on him while his thoughts raced, frantic and ablaze.

"The very same," Raphael affirmed, his eyes locked unerringly on Gale. "You'd know of it, mageling, wouldn't you?" He let out a long, deliberate sigh, and Gale's fingers curled into fists. "I would use that crown to unify the Nine under a single Archdevil Supreme. Me."

Karlach laughed darkly. "Zariel wouldn't like that much. But even I'm not so desperate to spite her that I'd put the Hells in this bastard's hands."

"I concur. Handing this crown to him," Gale said, his voice steely, his eyes never leaving Raphael, "would be like feeding gunpowder to a lava worm. Agree to nothing."

This seemed to satisfy Karlach. Out of the corner of his eye, Gale noticed Astarion and Shadowheart giving her a decisive nod.

"No deal, Raphael. We're leaving," snarled Karlach.

Raphael's laughter followed, a low, rumbling sound that stopped abruptly as his expression shifted, cold and sharp.

"Oh—I'm sorry. Were you serious?" His voice grew icier with each word, his impatience surfacing. "The Crown has destroyed all who've tried to wield its power—archwizards, emperors, even gods. It will tear you to pieces."

"No. Deal," Karlach repeated, her eyes hard as she stared him down. Raphael leaned back, his expression inscrutable, as though reconsidering his approach.

"I won't stop you," he conceded. "But time is running out, so don't stay away for long. If you see reason, I'll be here, waiting, right up until the moment the world ends."

Gale did not wait for Raphael's dramatic close. He was already out the door, taking the stairs two at a time.

He felt the Emperor's presence stirring once more at the back of his mind, but his own tumultuous thoughts muffled the oncoming flood of questions.

He knew that rescuing Orpheus was vital, not only for their plans, but for the future of all githyanki, Lae'zel included. Orpheus had once unsuccessfully tried to defy Vlaakith after she betrayed his mother, but following his defeat, he was imprisoned in the Astral Plane, confined within the very prism they now carried for their own protection. He and his loyalists remained the only force the Lich Queen truly feared.

The Orphic Hammer was the sole relic capable of breaking his chains. Securing it was essential if they were to avoid relying on the Emperor, and the fragile trust they had extended to an entity that had deceived them one too many times. But the Crown…

"Wizard, talk to us," Karlach urged between gulped breaths, her words laced with worry as they finally caught up to Gale. He had barely realised when he made it outside. He stopped abruptly, the pebbles beneath his boots crunching sharply, and turned to face them.

"Karsus... he attempted to create a way to control magic independent of the Weave, outside Mystril's reach. He used the crown to realise that ambition, but he couldn't master its power, and in doing so, he destroyed the entire empire of Netheril." Gale's words tumbled out quickly. He wet his lips, fingers combing through his hair. "It's no wonder Mystra is desperate to see the elder brain destroyed," he continued, voice lower. "If I could get my hands on that crown and figure out how to wield its arcane energy, it wouldn't just mean more power..." His gaze lifted, meeting Astarion's. "I wouldn't need her any more."

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Astarion 

"Remind me, darling," Astarion began, glancing at Karlach as they approached the bridge, "what exactly is the grand plan here?"

Wyll, at long last—after much cajoling, bartering, running errands for strangers and very likely batting those forlorn, do-gooder eyes of his—had secured their passage to Wyrm's Rock Fortress. And, by extension, the Lower City of Baldur's Gate. Naturally, no good deed or desperate compromise went unpunished. Their prize came with a delightful little caveat: a cosy tête-à-tête with Gortash himself.

Ever since they had wrested that infernal Netherstone from Ketheric's cold, dead chest, this moment had loomed on the horizon like a poorly lit alleyway they knew they had to walk down, yet still hoped, against all odds, to avoid.

And so here they were, striding boldly into enemy territory under the glare of the midday sun, drawing ever closer to a Steel Watcher, one of Gortash's 'peacekeepers'. The hulking construct towered over them. Every shift and turn was accompanied by a symphony of metallic groans that grated against Astarion's finely tuned senses. Despite its lethargic pace, there was something about its enormous bulk that suggested they would find little relief in its lack of speed if things turned hostile.

"I'll find him and snap his neck," Karlach declared, punctuating her words with a crack of her knuckles, each pop as emphatic as a clenched vow.

Astarion arched a brow. "Oh, a brilliant plan, truly. Especially the part where we all meet a grisly end the moment you get within arm's reach of that posturing little parasite," he replied, then gestured towards the Steel Watcher with a flick of his wrist. "Unless, of course, you are curious to see just how quickly that thing can turn you into a smear on the bridge."

"We should talk to Gortash first. Gather some information," Gale tried, his tone weary with the long-suffering patience of a man who knew he was likely to be ignored. He walked beside Astarion, their shoulders brushing as they navigated the uneven path.

The wizard had been irritatingly composed since their little heart-to-heart. Oh, he still flushed like a schoolboy and stumbled over his words whenever Astarion leaned in too close or let his hand linger, but the tell-tale staccato of panic had faded from his pulse. What remained was steadier, quicker only in the way proximity could tease out excitement. A quiet confidence that should have pleased Astarion. And it did. But it also gnawed at him, scraping against something mean and restless inside him.

That part of him itched to test the edges of this calm, to ease a nail under it and peel it back. His fingers twitched with the urge to grab, and pinch, to twist into Gale's now-too-long hair and yank sharply enough just to see what kind of noise it would wring out of him. He could almost see it: Gale's wide, startled eyes, his lips parted, falling open around a shocked gasp, stripped of this newfound irritating equilibrium. The thought lingered, and with it came a dark, simmering heat that curled low in his belly.

Oh no, no, no. Absolutely not.

He shook his head and swayed closer to Shadowheart, creating some mind-clearing space between himself and the bloody wizard.

"There won't be any talking," Karlach said, her tone brooking no argument. "That bastard is slipperier than a greased eel. I am not giving him a chance to wriggle free. Not this time."

Astarion blinked rapidly, struggling to catch up as his thoughts grudgingly returned to the matter at hand.

"Oh yes, because that sounds foolproof," he murmured, and to busy his hands, to save himself from committing some appallingly impulsive act, he ran his fingers through his hair. Karlach glared at him, but Gale made a low sound of agreement that was more a disgruntled grumble than anything, and Astarion's lips twitched into a wry smile despite himself.

✦

Lord Enver Gortash, swathed in a robe so garish it bordered on offensive, stood before the throne, addressing the gathered crowd with a flourish that reeked of smug self-importance. His dark, calculating eyes gleamed with a hunger Astarion had known intimately, a craving for power, boundless and all-consuming.

"Kinsfolk, Baldurians, and dearest Duke Ravengard. Thank you for joining me on this exceptional day," Gortash proclaimed, his voice oily with insincere charm.

Astarion's opinion of the man had been comfortably low long before this farce of a spectacle. Gortash had been cast as nothing more than a minor bureaucrat in the tales Astarion heard in taverns on his hunts, garbled through drunken lips and slurred grievances. Petty, ambitious, wholly unremarkable. The man was nothing more than another rat scurrying through the gutters, dreaming of a throne among the piles of rubbish.

Politics, especially of the Baldurian variety, had always been beneath Astarion's interest. Perhaps there had been a time, back when he was a magistrate, but what were the rivalries of petty officials or the fleeting ambitions of mortal men to a vampire who would endure long after their bones crumbled to dust?

His only glimpse of Gortash previously had been from across the expanse of the bowels of Moonrise Towers, and from a distance, the man had merely seemed pretentious. Up close, however, he exuded a sleaze that no amount of fine robes could mask. Simply standing in the man's proximity sparked an irrational need to bathe.

"Fucking Gortash," Karlach muttered, her voice a low growl. Her shoulders were taut with fury, her hands clenched as they edged closer to the seating stands. "This is it. I can taste his blood from here."

"Try to restrain yourself," Wyll murmured from behind.

Astarion resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Though he had to admit, Wyll's presence, however irritatingly noble, did have its uses. He had a certain knack for reining Karlach in when she began frothing at the mouth, a skill none of them could quite match. Left to his own devices, Astarion's talents lay more in the art of incitement and instigation rather than holding her back. And Gale, for all Karlach's evident fondness for the wizard, had the persuasive power of a damp scroll in moments like these. Shadowheart occasionally had some luck calming her, but then again, she was just as likely to stoke the fire.

"Wyll's right," Gale said, in the calmest tone he could muster, though Astarion could see the concern darkening his expression. "We can't afford for this to turn into an unnecessary massacre."

"Why not?" Shadowheart shrugged. "It seems to be our speciality lately," she said, earning an approving grin from the tiefling, but it faded quickly. Karlach's jaw tightened, and her gaze remained fixed on Gortash, as though she were already envisioning a dozen satisfying ways to sever his head from his shoulders. Subtlety, clearly, was a concept she had abandoned long ago.

"My father is right there for one," Wyll whispered, pointing at the Duke, who stood stiffly next to Gortash. "If this goes awry, he'll pay the price."

"Fine," Karlach said, though the clipped word dripped with anger and reluctance. Her fists remained clenched, her stance a tightly coiled spring. "We wait for an opening. But make no mistake, that monkey is mine," she added, her eyes never wavering from the figure at the heart of the hall.

"I'm certain he'll be positively flattered by the attention," Astarion quipped as they reached the edge of the ceremonial rug that had been rolled out for whatever grim performance they had interrupted.

Gortash's voice sliced through the grandiose hall, amplified by the room's acoustics. "A moment, please," he called, spreading his arms in a gesture so exaggerated it bordered on parody. "My friends, an old acquaintance has come to pay respects. Please, Karlach, come say a proper hello."

The atmosphere shifted, the crowd falling into an uneasy silence as every gaze turned toward their group. The palpable heat of Karlach's fury was unmistakable, radiating off her in waves like the heart of a forge on the verge of breaking loose.

Astarion managed a faint, weary sigh, already resigned to the inevitable. He did not even get the chance to raise a hand and pinch the bridge of his nose before Karlach erupted. Any semblance of caution had flown straight out of the window to meet its untimely demise, splattered on the cobblestones below.

"My respects?!" Karlach's voice rang out in disbelief. "You're lucky I've agreed not to shove my boot up your—"

"Ah, how I've missed your colourful turns of phrase," Gortash interrupted smoothly, his smirk sharpening as he stepped down from the dais. "We really must catch up. It's been far too long. Though, of course, I must first have words with your companions." His gaze swept over their group, lingering for a fraction too long on each of them.

"Hey, arsehole..." Karlach tried, but Gortash entirely ignored her as his eyes landed last on Wyll, and his smile grew sly—a snake preparing to strike.

"Ah, Wyll Ravengard. Congratulations are in order. The defeat of Ketheric Thorm hasn't gone unnoticed. You and your little friends are known, for who you are and for that Netherstone you carry."

Wyll straightened, stepping forward to stand beside Karlach with all the resolute drama of a bard's tragic hero, back straight, chest thrust out, and jaw set, primed to deliver another of his undoubtedly righteous tirades. Astarion braced himself for the incoming wave of moral superiority, but before the first virtuous syllable escaped Wyll's lips, the ground beneath them gave a deep, menacing rumble.

The earth growled like a slumbering beast roused from its rest, vibrations rippling through the flagstones and sending the less sure-footed among the crowd sprawling like clumsy marionettes. Shouts of alarm rose to meet the sharp crack of splitting stone as dust and fragments of debris rained down from the high ceiling above. Citizens scattered for shelter, crouching and shielding themselves as though the skies might collapse upon them at any moment.

For one tense instant, Astarion's imagination conjured all manner of terrors. Perhaps the earth would tear itself open, disgorging some new monstrosity, a demon, a dragon, or another bloody god to ruin their day? At this point, nothing would surprise him. He might even applaud the variety.

As the tremors intensified, the ground shifted beneath him like the unsteady deck of a ship caught in a storm, and a sudden jolt sent him stumbling. Before he could regain his footing, his shoulder collided with another body, and a warm, steadying hand caught hold of his arm. Familiar protective magic wrapped around him like a cloak as fingers curled firmly above his elbow. Gale.

The knot of tension in his chest loosened fractionally, the phantom rhythm of a thundering pulse easing, his thoughts quieting enough to recognise that the tremors had already subsided. It had been nothing more than an earthquake.

Unusual for Baldur's Gate, but hardly the apocalyptic calamity he had briefly envisioned. Small mercies.

He straightened at once, brushing an errant curl out of his eyes, his composure snapping into place like a well-fitted mask.

"Really, Sunshine," Astarion said, stretching the words with deliberate languor, "if you were so desperate to get your hands on me, you could have just said so." He could not help it. The way Gale flushed and fumbled was simply too delightful to resist, and not even the prospect of imminent death could dull Astarion's instinct to provoke when the opportunity was so deliciously ripe.

Right on cue, a faint flush bloomed across Gale's cheekbones, a small patch of warmth that Astarion noted with a knowing smirk. Gale exhaled slowly, the absurdity of the moment gently cracking the last remnants of his tension. With a soft, mirthful huff, he rolled his eyes, dispelled the protective magic, and turned his focus back to Gortash.

Gortash, naturally, continued as though the city itself had not just trembled to its very foundations. His voice slithered smoothly through the air, laden with false reassurances and thinly veiled threats. Unity, control, the supposed threat of a resurgent mind flayer empire, he ticked off each topic as though delivering divine wisdom to an audience of fools. Just another magnanimous prick with self-serving drivel.

"What do you say? Shall we be allies?" Gortash finally asked, as if presenting them with the crown jewels instead of a lump of horseshite polished to a dull sheen. Astarion nearly laughed aloud. Did Gortash truly believe this motley band of self-important idealists would rally behind his warped vision of leadership?

"Let's be allies," Karlach parroted mockingly, "said the viper to the frog."

Astarion regarded Gortash, studying him with the detached interest one might reserve for a particularly suspect vintage of wine.

The man was not lying. Of that, Astarion was certain. A deal with someone of Gortash's ilk promised all manner of gilded opportunities, gold, power, dominion, all the usual temptations wrapped in decidedly unappetising packaging. The offer was there: to grow stronger, to seize power. Astarion could do it; he could even use this alliance to kill Cazador.

But his gaze flicked to Karlach, her shoulders heaving, her fingers curled into tight fists. And still, sentiment—that miserable, maddening thorn buried deep in his chest—refused to let him tip the balance in his favour. How utterly insufferable.

His fingers flexed, ghosting over the phantom hilt of a blade not yet drawn. Oh, he could see it so clearly, the dagger sliding effortlessly into the vulnerable hollow of Gortash's throat, the way blood would bubble and gush in decadent waves, soaking that ostentatious rug beneath their feet. A truly garish pattern it would make. He could almost savour the vision, Gortash choking, sputtering, life slipping away with each agonised breath.

He wetted his lips. Yes, it would be perfect. And if the unfortunate result was the loss of a "valuable ally", well, what a tragedy.

"As allies, it seems none of you can be trusted," Gale's voice rang out, steady and sharp enough to cut through the haze of Astarion's thoughts. It yanked him back to the present, forcing him to relinquish his delicious daydream. "Not you, not Orin, not Ketheric," Gale continued with a biting tone, his gaze locked on Gortash.

Gortash, unbothered as ever, raised a brow. "So Ketheric was ready to betray our alliance, too? I can't say it comes as a surprise," he said, as though such an outcome was inevitable. "But you should know this: I initiated this plot. I brought Ketheric and Orin together to create the Absolute. They knew this would only work if we stood united, if we coordinated our powers. Their ambition blinded them to reason. I don't suffer the same affliction." He paused for effect, as though awaiting applause. "In short, you can trust me."

"Rarely does a trustworthy man have to say these words," Wyll murmured under his breath, seemingly growing as annoyed with Gortash's insufferable speech as the rest of them.

"What you're describing," Gale said coolly, "sounds an awful lot like tyranny."

Astarion's attention flicked to the wizard then, curious despite himself. Gale's face was unnervingly blank, devoid of the usual flood of emotion that painted every expression he wore. That blasted calm again. It was disconcerting. Normally, Astarion could read him like an open book, a tiresome novel, perhaps, but one with exceptionally vivid illustrations. Yet this time, he could not decipher a single page. If it were not for the telltale quickening of his pulse and the faint trace of sweat beneath that composed exterior, Astarion might have thought him entirely unbothered.

"Our tyranny," Gortash corrected smoothly, "we are saviours. Defenders of the Sword Coast. Our loyal subjects will love us, not hate us. What comes next will be entirely their fault."

There was a beat of silence, and Karlach's hand dropped to the hilt of her axe, but before she could say, or worse, do anything, Gale spoke. "We will think about it. No promises." His words were punctuated by a tightly controlled, but annoyingly handsome, smile. Without looking, his hand shot out, pressing firmly against Karlach's chest to hold her back. He had anticipated her reaction, knew she would not take this well. To Astarion's surprise, Karlach released a shuddering breath but remained still.

Gortash tilted his head, his scrutiny growing colder and heavier as he attempted to peel back Gale's mask. After a moment of contemplative silence, he spoke again, his voice slick with malevolent charm.

"Perhaps a demonstration of why you need my help will motivate you to make the right decision," he said, "Your camp is compromised. One among you is an impostor. A Faceless. Who, I can't say. I'd suggest a thorough investigation, you'll find I speak truth."

A long-suffering groan escaped Shadowheart, resonating with Astarion on a deeply spiritual level. Of course, there was a shapeshifter in their camp. Why would there not be? The situation had reached such a level of absurdity that he half-expected Orin to pop out of his tent one evening wearing Gale's robes and dramatically declare herself the new Chosen of Mystra. Honestly, he would almost prefer it. If for no other reason than to demonstrate to Gale just how ridiculous those robes actually looked.

"My gold's on that orphan child and her mangy cat, Halsin and Wyll insisted on dragging along," Astarion said finally, recalling the girl who had been staying in the barn at the far end of the camp. Shadowheart and Wyll shared a look and gave a slow, thoughtful nod of agreement.

Astarion had voiced his opinion on Halsin's relentless stray-collecting more than once. Each time, the druid would answer with that insufferably hearty chuckle and a patronising pat on the shoulder, as though Astarion had shared some quaint little joke, before going straight back to feeding his ever-growing army of squirrels.

"The Faceless in your camp is like a knife at your throat. Remove it quickly, or any alliance between us will be exceedingly short-lived," Gortash warned with finality.

Astarion pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, the weight of the room suddenly bearing down on him. More than anything, he wanted to leave. Gortash's sanctimonious droning and the unwelcome knowledge of yet another existential threat had soured what little patience he had.

"I think we've heard enough," Wyll said, his voice steely, his gaze fixed on something at the far end of the room. Astarion followed his line of sight, his lips curling into a grimace at the glassy, hollow expression on the Grand Duke's face. Whatever shred of humanity had once dwelled within the man was long gone, snuffed out by the Absolute's grip.

"Not quite," Gortash interrupted with a smirk, "First, you'll bear witness as I make history, the first Archduke of Baldur's Gate."

Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard stepped forward, his movements so vacant, so mechanical, that a shiver ran down Astarion's spine. Memories of actions under another's thrall were all too readily available at his disposal.

The sword he carried gleamed, its edge hovering tantalisingly close to Gortash's neck. Astarion almost allowed himself to hope for a poetic ending. Just one clean slice, and it would all be over.

Instead, the Duke lowered the blade, resting it on Gortash's shoulder, and sent Baldur's Gate into the clutches of tyranny.

✦

Wyll muttered something about fetching the others and sorting out the little doppelganger problem, then promptly stormed out of Wyrm's Rock Fortress, his cloak billowing behind him like a melodramatic banner of righteous fury. Shadowheart's firm grip on Karlach's arm was the only thing that stopped the tiefling from charging after him, her golden eyes brimming with such raw anguish that Astarion felt compelled to look away.

His gaze swept over the bustling streets, throngs of people moving through the chaos, merchants peddling wares, beggars huddled in the shadows, and the pungent amalgam of the city's smells wafting through the air.

After what felt like an eternity, they were finally back in Baldur's Gate.

He thought the small triumph would feel more like a victory. Instead, it only left a bitter taste in his mouth.

They veered towards the first tavern past the fortress walls, and with surprising ease, they managed to secure a room at the Elfsong Tavern. A small blessing, he supposed. Not that the gods had been generous with those of late. Or ever.

There had been talk of the room's previous occupant meeting a grim and untimely end, but such trivialities mattered far less than the generous discount it secured. If they crossed out every inn with a little blood in its history, they would be camping in the mud until the Elder Brain consumed them all.

Karlach's composure frayed at the seams the moment they stepped into the rented chamber, and Astarion felt quietly grateful that the rest of the group were off playing investigators, chasing down another string of grisly murders. The mood was far too volatile for a larger audience.

He slipped inside last, shutting the world out with a soft click and leaning against the frame.

She stood with her back to them, her breath ragged and uneven. Watching her, Astarion felt the tension in the room prickle against his skin, crawling unpleasantly up his spine like static. Once, he might have relished the drama, drawn some amusement from the rawness of it all, safely detached from the fray. Now? Now it itched beneath his skin, tangling itself in places he had not known could still feel.

The atmosphere was heavy, taut as a bowstring. For a few long moments, no one spoke. Eventually, Gale stepped closer and tried his hand at smoothing the waters.

"We'll get him, I swear to you. But this wasn't the right moment."

Wrong move.

Karlach turned on him like a storm unbound, her glare ferocious enough to make even Astarion stiffen. In two strides, she loomed over Gale, her presence like a guillotine poised to fall.

Astarion mentally noted never to truly piss her off.

"The right time, huh?" Karlach pressed, and the room descended into a chilly standstill. "You practically agreed to work with this fucker," she spat, her voice trembling with the fury barely contained beneath it. Her finger jabbed against Gale's chest with enough force to make him stumble back.

Astarion shifted his weight instinctively, muscles drawing strained, his body preparing to move before his mind could catch up. He despised the reflex, loathed the suggestion that some part of him felt compelled to intervene. This was not his fight. And yet the sight of her wrath and Gale's floundering struck an unwelcome chord deep within him.

The wizard raised his hands, palms open in surrender. "I've no intention of working with Gortash, and you know it. But if we fight on every front, we'll tear ourselves apart. We don't even know for sure who Orin's taken. I was under the impression you wouldn't trade one of us for a shot at revenge."

Astarion winced inwardly just as Karlach's eyes narrowed dangerously. The air in the room thickened impossibly, every word tightening the noose.

"Oookay, wizard, that's enough," Astarion cut in lightly, stepping forward just enough to make his presence known. "If you keep this up, she's going to eat your face. And honestly, it's too early in the afternoon for that sort of mess," he added, but his words fell on ears deaf to his bottomless wisdom.

"This man... this monster," Karlach choked out, her voice wobbling dangerously close to tears, her tone trailing off into a harsh whisper forced through gritted teeth, "has robbed me of everything. He threw me into the Hells, literal Hells. Sold me into slavery. They used me as an experiment. They ripped out my heart, stole my future. I can never go back to my home again. I deserve this. I deserve my revenge."

Astarion felt the words grip his throat like a vice, too close and too familiar. He could almost feel the ache of his own scars, the chains of his past rattling faintly in the back of his mind.

"And I will do everything in my power to get you there," Gale said, his voice tight and sincere, his face shadowed with its own measure of heartbreak. "I give you my word. I will not rest until Gortash is dead. I'm sorry it couldn't be today, but it will happen, and it will happen soon. This isn't the end."

Karlach's fury wavered, tears trembling at the edges of her lashes. She rubbed them away roughly, impatiently, with the back of her hand, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her warring emotions. "It better not be," she muttered.

"Karlach," Shadowheart said, her voice unusually soft as she stepped closer and rested a careful hand on the tiefling's arm, gently turning her away from Gale and towards herself. Under her touch, the tension in Karlach's muscles eased, reminding Astarion of the way victims relaxed into his arms as their consciousness ebbed away.

"We will see this through to the end," Shadowheart continued, her words mellow but serious. "But the wizard is right. We need to play our cards carefully, or we won't stand a chance."

Karlach swore and rubbed her forehead. "I know. But seeing him, seeing how there isn't a shred of remorse for what he has done to me. I want to break him."

Shadowheart reached out and, with the light touch of a finger, tilted Karlach's head back so she would meet her gaze. "Then break he will," she said, her voice dark with quiet certainty, and Astarion almost felt sorry for Gortash, knowing what was coming for him. Almost.

As a tender moment began to build, Astarion started to feel uncomfortable. He noticed Gale, obtuse as ever, taking a breath likely to launch into whatever ill-advised little speech he had prepared, clearly about to escalate the situation further.

"Let's get out of here," Astarion whispered, his voice low but urgent as he stepped closer to Gale. "I think princess has this handled." His fingers wrapped around the wizard's arm, already pulling him towards the door before Gale could provoke Karlach into actually punching him in the face.

At first, Astarion only wanted to get away, to put as much distance as possible between himself and that stifling room. But as they stepped into the open air, a clear destination surfaced in his mind.

With Wyll gone to fetch the others, and Karlach and Shadowheart otherwise occupied, he found himself with nothing to do for the first time in a long while. And he knew exactly where he wanted to go. Bringing Gale along, however, felt like an unbearable intrusion, yet, unbidden, an image of the wizard's face rose in his mind: the wide-eyed wonder, the spark of joy that would surely light his expression. 

Somehow, against all logic, Astarion found himself pushing past the tight knot of self-preservation constricting his chest.

"And where to exactly?" Gale asked, his tone slightly wary.

"Why, your first official tour of Baldur's Gate, of course," Astarion replied smoothly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he beckoned for Gale to follow.

"I have been here before, you know," Gale countered, his hand brushing absently at a stray crease in his sleeve.

"Yes, yes, I'm aware. But you've never had the privilege of my speciality tours," Astarion replied, doing his best to make his last words sound as lecherous as possible. Judging by the contemplative look on Gale's face, however, it seemed his attempt missed the mark again. Before Gale could start interrogating him about vampire tour packages, he ushered him down the cobbled path.

"What about the doppelganger?" Gale asked, clear worry etched into his perpetually furrowed brow.

Astarion waved a dismissive hand as they strolled. "I have faith in our companions. Surely they can handle one shapeshifter masquerading as a soup-making child."

Gale said nothing at first, his expression an amusing mix of incredulity and intrigue. Finally, he cast Astarion a sidelong glance. "And what, precisely, does your version of a tour entail? No... questionable diversions, I hope."

Astarion's smirk widened, revelling in his victory. "Questionable diversions?" he repeated, pressing a hand to his chest in mock affront. "You wound me. Do you think me incapable of showing you a good time?"

Gale's lips twitched, betraying the ghost of a smile. "I foresee you steering me towards some debauched den of vice."

"Well," Astarion drawled with a wolfish grin, "debauchery can't be ruled out entirely, but I assure you, this particular excursion is tailored to your singular tastes."

"Could we perhaps stop by Sorcerous Sundries first?" Gale asked, his tone walking the line between hopeful and resigned, as if already bracing for whatever scheme Astarion had in mind.

"We are off duty today, Sunshine. I promise we'll swing by later, but for now, let's try to enjoy ourselves."

Gale snorted, an amused glint in his eyes. "Clearly, you don't know me at all if you think books are anything less than my preferred form of enjoyment."

"Oh, I'm very much aware, little mage. And I can promise you, we're heading somewhere you'll truly appreciate," Astarion said with a wink. Gale regarded him with suspicion, prompting Astarion to heave an exasperated sigh. "I may not know much about books, but I have a slight inkling that the place I have in mind will meet your expectations for a day off."

Gale's expression softened, though his frown remained as he peered at Astarion. "Why do you always insist you don't enjoy reading, when we both know that isn't true?"

Astarion blinked, caught off guard. "Must you always ruin my mystique, Sunshine?" he said smoothly, deflecting with a dramatic sigh. "A vampire can't keep a shred of mystery around you, can he? It's dreadfully unbecoming."

He did indeed have a fondness for tales. He relished stories of ancient realms, mythical creatures, and even the occasional overly saccharine romance. But centuries under Cazador's heel had taught him that joy, any joy, was a liability. His interests, once discovered, became weapons against him. If Cazador had ever caught wind of his literary indulgence, every volume in the palace would have been reduced to ash. So, he perfected the sneer, claimed to despise the very notion of fiction, and only in rare, unguarded moments did he lose himself in the pages, a brief reprieve from the prison of his reality.

They strolled at an unhurried pace, but Astarion could feel Gale's gaze lingering on him, expectant and patient, clearly waiting for an answer.

"Pastimes weren't exactly encouraged at the Palace," Astarion said simply, and to his surprise, Gale did not press the matter further.

They descended a set of stone stairs, their carvings worn smooth by time and the unrelenting coastal wind, the harbour stretched out before them, a vast expanse of shimmering waters crowned by the setting sun. It bled its dying colours across the horizon in streaks of gold and crimson.

Astarion had no memory of ever seeing this place bathed in daylight, and so he allowed himself a moment to take it in. The sun on his skin still felt foreign, strangely exquisite, a rare luxury that carried the sharp thrill of rebellion. Yet, for all its warmth, it never seemed to sink deep enough to thaw the chill buried in his bones. He tilted his face to catch the fading rays, letting them wash over his skin. A small, satisfied uptick played at the corner of his mouth, a quiet, defiant fuck you to Cazador. For now, this would have to do.

He could feel Gale's eyes on him again, an unspoken weight pressing against the fragile armour of his poise. Astarion stiffened, the moment of indulgence now feeling too bare, too exposed. He had allowed the wizard to glimpse too much already, and the thought made him turn tensely, severing the connection before it could unravel anything further.

Guiding their path, Astarion led them to a small entrance tucked beneath the staircase. A sign hung upon it, the writing long since faded by sun, rain and salt winds.

With a theatrical gesture, he held the door for Gale, revealing another set of wooden stairs leading further underground.

Cool air greeted them as they descended, a refreshing balm against the residual heat of the setting sun. One might have expected the damp, musty odour of a cellar so deep underground, yet the air was instead rich with the warm aromas of aged books, the faint scent of wine, and a hint of cedarwood. The low hum of patrons' conversations mingled with the gentle strains of piano music emanating from a nearby corner, the instrument enchanted to play itself. Astarion caught the single, startled stumble of a heartbeat as Gale took in his surroundings.

"Welcome to The Scrollkeeper's Lodge," Astarion announced with a smirk.

"This is..." Gale began, his voice trailing off as his gaze roamed over the private alcoves, the aisles of books, and the secluded reading corners.

"Quite charming, isn't it?" Astarion supplied.

"Wonderful," Gale breathed instead. "This is wonderful, Astarion. Thank you... this is uncharacteristically thoughtful of you." He had that stupid, soft look on his face again. Astarion knew he had to say something quickly before the wizard blurted something devastatingly unadvisable born of his uncontrolled excitement.

Astarion's keen eye was not easily fooled—years of mastering the art of seduction had honed his ability to recognise the telltale signs of infatuation. And Gale was anything but subtle.

He should have ended this thing between them long ago, but by now, he had grudgingly admitted to himself that he did not want to. Gale was a grown man, after all; it was not Astarion's responsibility to set boundaries on his behalf.

"I can be nice," Astarion protested. Gale scoffed, arching a brow, though the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth made it clear he was only joking. Astarion's eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation flaring, as he gave a terse huff.

"Whatever. Sit!" he said, pointing curtly towards one of the more private nooks at the back of the store.

Gale exhaled an amused chuckle, infuriatingly unbothered by Astarion's theatrics, and instead of heading for the offered seat, made a direct line for the bookcases.

Astarion rolled his eyes as he trailed after the wizard. He slouched into a nearby chair, his arms draping lazily over the back in a studied display of ease. His gaze flicked to Gale, observing the way his fingers trailed along the spines of books in a section simply marked Arcane Arts. There was a reverent quality to Gale's movements, his attention wholly consumed by the rows of tomes. Bloody wizards and their books. It was almost... endearing, Astarion supposed, though he could not decide whether the sight amused or annoyed him. Perhaps both.

A barmaid approached their tucked-away corner, and Astarion ordered a small carafe of wine and some pastries for the table. Leaning back, he casually thumbed through the pages of a book left behind on an empty chair.

But even as he turned the pages, his attention kept drifting back to Gale. He could not help but second-guess his choice to bring him here. Mentioning this place to Karlach in passing had been one thing, but actually bringing someone along felt entirely different. The inn had once been his fleeting illusion of freedom, a sanctuary he had slipped away to in those rare moments when Cazador's hold had loosened just enough. During those brief reprieves from his master's... former master's iron grip, he would feign a hunt, only to find himself hiding in the inn's dimly lit alcoves for a few precious hours before inevitably returning to fulfil Cazador's demands.

But now, stealing glances at Gale, watching as he plucked a book from the shelf, his expression lighting up like he had just uncovered some great treasure, Astarion felt a strange flicker of contentment. It settled on him like an ill-fitting robe.

He had never been one to provide comfort, probably not before he became a vampire and certainly not after. Comfort had been a currency he neither sought nor dealt in, a thing to be exploited in others, never extended. Yet somehow, when it came to this irritatingly earnest and consistently obtuse man, Astarion found himself surprisingly in his element.

Perhaps it was the ease of it. Gale demanded nothing from him, no calculated charm, no performance. Just his presence. And as much as Astarion would have scoffed at such a revelation if it were voiced aloud, he could not deny there was something disarming about it. He might even have called it refreshing, had he been in an uncharacteristic mood for honesty.

The wine and food had been served, but Gale, naturally, had not noticed a thing, too engrossed in the world of ink and parchment spread out before him. Astarion allowed it for a while longer, lounging at the table with a façade of patience. Then, with a long stretch, he rose. Stopping just behind Gale, he leaned in, his breath brushing the wizard's ear as he reached over his shoulder to gently pry the book from his hands.

"Come, Sunshine," Astarion said, his words deliberately low, "sit. You can bring your book, if you must." With Gale's tome in hand, he turned and strolled back to the table, placing it down on the surface before gesturing for Gale to join him.

It was only when the man sat down, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with delight, that Astarion realised he had truly underestimated the wizard's capacity for unfiltered, reading-induced joy.

As Gale settled into his chair, he immediately launched into an impassioned explanation of his reading material, his hands animatedly illustrating points as he spoke.

Astarion poured a glass of wine for each of them, reclined in his chair, and simply listened to the spirited ramblings.

Gale lifted the book, his expression alight with excitement. "...also here, within these pages, lies a speculative tale of Hedrun Arnfirth's survival amidst the tumult of war in Icewind Dale," he exclaimed, gesticulating wildly as if trying to capture the very essence of the story. "Few know what truly transpired."

"Tell me about it," Astarion said, not particularly eager to engage in conversation but finding solace in listening to Gale weave his tales. He relished these moments more than he cared to admit. Listening to Gale was like bringing books to life, the way he conveyed stories, even the way he recited research. The most mundane topics came alive under his expert care and eloquent words of pure passion.

At times, Gale's ardour could irk Astarion's pride, especially when the wizard delved into subjects Astarion considered his own domain. Yet there was never spite behind it, Gale simply exuded genuine enthusiasm, a sentiment so foreign to Astarion that he found himself drawn to it, wanting to witness it unfold again and again. After centuries of feigned smiles and hidden interests, seeing someone openly captivated by their passions was intriguing.

"Picture this," Gale began, "Hedrun, once the goddess Auril's Chosen, faltered in her quest to conquer Icewind Dale, ultimately starting the Everlasting Rime that gripped the land until just a few years past. It's a captivating story of a failed hero and her fallen goddess."

A strange emotion washed over his face so quickly that, if Astarion had not been holding Gale's rapt attention as a prisoner, he would have missed it.

"In the midst of the Second Sundering, all gods scrambled to fortify their power amidst the chaos, much like Mystra sought out individuals such as myself," Gale explained. "You have to understand, her previous selections were always more deliberate and measured, but the urgency of the times compelled even the Mother of Magic herself to act swiftly. And so, she extended her hand to me, recognising my talents in the arcane arts. I was fortunate to have Elminster paving the path for me since boyhood; otherwise, I would have been in over my head." He faltered. "Perhaps I still was," he added quietly, his shoulders dropping as if a weight had been placed upon them.

Astarion's expression shifted against his will as Gale's words settled heavily between them. He had always despised the tangled leash Mystra kept on her chosen wizards; it stirred a shadowed anger deep within him, sharp and simmering. Gale must have sensed the change in his mood, for he hastily cleared his throat and pressed on, steering the conversation away from the fraught topic.

"But enough about me," Gale said, resuming his storytelling with his customary flair. "While Mystra managed to maintain her power, Auril, on the other hand, was failing miserably. Her Chosen was slaughtered, and in a final, desperate attempt at grasping power, she initiated the Everlasting Rime, an endless, brutal winter that engulfed the entire region, making every mortal living there her victim."

"'Cover all the lands with ice. Quench fire wherever it is found. Let in the winds and the cold; cut down windbreaks and chop holes in walls and roofs so that my breath may come in. Work darknesses to hide the cursed sun so that the chill I bring may slay. Take the life of an arctic creature only in great need, but slay all others at will. Make all Faerûn fear me,'" Gale quoted, his voice carrying the weight of Auril's chilling decree.

"This was her doctrine, the expectation she imposed upon her clergy. She wanted to become an everlasting entity, ruling over her domain with an icy, unyielding grasp," he said, the original excitement once again filling the space between his words. "Despite being a lesser god, she instilled fear in many. Even in Waterdeep, we still hold celebrations in her name every year."

"Auril's Blesstide," he explained without prompting, "takes place on the first frost of winter. It's a breathtaking sight, with everyone adorned in white. The highlight is the parade, where men and women clad only in snow-white cloaks celebrate, feasting on cold meals. Some even brave the icy waters of the sea for a dive, sacrificing warmth to appease the Cold Goddess." He huffed a laugh, his fingers trailing along the edge of the book.

"It's a delightful celebration, no doubt, but I must admit, the sight of so many naked revellers dashing about in freezing weather isn't quite my cup of tea," he chuckled. "I much prefer Simril." He trailed off, and Astarion recognised the telltale signs of yet another impending, abrupt change of topic.

"Here," Gale continued, conjuring an illusion of a night sky speckled with millions of glittering lights right in his palm. Astarion had to wrestle back a fond smile that threatened to spill on his face.

"Under the cloak of the night sky, people gather to seek out stars that hold personal significance—stars of their ancestors, their birth, or those that symbolise their aspirations. If one hasn't a guiding light to call their own, there are vendors offering maps to aid in the search, helping folk to their lucky stars for a small fee." The illusion changed, clouds gathering in the dark velvet sky, leaving a lone celestial body shining through.

"Cloudy nights are considered a boon," Gale continued, his eyes lighting up with a distant look of nostalgia. "Those who manage to locate their lucky star amidst the darkness are believed to be blessed by Tymora herself." A wistful expression ghosted across his face. "As a child, Simril was a cherished time—an excuse to stay awake through the night, with the scent of smoke mingling with the heady aroma of wine, while people sang and recited poetry under the night skies." He paused as he studied Astarion's face. "I believe it's a celebration you would thoroughly enjoy as well."

"Sounds wonderful, Sunshine," Astarion said. While he had aimed for a hint of dry humour, he realised he actually meant it.

For a moment, he allowed himself to set aside thoughts of their inevitable doom and imagine a time of peace—a time when he might partake in local festivities or enjoy something as simple as stargazing in the company of a friend. But the image unravelled swiftly, slipping from his grasp.

He leaned over to push the forgotten wine glass closer to Gale, a silent reminder of their modest but homely feast. Gale accepted it with a sheepish smile, and then everything paused as their hands met on the cool surface of the cup. Instead of pulling away, both lingered in the connection. 

Astarion gently moved a finger against Gale's, watching intently as the man's lashes fluttered, his heartbeat quickened, and his breath hitched. The way Gale reacted to touch drove Astarion mad. Never had he met a man so desperate, so wonderfully in need of it.

"Before all this," Astarion's voice dropped, and with a nod, he gestured between them, "it's been some time since you last shared a bed with anyone, hasn't it?" The sudden change in the subject clearly took Gale off guard, and he coloured beautifully.

The man coughed a little. "It's true, for a time... I neglected the physical in favour of celestial euphoria. But Mystra and I... our relationship was no less real for it."

Astarion raised an eyebrow, then, with one elbow on the table and his chin resting in his palm, said, "Is that so?" He practically purred, then lowered his lashes and leered at Gale. "So you're telling me you didn't miss... this." He let his touch delicately trace up the length of Gale's perpetually ink-stained index finger.

"I never said that," Gale murmured, barely audible. The journey continued onto his palm, the smooth skin of his wrist, precisely where Astarion had once sunk his teeth. He circled the phantom marks that had long disappeared, existing only in his imagination, and allowed his fingertip to dip beneath the sleeve of Gale's robe. A shaky breath escaped the man.

"This is...not exactly conducive to research," Gale mumbled, averting his gaze with a lopsided smile.

"You weren't supposed to be doing research. Day off, remember?" Astarion chuckled, tilting his head into his open palm and looking at Gale through his lashes. He knew exactly what he was doing, as he could see more blotches of heat climbing further up the man's neck.

The barmaid chose this moment to interrupt and offer a refill of wine, but Astarion, reluctantly releasing Gale's hand, simply placed his palm over the carafe and shook his head.

"Perhaps later?" he said, peering at the man sitting across the table, who gave a small nod in response.

"This is truly wonderful," Gale said again, with a warm smile, glancing around their surroundings as the barmaid disappeared around the corner. "It has been an age since anyone... since I have been to a place like this," he corrected himself. "I'm very grateful."

Astarion shrugged. "It's just an inn."

"We both know that's not the case," Gale said with a small frown.

Astarion did not want to think about any of it. So he did the only thing he knew would silence the wizard. He set both elbows on the table, laced his fingers, and rested his chin on them. Then, with a grin, he slipped off his shoe and nudged his foot against Gale's. The man did not react at first, but when Astarion's toes began their slow ascent up his shin, he froze. Words died in his mouth with a choked sound.

"What are you doing?" Gale managed, his voice a strangled whisper. Still, he made no move to stop him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Sunshine," Astarion replied with wide-eyed innocence, leaning back as his foot slid higher, past Gale's knee, brushing against his inner thigh.

"Astarion," Gale's voice dropped to a warning growl, but despite it, his legs shifted further apart, accommodating Astarion's sole right between them. Gale's choice of worn, soft leather trousers proved an unintentional triumph for Astarion, and a damning defeat for the wizard himself. The supple fabric did little to hide the stirring evidence of his arousal, and Astarion could feel his rapidly hardening cock beneath the garment.

"Well, well... what have we here?" Astarion purred, revelling in the heated expression spreading across Gale's face.

"This is hardly appropriate," Gale whispered, dropping a hand beneath the table as if to constrain the offending appendage. But then a sudden glint lit his eyes, not the reserved, exasperated look Astarion expected, but something sharper, almost daring.

Before Astarion could react, Gale's fingers closed around his ankle in a deliberate, claiming grip. He tugged him closer until the firm press of his arousal met the ball of Astarion's foot, nothing but the leather between them.

Heat slammed into Astarion like a punch to the gut. He jerked back instinctively, but Gale's hold tightened, keeping him in place just long enough to make him squirm. When he finally released him, the wizard's low, dark laugh carried a thread of satisfaction, as though he were savouring the reversal of roles. But instead of provoking annoyance, it only seemed to stoke Astarion's sudden desire.

He closed his eyes for a single, measured breath, wrestling the maddening urge to lunge across the table, pin the wizard against its hard surface, and take him there and then, consequences and witnesses be damned.

When he looked again, Gale was smirking. "You mentioned something about debauchery," he said. It was bolder, more shameless than anything in their previous exchanges, and it made Astarion want.

"Right. Stay here. Do not move," Astarion declared, his tone suddenly businesslike, as he stood, hastily slipped back into his shoe, and marched away from the table. A knowing chuckle from Gale followed him.

He needed a moment to clear his head, but more importantly, he needed to secure a key for one of the bedrooms.

✦

They all but stumbled into the room, and as soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Astarion crowded into Gale, pressing him firmly against the sturdy wooden surface. His hands roved downward, seizing Gale's arse, kneading it with purposeful insistence as he guided him into a perfect, filthy grind.

His lips brushed against Gale's neck. "You know the rules, wizard. Anytime..."

"Yes, yes," Gale replied hastily, his voice brimming with impatience, the words spilling out like water from a fractured dam. "I will tell you the moment you stray into unwelcome territory." Despite his hurried words, Gale's hands hovered uncertainly before tracing along Astarion's sides. The touch was tentative and gentle, a maddening contrast to the urgency Astarion felt, mapping the contours of his torso with a restraint that set Astarion's nerves alight.

Gale whispered a spell. A shimmer of magic lifted away the grime of the road, banishing the faint trace of sweat and dust. Astarion could not smother a moan as he basked in the familiar thrill of Gale's magic, like a silken tide washing over him, the sensation electric and impossibly intimate.

He reversed their positions, pressing his palms flat against Gale's chest, and walked him backwards until the wizard's legs met the bedframe. With a final shove, Gale sank onto the plush covers, the bed protesting with a groan beneath the sudden weight. Attempting to regain composure, he scrambled to prop himself onto his elbows in a futile attempt to recover some semblance of dignity.

Astarion climbed over him, and Gale watched his approach with darkened eyes, his chin tipped slightly to expose the long column of his neck in wordless surrender. The rapid pulse beneath his skin was a tantalising provocation, sending a jolt of hunger through Astarion, a wild, feral need that gnawed at his self-control.

More than anything, Astarion wanted to lick inside Gale's parted mouth. He wanted to draw blood, letting the coppery tang spill over their tongues. Yet sex without kissing had somehow become their tacit agreement. Gale never pressed for it, and so the boundary remained, silent but understood.

So Astarion refrained, holding his desires at bay with a tenuous grip. He hovered for another agonising moment before tearing himself away, forcing his hunger into something more controlled. His jaw ached, and when he sank his teeth into the soft flesh of Gale's neck, not hard enough to break the surface but enough to leave a vivid mark, a small wave of satisfaction surged through him. He leaned back slightly, watching the bloom of crimson beneath his bite, mesmerised by the way blood rushed close to the surface.

Gale moaned and tried to press closer. Astarion's grip on his hip tightened, pinning him firmly to the mattress, and an appreciative sound rumbled in Gale's chest, a rich, unrestrained note of pleasure that made Astarion's blood sing and his head spin.

"Now, Sunshine," Astarion began, his voice laced with dark amusement and unspent need. He pressed a teasing kiss to Gale's collarbone, his lips lingering just long enough to draw a shallow gasp. "I'm going to strip you bare," he went on, his mouth moving upwards. His nose traced the line of Gale's throat before he brushed a light kiss just beneath his ear, relishing the shiver that followed. "And then," Astarion murmured against the delicate curve of Gale's ear as his hand slid higher on the man's thigh, "I'll eat you out, then I'll open you up, inch by delicious inch, until you're falling apart on my fingers." A wicked smirk curled his mouth as he pulled back just enough to meet Gale's gaze. "How does that sound?"

Gale's breath hitched, and a soft, unsteady whimper escaped him. Astarion tutted, clicking his tongue with mock disappointment. "You know I need to hear you say it."

The wizard's face flushed a deeper shade of crimson, his pupils dilated with desire. He swallowed hard, his lips parting as though to speak, only to close again, words momentarily eluding him. After a tense beat of silence, he cleared his throat. "Agreeable," he finally managed, a hoarse laugh punctuating the single word.

Astarion's smile broadened, a low, velvety chuckle slipping free as he rewarded Gale with an unhurried caress over the hard outline pressing against his trousers. His open palm glided along the firm heat of Gale's arousal beneath the fabric, coaxing a shuddering exhale from the wizard.

Astarion began undressing him, every article of clothing peeling away at a painstakingly slow pace. Each newly revealed inch of skin was showered in light kisses and doted on with his tongue.

When he reached the waistband of Gale's trousers, his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, tugging gently. Gale understood the unspoken command and lifted his hips obediently, allowing the final barrier to be stripped away.

A faint noise broke from the man, somewhere between a protest and a plea, when Astarion abandoned the bed altogether to fully remove Gale's breeches. Astarion cast the last garment aside to the ground, where it joined the rest in a careless heap, then stood back, his gaze raking over Gale's naked form as the flickering candlelight carved shadows across the contours and hollows of his body.

He drank in the sight. So often, Gale used glamour to alter his appearance in the rare moments he was exposed to others, but Astarion was pleased to see he had never felt the need to do so around him.

The man was undeniably handsome. His hair, which had grown longer over the months, now spread across the pillow, dark and unruly, streaked with threads of silver. Miles of soft skin, warm and yielding in all the right places, invited the press of a palm or the scrape of teeth.

Another impatient sound brought Astarion back to the present.

"Patience, Sunshine. You're quite the vision, you know. It would be a shame not to savour this view. For posterity, of course." Gale let out an airy chuckle, and Astarion grinned as he returned to the bed, climbing over him once more.

His breath traced along Gale's sternum, bathed in the orb's violet glow, before he shifted lower, his lips ghosting over the sensitive bud of Gale's nipple.

"You don't believe me, darling?" he asked teasingly. Then, without warning, he bit down, his sharp teeth tugging at the taut flesh while his tongue flicked across it. Gale's reaction was immediate; his back arched, pressing into the touch with a strangled moan. Astarion released him slowly, allowing his breath to fan over the abused skin, sending a ripple of goosebumps across Gale's chest.

"You'd say this to anyone," Gale said on a single exhale, but his eyes crinkled with mirth.

"Doesn't make it any less true," Astarion whispered in reply, his tone a touch more truthful than planned.

With a quiet laugh of his own, Astarion resumed his descent, his hands gliding over Gale's skin as though committing every texture and outline to memory. The orb gleamed brighter, a violet pulse matching the heavy beat of Gale's heart, spilling intricate shadows over the fine hairs that trailed downwards, a captivating path that demanded Astarion's attention. He nuzzled into it, inhaling deeply where Gale's scent was strongest, earthy, human, and maddeningly alive. His lips followed the trail, rediscovering every sensitive spot he had already memorised and lingering shamelessly in places that coaxed small, involuntary sounds from the wizard.

Gale's cock was flushed red, hard against his belly, but Astarion disregarded it entirely. His touch skirted close without ever making contact, leaving Gale shivering with need.

When Astarion finally sat back on his heels, he allowed himself another indulgent moment to admire his work. Gale's dishevelled, dazed state sent a flicker of apprehension tightening Astarion's chest as unfamiliar emotions sparked to life like a perilous ember, threatening to twist his expression in ways beyond his control. Firmly wrestling it down, he said, "Turn over, darling."

It took Gale a few seconds to register the request, but he rolled onto his stomach with a helpless groan, panting as his cock pressed against the cool sheets beneath him, his hips stuttering into a wanton thrust. Astarion's hands were swift, grabbing Gale's waist to still him.

"Not like that," he chided with mock sternness, gliding a palm beneath Gale's pelvis to lift him.

And there he was: the great Wizard of Waterdeep, with his arse in the air, clutching the blanket with white-knuckled fervour, utterly exposed before him like a feast laid out.

Astarion leaned in, his own body close but not quite touching. His lips hovered over the exquisite curve of Gale's back, teasingly light, before beginning a slow, torturous descent. His tongue traced the bumps and ridges of vertebrae, tasting the faint salt of sweat and the heat of skin.

When he reached his destination, the temptation to sink his teeth into the supple, inviting swell of Gale's arse was impossible to resist. So he didn't.

Gale groaned but didn't flinch. It was enough to make Astarion smirk, his mouth brushing over the faint marks. A fleeting kiss followed, placed at the base of Gale's spine before his hands settled, steady and possessive, fingertips sinking into firm muscle. He shifted even lower, letting his breath ghost over the sensitive skin of Gale's rim, a deliberate pause to give the wizard space to voice any hesitation.

None came. Gale remained pliant beneath his touch, his frame brimming with anticipation. Taking that as permission, Astarion leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue in a languid, wet stripe across the vulnerable spot, savouring the mingling taste of salt and the earthy heat of skin.

"Gods," the sharp, startled gasp Gale loosed was followed by a tremor so strong it left his thighs quaking.

Encouraged, Astarion repeated the motion, slow and purposeful, revelling in the way Gale tensed and then melted under his ministrations. Each stroke of his tongue drew another delicious reaction, soft, helpless noises, and the way Gale's muscles tightened before yielding into submission. When Astarion's tongue dipped just slightly deeper, Gale pressed back eagerly, a shameless attempt to grind against him, and Astarion could not fight back the returning smile stretching his lips.

He gripped Gale firmly, holding him steady and exactly where he wanted him. A harsh gasp escaped the man, and the sound spurred Astarion on, his rhythm growing bolder as Gale trembled. Astarion had been in his place before, albeit a long, long time ago, but he still remembered the exposed, defenceless feeling of being at someone's mercy like this.

Gale's whimpers spilt unchecked now, soft and broken things mingled with Astarion's name that slipped past his lips despite his attempts to muffle them by pressing his face into the pillow.

That simply would not do.

With a frustrated growl rumbling deep in his throat, Astarion knelt back on his heels, just behind Gale. One hand grabbed the man's waist, while the other reached over, intent on snatching the cushion, anything to stop Gale from stifling those enticing sounds. But before Astarion could tear the pillow away, Gale shifted beneath him, chasing contact as his hips rolled back.

His arse pressed flush against Astarion's cock, separated only by the flimsy barrier of his clothes that did little to dull the friction. Astarion's head tipped back as a guttural moan tore from his throat, instinct overriding reason in an instant. Without thinking, he ground hard into the line of heat, drawing a ragged gasp from both of them into the sudden, clenching silence of the room.

"Fuck. Astarion, please..." Gale's voice came still muffled, his face buried in that cursed pillow. Astarion wanted to push and ask for what exactly Gale wanted, to hear him spell out every word, but in truth, he was afraid of what the man would ask for and that he would not be able to resist. He was terrified he would give in, allow himself a moment of selfish pleasure as he sank into Gale's tight, willing body and took him. He could almost hear the slick heat of skin meeting skin, feel the searing, near-painful grip as he claimed him. The hunger for it throbbed deep in his chest, raw and unrelenting, but there was something darker beneath it, a shadow that slithered through his mind like a venomous serpent.

Because he knew how it would end. The satisfaction would rot, as it always did, turning bitter on his tongue. Recollections would rise unbidden, clawing their way up through his mind, unwelcome hands on his body, commands hissed like threats, the breathless terror of control slipping through his grasp. No matter how willing Gale was, those memories would come flooding back, thick as tar and twice as suffocating, drowning every moment of pleasure in agony.

He released a thunderous sigh, allowed himself one final grind against Gale, then seized the other man's waist in a brutal grip. His fingers curled into the tender flesh with enough force to bruise.

The need to see Gale's face became overwhelming, to remind himself where he was, who he was with. Acting on an impulse, he flipped Gale over, earning a startled curse as the wizard was unceremoniously manhandled into the mattress once again. Astarion was on him in an instant, his body slotting perfectly between Gale's parted legs. His arms bracketed the wizard's head, palms sinking into the pillow as he loomed above him, still fully clothed, pressing into Gale's naked, heated skin.

They lay there, panting in unison, their breath mingling in the scant space between them, and Astarion's tongue glided over the edges of his sharp teeth. Gale's lids were half-mast, dark gaze bleary with desire. His lashes clumped together wetly, and he stared at Astarion's lips, following the motion, hypnotised.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." Gale rasped at last, and a knot tightened in Astarion's chest as Gale's eyes flitted between his, searching for something, concern etched clearly in his features.

"It's all right, Sunshine," Astarion whispered, offering the wizard a small, reassuring smile.

Then Gale reached out, movements slow and tentative. Astarion could see caution in every fraction of the gesture, as though Gale was bracing for rejection. It was unfamiliar, seeing this restraint on a partner, this quiet patience. And for once, Astarion did not flinch or retreat. He let it happen, felt the hesitant warmth of Gale's fingertips against the coolness of his skin, the press of a palm over his neck, steady and grounding. When Gale's hand cradled his face, Astarion almost shuddered at the unexpected, disarming affection. He could not stop his eyes from fluttering closed under the onslaught of confounding emotion.

Guiding Astarion's face closer, he half expected a kiss, but instead, Gale brought their foreheads together. This excruciating dance along the edges of their boundaries was wreaking havoc in Astarion's head. Every nerve in his body bristled with confusion. He had never much enjoyed kissing, tongue tasting of sour ale, liquor-laden breath that often lingered, the cloying intimacy of it all. He never initiated it unless it served a purpose, a calculated act of seduction. But with Gale, he imagined how earnest he would be, how his moans might spill into Astarion's mouth, that sound shared between them. They lingered there, stock-still, frozen in a timeless instant, suspended like an insect trapped in golden amber. Want thudded away under his skin like a heartbeat.

It was disorienting; he could not bear it, and before Astarion could reach out to some still-functioning part of his mind, a whimper broke free of his throat, raw and wretched, and he surged forward, catching Gale's jaw in his teeth, biting him. Still careful not to break skin, but enough to hurt. It was feral, desperate, and wholly unbecoming, but he could not bring himself to care.

The moment shattered. Gale moaned, and Astarion could feel him aborting an instinctive grind of his hips. A shaky breath rushed out of Astarion's lungs as the cogs in his brain started working again.

Before his thoughts could spiral further, he slid down Gale's body, his tongue darting out to trace a slow stripe along the length of Gale's leaking cock. It throbbed under the touch, flushed and glistening with arousal, but Astarion denied it further attention.

Instead, he slipped off the bed entirely, grasping Gale's sides with a firm grip and dragged him to the edge. Gale's surprised yelp melted into a broken moan as Astarion hoisted his legs onto his shoulders and buried his face between Gale's cheeks with one fluid motion. Astarion's own desires forgotten, he worked the now-pliant opening. Then he gently caressed a finger down, giving Gale a slight warning before pressing a dry thumb beside his tongue. Not yet pushing in, but the pressure was enough to make the man gasp.

Pausing only briefly, Astarion reached out blindly, yanking the nightstand drawer open with a touch of haste. He rummaged through its contents until his hand closed around a small vial. The inn was always so thoughtfully prepared, nothing like a bit of foresight for the desperate or the depraved.

With a flick of his thumb, he uncorked it effortlessly. He poured the oil liberally down Gale's cleft, the slick warmth easing his progress as he pressed a single finger inside, slow, while showering the man's shaking thighs with kisses and gentle bites. Gale tried to arch off the bed to meet him halfway, but Astarion refused to quicken his pace.

The feeling of Gale opening up around him, so eager and willing, left Astarion reeling. He rested his temple against his thigh as he pushed in deeper. Gale's broken moans sent sparks shooting through Astarion's nerves, his gaze drawn to where the man's neglected cock twitched against his stomach. A faint, glistening line of spend stretched from the head to the dark line of hair leading to his navel, breaking and reforming with every flex and bob, and Astarion knew he was utterly lost when his mouth watered at the sight.

Gale's heart thrummed, a steady, insistent drumbeat that seemed to echo through Astarion's own long-dead veins. Every ragged inhale Gale drew stirred the stagnant air in Astarion's lungs, and every tremor coursing through Gale's frame reverberated within him, resonating like a siren's song burrowed in his marrow. He could not decide whether he wanted to drain him dry, to silence that tormenting pulse, or to tear his way into the hollow of Gale's chest and curl up inside, desperate for the warmth he never seemed able to hold onto for too long.

He worked a second digit inside, easing it in carefully, his pace unhurried but insistent. Gale's breath hitched, his hands scrambling blindly across the sheets, searching for something to anchor him. Astarion lifted his head just enough for Gale to find purchase in his hair, fisting tightly. The sharp tug sent a shiver of pleasure down Astarion's spine. He stifled a moan, his own throbbing arousal straining painfully against the confines of his clothing. Ignoring his own need, revelling in the way Gale was falling apart under his touch, he shifted his fingers, aiming to find that perfect angle. A strangled gasp broke from Gale, and the sound spurred Astarion on, his rhythm growing bolder as Gale trembled and clenched around him.

"Please… I can't." The words still felt foreign coming from Gale, no matter how often Astarion heard them. He was always so articulate, so eloquent. Astarion almost expected him to deliver a well-crafted monologue halfway to his orgasm; it struck him deeply every time he saw Gale unravel like that.

"Yes, you can, Sunshine," Astarion murmured against the delicate skin of Gale's inner thigh, dropping a kiss there as encouragement.

Gale gasped, his free arm folding over his eyes. "Touch me," the words rough and frantic, ricocheting in Astarion's mind like a spell misfired, bouncing around endlessly.

"No," Astarion said, the single syllable firm and unyielding. "You will come like this, darling. You're right… there." He punctuated the statement by curling his fingers again, honing in on that sweet, sensitive spot with practised precision. The wizard's spine curved, a sob breaking free from his lips as he trembled uncontrollably. Astarion felt every shudder, each one pulsing through him as Gale's climax tore through him, untouched and beautiful. His muscles went taut, his release spilling over his abdomen, before he finally collapsed into the pillows, boneless and sated.

Astarion did not stop. He continued to move his fingers gently, rocking them in and out with measured care, coaxing every last ripple of pleasure until Gale's heartbeat slowed and his breathing steadied. Only then did he withdraw his fingers carefully, letting Gale's feet fall weakly to the floor. Without hesitation, he slid up between Gale's thighs. He licked away the cooling evidence of Gale's release, the faint astringent tang lingering on his tongue as he traced the soft planes of his abdomen before trailing down to his still-sensitive cock.

Gale's grip in his hair tightened, shivering as aftershocks coursed through him. Astarion felt giddy, a delicious sense of weightlessness as his tongue flicked over the smooth skin one last time. Gale let out an undignified sound, a blend of a whine and an airless laugh, that Astarion tucked away like a secret victory.

With a final, lingering press of his lips to Gale's hipbone, Astarion guided him up the bed.

Once Gale was settled, Astarion stretched out beside him on his back, their bodies aligned, the air between them warm and sated. Gale looked at him with soft eyes, through damp lashes, his mouth red and swollen from biting back sounds of pleasure, and a sudden, absurd well of jealousy surged within Astarion at the sight.

"Doing alright there, Sunshine?" He kept his tone light and teasing, a diversion as much for himself as for Gale. The wizard simply nodded. At first, Gale's inability, or unwillingness—Astarion was not quite sure which—to articulate his emotions in moments of intensity had struck him as equal parts baffling and alarming. Now, however, it provoked a peculiar stir of misplaced protectiveness, a sentiment so utterly ridiculous it bordered on laughable.

Gale shifted onto his side, his head coming to rest in the hollow of Astarion's neck. His temple was feverish, slick with sweat. Astarion was not usually one for post-coital indulgences like this, but, as always with Gale, he relented. Relented, of course, because he was clearly out of his fucking mind.

It took some time for Gale to come back from whatever blissful place he had departed to, leaving Astarion alone with his treacherous thoughts, but to his own surprise, he did not mind the quiet.

He drew the man closer, shifting subtly to slide his arm beneath the wizard and drape it around him. His hand drifted to Gale's side, tracing light, lazy circles across the damp skin. Occasionally, his fingers tangled in Gale's hair, delicately scraping his nails against his scalp before trailing back down to his spine. Gale melted further into him.

He observed the wizard peacefully dozing off, breathing evenly and placing his trust in Astarion to keep him safe. Gently, he pushed aside the fine strands of hair clinging to Gale's forehead and studied the wizard's serene face.

For what felt like the hundredth time that evening, Astarion grappled with an overwhelming urge to kiss him. But this time, the savage heat and desire for something intense and all-consuming softened into a vision of a tender brush of lips, a fleeting touch to rouse Gale gently.

Unable to entirely resist the impulse, he leaned in, brushing a gentle kiss against Gale's forehead. The man stirred with a faint murmur, his head shifting slightly against the pillow.

Gale's eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and unfocused, hazy with contentment. His features were unguarded, his jaw slack with the remnants of pleasure. He tilted his face up to look at Astarion, their noses brushing in a slow, accidental glide. Astarion froze, his lips parting around a startled gasp as their open mouths met in a brief, dry drag for a single, electrifying moment. It was nothing—a shared breath that vanished as quickly as it had come, yet it was as though Astarion had fallen into some dream, only to wake with the sensation of missing a step.

Gale gave him a small, untroubled smile before settling again, resting his head on Astarion's chest, his nose pressed into the crook of his neck as he exhaled deeply. And Astarion was grateful for his dead heart, for he was sure it would beat a rhythm loud enough to jolt Gale into full wakefulness.

His earlier arousal was now all but a distant memory, eclipsed by something intense and far more dangerous, a crushing, terrifying sense of vulnerability he could not quite name.

✦

click image for NSFW

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

Gale woke the next morning to find the other side of the bed empty. Sleep clung to him as he blinked against the gentle light spilling into the room, his gaze sweeping across it until it settled on Astarion. The elf was comfortably reclined in an armchair, a book balanced in his hands, one long leg crossed over the other. The morning light framed him in a soft glow, while specks of golden dust swirled lazily in the air. He looked otherworldly; caught between dreams and waking, a figure plucked from a painting, too perfect for the mundane.

It was only now, in the clarity of daylight, that Gale recalled the steep climb to their room the night before and realised they were perched well above ground level, high enough to greet the dawn in full.

Astarion must have noticed Gale stirring, for he lifted his gaze from the book. Crimson eyes raked unerringly over Gale's mostly bare form. It should have been embarrassing, yet the unveiled want in Astarion's gaze only sparked an unbidden warmth that quietly bloomed in Gale's chest.

"Ah, there you are," he closed the book with a soft thud. "Welcome back to the land of the living, or whatever passes for it these days. I was just about to wake you; I believe it is time for us to return before the others send out a search party. Frankly, I would rather avoid starting my day with Halsin barging in here and proposing a three-way in the name of the Oak Father, as nature intended or whatever," Astarion remarked in a single, uninterrupted flow, his voice dipping mockingly into a rumbling imitation of the druid.

"And here I thought you found him attractive," Gale replied, a teasing lilt to his voice as he stifled a yawn, any semblance of that ugly jealousy he once felt now curiously absent.

"Who doesn't?" Astarion rolled his eyes. "Halsin has his rustic charm, I suppose. But the whole 'bear' thing? A touch too primal for my taste," he added with a mock shudder. "As amusing as this conversation has been, we really should get going." With casual grace, he bent to retrieve Gale's discarded robes from the floor and extended them towards him. Gale, wisely, refrained from pointing out that Astarion had been the one doing most of the talking.

He sat up, his hands flexed in the sheets, the impulse to shield himself, to call on his magic and smooth his hair, to refine the soft edges of his form, still present at the fringes of his thoughts, but they had not carried their usual urgency.

He was no stranger to his own appeal, both in appearance and intellect. Yet years spent vying with his peers, striving not just to match them but to surpass them, had etched a restless need for perfection into his very bones. Refining, polishing, improving: it was as much instinct as discipline. And yet, in this moment, that need felt distant, easier to set aside than it had ever been before.

He rose slowly, his knees voicing their familiar morning complaints after hours of disuse. When he turned, he found himself face-to-face with the elf—fully dressed and looking as composed as ever. 

Gale reached for his robes, only to pause when Astarion didn't immediately relinquish them. Instead, the elf pressed the fabric firmly to his chest, stepping closer and slipping into his space with effortless confidence.

"Good morning, Sunshine," he whispered, the words delivered so softly they seemed to pull the breath from Gale's lungs.

"Morning," Gale responded, his voice dipping low to match Astarion's, as if they were sharing a secret. They both held onto the garment, standing inches apart. Astarion inhaled deeply, savouring Gale's scent, before closing his eyes and resting their foreheads together. The atmosphere between them grew heavy with a strange, lazy, smouldering anticipation.

"You smell so fucking good," Astarion murmured.

"It is a blend of cedarwood, vanilla, and black tea, with just a touch of cardamom," Gale answered without thinking. "I create the fragrance myself. If you are interested, I can—" His words faltered as Astarion lowered his head, resting his cool brow against Gale's collarbone, and let out a light, rueful chuckle.

A faint puff of air delicately traced across Gale's sensitive skin, causing a trail of gooseflesh to spread in its wake. His pulse quickened, hammering in his throat as Astarion tilted his face to nuzzle the curve of his neck, rousing a wraithlike memory that loitered just out of reach. However fervently Gale sought to seize it, this elusive fragment of the night before slipped through his grasp.

"I thought we were in a rush," he finally managed, but his voice came out strangled.

"Mm, that we are," Astarion replied, though neither of them made a move to pull away. Astarion's eyes were half-lidded, his arousal unmistakable as he leaned into Gale's body. Gale resisted the reckless urge to push him onto the bed, though the temptation burned hot inside him.

Another lust-hazed memory surfaced, this one clearer: Astarion pressing into him, withholding, stopping short. Gale knew this moment, etched into his mind, would inevitably breed new, consuming thoughts if left unspoken. He wanted Astarion to know that such restraint was not necessary, that he would not have minded if the night had taken a different turn. But when he tried to articulate the thought, he winced inwardly, both at the prospect of having this conversation in broad daylight, clad in little more than his swiftly diminishing dignity, and at the implications of those words.

"We should clean up," Gale said instead, cutting off the trail of thought before he could say something he would regret. As always, Astarion looked utterly unruffled, not a single lock of hair out of place, yet the faint tang of dried sweat and the unmistakable scent of their evening's proclivities lingered in the air between them. Gale hesitated briefly, then added with a gesture of intent, "May I?"

Astarion tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "How courteous of you, darling," he purred, leaning back slightly to meet Gale's gaze. "Unlike the brute from last night who thought nothing of casting his little spell without so much as a by-your-leave."

Gale's stomach lurched. Heat flared in his face as he stumbled for a defence. "I—I wasn't thinking—"

"Obviously," Astarion cut in with a low, amused laugh. "But go on, wizard. You seem to have learnt manners since then."

Gale, face still burning, reached out to his magic, and just like the night before, he allowed the threads to lift away the remnants of their evening. The incantation rolled off his tongue with ease, a simple Prestidigitation spell with his own twists to it. It was not the same as an actual bath, of course, but it would suffice.

The spell rippled over them in small, warm waves. Astarion gasped, the sound sharp and involuntary as the magic washed over him. His fingers tightened against the fabric still pressed to Gale's chest, and his head tilted forward, eyes veiled beneath a curtain of silver hair. The tightness in his shoulders betrayed him, though. Gale could see it—the subtle, undeniable effect his magic had on him.

Astarion hummed, low and throaty, like a satisfied cat stretching in the sun. Gale could not tear his eyes away from the sight. It tugged at something deep within, the kind of pull he rarely let himself dwell on. He wanted to ask, to delve into the complexities of Astarion's reaction. Was it all magic that did this to him, or just his?

The question burned on Gale's tongue, but another desire rose to overshadow it, heavier and more immediate. He wanted to close what little distance remained between them, wanted to slip his hands onto his arms and draw him closer, pulling the elf into his embrace. He swallowed around that suffocating need and stepped back, taking his robe with him. Astarion released it this time.

If Gale had hoped for a modicum of decorum from Astarion in the aftermath of such a tender moment, he was sorely mistaken. It was Astarion, after all. With an air of nonchalance, the elf sank into the armchair, draping himself in effortless poise, his unblinking gaze fixed on him.

Gale met him with a deadpan stare, though deep within, a quiet and indulgent part of him purred under the weight of his undivided attention. With methodical effort, he set about layering his clothing, a triumphant smirk tugging at his lips when he caught the elf subtly readjusting himself in his breeches.

Once fully dressed, Gale combed his fingers through his dishevelled hair, taming errant strands before brushing down the front of his robe. His gaze shifted to the elf beside him, and with a wordless gesture, he extended his hand. Astarion's long fingers slipped effortlessly into his own, and Gale tugged gently, drawing him to his feet.

It was time to go.

They left through a door different from the one they had used the night before, this one opening directly onto the streets. Their footsteps fell into rhythm as they began their walk, the air between them light yet charged with a peculiar energy. Astarion broke the silence only to gesture at a few notable establishments along the way—a bathhouse famed for its discreet services, and a potion shop rumoured to sell remedies for everything from flagging vitality to inconvenient spouses.

The bouts of silence in between, however, allowed Gale's mind to drift, falling into well-trodden paths. Astarion had once claimed he could read Gale like an open book, and Gale had little reason to doubt him. Peering into the elf's mind, however, was an entirely different matter. He had grown better at reading Astarion, attuned to the shifts in his mood that most might overlook. But there were still moments, like this one, when Astarion's thoughts seemed locked behind that impenetrable façade. He found himself yearning—perhaps foolishly—for just one moment of clarity, a single glimpse behind the mask Astarion wore so effortlessly. Still, Gale could not shake the odd feeling that the elf's mind was working a mile an hour, which made him wonder if he had missed something the night before.

When they arrived back at the Elfsong, Karlach was on them in an instant. Her eyes were ringed with dark shadows, the whites webbed with burst capillaries. She looked as though she had not slept all night, which was hardly surprising after the chaos of the day before.

"Where the fuck have you guys been?" she barked, her tone clipped and urgent. "Orin has Lae'zel. Fringe and I are leaving now to get her back."

Shit.

Gale froze, his thoughts screeching to a halt as a sharp pang of guilt pierced through him. Dread churned in his chest, twisting into a nauseating cocktail of emotions. They had so easily convinced themselves that the orphaned child was the doppelganger, never once entertaining the more harrowing possibility: what if it was one of their own?

He forced himself to focus, drawing a steadying breath. The vampire had consumed too many of his thoughts. That indulgence had made him careless, and carelessness was a luxury they could ill afford.

"Where is everyone?" Astarion asked, his voice calm, but Gale caught the taut edge beneath the surface, the faint crack in his composure as his gaze swept the otherwise empty room.

Shadowheart stepped up to them, adjusting her armour. "Jaheira got here this morning, and Wyll and Halsin went with her to continue the investigation into the murders, as she believes the Harpers might be able to help. We were here with Lae'zel… well, what we thought was Lae'zel when…"

"We do not have time for this," Karlach interrupted, her voice a growl as she stormed towards the door. "We will explain on the way."

Gale sighed, resigning himself to the fact that a fresh set of clothes would not be forthcoming. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned his quarterstaff and Astarion's favoured weapons, sending them straight into the elf's waiting hands. Astarion gave a thoughtful hum and a lopsided smile, and then they followed Karlach.

In hindsight, they should have waited for the others to arrive. Whatever Orin had planned, facing her with only half their party was foolish at best, suicidal at worst. But time was not a privilege they had. Gale briefly considered reaching out through the tadpole connection, but their understanding of it was too tenuous. They had avoided using its power in the past, leaving the extent of the link uncertain, unclear whether others might eavesdrop or intercept. The risk was simply too great.

Instead, Gale conjured one of his astral-projected messages, leaving it behind to inform the others of their intended whereabouts. Should they fail to return to the tavern within a day or two, the projection would guide the rest of the party to their last known location. It was a fragile contingency, but better than no plan at all.

✦

Gale had thought himself accustomed to blood and gore by now. Their particular brand of adventuring had rendered such horrors commonplace, after all. But nothing could have prepared him for the grotesque nightmare that passed as interior design for Bhaal-worshippers. The walls themselves seemed to weep cruor, while an unrecognisable slurry of flesh clung to every surface, transforming the large cavern into a landscape of unspeakable carnage.

It was, quite frankly, the most disgusting place he had ever visited, which was saying something, considering he had been to Luskan. He would have given anything to be back in the quiet comforts of the Scrollkeeper's Lodge, wrapped in soft sheets, his face buried against a cool pillow, with Astarion's scent in his nose.

Instead, here he was, caked in the remains of Orin's unfortunate predecessor and an unholy assortment of other Bhaalists. The sludge coating his boots was alive with smells he dared not investigate, and the air was so thick with the sweet taint of decay that it settled heavily in his lungs.

He pressed a sleeve to his nose, though it did little good. For a moment, he considered casting a simple Gust of Wind to clear the stench, before realising it would only send the vile miasma spinning around in the stifling underground air. Helpless, he closed his eyes and drew a harsh, shallow breath to steady himself, teeth clenched against the reflex to retch. He turned to Astarion, who trod the slimy path beside him.

"You are absolutely certain vampire spawn cannot pass on their affliction? Because, frankly, I would risk it just to be rid of breathing through this," Gale complained.

Astarion's head tilted, his gaze flicking to Gale as though genuinely entertaining the notion.

"Oh, would you now? That desperate to get my teeth on you, Sunshine?" Astarion gave him an impish smile, and Gale snorted. To his surprise, there was no flustered stumble to follow, only the faint, unexpected warmth curling up his spine, a welcome distraction from their vile surroundings.

"Are you two like shagging or something?" Karlach's sudden question cut through the moment from just behind them, jolting Gale. He had almost forgotten they were not alone. His mouth worked soundlessly as he grappled for an answer, but before he could muster a response, or even a coherent thought, Karlach let out a triumphant bark of laughter.

"Oh, Gods, you are, aren't you?" she crowed, her voice reverberating through the chamber, all animosity gone. "And here I thought it was only 'feeding'." Her attempt at mimicking Astarion's cultivated accent resulted in a poorly executed drawl, complete with an exaggerated pantomime of air quotes.

The tiefling, now that they had a tangible lead and were en route to Lae'zel, seemed in markedly better spirits. They were fairly confident Orin would not risk the repercussions of killing the gith, but then again, they had been confident about plenty of things recently, only to have them backfire spectacularly. Gale, however, saw no reason to remind her of that now, especially when the tiefling no longer seemed inclined to throttle them both.

"Darling, do shut up before our wizard decides to incinerate you," Astarion said airily, pointing a thumb at Gale but otherwise seeming unbothered.

"Oh no, it is quite all right," Gale interjected. Astarion's lack of protest was oddly encouraging. Perhaps a little too encouraging, as the words slipped from him unchecked. "I simply was not aware that our dalliances were a scheduled topic for today's council. But yes, Astarion has been most... accommodating. You will find that even his mouth can be put to good use on occasion."

Astarion's indifferent composure shattered into wide-eyed surprise, leaving the elf spluttering as he nearly lost his footing on a wet patch of gore. Only Gale's steady grip on his shoulder saved him from a rather unceremonious tumble.

Karlach's borderline manic cackle was followed by an exaggerated wolf whistle. "Well, that settles that! I guess I have a debt to settle with Fringe."

"You what? " Astarion's incredulous squawk was almost endearing. His narrowed eyes flashed in Karlach's direction, but she was already striding forward to catch up with Shadowheart, who was a fair distance ahead, her swagger unabated. "I told you—no bets about my personal life!" he snapped after her, but his indignation fell on deaf ears.

Gale blinked, the exchange stirring faint amusement alongside a growing curiosity. Still, he deemed it wiser to keep his musings firmly to himself; he preferred to keep his entrails inside where they belonged.

As Karlach's laughter faded into the distance, Astarion turned his glare on him, but the slight uptick at the corner of his mouth only made Gale's grin stretch wider.

✦

The echoes of steel on steel had dimmed, leaving only the plaintive groans of the dying and the rhythmic sound of dripping blood in the wake of the battle. The air hung heavy with the scent of rot, iron, and the acrid tang of burnt flesh; a grim ode to the horrors of conflict.

Orin, the Chosen of Bhaal, as expected, was no ordinary adversary. Her strength was undeniable, her viciousness unparalleled, a creature moulded by the god of murder himself. And yet, for all her divine patronage, blood-soaked power, and homicidal bravado, she had made one grievous miscalculation: she underestimated them. She had failed to grasp the depths of wrath and the particular ferocity they could summon when one of their own was threatened.

Gale exhaled sharply, unaware he had been holding his breath. His gaze was fixed on Shadowheart, crouched over Orin's lifeless body sprawled across the floor like a discarded doll. He watched as she wrested the dagger from the corpse's cold, rigid grip, then prised the gleaming Netherstone embedded in its hilt free. A trickle of relief began to seep in when a searing jolt of pain tore through his skull. The ground rose to meet him with brutal speed, his form colliding with the slick, fetid mire of blood and bones. He barely registered the wet spray of crimson across his cheeks before the world tilted violently, his vision swimming in a blinding, disorienting kaleidoscope of red and black.

Through the fog of pain, Gale forced his head to rise, though his limbs felt leaden and his thoughts sluggish. Above him, a shadow loomed, a towering silhouette backlit by the glow of battle's dying embers.

One of Orin's warriors, his beleaguered mind supplied.

Her weapon gleamed, raised high, the edge poised to descend with grim finality.

Gale's fingers twitched, scraps of magic sputtering in the recesses of his consciousness, but his mind was too clouded, too slow to summon anything but dread. He braced for the inevitable, a helpless bystander to his own undoing. Then, like a whisper of death itself, a dagger hissed through the air. It struck with harrowing precision, embedding itself deep into the woman's left eye. She halted mid-swing, a guttural gasp slipping from her lips as blood spilt in rivulets down her face. Her body swayed before crumpling to the ground with a sodden thud.

While the spectacle of her fall was undoubtedly gratifying, Gale's gaze followed the path of the weapon, his eyes meeting Astarion's.

He steadied himself and pushed his body upright, each motion measured as he fought against the relentless pounding in his skull. He reached for the dagger lodged in the woman's lifeless eye, wincing as it slid free with a wet, sucking sound. The weight of the blade in his hand felt oddly centring, almost intimate.

Slowly, he stood and, with a few measured strides, closed the distance to the elf. Gale extended the dagger with a small flourish, holding it delicately by the fine edge, all without breaking eye contact. And if he did all that with the aid of the dregs of his magic, well, let Mystra have her say. Her disapproval seemed inconsequential at this point.

Astarion, equally drenched in blood, looked back at him, mouth slightly ajar, sharp fangs flashing beneath the soft curve of his lips, painted red. Colour sat high in his cheeks, as it always did after he fed, his intense stare piercing through Gale. For a heartbeat, Gale forgot himself: forgot the ache in his skull, the chill of blood soaking his skin, the taste of copper on his tongue. He felt like a beetle pinned under a looking glass, wings pried open, vulnerable, suspended in dusty eternity without a shield from those cursed eyes.

"Really? Really? " Karlach's disbelieving voice shattered the tension as she yanked her axe free from a corpse's skull with a sickening squelch. Her expression hovered between disgust and amusement. "Is this what's doing it for you lot?"

Gale cleared his throat, preparing his retort. "Actually, you will find—"

"Oh, for the love of the gods," Astarion interjected, snatching the dagger from Gale's grasp. "If this is going to be yet another speech about combat and arousal, I am putting the next dagger between my own eyes. You have my word." He wiped the blade, or at least tried, but the already bloodstained sleeve of his armour only made it worse.

Gale opened his mouth to protest, but before he could form the words, Shadowheart approached, leaning casually on her oversized spear. Her expression was unreadable, the eerie calm in her voice at stark odds with the chaos around them. "You knew about this?" she asked Karlach, gesturing vaguely between Gale and Astarion.

Karlach froze mid-laugh, her smile faltering like a flame in the wind. "Oh, uh, only for like… a hot minute," she said, holding up her thumb and forefinger just barely apart to illustrate how little she meant.

"Actually," Astarion drawled, the picture of insouciance, "she has known for hours." He shot Karlach a devilish grin, one that was all teeth and no sympathy, and Karlach responded with a murderous glance in his direction.

Shadowheart, meanwhile, arched a perfectly sculpted brow, her voice as smooth as silk and as sharp as the blade she held at her side. "And when exactly did you plan on telling me?" she asked, a faint lilt of amusement threading through the otherwise venomous query.

Karlach raised her hands in surrender. "Look, I was just trying to protect their privacy."

"Bullshit," Shadowheart declared simultaneously with Astarion's disbelieving snort. "Now pay up," the cleric demanded, extending her palm expectantly. Karlach groaned but began digging in her pouch.

"I told you to stop betting money on me!" Astarion growled at Karlach, his usual suave demeanour slipping. "Or at least involve me in the pool," he added with a pout, his lips pursing into a perfect bow of wounded vanity.

Ignoring Astarion, Karlach extended the pouch of coins to the cleric. Shadowheart's fingers closed around the fabric, but the tiefling's grip remained firm. She did not let go. Instead, she leaned closer to Shadowheart, her gaze challenging. "This is not over, Fringe," Karlach declared.

"Erm, ex-fucking-cuse you both, but this is very much over," countered Astarion from behind her. Once again, he was summarily disregarded.

"Far be it from me to disrupt the, ah, delightful ambience of wagering on the nature of our relationship," he began, a faint edge of sarcasm threading through his words. "However, might I suggest we redirect our focus to more pressing matters? Perhaps now is the opportune moment to wake Lae'zel and ensure her safety."

"Oh, shit, yes! LAE-LAE, WE'RE HERE TO RESCUE YOU!" Karlach bellowed before darting off, all boundless enthusiasm and brazen disregard for caution. She was likely seizing the chance to escape further censure from Shadowheart, who gave the pouch in her hand a perfunctory shake as if to confirm the weight and presence of the promised gold. Satisfied with the jingle it produced, she tucked it neatly away before striding after Karlach.

Gale could not help but wonder whether Lae'zel would consider killing Karlach for addressing her as "Lae-Lae," but the two had a peculiar relationship that he could not exactly wrap his head around, so who knew?

With a resigned shake of his head, he moved to check his satchel, mentally cataloguing their dwindling supplies as they headed for the chamber where Lae'zel's unconscious form was lying.

"You're bleeding." The voice came from too close, snapping him out of his thoughts. He nearly swallowed his tongue.

He whirled around, heart leaping in his chest. "How many times must I tell you, Astarion, to stop sneaking up on me? One day, you will find yourself on the receiving end of an unintended Fireball."

Astarion did not so much as flinch at the admonishment. His hand was already extended, a healing potion balanced elegantly between his fingers. "Here. Drink."

Gale touched his neck, testing the wound. His fingertips came away stained red. An inconvenience at best, nothing remotely life-threatening. "It is but a scratch. Barely worth noticing. I hardly think we need to squander—"

"Just drink it," Astarion snapped, all trace of earlier humour gone, evaporating like morning dew under a blazing sun.

Gale folded his arms, irritation tightening his brow. "I don't understand. You have fed; you aren't starving. Shadowheart can tend to it once she has rested. What, precisely, is the problem?"

In the next instant, Astarion was upon him, far closer than necessary. Cool fingers seized Gale's jaw, the sudden chill of the touch sending a jolt down his spine. His eyes burned, nostrils flared, his expression taut with intensity.

Then his grip loosened. The pads of Astarion's fingers drifted below Gale's jawline, ghostlike, before coming to rest at the wound. Without warning, Astarion pressed hard against the torn flesh. Pain lanced hot and immediate, dragging a hiss from Gale's lips before he could master it. Sweat stung the open cut like acid. His pulse hammered beneath that steady palm, quick and heavy.

"Drink it," Astarion repeated. His voice carried no smirk now, no teasing cadence, only a strange, unsteady note.

Gale swallowed, the motion shifting his throat against that cold, unrelenting hand. "Fine," he said, barely louder than a whisper. His fingers shook as they fumbled for the vial, thumb clumsily breaking the seal. He brought it to his lips, their eyes locked as he took a decisive gulp. Astarion's palm lingered against the vulnerable line of Gale's neck, as though measuring the course of every swallow.

The potion worked swiftly, its magic surging through Gale, knitting his wounds and staunching the trickle of blood. The cool, refreshing touch of its magic briefly amplified Gale's connection to the Weave, steadying him. He took a slow breath, reining in his traitorous body and willing his pulse to calm.

Gale watched with unveiled intrigue as Astarion's eyes fluttered shut. The rigidity in the elf's frame shifted but did not disappear; it simply coiled tighter, like an animal caught between the instinct to pounce and the restraint to wait. When his eyes opened again, however, there was no sign of his turmoil.

"Let us find 'Lae-Lae', shall we?" Astarion quipped, his levity sliding back into place with an ease that bordered on unsettling, as though the tension from moments before had never existed. He exhaled, a deep breath that served no biological purpose but seemed to ground him nonetheless, and gave Gale's arm a fleeting squeeze before stepping away, already moving ahead.

"Do not let her catch wind of that; Karlach might survive such transgression for reasons that defy logic, but you would not stand a chance," Gale said. He could not quite discern what had Astarion so riled, but he decided against pressing the vampire for an explanation, at least for now.

"Have you seen her angry? What a way to go," Astarion chuckled in response, and Gale could not help but agree.

✦

Lae'zel turned out to be uncharacteristically grateful for the rescue she "absolutely didn't need". Still, the glow of victory and the thrill of survival hung in the air, uniting the group with one certainty: it was time for a well-deserved celebration.

It was well after nightfall when they finally made it back to the Elfsong. Waking up that morning felt like a lifetime ago, and Gale mulled over everything that had transpired as he sponged off most of the blood and sweat, then slowly slipped into the warm bath.

He had been beyond grateful for the grumpy innkeeper who, with an appraising glance at their bedraggled group, had wordlessly prepared baths for each of them in separate rooms. The wooden tub wasn't luxurious by any stretch—certainly nothing comparable to the grand ceramic fixture in the Tower. But tonight, the slightly splintered wood and the lukewarm water felt like an indulgence fit for royalty.

He leaned back with a contented sigh, and right on cue, his thoughts turned, inevitably, to Astarion. There was no use fighting it; memories of the previous night and their intense, fraught moments after the battle swirled together into one overwhelming recollection. Without thinking, his fingers brushed over the now-healed gash on his neck. The sensation was immediate and visceral, his cock hardening unbidden as the memory played out in exquisite detail. The temptation to sink his hand beneath the water and surrender to desire rose swiftly, but he stopped himself. Instead, stubbornly ignoring his throbbing hardness, he methodically scrubbed his body clean.

By the time he rose from the water and swiped a clear patch on the steam-clouded mirror, he felt marginally more himself. He appraised his reflection. He looked worse for wear, the dark circles under his eyes more prominent than ever, his hair and beard having certainly exceeded the Tara-approved length. He studied himself for a long moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips. There was something liberating about it, this rough-around-the-edges appearance.

No enchantments to smooth imperfections, no meticulous grooming to embody Mystra's Chosen, or glamour spells strategically employed to present the ideal image of an Archmage. Just Gale. Imperfect, human, and—he allowed—a little ruggedly charming.

His eyes fell on his earring, the delicate silver catching the light as it swayed faintly with his movements. He regarded it only a moment before moving on, not wanting to invite thoughts that would poison his mood. His gaze next rested on the small, pink, jagged line on his neck; healing potion scars tended to persist, a result of the skin not having enough time to mend itself. It was a manifestation of the perfect, wondrous Weave mixing with mortal flaws. He could have asked Shadowheart for a more thorough healing, but he chose to let it remain. If the mark wouldn't fade with time, then it would endure; not everything needed to be mended, after all.

He rummaged through his traveller's chest for clothing, eventually pulling out a black shirt with deep purple cuffs. It was crumpled from its time at the bottom of the box, yet the soft fabric against his fingers pleased him—a small comfort he'd appreciated enough to claim it from a merchant's stall somewhere along the road without much thought. Paired with simple black trousers, it wasn't a particularly inspired ensemble, but Gale lacked the energy to care.

Despite its questionable wisdom, he wasn't deluded enough to deny the fact that the only person whose opinion he cared for had seen him in various states of undress or covered in gore, and had made no secret of his disdain for Gale's every attempt at fashion. So why bother?

He made his way down to the bar and discovered their ever-expanding group gathered around a generous table, voices overlapping in lively conversation. Cups were being filled with wine, and plates were adorned with warm, comforting food. As Gale observed them, a profound surge of emotion threatened to overwhelm him. They all deserved this, a reprieve from insurmountable decisions and invincible adversaries ready to snatch away their hard-earned peace. Gale wanted them to be safe, to be happy, more than he had ever desired anything for himself.

His gaze swept over his companions, his eyes falling on the head of the table, where Karlach sat, already deep into what seemed to be her third helping, her arm slung companionably around Shadowheart's chair. On her other side, naturally, was Astarion, leaning back in his seat with all the casual elegance of someone who had been born for such decadence.

He wore something Gale had not seen before, soft, luxurious fabric draped in a way that was almost deceptively modest. A high collar encircled his throat, while the loose sleeves, neatly cuffed at the wrists, were trimmed with delicate ruffles. It suited him, of course: elegant, effortless, and entirely Astarion.

The chair beside him was conspicuously empty, waiting, and a warmth pooled in Gale's chest at the sight, something almost foolishly sentimental.

It might've seemed trivial to others, but for Gale, who had never experienced having friends or a table filled with companions, this was a momentous occasion that left him struggling to organise his thoughts and put on his carefully curated show of expressions. Tired and worn down by emotion, Gale approached the table with resolve and decided that, just for tonight, he would not concern himself with carefully crafted decorum.

Wyll was mid-story, gesturing animatedly as his rich voice carried across the room. Lae'zel was tucked between him and Halsin, her eyes bleary from the wine she had consumed. A rare smile played on her lips as she stabbed at the meats on her plate with voracious hunger. Beneath the table, Scratch lay sprawled lazily, his tail thumping against the floor whenever a morsel of food was sneakily handed to him. Beside him, the owlbear cub—no longer a cub, really—squeezed its bulk into the cramped space, its beak clicking as it greedily snapped up bits of roasted meat. Across the table, Jaheira caught Gale's eye, and they exchanged a brief nod of greeting. Gale passed by them and could not help but smile. Something was easing in his chest as he watched Wyll laughing; that horrible expression from the day before was now replaced with joy. He made his way over, lightly clapping the warlock on the shoulder as he joined the circle.

"There you are, Sunshine. Thought you'd drowned in the tub," Astarion greeted Gale with a sly smirk, handing him a goblet of wine.

"I'm sure you would have volunteered for the rescue," Karlach leered in response.

"Hello to you, too, Karlach. I can see the wine has been plentiful," Gale remarked. As he drew closer, he took in his companions' varying degrees of intoxication. Astarion, untouched by the wine's effects, remained perfectly sober, while Karlach was steadily yielding to its cheerful sway. Most unexpected, however, was Shadowheart, who seemed to be the most affected, her head already resting in her palm as she gazed at the tiefling with soft eyes.

"Hello, handsome," Karlach said with a wolfish smile as Gale took his seat and indulged in a large gulp of wine. As he did, music began to play, which forced everyone to raise their voices to be heard. The conversation between the tiefling and the vampire resumed around him, quickly devolving into a heated argument about the best establishments selling baked goods in town. Gale found solace in the banality of the discussion, grateful for a moment to settle in, nurse his wine, and centre himself.

"You really are rather handsome," Shadowheart slurred dreamily from across the table, pulling Gale from his thoughts. Her face was slipping off her palm, and her other hand loosely held an empty cup, gesturing vaguely in Gale's direction. It did not escape Gale's notice that her usual hairpin was now replaced by a familiar one in the shape of a night orchid.

"I can understand why he likes you," she added, mumbling, almost speaking to herself. Gale caught her words over the cacophony of noise but chose to pretend otherwise. She did not know the intricacies of his and Astarion's relationship, and truthfully, neither did Gale. But tonight was about drinking and celebrating a win, so he finished the rest of his glass in a single gulp. He glanced at Astarion, secretly hoping the elf had not heard Shadowheart's mumbling musings, but Astarion seemed fully engrossed in the pastry-related debate.

"How in the Hells would you know? You don't even eat! Every bloody bakery in Faerûn was closed long before you could drag your skinny, flammable arse out of your coffin!" Karlach practically shouted, seemingly unaware that volume did not determine the validity of a statement in a debate.

"It's hardly just about the food. The ambience, the service, the experience—that's what truly matters," Astarion retorted with a vehemence that made it hard to tell whether he was this passionate about pastry or simply about winning the argument. Without looking, he refilled Gale's glass, making Gale realise that Astarion paid more attention to him and, by extension, his exchange with Shadowheart than he had initially thought and hoped for.

"That is total nonsense," Karlach said, drinking from an enormous tankard of beer. She slammed it on the table, the golden liquid sloshing over the rim and dripping onto the table, drawing a perfect ring around the base of the vessel.

"It is not. Scrollkeeper's is a perfect place. Is the food the best? Who cares, it's the atmosphere, the service, the charm of it all… wouldn't you agree, Sunshine?" Astarion turned to him with an arched brow. Gale, not expecting to be pulled into the conversation so abruptly, and aware of how uncharacteristically guarded Astarion had been about the inn before, wasn't sure what to say, but didn't need to answer as Karlach added without missing a beat,

"Oh yes, I'm sure Gale was enjoying the 'quality of service'. Is that what you call your cock these days?"

Disbelief pulled an incredulous laugh from Gale before he could stop himself. Astarion froze, his expression shifting through several emotions: irritation, disbelief, and something Gale suspected was mild betrayal. The sight was, frankly, delightful, well worth the price of his own dignity. Astarion sent a crude gesture in the tiefling's direction, who winked at him in return.

"Huh, I always thought it'd be Gale doing the cock… thing," Shadowheart decided, entirely unbidden, to offer her two copper pieces, halting the conversation entirely.

"Shadowheart!" Karlach burst out with a shocked laugh, though it was clear she was more entertained than horrified. Astarion slowly turned towards Shadowheart and gave her a withering stare. Gale should have been mortified by such brazen discussion of their intimacy, but seeing Astarion unexpectedly ruffled was far more grounding than he could have hoped for.

"How very small-minded of you," the tiefling added, still shaking with laughter. Astarion probably regretted at this point being the only sober one amidst the widespread descent into drunkenness.

"By the gods, what is wrong with you people? There is no 'cock thing'!" Astarion snapped, clearly not enjoying it so much when he was the one on the butt end of the crude joke, pointing a finger at Shadowheart. "Someone take the wine away from her!"

"I mean, I seem to recall some 'cock thing', " Gale said, perhaps the evening's wine speaking for him. Astarion's head whipped towards him, his mouth ajar, but a half-laugh tumbled out around his surprise now, too.

"Do not encourage her!" he grumbled, and Gale didn't fail to notice the slight dusting of warmth colouring the tip of his pointed ears.

"Trust me, the cock thing is vastly overrated," Shadowheart added helpfully, swaying slightly in her chair.

"Hells. Okay. Shads. It's bedtime," Karlach said, shaking her head with amusement. "Our princess needs to sleep off her wine before she decides to give all of us a heart attack," she said, throwing an exaggerated wink at Gale and Astarion as she stood and extended a strong arm for Shadowheart, who beheld her with drunk, happy eyes and grabbed hold of the offered limb like it was a lifeline.

She muttered something about the fact that Karlach technically didn't have a heart and Astarion was a corpse, so they should be safe.

"Are you leaving?" Wyll's voice came from the other side of the table. Gale had nearly forgotten about the rest of the group as he sat in his wine-drunk bubble.

Karlach and Shadowheart stood, well, Karlach stood and supported the cleric's entire weight, and chatted with the others a little longer, thankfully avoiding any further mentions of cocks.

Astarion rose. "Come, Sunshine, let's get some air." Gale didn't get a chance to catch the look on his face as the elf turned and began making his way to the terrace. A sudden worry crept in: had the joke gone too far? Astarion always seemed in his element when crude jokes or people's dalliances were offered up for mockery, but with everything that had transpired yesterday, with all those uncertainties, this was uncharted territory for both of them, and Gale was utterly lost as to how to navigate it.

Gale followed a few steps behind Astarion until they reached the terrace. The space was mercifully empty, thanks to the evening breeze that had picked up, sharper now against his wine-warmed skin. Astarion turned with an easy grace, leaning back against the railing, one elbow perched on its edge. Relief unfurled in Gale's chest as he caught the glint of amusement in the elf's gaze.

"Would you look at that? Mere tendays ago, you were squirming and blushing at harmless flirting, and now you're casually tossing around words like 'cock'," Astarion said with a theatrical swoon, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead as though he might faint. "They grow up so fast."

Gale snorted, shaking his head. "If what we've been doing is your version of harmless flirting, I dread to imagine what you reserve for the serious sort."

"It's wasted on the prudish."

"Prudish?" Gale returned. He smothered an amused huff and aimed for a tone of playful indignation. "I'll have you know I've been lauded for my confidence and charm on countless occasions, both in and out of the bedroom." 

It was only Astarion who ever managed to make him feel otherwise—to catch him off guard, to strip the polish from his words and leave him teetering at the border of foolish embarrassment. Not that Gale had the slightest intention of admitting it. Gods forbid he hand Astarion's ego another victory.

"How very tragic that I seem to have missed all those dazzling performances," Astarion replied airily, his lips curling just enough to suggest a smirk.

Gale couldn't stop his laugh from bubbling up this time. He leaned back, swirling his wine in the goblet as his shoulders shook. "But I'll take the insult in stride. After all, you can't fool me. I've clearly risen in your estimation after tonight. From prudish to... what? Admirably audacious?"

Astarion tilted his head as he regarded Gale for a moment, as though debating whether to bother answering. "Mildly entertaining," he said at last, his voice velvet-soft. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

"Gods forbid," Gale replied dryly, though his grin never faded.

There was a moment of quiet. Astarion took another sip of his wine and poorly suppressed a grimace. Gale felt a wave of fondness wash over him, so he quickly averted his gaze as he leaned over the railing, looking at the near-empty streets under the faint flickering streetlights.

Gale cleared his throat. "I apologise if the joke went too far."

Astarion turned his head, one silver brow arching high. "You think I'd be offended by a quip about us having sex? Darling, really."

"I just... I'm not entirely sure what rules we're playing by," Gale admitted, his voice quieter now. Memories of last night surfaced again unbidden, Astarion withholding, the confusion of it all.

Gale lifted his goblet to his lips and finished the dregs of his wine in a single gulp. "Never mind," he muttered. "I must have had too much to drink."

Astarion's eyes narrowed as he looked at him in open scrutiny. "Out with it, wizard."

Gale exhaled heavily. "I just… when I think I've found my footing, something shifts beneath me. It leaves me wondering if I'm holding up my end of this… arrangement."

Astarion tilted his head, lips twisting faintly, though his expression gave nothing away. The previous humour was gone in an instant. It was maddening how easily Astarion walled off his emotions.

"We've already discussed this," he said, his voice growing cold. "Your insecurities are not my burden to bear. If you don't understand how this could possibly work for me, that's fine, but you have to trust my words, or this needs to end." His jaw tensed as he stared at Gale for a long, loaded moment.

Gale frowned at the harshness of the words, but alongside came something else, a slight slip of that impenetrable mask. Astarion was hiding something behind the cutting remarks.

Gale straightened his shoulders and turned to the elf. "You are expecting trust, yet you offer no explanation. I need to know if there is a reason why you held back last night. Whether it was something on my part, something I have done…"

"Oh, for the love of—" Astarion's tone softened, though irritation still coloured it. "You did nothing wrong."

The words lingered, unanswered, as a tense silence settled between them, stretching thin and taut.

At last, Astarion exhaled a shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging as if the fight had drained from him entirely. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost fragile. "I do want it, you know."

Gale frowned. "What do you mean?"

Astarion averted his gaze and began thumbing the lip of his goblet. The warm, drunken comfort curdled into unease, anxiety growing in Gale's stomach. He wished he could rewind the conversation and steer it away from this awkward turn before it soured Astarion's mood.

"I want to fuck you, get fucked by you, whatever," Astarion clarified, swirling his wine as though weighing the options with the same nonchalance he reserved for picking out a vintage. It took Gale a moment to catch up, his brain stumbling over the candour of the statement. He really wished Astarion would stop saying 'fuck'.

"You could—" Gale started, but Astarion interrupted, his voice low but sharp.

"You don't understand." When he finally lifted his head, his eyes met Gale's with an intensity that stole the air from his chest as surely as if Astarion had reached inside and torn it out himself. The elf leaned in, his pale fingers reaching out to brush an errant lock of Gale's hair back behind his ear. The touch tarried, his fingertips grazing the shell of Gale's ear, tracing the delicate curve before arriving at his earring, allowing the metal to rest against his fingers for a heartbeat.

"It's not that I don't want it," Astarion murmured, his voice scarcely louder than a breath. The fresh scent of bergamot and sweetness filled the sudden hollow in Gale's lungs. Astarion's fingers drifted lower, tracing along the line of Gale's jaw. "I do, so much that, at times, I think you'll be the end of me." His thumb paused beneath Gale's chin, tilting it upward, a stark contrast to the last time, when Astarion's touch had been harsh and unyielding. Gale's breath hitched as their eyes locked, the light catching in the elf's gaze. "You drive me mad, Sunshine."

The words came with a hint of a wry smile, but his touch betrayed him; it was reverent, almost trembling. His gaze dropped to Gale's lips, lingering there for a breath too long before snapping back up. "I've imagined it, over and over, in more ways than I care to admit." Astarion's voice grew softer still, his fingers brushing over the column of Gale's neck, over the healed cut, before returning to the earring at his lobe, rolling the metal between his thumb and forefinger.

"Hells, I've been so close to just… giving in." His eyes remained locked on Gale's, his breath now shallow, as though he were holding himself back in that very moment, the scant space between them charged and unbearable. The hand at Gale's earring finally stilled, his thumb pressing against the cool metal like it was the only thing grounding him in this fragile act of unguarded confession.

The memory of Astarion's body, the undeniable press of his hard cock against his own, surged forward unbidden, vivid and visceral.

Gale's throat worked. "Then why—"

A small, humourless smile tugged at Astarion's lips. "Because there are things I… I just can't," he continued, his voice carrying a rawness that twisted something deep within Gale. "And I don't know if that will ever change."

A familiar shadow passed over Astarion's face, that haunted look that always seemed to surface when the scars of his past threatened to rise. Gale's heart sank. The arousal that had flared so quickly turned ice-cold in an instant.

He was such a selfish fool, so worried about his own self-doubt that it hadn't occurred to him the elf might actually have conflicting feelings regarding their arrangement, not because of Gale, but because of his past.

Shifting his stance, Gale stepped back, a measured retreat to give him space, but turned to Astarion, his entire body facing the elf.

"Astarion, there is something I feel I ought to say." Suddenly, words found their way to Gale's mouth, unrestrained, indifferent to his usual defences. "Everything that has transpired between us—while the physical aspect is, of course, immensely enjoyable, exceedingly so if I am to be candid—should you ever wish to take things further, you would find me a willing and enthusiastic participant."

"That said, if tomorrow you decided that you'd rather not so much as touch me again, it wouldn't change my wish to remain by your side. Whether as a friend or to share a bed, it matters not to me."

Astarion's scoff of disbelief interrupted him, but Gale pressed on, his tone gentling, betraying a touch of vulnerability. "I'll admit, that's not where this started. But it's where I've found myself now. I truly enjoy the time we spend together, and, for someone who works so hard to come across as, pardon the phrasing, an insufferable arse, you are surprisingly considerate when you wish to be."

That earned a proper chuckle from Astarion, low and smooth, though his gaze remained fixed on the goblet cradled in his hand. He rolled it slightly, watching the dark liquid inside lap against the edges.

"This sounds dangerously like feelings, Sunshine," Astarion said, his tone wry as his slim fingers traced distracted patterns over the goblet's rim.

Gale shrugged. "I'm only human," he said, allowing a small admission to ease some of the pressure in his heavily beating heart that relentlessly demanded more from him.

The elf looked up finally, crimson eyes flitting between Gale's own for a moment. "That's a perilous thing to be around a vampire."

"Only a vampire spawn," Gale countered, and Astarion's smile transformed into a smirk.

"What happened to 'what I need is not what you want'?" the elf asked, his tone light. Gale actually laughed aloud at that. It felt like a lifetime had passed since that moment in the tent in the Underdark.

"I'm too tired to pretend that I don't enjoy your company."

"Even if the cock thing doesn't happen?" Astarion asked with a coy quirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

"Even if the cock thing doesn't happen," Gale confirmed with a huff of amusement.

"I don't think I'm ever going to get used to you saying 'cock'. I feel like you should use words like 'member' or 'a prominent part of the male anatomy'." Astarion imitated Gale's tone, his delivery bordering on mockery, but Gale was laughing, a weight lifting from his chest.

Astarion exhaled softly and bumped his shoulder against Gale's in a gesture so subtle it could have been accidental, if not for the fleeting warmth that remained. It was a small, unspoken reach for connection, and when Astarion finally turned to meet his gaze, he offered Gale a gentle smile, one of the rare ones that reached his eyes. The urge to close the distance and kiss him flared so fiercely, it was almost a physical ache.

Something told him Astarion wouldn't stop him, but yielding to that impulse would only stoke the flames of Gale's ill-advised emotions. One drunken conversation about cocks wasn't a foundation for anything more. He refused to let the thought intrude and sour the rare lightness of this moment, allowing his own good mood to return, piece by fragile piece.

They remained on the terrace for a while longer, both gazing out over the quiet streets below. The wind grew fiercer, biting into Gale's skin until the hairs on his arms bristled in protest. A shiver escaped him, and Astarion, standing close enough to sense it, or perhaps merely observing as he always did, slipped a hand to the small of Gale's back and ushered him inside, where they returned to the tumult of their unruly party. Only Shadowheart and Karlach were notably absent.

The remainder of the evening unfolded as a deliberate retreat from the shadow of impending catastrophe. They poured themselves into lively debates about magic and local gossip, carefully sidestepping the grim truths looming ahead. For a fleeting moment, they allowed themselves the luxury of pretending to be ordinary, burdened only by the inconsequential worries of mundane lives.

Laughter filled the room as Wyll launched into another of his theatrical tales, while Jaheira shared stories from her years of battle and rebellion that seemed to impress even Lae'zel. Halsin's presentation of an intricately whittled wooden duckling to the gith brought forth another roar of laughter. Though she feigned disdain, her slurred protests and rare, tipsy warmth hinted at something almost tender beneath her usual sharpness, something that reminded Gale of Astarion.

Gale found himself at ease. Sated by good food and wine, nestled beside Astarion, and warmed by the camaraderie of those he had come to deeply care for. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself the indulgence of contentment.

When the evening wound down and they retired to the parlour, a flicker of almost boyish anticipation stirred within him as he watched Astarion claiming the bed beside his. They shared a glance, long and laden with unspoken meaning, as they settled in for the night. In that moment, a rare stillness descended upon Gale, quieting the ever-spinning wheel of his thoughts. When he finally slipped into sleep, it was deep and dreamless, a reprieve he hadn't dared hope for in months.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

Family (noun): A group of individuals bound by blood, marriage, sworn oath, or recognised kinship, often dwelling together under one roof or within a shared holding.


Gale had been six summers old when he first looked up the word 'family' in the dictionary.

Before that tender age, it had never occurred to him to question the shape of his world. Life with his mother was one of gentle warmth and quiet fulfilment, rich in the things that mattered. 

Together, they were an island unto themselves, needing no one else.

It was not until he began venturing beyond his mother's watchful orbit that the differences became apparent, differences the local children were quick to point out with the unerring cruelty of youth. Gale had never thought it strange, never felt the absence of a father, until their barbed words reframed his existence, turning the notion of family into a chink in his armour. It became the first of many vulnerabilities they would seize upon with disquieting precision.

One particular afternoon, with questions gnawing at the margins of his young mind, Gale tugged the weighty tome from its shelf. Determined to unravel the nature of his supposed peculiarity, he opened its pages and began to pore over the contents.

Books had always been his sanctuary, their unspeaking companionship a balm against the bewilderments of a world too complicated. Truths within their pages stood still and incorruptible, free from the obfuscations of adult riddles or evasions. They offered simplicity, a dependable map through the labyrinth of uncertainty.

For all the clarity he had found in their unembellished prose, the dictionary failed him. He read the entry once, twice, and then again, his brow furrowed with a confusion too profound for childhood. The words described something simple and reductive: bonds of blood and law. By that measure, his mother embodied everything a family ought to be: steadfast, abundant in care, a lodestar of constancy. True, she was not one for displays of affection, not the sort to kiss bruises better or sing lullabies to ward off the encroaching dark, but all the fundamental needs of his existence were met. What more, he wondered, could one possibly ask of family?

Yet the definition seemed an ill fit. Over the years, he found himself drawn back to that page, as though seeking some occult meaning hidden within its stark simplicity. He knew, of course, that words in books were immutable. What changed was the significance people imprinted upon them, the fluid meanings they bent to their will.

Family, it seemed, was a word too simple for all the complexity it aspired to define.

Others described unyielding bonds, fierce and consuming, allegiances that surpassed the mortal coil. Gale could comprehend the rhetoric, even admire its craft, but the weight behind it eluded him, slippery as quicksilver. Those grand declarations seemed to him a hollow canticle, a song played on a lute perpetually out of tune.

And then came her voice.

It was not the voice of a mother or kin, but something that shattered the quiet of his life and remade it entirely. It swept through him like a tempest, not revealing emptiness but filling it, reshaping him with purpose.

Love, once an abstract ideal or a distant construct of duty, became something more defined, a validation as inescapable as the tide. Where once there had been uncertainty, there was now belonging; where once there had been doubt, there was now brilliance. Her words resonated through him like a hymn, entwining themselves with his very essence, infusing him with power and the unshakeable belief that she alone was enough.

In her, Gale believed he had found the clarity he so desperately sought. It was not the fleeting truths of mortal bonds but something grander, something transcendent. He belonged not to a family or a place but to her and her alone.

If this was the love others meant when they spoke of family, then perhaps he had found it at last.

✦

Gale woke before the others, the parlour still steeped in the muted hush of dawn. His gaze fell on Astarion, whose face—uncharacteristically serene in reverie—held his attention. It was a rare sight to see the elf so unguarded. Gale's eyes traced the smooth planes of his features, captivated by the occasional flutter of lashes. He could not suppress a small smile as he noticed the faint, uneven rise and fall of his chest, a vestigial habit from a life long past. The mimicry of breath, unnecessary yet ingrained, faltered with pauses that stretched too long, a subtle betrayal of its artifice.

Not wishing to disturb him, Gale moved carefully through the room as he gathered his thoughts. He paused to pat Scratch on the head, the dog answering with a limp, sleepy wag of his tail. At the counter, Gale busied himself with the familiar ritual of brewing coffee. The strong, grounding aroma began to cut through the heavy mingling of wine and sweat, a lingering testament to the previous night's indulgence.

Shadowheart's absence in the room was the first thing he noticed. His gaze drifted to the terrace door, left slightly ajar, and the conclusion came easily enough. With a quiet sigh, he slipped a hangover potion into his pocket. No doubt she was paying the price for the night's excesses. He could hardly begrudge her that, not with the shadow of the House of Grief looming over the day like a storm cloud.

The crisp morning air greeted him as he crossed the threshold, sweeping away the stale weight of the room behind. The terrace lay bathed in the soft glow of first light, its warmth brushing his face as he blinked against the brilliance. As he had expected, Shadowheart sat at the top of the stairs, her figure still as carved stone, framed against the vibrant hues of dawn. Her silver hair fell loose about her shoulders, unbound from its usual braid, and her fingers pressed hard against the cursed wound, a stark, silent testament to another episode.

"Good morning," Gale greeted softly. "Something to eat? Coffee?" He already knew the answer to the former. Shadowheart was not one for food this early, but a cup of coffee, black without milk or sugar, was her unchanging preference. Gale had always thought it suited her: stark, bitter, and enduring.

She glanced at him briefly, her expression unreadable, before shaking her head and returning her attention to the daffodil horizon.

He approached with measured steps, slipping a hand into his robes to draw out the small vial he had set aside. A light touch to her shoulder, and he offered it without a word.

Shadowheart took it, rolling the glass absently between her fingers before pulling the cork free. She drank it down in two quick swallows. Her face twisted immediately, lips pressing into a thin line as she suppressed a retch. 

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she murmured a quiet, "Thank you." Her fingers flexed as the last bouts of nausea rolled over her. Already, the pallor of her face was softening as the potion began to take hold.

Gale held out his hand, and she passed the empty vial to him. He tucked it carefully into his robe pocket, then lowered himself onto the step beside her, his movements unhurried, and placed his cup beside him on the ground. The air between them was heavy, but the silence held no discomfort. Together, they watched the golden light crawl over the skyline.

"I don't feel ready," she said at last, her voice barely audible.

Gale studied her profile for a moment before responding. "Then we wait," he said matter-of-factly. "The House of Grief isn't going anywhere."

"No," Shadowheart shook her head, her grip tightening briefly on her knees. "They might be suffering. My parents. I can't leave them to that. They've waited long enough." Her voice cracked, a faint quaver breaking through her usual composure. "It's just… too bad I'll have to slaughter my way through my family to get to them." The sardonic tone barely masked the anguish beneath.

"'Family' seems a generous word for what they are," he said softly, surprising even himself with the conviction in his voice.

Shadowheart turned to him then, her gaze piercing. "I may not remember much, but they raised me," she said, her voice clipped and fierce, daring him to challenge her claim.

"That's not what makes a family," he said without thinking. "You can raise a dog to heel without affection, but that doesn't make you kin." Too harsh. The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He caught the flicker of hurt that flashed across her face, and then her eyes narrowed, her expression morphing into anger.

"And what would you know of it?" she snapped, her words sharp enough to cut.

"Precious little," he said, his gaze falling to his hands. The truth dragged out as if it resisted being spoken. "But I have to believe… that family is more than blood. More than obligation."

He paused, searching for the right words this time. "My mother—ah, she tried, in her way. But she was more an occasional presence than a constant one. Boarding schools and tutors filled the gaps, and later... well, there was Elminster. Mystra. They became the figures of influence, though not so much for my sake as for what they believed I could become. What I might offer." He winced at his own admission, the thought making him feel uncomfortably exposed. It was not a bid for sympathy; his childhood was no harrowing tale, and any pain or neglect paled in comparison to whatever Shadowheart had endured.

Quickly, he added, "But that's not necessarily a dreadful thing, is it? To be recognised for one's talents?" He was rambling, and there was a faint, unintended defensiveness in his tone. His thumb worked idly over an ink stain that had seeped into his skin, as though persistence might somehow lift it. He cleared his voice. "What I'm trying to say is that until quite recently, the only one who truly cared about me was Tara."

He drew in a shallow breath and let it out slowly. "I may not know what family is," he murmured, his voice quieter now, "but I know, at least, what it is not."

For a moment, she said nothing. Her expression remained unreadable, though there was no sign of anger now. He waited, letting the silence stretch, unwilling to press. Finally, she exhaled. Her lips parted, trembling faintly before she spoke, her voice emerging as a quiet, broken thread of sound.

"I don't know what scares me more," she said, "if they're dead… or if they're not."

The rawness in her confession made Gale's stomach churn. He could see the depth of her conflict. Turning away from Shar had been an act of defiance, one fuelled by her belief in Aylin's truth and the betrayal she had endured. But if that truth crumbled beneath her today, it would not just complicate her path forward; it would rip apart everything Shadowheart had dared to believe in.

And if her parents had lived? The thought unsettled him even more. The decades of torment they might have endured would scar Shadowheart more deeply than any physical wound, and she already carried enough.

Slowly, hesitantly, she leaned towards him, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. 

Gale stiffened for a heartbeat, caught off guard, breath catching in his chest before the warmth of the gesture washed over him. Her weight pressed against him, tentative and feather-light, the hesitation clear. It was a silent plea for comfort, a quiet offering of trust, fragile and new.

By now, he had grown used to Karlach's searing embraces, the way she would sweep him into a hug, or how she often laced their arms together when they walked side by side. And Astarion—well, Astarion's hands seemed to constantly find him nowadays; for one reason or another, he never seemed to go long without finding an excuse to touch him. But Shadowheart was different. She carried herself like a blade sheathed, sharp and indomitable, and she never seemed to seek closeness.

Gale willed himself to relax against her. Slowly, as though he might startle her, he tilted his head to rest gently against hers. The crown of her hair brushed his cheek, soft and faintly scented with earth and herbs.

"In any case," he murmured, his voice low, "you won't face it alone."

The words hung in the air, delicate and imperfect, but they were all he could offer. And for a moment, she did not move, did not answer, only stayed as they were. The world around them softened, narrowing to the quiet cadence of their breaths and the sun growing warmer as it finally made its way into the brightening sky.

Whatever waited for them ahead, whatever truth, or lie, or cruel trick of the gods, he resolved that they would confront it side by side.

✦

The chambers beneath the House of Grief were a cruel echo of the Sharran temple under the Thorm Mausoleum. Gale felt it immediately: the same suffocating darkness, the same sterile chill clinging to the air. Jagged memories tore free from the place where he had desperately entombed them. And the cold. It was so cold. A gnawing, merciless cold that burrowed through sinew and tendon, seeping into soft tissue and marrow, sinking its teeth into the very soul. The sort of cold that hollowed a person out, leaving them to wish—pray—that the next breath might be their last, just to escape it. Oblivion would be a mercy.

When they reached the grandiose hall, it revealed itself like the slow parting of teeth: vast and silent. Their footsteps rang out, too thin, too exposed. At its heart stood a drow, her silhouette stark against the meagre glow of a single brazier burning low behind her. The embers stirred fitfully around her, throwing faint light onto a face carved of cold stone: angular and pitiless.

Shadowheart's fragmented memories and Astarion's deft hand at pilfering the key had granted them an unexpectedly smooth passage into the depths of the Sharran stronghold, sparing them the need for confrontation on the upper levels. 

Gale should have known better. It had been too easy, the kind of simplicity that left behind the bitter aftertaste of a trap. Their arrival had been anticipated; that much was now painfully clear.

Gale had scarcely begun to marshal his thoughts when the drow spoke.

"They already heard how you disgraced yourself before Lady Shar," she began as they approached. Gale's gaze shifted to Shadowheart, whose thin brows pushed together as she regarded the drow, her expression tense with uncertainty. But as the words settled, recognition dawned slowly, like a shadow creeping over stone. Her eyebrows lifted and parted, wide-eyed surprise claiming her features.

"Viconia," she whispered. The drow disregarded her and continued.

"They all know how she marked you as the enemy." She gestured to the silent audience lingering at the edges of the hall, all unnervingly still. "But it is quite another thing for them to see it for themselves. I'm very glad you decided to return. A cautionary tale such as yours will be studied by Lady Shar's initiates for years to come."

Gale's muscles tightened. Not good. Surrounded, outnumbered—if this turned to violence, the odds would be far from favourable.

"Perhaps," Viconia continued, her tone dripping with mock benevolence as she stepped closer, "I can make a case for a small measure of mercy. Give me the artefact, and I can at least make this qui—"

"Enough."

The word cracked through the chamber like a physical force, and the hall seemed to recoil, a sudden vacuum of silence settling in its wake.

"I don't answer to you. Not anymore. I'm here for my family." The hesitation in her voice from that morning were gone; Shadowheart's tone was resolute, a declaration that allowed no room for argument. Gale felt something swell within him—admiration, pride—at her steadfast defiance. There was something arresting, almost enrapturing, in her unwavering poise, and for a moment, he was spellbound by the privilege of witnessing it.

Viconia faltered, her expression thinning into something sharper, more dangerous.

"That's right," Shadowheart spat, fury weaving into her words. "I know what you did. And it's not going to be quick; not for you."

"This is your family," the drow hissed, "And now you have turned your back on it. The artefact was your last chance to prove yourself, and you squandered it."

A shape moved at the edge of Gale's vision. Karlach stepped forward beside Shadowheart. "She has nothing to prove to the likes of you," she retorted, and Gale did not miss the faint smile that tugged at the corner of Shadowheart's lips.

Viconia regarded the tiefling coolly, unmoved. "Such misplaced camaraderie. How about this: surrender this one to me now, and you can leave freely. Consider Lady Shar's forces your allies in the battle to come."

Gale almost laughed, but Astarion beat him to it—though the sound was more a scoff than anything else. His lip curled in that familiar, derisive way. "A tempting offer. Were we perhaps concussed, gullible, or otherwise irreparably stupid."

Karlach barked out a sound laced with a low, warning growl. "Never," she said, with the kind of simple, unshakable certainty only the tiefling could summon.

"As you like," Viconia bellowed. "L'il alurl! For Shar!"

L'il alurl velve zhah l'il velkyn uss. The best knife is the unseen one.

Gale's mouth twitched upward, magic thrumming beneath his skin, eager and immediate in answer to his call. She might be right about invisible threats and the power of surprise, but she had no idea what they were truly capable of.

As the spectators stirred, as the weight of the moment built into something dense and dangerous, Gale found himself unafraid.

There was no room for dread, only a calm, steadfast certainty; not rooted in arrogance, but in something deeper, fiercer. Affection, perhaps. As his gaze shifted to the others, standing firm on the cusp of battle, he allowed himself a small, quiet smile. It was not bravado, nor blind optimism, just the simple, undeniable belief that, against all odds, they would endure.

✦

Gale's knee ached, a low, pulsing pain deep in the joint that compelled him to put more weight on his quarterstaff. It seemed he had now officially passed the age when he could easily take on a horde of Sharrans in a chamber cloaked in impenetrable darkness without his body lodging its protests.

However, the small relief of a battle won turned to ash, and his pains shrank to insignificance when he lifted his gaze and took in the grotesque sight laid bare before them.

A tremor worked its way through his hands, his fingers curling instinctively into fists. He had not thought, truly thought, of his mother in months—not in a way that summoned vivid recollections or brought her face fully to life in his mind.

Perhaps the conversation with Shadowheart that morning had stirred the memory, drawing it to the surface and leaving it poised within reach. Now, as his eyes rested on her parents, swaying in the air like twisted shadows of what they once were, suspended in this grotesque imitation of life, it was Morena Dekarios who filled his thoughts.

Morena, with her silver-streaked hair always pinned just so and the faint scent of apricot tea that lingered in her wake. Morena, with her refined accent and eloquent words weaving tales of heroes and gods. "Help me paint the story, my little wizard," she would say, placing a hand over his smaller, eager one as he coaxed the Weave into shapes of light and colour: dragons spiralling into the skies, kings lifting their gleaming swords. She would watch his efforts with approval, her smile serene.

Gale had not spent long with his mother, only eight short summers before he was whisked away to hone his burgeoning talent, and their bond had frayed in the absence. Still, those fleeting moments remained precious, treasures secreted away in the recesses of his heart, hidden even from himself lest he wear them thin and they vanish altogether.

He thought of her now, unbidden, as Shadowheart stepped forward. The woman before her called out a name she had long forgotten. "Jenevelle." The word fell from the woman's lips, each syllable a ragged breath of disbelief. Her eyes were wide with recognition yet seemingly blind to the truth.

"They're all gone, it's over." Shadowheart's words faltered, brittle on her tongue. Gale saw the quiver of her lips, her breath catching as she tried to frame an explanation, to shape the unbearable truth that she had survived only by carving her way through her parody of kin. But Shadowheart's discipline cracked. She crumpled to the stone floor, her fingers curling. A sound escaped her then, primal and terrible, bouncing off the cold walls like a shard of glass.

In an instant, Karlach was by her side, instinctively reaching out, holding the source of Shadowheart's pain, fingers pressing into the meat of her palm as if she could siphon her agony away. Gale knew it was futile, yet he had seen Karlach do this so many times, it had almost become a natural conclusion to Shadowheart's bouts.

Then Gale felt it before he heard the voice.

"It is not over." It rose out of the very air, a force that coalesced into resonance: frigid, infinite, a dagger of dark syllables. The chamber seemed to grow cavernous, shadows stretching towards them like blackened talons, suffused with a magic that felt older than memory, tasted of forgotten prayers and starless voids.

"You see? It matters not if you raze this place, if you slay every one of your brothers and sisters." Though Gale had never heard the Lady of Loss speak, he recognised her voice in an instant. Her words were devoid of warmth or ire; emptiness given language. Gale was all too familiar with the divine detachment from human sentiments, not because they were inherently good or bad, but because they were simply untouched by the depth of mortal emotions. A lesson learned the hard way.

So Shar's words, though chilling, did not take him by surprise. Yet he felt Shadowheart's heartbreak as keenly as his own. A torrent of emotions threatened to engulf him, but he could not afford such vulnerability; this was not about him. This was about Shadowheart, and she needed him to stay alert, to watch her back.

"That was never where my power resided. Every time you try to step away from me, every time you try to reach for Selûne, my hold on you bites deeper. If you had learned, if you had obeyed, there would be no pain. But you struggle on. You make things worse for yourself. And for them," Shar continued.

Shadowheart slowly rose to her feet. Karlach hovered but did not touch her, did not help her. The cleric's slender form seemed small before the looming statue of Shar, yet there was fury in her eyes, grief transfigured into molten steel. Tears had carved stark streaks on her dirty cheeks, bright against her pale skin. Gale felt an urge to march in front of her, to shield her with his own body, and to defy every deity for treating them as mere pawns in their cosmic games.

"You are a monster, not a goddess." Karlach's words echoed solemnly. Trust the tiefling to stand up and talk back to one of the most powerful gods in creation.

"I am neither. I am nothing. I am the empty room. The dreamless sleep. The shadow's shadow. There was no pain before my sister set the sun aflame. Now you exist to suffer until you find your way back to my embrace."

Gale could not stifle the derisive snort. The ego of a goddess was truly boundless.

Then the world around him fell into an unnatural stillness. His companions froze mid-motion. Even the ambient sounds of the chamber—the faint echo of dripping water—ceased to exist, as if time itself had stopped.

Gale's pulse quickened as a whisper, intimate and invasive, coiled through his mind like a tendril of smoke. "Wizard. Fallen Son of the Art."

Her voice was like silk and steel, soft yet imbued with an authority that brooked no defiance.

He reeled back involuntarily, clutching his staff, his eyes growing wide as he realised Shar was addressing him. "Did you think yourself unnoticed, mortal? You, who have plucked at the strands of the Weave and found only emptiness? You, who have wandered the ruins of faith, grasping at threads as they unravel? I see you, Gale of Waterdeep. I know what you desire."

The cold licks of her presence slithered deeper into his thoughts, unearthing the jagged shards of his despair and rummaging through his carefully laid denial.

"I desire nothing from you," Gale said, his voice trembling despite his effort to keep it firm.

There was an eerie rumble, a soft sound that rattled inside his own ribcage. She was laughing, though the sound was devoid of mirth. "Lies. You desire power. You desire freedom from the chains your mistress placed upon you. The humiliation. The void she left behind. You mourn her absence. I can feel all your divine pain, wizard."

Gale's breath hitched, words falling apart before they even had the chance to form. He wanted to deny it, to refute her words with all the strength of his convictions, but they struck too close to truths he had refused to confront.

"Hear me, mage," she continued, her tone now soft as a lullaby, yet no less sinister. "I offer you what she took. The power, the glory you once held in your hands. No longer the errant dog of a capricious goddess. No, you would grow strong again. Truly powerful. Not one with carefully edged rules and limits, but boundless and deep, ever-growing. But all things come at a cost. Bring her to me."

"Shadowheart," Gale breathed, his heart sinking into his stomach. The implications were clear, and they filled him with a panic that threatened to consume him. "I would never—"

"Would you not?" Shar interjected with unsettling calm. "Consider it, wizard. She falters. She suffers under the weight of her own defiance. Do you think Selûne's light can mend her? It cannot. Only I can ease her pain. Only I can grant her the peace she craves. And in doing so, I shall grant you what you have sought for so long."

The temptation was not what terrified him, which almost came as a surprise. It was his own vulnerability laid bare under Shar's unrelenting gaze. He had left himself exposed, and Shar had found a way in, seeing only an opportunity. She peered into Gale's heart, observed his splintering faith, and saw potential—a pawn to aid her rebellion against Mystra and Selûne. How far Gale had fallen.

"No," he said again, louder, his voice cracking. "I won't betray her." He nearly choked as he spoke, his heart tumbling. He was sure his mouth was filling with blood as he suddenly tasted the acrid tang of copper. To forsake Shadowheart—that was truly unbearable. After all she had endured, Gale would not be her undoing.

Shar's presence did not waver. If anything, she seemed to draw closer, the shadows around Gale pressing tighter, sinking into his skin like frostbite. "You believe you have a choice. That is… quaint." Her voice was an icy caress. "Dwell on my words, mage. You know where the light ends. You will find only me."

And then, as abruptly as it had come, the moment dissolved. Time resumed its natural flow. The sounds of the chamber returned in a rush—Shadowheart's laboured breathing, Karlach's murmured reassurances, the faint echoes of their movements.

Gale staggered, blinking, disoriented. A cool, steadying hand was on his shoulder, a penetrating crimson gaze questioning. Astarion, his mind supplied in a daze, a single coherent thought amid the chaos spiralling in his head.

Gale could not bring himself to speak. His thoughts churned in a maelstrom of denial and self-recrimination, his mind two beats behind as Shar's and Shadowheart's conversation carried on as if nothing else had happened. Then… silence.

He could see Shadowheart whipping her head around, shocked when she realised the goddess was gone. Gale could hear frantic words exchanged around him, but none of them took root, his mind still in turmoil.

"Sunshine," Astarion whispered close to his ear, breaking through the haze, and Gale's gaze snapped to him.

He opened his mouth but only managed a croak at first. "I'm fine. I…" He forced a breath, ragged and shallow, before finishing, "Later."

Astarion's eyes lingered, sharp and unconvinced, but he said nothing more. The hand on Gale's shoulder slid away, and Gale dragged his focus back to the scene before them, though his pulse still pounded in his ears.

"No, I can't. I came here for you," Shadowheart cried, tears welling anew in her eyes.

"And you did. You found us. All these years, that dream kept us going, that you would break free. No matter what they made you do to us, we knew you were still in there," her father said, his voice a mixture of pride and relief. "You've saved us. Now save yourself. You'll be out of Shar's reach, and we'll be at peace."

"I've only just found you, after all this time. I can't lose you again," Shadowheart pleaded, her voice stripped of its usual guard. The childlike vulnerability in her tone broke Gale's heart all over again. A life bound by a curse that would only grow stronger, or the agony of letting her parents go. An impossible choice.

"We'll still be with you. By the Moonmaiden's grace, we'll never be far. Please, Jenevelle," her mother implored, her words laced with unmistakable love and warmth.

Shadowheart turned to Karlach, her wide eyes searching for something—an answer, a miracle. The tiefling met her gaze, unflinching, and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"Shads, listen to me," Karlach began, her voice controlled but thick with emotion. "This choice is yours. No one else gets to make it for you. Whatever you decide, I've got your back. If you save them, if you take this curse on yourself, then we'll face it together. No matter what. And if it's not enough? If time runs out? Then I'll march my arse right back into the Hells, claw my way out again, and keep fighting for you. Always."

Shadowheart's eyes widened, her breath caught, and Gale blinked at Karlach, stunned. From the corner of his eye, he caught Astarion finally tearing his gaze away from him. The elf's expression shifted, mirroring the shock now etched across their faces, as he too turned to the tiefling. It was the first time any of them had heard her speak of returning to Avernus—even as a hypothetical.

Karlach's lips twitched, her grip tightening on Shadowheart's shoulder, and the tiefling threw a cocky smile their way. Gale found himself simply nodding dumbly along. "You've got us, Shads. We'll see it through, no matter what," the tiefling said "We'll do this together," she repeated firmly, her warmth and conviction like a flame sparking in the gloom.

The cleric exhaled a deep sigh, she pressed the hand bearing the cursed mark to her chest, then turned to her parents with great determination. "I didn't come this far just to give up at the final hurdle. We're leaving this place together. I'm going to take care of you."

Her father opened his mouth to argue, but before another word could leave his lips, Shadowheart raised her open palm. A surge of vibrant light burst forth, pulsating with unbridled energy and casting a dazzling glow.

In awe, Gale watched as her parents were enveloped by an unseen power and gently lowered to the ground. Bewildered at first, they stumbled but soon regained their footing. Shadowheart's mother reached out first, caressing her daughter's face and pulling her into a warm embrace. Her father followed, planting a tender kiss on her forehead and wrapping her in a protective hug.

A rush of emotion left Gale unsteady, caught between yearning and, inexplicably, regret. He had never known love like this—so tender, so openly vulnerable. Even now, he could scarcely imagine Morena's arms ever closing around him with such abandon. She had loved him in her own way, doing the best she could. Perhaps the fault lay in how she saw him—more a prodigy to nurture than a child to cherish.

"Let's get out of this place," Shadowheart said, holding onto her mother's slender hands.
"We are at the Elfsong Tavern on the far side of the city. We will get you a room. You will be safe there."

Gale's gaze fell upon Shadowheart's mother as she leaned on her father and slowly began to make her way out of their prison, her frail form clinging to the last whispers of life. His heart clenched with a mixture of sorrow and dread. 

This should have been a moment of celebration, yet a cloud of foreboding loomed over him. He could not shake the knowledge that unless they found a solution, Shadowheart would be consumed by the curse that haunted her. He had witnessed her suffering, observed how it gnawed relentlessly at her spirit, and understood that her defiance against Shar would only intensify her agony. Her father, an elf blessed and cursed in equal measure with a lifespan too vast, would be left to witness the cruel fate of his wife and daughter succumbing to Shar's grasp, while he endured the weight of sorrow and remorse alone.

Though they might have momentarily delayed her, Gale could not shake the certainty that Shar would ultimately come to claim all they held dear, collecting her dues of loss and darkness.

They all turned towards the expansive chamber, ready to follow Shadowheart's parents and make their silent exit, but Karlach halted in her tracks. She extended her hand to Shadowheart, who clasped it and interlaced their fingers without hesitation.

"One more thing," the tiefling said, pausing briefly. "What should we call you now? Shadowheart? Jenevelle?"

Shadowheart offered her a faint smile. "Shadowheart, still. I can't run away from who I was all this time," she said, her voice soft as she let out a long sigh. "Besides, there's something fitting to it—you can't cast a shadow without some light."

✦

Gale sat cross-legged on his bed, meticulously cleaning the lanceboard set Karlach had gifted him in the Underdark. Dust clung stubbornly to the ornate pieces, a lingering reminder of their gruelling journey. The polished craftsmanship gleamed under his steady hand as he focused on each tiny detail, and he was lost in thought when Astarion flung himself onto the bed beside him. The mattress dipped under his weight, making the pieces shudder, but thanks to the magnetic luspeel at their base, they stayed in place.

"Let's play," Astarion said, and without waiting for an answer, he climbed onto the bed properly. Long legs stretched by Gale's side while he leaned on his elbow at the opposite end of the board, staring at Gale expectantly.

Gale raised a sceptical brow. "You? Play lanceboard?"

"What, you think only overachieving wizards know how to play this game?" Astarion smirked, his tone light but needling.

"No," Gale replied, narrowing his eyes. "But I'm sensing an ulterior motive."

"There's nothing of the sort," Astarion protested, though his grin suggested otherwise. "I'm bored. Everyone's out gallivanting, and you're here cleaning. Let's play."

With a resigned sigh, Gale began setting up the board, carefully arranging each piece, dusting them as he went. The set truly was a thing of beauty, and he thought again that he really needed to find a way to repay Karlach.

Astarion leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand as he watched Gale work. "Let's make this a little more interesting."

"Aha! I knew it," Gale said, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Ulterior motive!"

"Perish the thought, Sunshine," Astarion said, his tone dripping in his usual theatrical affront. "I merely suggest we add a touch of excitement to the game."

"And by 'excitement', you mean?"

"A wager."

"You want to bet against me. Playing lanceboard," Gale summarised with disbelief.

"Exactly."

Gale crossed his arms. "I feel like this is the moment where ethics compel me to inform you that I am a four-time—nay, five-time—champion of the Waterdhavian Academic Lanceboard Tournament."

Astarion's smile widened, sharp fangs flashing. "Then surely you've nothing to fear, have you? Now, tell me—what shall we wager?"

Gale tilted his head, eyeing him with growing suspicion. "What do you want?"

"If I win…" Astarion paused, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. "You'll owe me a small favour. Nothing nefarious, of course."

"Absolutely not," Gale said immediately. "You'd twist it into an opportunity to completely humiliate me."

"Now, now, where's your trademark confidence, Sunshine?" Astarion teased, his lashes lowering.

"Fine. If I win," Gale said, throwing caution to the wind as he leaned forward slightly, suddenly feeling bold, "you'll tell me why you call me that."

Astarion blinked, his surprise unguarded for a heartbeat before he laughed, a soft, almost disbelieving sound. "Very well," he said, leaning back with a dramatic wave of his hand. "Agreed. Shall we begin?"

The game started in earnest. At first, to Gale's surprise, Astarion held his own, and Gale found himself impressed. His strategy was sound, if a touch transparent, and his moves betrayed a sharp, calculating mind. But it quickly became clear that experience was on Gale's side. Piece by piece, he dismantled Astarion's defences, the path to victory playing out in his mind's eye like a precisely choreographed spell.

The game had hit a lull, Astarion's focus seemingly fixed on the board. His eyes flickered over the pieces, his expression unreadable as silence stretched between them. Gale thought perhaps the vampire had grown bored of the game entirely—until Astarion spoke, his tone deceptively casual, though underscored by that familiar, cutting bite.

"So," Astarion began, "are we going to discuss your little episode back in that wretched Sharran temple, or should we carry on pretending you didn't nearly keel over in the middle of all that delightful melodrama? Shadowheart and her goddess do make for such riveting theatre, but you nearly stole the spotlight."

His gaze lifted, pinning Gale in place with a raised brow.

Gale had a feeling this was coming sooner or later, but he was surprised at how easily the truth found its way to the surface, bypassing his usual tendency to carefully chew on his words.

"She spoke to me."

Astarion idly traced the edge of a game piece. "Hmm?"

"Shar," Gale clarified. His voice carried a weight that made Astarion's gaze flick upward, curiosity piqued, but then his eyes were back on the board once again. "She spoke to me. She offered me power, should I succeed in swaying Shadowheart to remain in her service." He hesitated, his voice tightening, each word feeling heavier than the last. "I don't know how, but it was almost as if she could sense my faith wavering in Mystra. Like she saw me as... viable."

Astarion poorly stifled a laugh. "How ridiculous," he said, his tone almost flippant but threaded with interest. "You, of all people, as Shar's little pet project?"

Gale gave him a level look.

Astarion made a small sound in the back of his throat, more contemplative than surprised. "But it makes sense."

Gale bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't give me that look," Astarion said mildly, finally glancing up. "We both know you haven't exactly been a model disciple for your radiant goddess. It's no shock one of her greatest nemeses could sniff that out. Ugh, gods are so terribly predictable."

"You're not disappointed that I refused her?" Gale pressed, peering at him, searching for a hint of something beneath the elf's guarded exterior. "She could have made us more powerful."

"By enslaving yourself to yet another worthless goddess?" Astarion furrowed his brow, leaning back with a scoff, one hand idly scratching his abdomen. "Please."

"Point taken." Gale exhaled a faint chuckle, but his gaze betrayed him, drawn inexorably to the sliver of skin where Astarion's shirt had ridden up.

That smooth, unblemished stretch of his stomach seemed to command his attention, a lure he couldn't quite resist. His earlier irritation at Astarion's casual disregard for his faith dissipated like smoke on the wind, giving way to something else entirely.

Before the thought fully formed, Gale's hand was already moving. Compelled by an unspoken pull, his fingertips brushed against the fabric, a small, absent effort to smooth it back into place.

Astarion hummed, and Gale froze, poised to jerk his hand away with some stammered excuse. But when he glanced up, he found Astarion watching him with that familiar smirk. The hum lingered, quiet and knowing, an invitation wrapped in amusement.

Gale's palm hesitated for a heartbeat, then settled against the sharp jut of Astarion's hip bone.

His gaze searched Astarion's face, looking for any trace of discomfort or disapproval, but there was none. The encouraging glint in those crimson eyes spurred him on. Slowly, Gale allowed his fingertips to trace the line of cool skin.

It struck him, with faint disbelief, that for all their intimacy, save for the occasional accidental grasp at Astarion's sides, he had never truly allowed his hands to explore. But now, a sudden, ravenous need coiled within him, prompted by the weight of all those missed opportunities. Searching digits slipped beneath the hem, gliding over that stark, pale skin. He traced the soft dips and ridges of the pelvic bone. Astarion said nothing, eyes staring at Gale unblinking, and Gale's fingers wandered further, circling idly just below the hem, following the lightly dusted path of hair, skirting dangerously close to the waistband of his breeches.

The motion was maddeningly intimate; an unspoken thread of quiet desire thrummed between them. Gale's mind began to spiral. He imagined pressing Astarion back into the sheets, the lanceboard clattering to the floor as he claimed space between the elf's thighs. He imagined Astarion's body yielding beneath him, his form growing soft and inviting. He'd slide up the elf's frame, pressing into him… His hand shifted back to the slope of Astarion's waist, grip tightening, pressing, and Astarion's eyes widened slightly, his breath hitching as Gale shifted his weight to move forward—

"Ahem." Karlach cleared her throat.

Gale snatched his hand back as if burnt and recoiled.

"Hate to interrupt… whatever this is, but the kitchen staff's at it again. She refuses to serve us dinner, and you are the only one she is sweet on enough to even consider listening to." Karlach smirked, glancing at Gale.

He fumbled for composure, his hand scrubbing at the back of his neck. "Yes, well. The trials of diplomacy, I suppose." His tone was an attempt at lightness, but his voice carried a certain flustered undertone. "I'll be there in a moment."

"Do hurry. I'm starving, and that grumpy witch won't serve any of us without the assistance of that 'handsome, well-mannered wizard'." She mocked him with a dramatic flutter of her lashes.

He rolled his eyes in response. Then, with a wicked grin, she added, "Don't worry, you can finish your… meal afterwards. No judgement here."

Gale shot her a flat look, and the tiefling snorted with laughter. Before he could say anything, she strutted off towards the heart of the chamber, where the owlbear cub promptly tackled her, sniffing at her pockets where she usually kept treats. Her laughter turned into an actual giggle, sending Scratch into a frenzy of barking and playful bounding around them.

Gale dragged a restless hand down his face.

"You really ought to work faster on those privacy spells of yours," Astarion drawled. His tone was deadpan, but the unmistakable tinge of amusement in his voice was enough to draw Gale's attention back to him.

Gale huffed. He had been secretly working on strengthening his warding enchantments and other simple protective cantrips—or so he thought. Evidently, he could do nothing without alerting the elf these days.

When Gale's gaze returned to Astarion, he noticed the elf's attention was fixed on the board.

"Checkmate," Astarion declared, his grin smug and triumphant, as though nothing else had transpired, and tipped over Gale's king.

Gale blinked, his hand halting mid-motion, and glanced down at the board with visible incredulity. "You cheated," he accused, even before properly surveying the arrangement of pieces.

"Did I?" Astarion's voice was a melody of mock innocence, though the devilish gleam in his eyes undermined his poorly upheld façade. "You've no proof."

Gale's gaze narrowed as he scanned the board, immediately noting a conspicuously absent knight-errant. A crude deception. Transparent to the point of absurdity. Were it anyone else, Gale would have leapt into an impassioned argument, detailing every infraction with the zeal of a scholar defending his thesis. But this? This was no ordinary game.

This was Astarion's attempt at drawing him away from the weighty thoughts that had lingered since their confrontation with Shar. And damn him, it was working. Astarion's ploy was so brazen, so childish, that Gale could do nothing to stifle the sudden rush of fondness.

"You're insufferable," Gale muttered, though he couldn't quite suppress the wry tug at his lips.

"And yet, you adore me," Astarion purred, his smirk sharp as ever. He climbed off the bed with a grace that defied reason. "Now, do hurry along, dear wizard. We've all seen the tiefling when she's hungry. It's like a red dragon nursing a hangover but somehow louder. Frankly, I'd rather take my chances with the dragon."

He rose to his full height, only to lean in again, fingers grazing Gale's jaw just enough to make him meet his eyes.
"Though, if you're in need of a distraction later, I'll be here to grant you a rematch."

His grin lingered as he sauntered off, leaving Gale alone with his toppled king rolling across the board and the phantom feeling of his touch.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

It was late, far too late for anyone to still be awake, yet none of them seemed willing to yield to sleep. The parlour buzzed with a frenetic energy, as if staving off the crushing weight of the past few days were a shared, unspoken mission. Laughter and bickering tangled in the air. Halsin and Jaheira were absent. Their steadying presence often kept mayhem at bay; without them, disorder flourished unchecked.

Karlach had tried to strong-arm Gale into joining in one of their absurd card games, but true to form, he declined. He preferred to keep his gold, clothes and sanity intact, whichever were at stake this time.

He could hear Lae'zel, Shadowheart and Astarion locked in a heated argument over some arbitrary rule, their voices sharp but brimming with exaggerated drama. Wyll and Karlach, meanwhile, were doing a poor job of disguising their laughter.

This entire gathering, Gale knew, had the tiefling's fingerprints all over it. It was another of her dogged attempts to lighten the pall of Shadowheart's grief. Her mother had been clinging to life, sustained only by the fragile hope of seeing her daughter again. Now, with her wish fulfilled, she seemed ready to let go, stranding Shadowheart adrift in a tide of powerless sorrow. Karlach, in her relentless way, was determined not to let her drown in it.

Gale shook his head, banishing the bleak trail of thought before it could embed itself further. He turned his focus back to the notes in his hands, immersing himself in their familiar scrawl as a way to tune out his companions' boisterous noise.

Humming softly, his fingers traced patterns in the air as he sought the innate rhythm that always guided his search for the perfect incantation. It was a quiet ritual, one he had relied upon countless times. Where others saw rigid formulae as the cornerstone of magical success, Gale viewed the structure as more of a cage than a guide. Instead, he let the melody shape the magic, coaxing the raw energy into form. The words would follow later, delicate and tentative at first, before weaving themselves into something whole.

The magic pushed back, resisting with its natural wildness, but Gale pressed on, letting instinct and experience guide him. The process was an intricate dance of intuition and precision, teetering on the edge of chaos until, suddenly, it all aligned. The spell surged, its tether to the Weave growing firm, warm and alive. The sensation always took him by surprise: a vivid rush as newborn magic pulsed through him, vibrant and unfettered, before settling into place like an ember finding its flame.

But the moment shattered without warning. Shouts erupted, frenzied voices overlapping and breaking the harmony. The spell scattered, dissolving into the air and leaving the caustic taste of untamed magic on his tongue. Then, a suffocating silence fell, thick and unnatural.

His body moved before thought could catch up. Adrenaline coursed like wildfire through his veins. The notes slipped from his grasp, forgotten, as his feet carried him towards the source of the commotion. He frantically scanned the parlour for his companions.

In the centre of the room stood Astarion, locked in a fraught standoff with a bare-chested man whose long, sleek black hair gleamed in the dim light. A tiefling stood at the man's side, her stance tense and watchful. Gale arrived at Astarion's flank, breathless, but the elf's gaze remained fixed on the figure before him. 

Shadowed forms crowded the parlour's edges, hemmed in by the polished arcs of steel wielded by Gale's companions.

The intruder's eyes glowed with an infernal, hellish red—thraldom incarnate. Invisible shackles of magic bound them, their twisted forms beholden to their master's whim. Vampire spawn.

Astarion's expression was calculating, coldly assessing the situation.

"This is your chance," he said finally, his voice a silken blade. "Stand with me. Name me your new master. We will get our revenge, and you will live again." The words were crafted with exquisite care, honeyed with guile and deceit, though their intent was anything but pure. Gale knew the truth: Astarion needed the spawn compliant, their wills bent to his purpose.

A strange emotion tightened in Gale's throat, the bitter tang of bile rising unbidden. He was almost grateful when Shadowheart spoke, her voice pulling him back before his thoughts could begin to spiral.

"He is free of your master's command," she said, her spear poised to strike at the slightest provocation. "You should follow him." Her words carried more threat than suggestion, and the silver-haired elf spawn at the tip of her weapon stiffened. For a moment, Gale thought she might lunge at the cleric, but she held her ground, casting only a hesitant glance towards the man standing before Astarion.

He caught the look, and for a brief moment, an unspoken exchange passed between them.

His wary gaze roved over Astarion, searching as if for some concealed truth. "He does seem different," he said at last, his tone laden with a curious charge, as though he savoured the thought. "Feels stronger. There's fire in his eyes." His voice was low, barely carrying to Gale's ears. "Perhaps he could take Cazador's place... perhaps he could free us."

Hope kindled faintly in the man's gaunt, sunken face, fragile as frost clinging to a dying leaf. It was a cruel, delicate thing, and Gale's stomach roiled at the sight of it. The spawn resembled feral beasts, starved to the brink, creeping towards an outstretched hand while blind to the dagger concealed behind it.

The tiefling at the man's side nodded, her voice a strained whisper of longing. "Perhaps we can get back at Cazador and finish the ritual. The seven could unite. We could…" Her words broke off, her mouth opening around empty sounds. She doubled over, clutching at her midsection as if some phantom torment clawed at her insides. Her body shuddered violently, and her voice splintered in a raw, agonised cry. "The bonds… they hold," she choked between gasps. "He owns us." Her stare darted to Astarion, wide with a terror that bordered on madness. "Leave! Run, Astarion, before—"

Gale had scarcely begun to grasp what was unfolding, the world shifted around him. Her final syllables dissolved into a guttural wail, her bloodshot eyes rolling back into her skull. The air thickened with a cold, unfamiliar magic, thrumming like distant thunder. The other spawn quailed, trembling as though the very force that bound them might tear them apart at any moment. Gale saw, from the corner of his eye, Lae'zel, Wyll and Shadowheart exchanging uncertain looks, and Karlach took a small step back from the spawn before her, unsure what to do as the vermilion light enveloped them all.

The vampire spawn moved as if pulled by unseen chains, their resistance futile against the command of their oppressor. A vampire master's dominion was absolute, an iron yoke of tyranny crushing any illusion of freedom.

It should have come as no surprise, really. After the encounter with Dal and Petras at the flophouse, Cazador's reach was bound to follow. He would never let go of what was his without a fight, without bloodshed. Sending his underlings to retrieve the missing piece of his design was inevitable.

But what Cazador had not accounted for, what he could not possibly foresee, was that Astarion was no longer alone. He now travelled with companions who had made defiance their creed, and their blades were already drawn.

It was a quick and brutal affair. The vampires stood no chance, and Gale found himself pondering the morality of killing spawn who had no will of their own, mere puppets to a higher power. He unleashed a spell at a gnome, the force striking him squarely. Just before the spawn's knees buckled and his small frame struck the floor, the scarlet shine in his eyes dulled, replaced by a glimmer of genuine fear. Then, the next moment, he was gone, his body evaporating in a pulse of crackling energy.

Gale stood frozen, his chest heaving as he fought to steady his breath. His gaze swept across the room, taking in the dark, viscous pools of blood already seeping into the floorboards. Only then did he realise that all the spawn were gone.

They had vanished.

They had been dangled before them, offered as fodder, but just as their forms would have crumbled into lifeless husks, they were whisked away. Cazador had reclaimed them. Of course, he had. After all, the spawn were too vital to him, essential cogs in the grand mechanism of his ritual. He would not risk them being destroyed entirely.

The realisation struck Gale with an elemental force—the true cost of Astarion's ascension. It was not the senseless bloodletting that caused Gale's heart to clench, nor was it the idea of death itself that arrested his breath and held it fast.

It was the ease, the chilling, unfeeling indifference, with which Cazador had cast his own spawn into the slaughter. They were less than pawns in a grotesque pursuit of power, their lives reduced to nothing before they had even ended. Victims of a tyrant who ruled through fear and cruelty, enslaved to his whims until their purpose was spent, until their final, agonised moments.

The thought twisted like a barbed thorn in Gale's mind. His gaze shifted to Astarion, an embodiment of elegance even in blood-soaked calamity, poised with regal grace amidst the ruin. Only a faint tremor in his hand betrayed his veneer of calm.

That strange, lingering disquiet finally took shape and found meaning as fear took root within Gale.

It was not for Astarion's safety or survival—that concern was ever-present, but Astarion was strong, resourceful, capable of clawing his way to triumph. What Gale feared most was what awaited beyond victory. What if this power, seductive and unrelenting, took hold of Astarion and stripped away the fragile humanity that still lingered within him? What if ascension transformed him, piece by piece, into something unrecognisable, a reflection of the monstrous master he had fought so hard to escape?

Gale could not tear his eyes away, no matter how much it hurt to look. Astarion's sharp profile caught the light, the faint flicker of nearby candles painting him in shades of crimson and gold, like a masterpiece rendered in blood and fire. Yet all Gale could see was the inevitability of change.

What they had now, imperfect, unrefined and often painful, was precious. Every wry smile, every fleeting touch, every stolen moment of closeness carried a weight. Yet Gale was certain that all fragments of tenderness and vulnerability would wither under the shadow of ascension. Astarion would change; he would harden, sharpen, and become something altogether alien, his soul devoured by the unyielding cruelty of a master vampire's nature. The essence of him would be lost, consumed by the very power that promised to set him free.

Gale blinked against the sting of his unbroken stare, finally tearing his smarting eyes away from the elf. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him through the havoc, his surroundings dissolving into a blur. Behind him, the hurried footfalls of the others echoed as they bolted for the door, rushing to check on Shadowheart's parents and ensure the other patrons were unharmed. But it all felt distant, like the muted whir of a world apart.

His steps only faltered when he reached his bed. The hum of latent magic sizzled beneath his skin like static. Instinctively, words spilt from his lips, weaving the privacy spell he had only just created. A shimmering dome bloomed into existence around him, the spell taking shape with a fluency that defied its infancy. It was instinct, a desperate grasp for solitude in the maelstrom of his thoughts. The magic tugged softly at his reserves, a faint pull that alerted him to another presence crossing its threshold.

"What a mess," Astarion said breezily as he stepped through the ward, his tone slicing through Gale's mounting panic. "Well, at least you've met my family now." His sardonic humour was so ill-suited to the circumstances, it felt like an affront, as if they hadn't just faced down a swarm of vampire spawn hell-bent on killing them. As if they hadn't just barely escaped a violent reminder of Cazador's relentless grasp.

Gale exhaled forcefully, his breath trembling as he turned to face Astarion. His pulse thundered in his ears, but he fought to steady himself. 

"You lied to them," he said carefully, his voice restrained and measured. He knew better than to frame it as an accusation; it would do no good. "You know they'll have to die for the Rite to work."

"What does it matter?" Astarion's shrug was practised and flippant, performed with a too-casual ease, but Gale could see the tension strung taut in his shoulders. "There are only six of them, and they're vampire spawn. Hardly anyone worth shedding tears over."

Gale studied him for a moment. It was always hard to tell how much of Astarion's nonchalance was genuine and how much was armour. "You don't feel even a flicker of sympathy for them? For others sharing your plight?"

Astarion's eyes narrowed, the crimson deepening like blood welling to the surface. "Sympathy?" he huffed, his lips curling into a scornful sneer. "None of them ever spared me a kind word. None of them looked out for me." There was a flash of anger now, curling at the edges of his voice. Gale could tell he was struggling to rein it in. "Why should I care?" He stepped closer, his movements slow and predatory, his tone barbed. "And spare me your sanctimony. You think I have a choice?"

"Maybe you do." The words stumbled out of Gale before he could stop them. He immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut, but there was no reeling it back now. He ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair before pressing on. "This can't be the only way forward, Astarion. Power like this always demands more than it gives. You know that. It will take everything, strip you of every last thread of yourself."

Astarion's laugh was abrasive and harsh, like thin ice cracking underfoot. "Oh, that's rich, coming from the great Gale of Waterdeep!" His eyes glittered with mockery, his voice a silken whip as he turned on him, all claws and coiled frustration. "You, of all people, lecturing me about the cost of ambition. Spare me."

"I have always owned up to my mistakes." Gale could feel his temper rising to match the elf's. "I'm fully aware of the path I've taken, the harm I've caused. There's no undoing it. Every day, I face the consequences of my foolish, misguided actions. I'm haunted by the worst decision I've ever made whenever I look in the mirror or connect with the Weave. It consumes me, slowly chipping away at everything that I am, and I'd give anything for you not to have to make a sacrifice of this magnitude."

Astarion bridged the distance between them and was now mere inches away, leaning close, his voice dropping to a low hiss. "You don't understand. Even if, by some miracle, we manage to kill Cazador, I'll never truly be free. At best, I'll escape becoming some monstrous, tentacled aberration, but what then? I'll live like vermin, hiding underground, scurrying out only to feed, skulking in the dark like a rat. And I'll have no one. No one." His voice wavered. "I can't endure another century like that. I can't bear another day. Even if we all survive—and that's a monumental 'if'—Karlach will have to leave—" The admission left him in an unstoppable torrent, riding the waves of unspent emotion.

"You don't know that," Gale tried. "There might still be a way. You could—"

"Could what?" Astarion snapped, cutting him off. His lip curled, but his anger felt half-hearted now, hollow. "Find redemption? A cure? Another of your starry-eyed fantasies. That might be your story, but it will never be mine. Shadowheart will run off with Karlach too, or go play house with her parents. And you," he pointed an accusatory finger at Gale's chest, "you are all so ready to blow yourself to pieces for your precious Mystra, to play the martyr, to stay with her for eternity." His words came fast, his tone dripping with taunting sing-song that gripped at Gale's fragile heart.

"I feel like the best-case scenario for everyone is turning into my personal nightmare, and I fucking deserve more. After all of this, I deserve more, so if I have to bleed out all my so-called siblings who never once cared for me and turn into the fucking monster Cazador is aiming to become, so be it. I will not be powerless again." Astarion's capillaries bloomed red, and he was clearly fighting back angry tears. He was a vision, and Gale was a sick, sick man for finding his sorrowful fury so beautiful.

Nothing came to mind that could soothe this pain, no spell that could turn back time and undo Astarion's suffering. Gale stepped forward, closing the space between them, and pulled him into a fierce embrace. He realised, then, how rare such a simple gesture was between them despite their closeness. Astarion stiffened, rigid as stone, and a jolt of panic rose in Gale's chest. Had he misread the moment? Made everything worse? But then, with a choked, heart-wrenching gasp, Astarion gave in. His body slackened against Gale's, trembling as his hands gripped Gale's shirt with such force it seemed certain the fabric would tear.

They stood like that, bound together in the quiet after the storm, until the whirlwind of emotions began to settle into a precarious calm.

"You haven't changed your mind, have you?" Astarion spoke directly into Gale's hair. "You free of Mystra, me free of Cazador. Just picture it. Wielding all that power," Astarion continued whispering, the tempting words lingering in the air.

Gale ran his hand slowly down Astarion's back, then up again, the motion as much for his own grounding as for Astarion's. His voice, when it came, was a soft murmur. "We would be a sight to behold, wouldn't we?"

Astarion's smile was almost audible in the pause that followed, sharp-edged amusement laced with satisfaction radiating from him. "The Great Gale of Waterdeep," he purred, the syllables drawn out like a lover's caress, "adorned in the Crown of Karsus. Magic unbridled, unrestrained, yours to command, to reshape the world as you see fit." He shifted even closer, his lips brushing the shell of Gale's ear as he spoke. "No Mystra. No Shar. No chains. No gods worth a damn." Gale knew what Astarion was doing, how he was being manipulated, and yet he allowed the seductive words to wash over him, to build an image in his head.

His heart quickened at the possibilities. This was not simply temptation; this was a mirror, reflecting a version of himself he both feared and craved. Power unchecked. Freedom unbound. What could he achieve with it? What could he not? He could defy death, rewrite destiny, protect everything and everyone he held dear.

He could keep him safe.

"Astarion," Gale's fingers stilled against the vampire's back, his voice a threadbare whisper.

Astarion leaned back slightly, just enough for Gale to meet his gaze, which was intense and searching. "I need you to stand with me," he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm.

And Gale was defenceless. With a sigh that felt more like surrender than agreement, he simply said, "All right."

The intensity of the moment dissolved, leaving only a bone-deep fatigue that draped over Gale like a leaden cloak. He felt Astarion sag against him, not yet ready to let go. Truthfully, neither was he.

"Come. Join me," Gale murmured, his voice warm as he guided Astarion towards the bed. It was far from luxurious, hardly suitable for one man, let alone two grown adults, but Gale stretched out, making room as best he could. He peered up at Astarion, who, after a moment of hesitation, joined him, lying half on top of him and curling into the warmth of Gale's chest with surprising eagerness.

Astarion's hands began to move, his touch featherlight as his fingers traced idle patterns across Gale's collarbone and torso. The motions were unhurried, almost thoughtful, as though he were drawing something only he could see. The coolness of the touch sank into Gale's skin, and heat pooled, low and familiar, his body stirring in response before his mind could catch up.

Astarion's hand began a slow descent, slipping downward, its path unmistakable. Gale intercepted it gently, his fingers curling around the slender wrist to halt its progress just before it reached the waistband of his trousers.

Astarion stilled, peering up from beneath silver lashes. His eyes hardened before a flicker of something unreadable passed over his face. Gale held his gaze.

"Not right now," Gale murmured, his voice calm and even. The words were chosen carefully, his tone deliberately devoid of reprimand. He wanted Astarion to understand, needed him to understand, that this was not a rejection.

Yes, Gale had allowed himself to be manipulated, but he would draw the line here. He could not tell whether Astarion was seeking comfort or falling back into old habits, and the uncertainty made his heart ache with every beat. He knew that pushing for clarity would only provoke anger. Even so, he wanted Astarion to understand that there was space for other forms of intimacy between them, that they need not always rush headlong towards the well-trodden path.

Releasing Astarion's wrist, he glided his palm delicately against the elf's, fingers brushing, tracing along the protruding bones, exploring both the hard angles and soft curves before gradually intertwining.

Just as Astarion had done for him countless times, he afforded the elf ample time to pull away. To his surprise, Astarion clasped his hand in return, then shifted until his head found a comfortable spot beneath Gale's chin. An overwhelming surge of longing flooded Gale's chest as he drew Astarion even closer, his nose nestled in silver curls, surrounded by the soothing scent of bergamot and rosemary.

"You should teach me this trick," Astarion murmured after a long stretch of silence, nodding vaguely towards the protective ward encircling them.

Gale chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in his chest. "Composing the Weave is no 'little trick', I assure you. It's an art. It requires an innate connection to magic, years of study, and, most importantly, discipline." He let the word hang deliberately, his tone one of gentle condescension. "With your meagre attempts at magic, I'd wager you wouldn't stand much of a chance."

Astarion huffed a laugh, equal parts delight and indignation. "You're such an arrogant prick sometimes, you know that?"

"You say arrogance, I say confidence—seasoned, tested, and deserved. I hardly wrote the rules of excellence; I merely follow them," Gale replied with mock solemnity, though his thumb continued to trace soothing circles on Astarion's hand. "That said, there are some things I could teach you."

"Oh?" Astarion strained his neck to look at Gale. "Now you've piqued my interest, Great Wizard of Many Talents," the elf quipped, lashes fluttering.

"I am proficient in all schools of magic, and I daresay I make a rather capable tutor. Should you wish, I could impart some useful knowledge," Gale suggested.

Astarion let out a soft snort, as though Gale had missed the punchline to some joke again. Still, he did not seem to mind as he shifted so he could look Gale in the eyes more easily. "And what arcane enlightenment might you deign to share with a humble wretch like me, oh good sire?" Astarion's voice now held an unmistakable teasing leer.

Gale released a quiet sigh, tempered with a fond smile. "I mean actual magic, not whatever inappropriate idea is currently lodging itself in your mind," he chided, but heat bloomed in his chest regardless. "Must your every thought wander to the most debased avenue?"

"Oh, absolutely," Astarion purred, resting his chin on his hand, eyes gleaming with impish delight. "Why rise above it when the view down here is so..." He paused, letting his gaze sweep over Gale in a slow, heated once-over before finishing with a smirk, "...delectable?"

It was ridiculous how Gale's body responded so immediately, as though a single, lascivious look from the elf could unmake him. "Do carry on, though," Astarion murmured, his tone rich with amusement. "You were about to make me a very generous offer, I believe."

"If you're truly interested, I was considering teaching you a few protective spells of my own design. They're not especially complex, but they've saved my skin more times than I care to count," he said mainly to fill the quiet space between them, feeling too exposed knowing that, without a doubt, Astarion was listening to the erratic thrum of his heart.

Astarion tilted his head just enough to give Gale a side glance, his smirk wide. "What, having matching rings that siphon your life away to protect me isn't enough for you? What more could I possibly need?" The edge in his voice was subtle but unmistakable.

The flush came hot and fast to Gale's face, embarrassment rising in waves. "You knew?" His voice dropped, incredulous. "Is that why you stopped wearing it?"

"Yes, you arse. I figured out it was a Warding Bond after that disaster with Balthazar. I took it off after that, though I still have it, if you want it back."

"I don't," Gale said quickly, shaking his head. "Keep it." The words came out too fast, too final, his voice fraying slightly at the edges.

A long silence followed, and Gale struggled to still the restless beat of his heart. Astarion shifted, leaning his head back on Gale's shoulder, his gaze no longer boring into him. That simple act quelled some of Gale's tension, though not completely. He could still feel the burden of unspoken words hanging in the air.

For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though Astarion might say something else. Gale could feel his jaw working, but instead he let out a soft huff and nestled closer. The motion, so casual and yet so deliberate, felt like a reprieve, one that Gale gratefully accepted.

Astarion was practically draped over him now, their limbs tangled so thoroughly that Gale could no longer tell where one of them ended and the other began. Gale's fingers moved in slow, lazy figure eights on Astarion's back, tracing the curves of muscle and bone beneath. Encouraged by the stillness of the elf's body, he let his hand drift upwards, sliding into the soft silver curls. The memory of Astarion doing the same for him surfaced unbidden in Gale's mind.

The elf tensed for a moment, as if caught off guard by the gesture. Selfless acts of kindness often seemed to surprise him, as though he still had not learnt how to accept them without suspicion. But after a beat, his body relaxed, yielding to the gentle touch. A soft, almost inaudible sound escaped his lips, a sigh of pleasure that sent a shiver down Gale's spine.

He could feel the unmistakable press of Astarion's arousal against his hipbone, and yet the elf made no effort to move away. It was oddly gratifying, proof of their mutual attraction, tangible and undeniable. Yet choosing not to act on it made the moment somehow even more significant. It was not about passion or heat; it was about trust, about vulnerability in a way Gale knew neither of them had often allowed themselves to experience. Gale's fingers stilled in Astarion's hair as the quiet significance of the moment enveloped him.

He longed to whisper his foolish, reckless feelings into Astarion's ear. But Gale was determined not to ruin this delicate, beautiful moment with his own selfish emotions.

Eventually, sleep claimed him.

When he awoke, he was not surprised to find Astarion long gone. The protective spell around them had weakened overnight, but had not dissipated entirely. It still held back the sounds of the others stirring beyond the room. Gale remained where he was for a while longer, his thoughts already circling, replaying the events of the previous day in obsessive detail.

He understood one thing above all: one of Astarion's greatest fears was separation, not just from those he cared for, but from the world itself. The loss of sunlight, of freedom, was a terror that haunted him in ways Gale could barely fathom.

He knew he could not solve all of it. Even entertaining the notion of obtaining the crown felt like an impossible gamble. The odds were stacked against him. Even if he survived long enough without wiping out a large portion of the populace near him, Mystra would likely intervene. It was clear and unsurprising that she was uneasy about the Absolute's very existence, and it seemed doubtful she would tolerate Gale, of all people, laying his hands on the crown.

But Gale still had his own brilliance. He still had his craft. Perhaps, there was something he could do, something that might ease Astarion's fears, even if only a little.

The stubborn thought planted itself in his mind, driving Gale from his bed. It was something he could hold onto, a purpose amidst the turmoil. Whatever else came, he would find a way to give Astarion something, some small part of the freedom he deserved.

He dressed slowly and then made his way to the kitchen. Glancing around, he noticed Astarion was nowhere to be seen. It was not unusual for the elf to seek solitude, and after everything that had transpired, it came as no surprise. 

Gale found Wyll, Lae'zel and Halsin, who must have returned in the middle of the night, seated around the table engaged in quiet conversation.

Wyll informed him that Jaheira, Karlach and Shadowheart had left at first light to attend to some Guild matters, leaving Gale with a rare day of freedom. As he prepared a simple breakfast, enough to ensure the others would have something to eat when they returned, his thoughts began to wander. Already, he was envisioning a trip to the nearest bookshop, mentally compiling a list of the tomes he could not wait to get his hands on.

By the time he stepped outside, the sun was high in the sky, gilding the streets in warm haze. Gale paused to take in Baldur's Gate, a city of many faces and moods, its charm caught somewhere between the lively and the grotesque. It boasted grandeur in its own fashion, rugged, bustling and fiercely alive, though in his heart it could never match the lofty splendour of Waterdeep.

The place was a living tapestry, rich with colour and clamour. Merchants barked their wares, their voices clashing in a discordant symphony, while carts creaked over uneven cobblestones. The aroma of spiced meats mingled with the less savoury scents of refuse and brine, carried by the salty breeze rolling in from the Trackless Sea. Years of isolation had ill-prepared him for this torrent of life and sound. It pressed against him, at times almost unbearable, but the sea wind offered a soothing respite, easing the anxiety that threatened to overtake him.

As he approached Sorcerous Sundries, Gale's steps slowed, his gaze lifting to its commanding structure. The shop was a monument to the arcane, an almost gaudy celebration of the wonders within. Its soaring arches seemed impossibly delicate, while the glass dome overhead splintered sunlight into shifting rainbows that danced across the polished stone floor.

He halted at the entrance, taking a moment to marvel. It pained him to admit that something crafted by that arrogant knave Lorroakan—the shop's owner and the tower's master, notorious for hoarding questionable arcane knowledge—could appear so pleasing. Yet, there was undeniable beauty in the artistry, a chaotic harmony in the interplay of light and shadow. It struck a chord, bittersweet and familiar, calling to mind his attic back in Waterdeep, a sanctuary of scattered prisms and books suspended mid-air, all aglow in the sunlight. He shut the thought down before it could entrench itself, brushing aside nostalgia with the swiftness of one too well practised. This was no time for sentiment.

Yet, as he stepped inside, the unmistakable scent of old parchment, ink and alchemical reagents surrounded him. With it came an undeniable sense of belonging.

He headed straight to the back of the shop, a haven of quiet amidst the bustling clerks and customers, where rows of tomes stretched high towards the ceiling. Gale made his way there with an air of casual purpose, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the literary treasures on display. It was not long before his eyes landed on the bookseller, a sharp-eyed woman who carried herself with the quiet authority of one who understood not only the value of her wares but the secrets they held.

Perfect.

He approached the counter with a warm smile, leaning against its edge, the picture of a gentleman scholar.

"Good day," he began, his voice carrying the kind of easy warmth that invited conversation. "I must commend you on this selection. Your shop feels like a sanctuary for the discerning mind."

"Shhh," the woman shushed him, her brow arching slightly, though there was a glimmer of appreciation in her scrutinising gaze. "Flattery will get you nowhere. But I will admit, it is refreshing to see someone who recognises quality," she whispered.

Gale chuckled softly, gesturing to the tomes around them. "Quality speaks for itself," he said, lowering his voice to match hers. "Though I have a feeling you could tell me far more about these treasures than even their gilded spines reveal."

The bookseller tilted her head, appraising him with a mixture of suspicion and intrigue. "I could," she conceded airily, "but that would depend on whether you are worth the time."

A challenge. Gale's smile widened.

"Worth is a slippery sort of measure, would you not say? Still, I assure you, I am a wizard, deeply invested in the arcane arts. Once the brightest pupil of Waterdeep's esteemed Blackstaff, if I may humbly add, though modesty has never been my strongest suit."

"Perhaps you could indulge me with a recommendation. Or, if you are feeling particularly daring, a secret? And tell me, why are we whispering?"

She rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at her lips. "These books are sensitive. They prefer an environment of quiet reverence."

Gale placed a hand over his heart as though gravely chastened. "My sincerest apologies. Please, continue."

A small, silent laugh shook her shoulders. "We house a collection unlike any other, so rare that even Master Lorroakan hesitated to keep them in his tower. You understand: the pen is mightier than the wand, and all that."

"And these illustrious works?" Gale prompted, his curiosity no longer feigned. "Any titles to tempt a not-so-modest wizard?"

A vivid flash of excitement lit her gaze. Gale had a sense she seldom encountered anyone who shared her passion for tomes touching so closely upon her area of expertise.

"Well, there is The Annals of Karsus: A Netherese Folly, then..."

Gale's heart skipped a beat. The words blurred together; his fingers dug into his palm as he fought to keep his expression composed.

When she finished listing names, awaiting his reaction, he cleared his throat and smiled. "I must admit, that first title caught my attention."

Watchful eyes narrowed, as if she could sense the intensity beneath his polite exterior. "Of course it did. Everyone wants a glimpse of forbidden knowledge. But let me save you the trouble. The Annals are locked away for good reason. The folly of Karsus is better left unread."

Gale inclined his head, his smile disarming. "A wise caution, no doubt. But surely, as the curator of such treasures, it must be your duty to share knowledge, not hoard it?"

"Is that so?" she replied, folding her arms. "You think I should hand over a book that could corrupt the minds of lesser men?"

"Oh, but who said anything about lesser?" Gale countered smoothly, his tone jovial. "Besides, knowing of its existence has already planted the seed of curiosity. Perhaps you could at least tell me where this tantalising tome is kept?"

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Customers like you are why I prefer books. At least they do not talk back."

"Then allow me to be the exception worth making," Gale quipped, flashing her his most charming grin.

The bookseller sighed, though the corners of her lips lifted once more in quiet humour. "I'm afraid they are kept in the vaults, and for good reason."

"Understood," Gale said, bowing his head graciously. "Thank you for indulging my musings. And for tolerating my impudence."

As he turned to leave, he could not suppress a twinge of smug satisfaction. Whatever else he might have lost over the years, it seemed his charm was still as sharp as ever. Now, he had a lead and all the motivation he needed to see it through.

Despite his urge to rush off and secure the tome immediately, Gale knew he needed assistance. It was a novel concept for him; collaboration had never been his forte, nor had reliance on others. Yet, to his surprise, the thought of depending on his companions did not evoke the dread he had expected.

Rolling his shoulders to steady his nerves, Gale wandered into the library section. He claimed a seat at a broad, polished table—mercifully vacant—and prepared himself for what he knew would be an arduous day. The hours stretched on as he delved into the esoteric volumes arrayed before him, his focus shifting between treatises on magical creatures, arcane materials, and complex enchantment techniques.

Amidst his studies, his eyes lingered on a section detailing vampire physiology. The content gave him pause, not out of discomfort, but from an awareness of the delicate territory it represented. He could not help but wonder how Astarion might feel about such knowledge being scrutinised, even for a well-meaning cause. Gale reminded himself that his aim was to help, to arm himself with understanding that might one day prove vital. Still, as he pressed on, he took care to avoid any areas that felt too intrusive.

As far as he knew, no protection capable of shielding a vampire from sunlight had ever been created. Yet the lack of recorded attempts by wizards of his calibre left room for optimism.

His mind throbbed from hours spent poring over the magical properties of various metals, spanning realms and beyond. Gathering a stack of carefully selected books, he made his way towards the counter to settle his account.

A familiar figure caught his eye. Gale's brows lifted in surprise as a grin spread across his face.

"Rolan," he greeted as he approached.

The tiefling looked up from a ledger, his amber eyes hardening as recognition dawned.

"Ah. It is you," he said flatly, drawing out the final word with thinly veiled disdain. His tail lashed tensely behind him as he gave Gale a cursory once-over.

He took in the purpling of bruises marring Rolan's otherwise vibrant crimson skin. He looked more haggard than Gale remembered, which was remarkable considering the last time they had crossed paths had been at the Last Light Inn, where they had been actively hunted by creatures of the dark and cultists alike. His sharp features now bore the strain of exhaustion. Gale hesitated, the beginnings of concern tugging at his thoughts, but the tight set of Rolan's jaw and the simmering annoyance in his expression dissuaded him from prying.

"Good to see you too," Gale replied lightly, undeterred by the frosty reception. "What is this all about?" he asked, gesturing towards a sign bearing a name he recognised immediately.

"Lorroakan is looking for something called the Nightsong."

He studied Rolan's face, noting the tinge of weariness that his usual acerbity did not quite conceal.

"And you would not happen to know anything about what your mentor is after, would you?" Gale arched a quizzical brow, knowing full well that Rolan, who had also been at Moonrise, was almost certainly privy to the truth about the Nightsong's identity.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," the tiefling said, his voice as arid as a desert wind. He cocked his head to the side and met Gale's gaze with a look so pointed it might have been meant to impale. It was an unspoken reassurance. Rolan evidently had no love for his so-called mentor and no intention of guiding the man's ambition towards them. Or so Gale hoped.

"Very well," Gale said, placing a handful of coins on the counter. "I find myself in need of a skilled blacksmith. If I recall correctly, there was one travelling with your group—Dammon, was it not? He was heading to Baldur's Gate as well. By chance, would you happen to know where I might find him?"

Rolan let out a long, suffering sigh, leaning one elbow on the wooden surface separating them. "He is across the road, at the forge by the market. Just follow the clanging."

"Many thanks," Gale said with a nod.

"And if you see him," Rolan added tersely, gesturing with the quill in his hand, "tell him to stop taking his sweet time with the iron shipment. I am not his... here to clean up after his messes, no matter how much he thinks I will," he grumbled, as always, though his words carried a hint of fluster.

"I will pass along the message," Gale said, lips twitching in amusement.

Rolan did not respond, already returning his attention to the account book. His tail lashed once behind him, the movement betraying his irritation, but Gale took it as a signal that the conversation had reached its natural conclusion.

Following the vague instructions, he found the smithy just as the sun began its graceful descent towards the horizon. Dammon appeared to be winding down for the day, preparing to close up shop.

The tiefling looked up as if sensing his approach.

"Gale! Glad to see you in one piece," Dammon called, his voice carrying over the roaring flames. He raised his hammer in a friendly gesture, his grin as wide as ever. "What brings you here, then? Something blown up that needs fixing?"

"Good evening, Dammon," Gale replied, a smile on his lips as he approached. "Not quite, though I appreciate your vote of confidence. I have been drafting plans for a new set of armour, something uniquely tailored. Enchantments and essences I can manage, but when it comes to selecting the right metals to support the magic..." He waved a hand vaguely. "Let us just say my expertise falls short of your craft."

Dammon chuckled, setting the hammer down on his anvil. He wiped his brow with a rag, leaving a streak of soot across his horns, and slung the cloth over one shoulder.

"Armour, eh? Ambitious project. I would be glad to lend a hand. Come on in, and we will talk it over somewhere more comfortable." He jerked a thumb towards the workshop door.

"Are you certain?" Gale hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "I would hate to impose, especially if your day is already at its end. I could just as easily return tomorrow."

"Nonsense," Dammon cut him off, "It is not every day a wizard with a head full of big ideas comes knocking. Besides, you look like you have been dragged through the Hells and back. I am not about to send you off without at least a seat and a drink."

Gale inclined his head, his smile turning apologetic. "You leave me little choice but to oblige." There was no disguising the slight relief in his tone, though he tried.

"Good. Now stop standing there like a stray and get yourself inside," Dammon said with a wink, holding the door open.

Stepping through the threshold, Gale was enveloped by the forge's warmth. The scent of iron and oil mingled with the steady crackle of fire, a stark contrast to the damp chill seeping in with the coming evening. It was more workshop than home, but the organised chaos lent it a lived-in charm. Tools were piled haphazardly, half-forged weapons lay scattered across anvils, and smudges of soot marked well-used surfaces.

Dammon gestured towards a sturdy chair by a cluttered workbench. Gale lowered himself onto it with a soft exhale, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in what felt like hours.

"So, is this about Karlach?" Dammon asked, wiping his hands on his apron before untying it and draping it neatly over the back of another chair.

"Not this time, unless of course you have had some revelation or devised a new approach that might aid her," Gale replied, peering at the blacksmith with cautious hope.

The fleeting expression of regret on Dammon's face dashed the sentiment almost immediately. "I wish," the tiefling said with a sigh, shaking his head. "But no. We would need more time, time to experiment, and ingredients we just do not have." He ran a hand over one of his horns in frustration before adding, "How is she holding up?"

Gale shrugged, the motion heavy with unspoken worry. "You have met her. She tries to seem unshaken, but the signs are there. Each battle leaves her simmering longer. Her fire burns fiercer with every passing day. That said..." He paused, carefully weighing his words. "She seems more open to the idea of returning to Avernus."

Dammon winced, his tail flicking restlessly. "Gods. After everything she has endured, to go back to the Hells... I cannot even imagine."

Gale had learned little of Dammon's past but remembered enough, how the tieflings in the grove had survived Elturel's fall. The particulars of that catastrophe eluded him. Struggling to contain the destructive power of the orb, then narrowly escaping illithid captivity, had left him blind to much of the world's suffering. Yet the look that crossed Dammon's face held more meaning than any tale of horror.

Karlach had already been in the Hells by then. While cities fell and heroes fought to salvage what they could, she had been robbed, destroyed and remade in the unrelenting crucible of Avernus.

The thought pressed heavily on Gale, an iron grip closing around his throat. His gaze fell to his hands, fingers curling into fists against his knees as if to brace himself against the rising tide of emotion.

Before his mind could spiral further, Dammon cleared his throat, breaking the suffocating silence that had descended upon them.

"Right. You mentioned something about an armour," he said, his tone shifting to a more practical, upbeat cadence. He rapped the surface of the table twice with his knuckles. "Let us focus on the essentials. Do you have a specific purpose or measurements in mind? Is this for someone in particular?"

The tiefling reached for a carafe of wine, pouring two generous servings before offering one goblet to Gale. He accepted it gratefully, the weight of the cool metal grounding him as he took a sip. Dammon pulled out another chair and settled beside him.

Gale drew a deep breath. Despair would serve Karlach no justice; she deserved more than platitudes or empty assurances. The confirmation of Dammon's inability to provide an immediate solution was disheartening, but it was far from the end of the road. However daunting the ordeal, they would find a way. For now, there was another matter to which he could lend his talents—something tangible, something worthwhile—and he intended to see it through.

He hesitated, feeling his cheeks warm slightly. "As a matter of fact, yes. I am working on armour for one of our companions, Astarion." He faltered, suddenly aware that he had not thought this far ahead. How was he to explain the requirements without revealing secrets that were not his to tell?

"The vampire?" Dammon asked, his tone so matter-of-fact that it caught Gale by surprise.

He blinked. "I—pardon?"

"Your pale, sharp-toothed friend?" Dammon leaned against the edge of the workbench, arms crossed, one brow raised as though challenging Gale to deny it.

Gale adjusted his collar, wondering when this knowledge had become so readily apparent. But judging by the lack of pitchforks outside their inn, he assumed the secret was safe enough with Dammon.

The tiefling's lips twitched with amusement. "Figured as much. Was not exactly subtle at the Last Light Inn, refusing food and all."

Gale set the goblet down with deliberate care, his hand lingering on its stem as his brow lifted. "I was not aware you had been paying such close attention."

"Hard not to, mate. Between him and that githyanki barking orders at everyone, it is a miracle the inn did not collapse under the weight of your lot's personalities." Dammon smirked. "Do not worry, though. It is not my business to go gossiping about anyone's peculiarities. Besides..." He shrugged. "He does have a certain charm about him. You know, in a blood-sucking, do-not-get-too-close sort of way."

A faint chuckle escaped Gale—uncertain whether he found the sentiment entirely reassuring, but grateful it spared him from fumbling through a half-baked explanation.

"Yes, well, be that as it may, I was hoping to commission some specialised armour for him."

Dammon drew a ragged pile of crumpled parchment closer. "Specialised how?"

"Primarily, protection from sunlight."

Dammon's brows furrowed. "I thought he could already walk in the sun?"

"For the time being, yes, but that might change later. I will not bore you with the details." Gale waved a hand dismissively.

"Fair enough." Dammon scratched his chin. "But I will be honest with you, I have never heard of armour that could manage something like that. You're certain it is even possible?"

Gale grinned. "Ha! But you have also never had the pleasure of working with me."

Dammon huffed a laugh, his tail swishing behind him as he leaned against the table. "Alright, wizard, colour me intrigued. What is the plan?"

Gale stood and, with a flourish, produced a sheaf of notes. He laid them across the table, careful not to crease the edges. Standing together over the spread, Gale launched into a swift and enthusiastic explanation of his research, his hands gesturing wildly. A foolish but genuine excitement seeped into his words, tumbling out faster than he intended.

"You see, I was considering a combination of darkmantle hide for its natural light-dampening properties, paired with a layer of enchanted metals to bolster its resilience. My hope is to create an entirely new spell to enhance the material further."

"Create a spell?" Dammon echoed, his brow arching high.

"Yes," Gale said, catching his breath and forcing himself to slow. "My connection to the Weave is not as strong as it once was, but I can still manage some personalised enchantments and practical spells," he said, letting a slight tinge of pride colour his words.

Dammon let out a low appreciative whistle, and Gale could not help but preen.

"That is no ordinary feat," the tiefling remarked.

Gale's smile widened. "I am no ordinary wizard."

The blacksmith gave a soft snort of amusement. "I can hardly argue with that. Right, so if I understand correctly, we would be using darkmantle hide and your enchantments?" Dammon summarised, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass, which still held most of his wine.

"That is correct," Gale confirmed, already thinking two steps ahead. His mind darted to the possibilities—the metals that could balance strength and load, the intricate runes he could weave to imbue the hide with even greater resilience. The process would demand meticulous effort, but the idea of potential success was tantalising. "I just need to find a suitable metal for protection and durability, but also something light enough to enable quick movements."

Dammon rubbed his temple, glancing over the notes. "Mithril is the obvious choice—light, strong, and it holds enchantments well. Combine it with darksteel, and you would have something nearly indestructible but still flexible and light," he explained, his tone careful and measured as he gestured towards Gale's calculations. "That combination would make it top-tier."

"Sounds perfect. I am sensing a 'however' incoming," Gale said, his lips quirking into a dry smile.

"However," Dammon continued, "while the darkmantle hide I think I can get my hands on, the rest... we are talking about materials that are exceedingly rare and expensive. No offence, but this armour might be just out of your price range, not to mention it would probably take months to get hold of darksteel."

Gale hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against the edge of the table. "How difficult would it be to forge it from star metal ?" he asked after a moment.

Dammon's reaction was immediate: a huff of incredulous laughter, paired with a look that suggested Gale might have sprouted a second head.

"Star metal? You might as well ask me to pluck the sun from the sky. None of the sorts in these parts would have anything remotely that valuable."

"Well," Gale began, his voice slipping into the faintly smug tone he often reserved for moments of grand reveals, "I happen to be in possession of some stored in my tower back in Waterdeep."

Dammon froze mid-breath, staring at Gale with wide, unblinking eyes. "You've got star metal lying around? Just... casually?"

"It is hardly casual." The memory of a youthful misadventure came rushing back: a harebrained venture into the Waterdavian sewer system, prompted by nothing more than a vague rumour that had led to a lair of particularly irate rust monsters and tendays of Tara's scathing reprimands ringing in his ears. It remained as vivid now as it had been then. "Star metal is a valuable resource, yes, but not one I have had much use for until now." Gale folded his hands neatly in front of him. "I would rather it serve a purpose than gather dust."

Dammon shook his head in disbelief. "You do understand that star metal is morbidly expensive, don't you? People could start a whole new life with just a handful of it."

"Ah, yes, I am aware," Gale said with a wry smile. "But if you think it is possible, I would rather use it for this purpose—to help my friend."

"A friend, you say?" Dammon's eyes glinted knowingly, but he pressed on without waiting for an answer. "I see. Yes, it would be possible. I would need to consult one of the other blacksmiths in town. He is a bit reclusive, but no one knows better how to handle such materials than a dwarven blacksmith. Let me know when you have the metal at hand, and we can get to it straight away."

"And about payment?"

Dammon waved the question away with a shake of his head. "You and your companions saved my life—saved all of us in the grove. This is the least I can do for you."

"I am grateful. Thank you, Dammon. Ah, and before I go, Rolan said to remind you about something concerning iron shipments."

Dammon let out a short, barking laugh, sharp and unguarded. "Gods, he is always so bloody grumpy." The words were dismissive, but the slight dusting of colour on his cheeks betrayed the affection buried beneath the gruffness.

By the time Gale left the forge, the last rays of evening light had painted the horizon purple and yellow, like a day-old bruise, casting everything in a dark golden hue. He wanted to go home, to see Astarion, whom he had not laid eyes on all day. It was the first time in the past three tendays that they had been apart for so long. Yet a sense of motivation nestled in the back of his mind, and obsession crept in alongside it. He knew he had to be careful; his bouts of overpowering enthusiasm had a tendency to backfire when he grew too fixated on a single path. But it had been so long since he had felt this spark of excitement that he could not help but surrender to it, if only for today.

There was only one thing left on his agenda for the day.

Gale was not entirely certain of Tara's whereabouts, but he suspected finding the tressym would not prove too difficult, especially with her favourite snack close to hand. Tara had been experimenting with magic that might help them locate one another, which offered him some peace of mind.

She had sought him out not long after the nautiloid crash—a moment that already felt as though it belonged to another lifetime.

Her safety, however, had always been his foremost concern, and he knew all too well the dangers ahead. So, despite Tara's vehement protests—quelled only through persuasion, a fair bit of bribery, and no small measure of threats—they had ultimately agreed to part ways for a time, with the promise of reuniting once Gale reached Baldur's Gate.

He reached into his pouch and drew out a small bundle of truly revolting dark-purple dried meat assortment wrapped in waxed paper. He had sliced a piece of their latest beholder victim and cured the meat himself—just the way Tara liked it.

It did not take long. 

They had always shared an affinity, even without magic, for finding one another. So, within a bell of wandering the Lower City, he was hardly taken aback when a familiar voice spoke up behind him.

"Mr Dekarios, what a lovely surprise," came the smooth, feline lilt, layered with airy disdain; the tone of someone far too accustomed to his antics. "If my nose does not lie—and it never does—you are here with yet another request."

He turned to see Tara perched elegantly on the edge of a merchant's stall, her tail curling neatly around her. Gale smiled, a touch sheepish as he took her in. "Hello, Tara," he said, dipping his head in greeting. "You see right through me. I confess, I come bearing yet another imposition."

The end of the tressym's tail swayed lazily, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Imposition? Let us not dress it up, Gale. You are here because you have gone and landed yourself in trouble again, have you not? You always come scurrying back after some grand disaster."

Gale exhaled through a chuckle, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. "Not always."

Tara tilted her head, her whiskers twitching as though measuring the statement with the gravitas of a tribunal judge. "Oh? Name one time you sought my help without first setting something on fire or creating an arcane calamity of unprecedented scale."

He opened his mouth, words queued and ready, but a moment later faltered. A rueful smile curved his lips, and he let out a long, resigned sigh. "Fair point."

"Mm," she purred, standing to stretch languidly before leaping to a nearby stone fence, now level with his gaze. "That is what I thought. So, what is it this time? Something cursed? Explosive? Both?"

"Nothing so dramatic," he assured her, though his tone carried enough weight to undermine the claim. "I merely need a favour. A simple one, truly."

Her ears twitched, scepticism practically radiating off her in waves. "Simple, and you do not usually keep company. Go on, then. Let us hear it."

"I need you to fetch the star metal from my study."

Tara's tail froze mid-flick as her ears swivelled sharply towards him. "The star metal." Her tone was flat and deadpan. "You mean the most valuable thing you own? The one you risked life and limb to retrieve?"

"It will not do me much good once I am dead, will it?" Gale replied with a shrug, attempting levity.

She did not laugh. Instead, she pinned him with a sharp, unblinking stare. "You nearly got yourself killed over that ridiculously overpriced piece of rock after tumbling headfirst into the sewers, if I recall correctly." Tara hopped down from her perch, landing lightly on the cobblestones, and began circling him. "Are you trying to tell me it was merely for the character-building experience of scrubbing refuse out of your hair for days?" She did not wait for an answer, her gaze sharp and dissecting his intent with unnerving precision. "May I ask what exactly you intend to do with it?"

"To make armour," Gale said, summoning what he hoped was convincing nonchalance, though he doubted Tara would be so easily deceived.

She stopped. "You don't wear armour."

"I am aware," Gale replied, resisting the urge to sigh. "This is not for me."

He felt as though he were speaking to his mother, sidestepping questions that prodded far too deeply into his private affairs.

Her scrutiny took a keener edge, amber eyes narrowing like a jeweller inspecting a flawed gemstone. "Oh, I see. Does this mean that Mr Dekarios has finally found himself a romantic conquest worthy of such a grand gesture?"

Gale nearly choked on his own breath. "No, nothing like that. This is purely to help a friend," he said quickly. Too quickly.

Why was everyone questioning him today? Was he truly this transparent?

"A... friend? " Tara cocked her head to the side with exaggerated curiosity. She always had a way of making her doubt feel like a theatrical performance.

"Yes, Tara. A friend," he affirmed with a long-suffering grumble as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Now, can I count on you to do this for me? I would fetch it myself, but circumstances make travel rather impractical."

The tressym's eyes narrowed to slits. "A friend," she repeated. "You and I both know that you do not have many of those. Not the kind you would go to these lengths for."

Gale's lips pressed into a thin line. "Thank you for reminding me of my vibrant social life," he muttered, earning an amused chitter from the tressym. He was acutely aware of his own failings at making lasting friendships in his adolescence or adulthood, though he had never felt the need for more. Tara had always been by his side.

His gaze lingered on her, and his thoughts strayed despite himself. The grey creeping into her fur was more pronounced than he remembered, and her once-sharp movements were tinged with a subtle hesitation. Tara had been at his side for longer than she had not, his first and, if he were honest, only constant companion. She had been with him through the dizzying highs of his youth and the crushing lows of his exile.

The thought sank in his stomach like a stone. He was not sure what perturbed him more: the inevitability of time or how much he had taken her companionship for granted.

"Gale?" Her voice cut through his reverie. She had risen to her feet, her feathers fluffed against the breeze, her gaze no longer playful but edged with concern. "Does this particular friend know you are willing to part with your precious star metal on their behalf? Or are you planning to surprise them with your sacrificial streak?"

Gale rubbed the back of his neck. "It is not a sacrifice. Just a practical solution to a pressing problem. Can we please leave it at that?" The intricacies of his relationship with Astarion were far too tangled to unravel before Tara, particularly given her tendency to carry such tales directly to Gale's mother.

"Oh, for Sharess' sake," she said, rolling her eyes. "All right. Would you at least consider shaving that dreadful patch of fur you have been cultivating on your face?" she added, clearly trying to brighten the mood that had suddenly settled over Gale.

His hand dropped to his chin defensively. "You care entirely too much about my personal grooming."

"Someone has to," she quipped with feigned solemnity, inspecting her claws. "It is not doing you any favours, unless you are hoping to charm someone with poor vision or a fondness for mossy boulders."

"Shave, I will not," Gale replied evenly, though a small smile played on his lips. "But I would happily part with some of your favourite beholder jerky."

At that, her ears perked instantly. "A fair exchange," she said briskly, amber eyes glued to the pack in Gale's hand. "Fine. Give me a tenday, and I will have your precious star metal, for your 'friend'," she added, the word dripping with mockery. Then she stretched lazily, her tail curling like a question mark behind her. "I do hope they are worth such treasures. It would be a shame if they were not."

Gale's expression softened as he offered the jerky to her. "They are, Tara," he murmured, his voice quieter now. "They truly are."

He placed the packet down, and they sat in companionable silence while she devoured the offering.

When she had finished, Tara licked her paw delicately, taking her time as she cleaned her whiskers. "While I am home," she began, her voice casual, "should I pass along any message to your mother? She has been quite worried, you know."

Gale sighed softly. He had expected the question, but still had no idea what he could say that would not leave Morena burdened with helpless worry. "Just tell her I am in good health and keeping excellent company."

Tara stilled, fixing him with another one of her piercing stares. Gale had long since learned not to squirm under her scrutiny, but even now, he sensed the gravity of it. Gale had always felt her capable of reading him like a well-thumbed tome. It reminded him, strangely, of another sharp-eyed observer in his life. He was not sure what that said about his taste in companions.

"We are renting at the Elfsong Tavern," he added, breaking the silence. "You can find me there."

Her tail swished once in acknowledgement as she stood and stretched luxuriously, her wings unfurling behind her. "Very well. Take care of yourself, Gale, and try not to get in too much trouble while I am gone."

Gale crouched down, extending a hand to scratch behind her ears. She pressed her head against his palm, her purr a deep, steady rumble. His fingers brushed against the magical collar he had crafted for her long ago, its enchanted runes casting a soft shimmer as it moved.

"Trouble seems to have a way of finding me, but I will do my best," he said with a crooked smile.

The tressym gave him a last, knowing look, her golden eyes narrowing briefly in what might have been amusement or a silent warning. Then, with a powerful leap, her wings carried her skyward. Gale straightened, watching as she soared towards the horizon, her small form silhouetted against the twilight sky. 

He remained there for a while, the cool evening air brushing against his face, an odd sense of gratitude warming him. No matter the storms he faced, whether magical, emotional or otherwise, there was comfort in knowing Tara would be a constant, sharp-tongued companion at his side.

By the time he returned to the inn, night had fully fallen. Warm light spilt from the open doors of the tavern, laughter carrying from the packed seating area outside. A few patrons lingered on the porch, mugs in hand. The staircase to the upper rooms wound along the side of the building, its wooden steps weathered and creaking softly underfoot.

As Gale ascended, he caught sight of Astarion at the top, leaning casually against the railing overlooking the street below. A goblet of wine dangled loosely from his fingers as he watched the comings and goings, seemingly lost in thought.

It always struck Gale how beautiful Astarion was. The moonlight mingled with the warm glow of the torches, casting its dance across his marble skin. Gale found himself silently grateful for every stolen moment that allowed him the privilege to simply admire.

"You know, we really should not be venturing out alone," Astarion said quietly, his eyes still fixed on something in the distance.

"I went to the bookshop," Gale replied plainly, offering him a tired smile. Research had once been his life, but now it felt like he had overexercised a long-unused muscle.

"I told you I would come with you," the elf said evenly.

"I needed to work on something... personal." Astarion finally turned his gaze to him and arched a brow, but refrained from commenting. Gale approached him slowly, like one might approach an unpredictable, skittish animal. He stopped a step below, face tilted upwards. Up close, he could see the hardened lines around Astarion's eyes, his skin pulled tight. "I apologise; I did not mean to make you worry."

"I was not..." He trailed off, something suspiciously close to embarrassment silencing his words, before pausing to clear his throat. "It is just, with Karlach and Shadowheart gone, I was stuck with Halsin all day. As much as I appreciate the whole 'grr' and 'arrr' in small portions, it was a tad too much."

The elf was rambling, a slight dusting of flush sitting on his high cheekbones. Gale chuckled. Astarion sounded remarkably like he had missed his company, and even the possibility of that filled Gale with warm joy.

"I missed you too," Gale said with a soft smile, emboldened by the elf's uncharacteristic demeanour. Astarion looked at him with wide eyes, seemingly caught off guard by the brazen assumption, but before he could deny it or say anything else, Gale stepped close and interlinked their arms.

"Let us go have some more wine. I picked up some new books you might find interesting. Sorcerous Sundries might also have a tome on the Netherese Crown. It is in a highly protected vault, right up your alley. The shop is also run by that bastard Lorroakan. He has some quest going on for Dame Ailyn, so I will need to talk to her as well when she next swings by for a visit."

Gale was talking fast, trying to distract the elf from his momentary embarrassment, and it seemed to help Astarion relax. As they walked inside, they headed to Gale's bed, where Gale casually threw all his new purchases onto it. Well, most of them. The items connected to his personal research, he kept to himself, not wanting to give the elf false hope in case things did not unfold as he desired.

✦

That night, they both lay in their respective beds, but Gale could not sleep and could tell that Astarion was also still awake.
With a subtle tug on the threads of the Weave, Gale drew a gentle strand of magic inward, conjuring the illusion of a familiar, long-unseen black cat out of thin air. Using his magic, he guided the ethereal feline to leap off his bed and onto Astarion's. The elf's eyes fluttered open to the gentle, glowing presence of the cat now perched upon his chest.

"Really? Party tricks?" he said, his voice a velvet drawl, though his gaze softened as he looked at the animal. Gale simply shrugged and summoned a swarm of butterflies that fluttered around the cat, which eagerly batted at the illusions, chasing them with unrelenting focus.

The cat jumped down onto the floor between them, prompting Gale to allow a stronger current of magic to surge through him as he created another kitten. Astarion shifted to his side, resting his cheek on his palm. He reminded Gale of a celestial figure from one of those grandiose murals adorning temple ceilings.

"Look at us, two grown adults reduced to watching kittens play," Astarion murmured, his tone amused yet indulgent.

"Oh, hush." Gale's eyes remained glued to the playful antics of the two little creatures. "You cannot tell me you don't like cats."

"I never said that."

"Would you prefer this?" Gale asked. With a flick of his hand, the illusion of the cats vanished and was replaced by a cloister of hideous-looking flumphs. Astarion chuckled at the whimsical replacement.

When Gale was younger, he often entertained the other children by making up little scenes out of illusions and letting them play out. While he had grown more powerful over recent years, his command over the Weave had not been as precise or intuitive as it was in his childhood. This did not mean he could not put on a little show to make his vampire smile.
Not his vampire. He had to remind himself.

So Gale did exactly that. Scrunching his face, with the tip of his tongue peeking out, he conjured a miniature figure of a wild-eyed wizard, complete with a flowing beard and an exaggerated sneer. Alongside him, a group of tiny projections of children appeared.

"My name is Halaster Blackcloak," Gale intoned in an ominous voice, delighting in the ridiculousness of it. "I live in the Undermountain, and I will gobble up naughty little intruders!"

"Oh gods, not the voices," Astarion muttered, briefly covering his eyes in feigned mortification before returning his attention to the unfolding scene, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

The miniature children on the floor began to scamper around with their arms flailing in the air, and Gale provided hushed versions of their shrieks. Little Halaster raised his hands, simulating a crackle of magic, and half a dozen lumbering golems materialised to give chase. One by one, the children were caught and swallowed whole, Gale providing their exaggerated whispered cries of despair.

"What the fuck, Gale?" Astarion laughed outright now, his voice rich with disbelief. "That is… deeply disturbing. And oddly specific."

Gale shrugged, clearly pleased with himself. "A cautionary tale. We were warned as children never to wander into the Undermountain lest Halaster send his golems to, well, gobble us up."

"Charming. I did not think the Mad Mage cared so much for nosy children."

"Oh, but he did for intruders," Gale smirked.

"Sounds like the voice of experience."

"I am afraid I missed my chance to meet him. He met his end after the last Spellplague."

"Pity. I imagine the two of you would have had much to discuss," Astarion quipped, his eyes glinting with mirth.

Gale chuckled quietly and, with a wave of his hand, transformed Halaster into a floating portrait.

"I have always found his story rather tragic. While people in Waterdeep often jest about him, using his name in absurd situations for a laugh, he was undeniably an immensely powerful archmage," Gale reflected.

He conjured the image of nightwings. "It's said he summoned fell creatures from other planes to build his tower, Halaster's Hold, but failed to release them once their work was done." The winged bat-like figures ominously circled the floating head. "His collection of monsters became his legacy, and his downfall."

"Let me guess," Astarion interjected, his tone light but his gaze keen, "the slaver became the enslaved, trapped in the labyrinth of his own making."

"A fitting metaphor," Gale replied, smiling faintly. "Though there's more. A whole debacle involving Shar and Mystra as he sought to steal silverfire, a botched attempt to rescue Elminster from Avernus… Halaster's life was a series of brilliant disasters. He wasn't a hero, not by any stretch, but there's something about him that resonates with me. And no, I'd never admit that to another wizard. Terribly embarrassing."

"Mm, hubris and the meddling of gods. Archmages do have a knack for melodramatic ends, don't they?" Astarion gave him a pointed look.

Gale laughed softly, the sound warming the quiet air between them. "Could be it."

With a twist of his fingers, he altered the illusion to mimic himself, complete with Halaster's absurdly oversized hat.

"That doesn't quite suit you," Astarion remarked, his tone dry, though the faint creases at the corners of his eyes betrayed him.

"Nevertheless, still quite handsome." Gale wiggled his eyebrows theatrically, his image following suit, earning a rare, genuine laugh from the vampire. He waved his hand again, shifting the illusion to reflect Astarion's own likeness.

Confusion passed over the elf's face, as if expecting another fabricated tale, but then recognition dawned.

"Oh."

The smirk vanished from Astarion's face, replaced by something subtler, almost unguarded. His fingers curled into the sheets.

Gale knew better than to comment. Astarion's inability to see his own reflection had long been a poorly guarded sore point, one he had cleverly spun into curated sob stories whenever it suited him. While it was not impossible to disguise oneself or conjure an image magically, Gale knew Astarion well enough to understand his struggle to ask for what he truly needed. In this moment, stripped of his usual bravado, he looked more contemplative than conniving, vulnerable even.

The elf lay there, lost in the study of his reflection, as if engraving every detail into memory.

Gale cleared his throat gently. "Good night, Astarion," he said, turning away to give the elf his privacy. He kept the illusion intact, even as fatigue tugged at the edges of his concentration. The Weave thrummed softly under his control, the strain a small price to pay. So he persisted, determined to offer what he could for as long as possible.

For several minutes, the room was silent save for the faint hum of magic. Then, so quietly that Gale almost missed it, Astarion spoke.

"Thank you."

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

The parlour of the Elfsong Tavern brimmed with a different energy tonight, a mellow hum that thrummed beneath the lilting strains of music wafting up from the bar below. Their rented sanctuary basked in the glow of warm candlelight and the faint, intermittent flicker of the hearth. Shadows danced on the peeling wallpaper and gilded frames of forgotten portraits.

Gale had just finished making dinner and stood with a ladle in hand as he served large portions of a hearty stew to a crowd unusually buoyant, their appetites growing voracious at the promise of a proper home-cooked meal. It had been some time since he had last had the opportunity—or the inclination—to wield his culinary skills. Yet the simple act of cooking brought a small measure of solace amidst the mayhem.

With Shadowheart and Karlach back, they had resolved to venture into Raphael's lair at first light in an attempt to acquire the Orphic Hammer. Meanwhile, the others were planning to investigate rumours of a slumbering wyrm beneath the city, a creature said to awaken and protect the gates in times of need. Gale had his doubts, but it was certainly gossip worth exploring.

For now, though, the moment belonged to simpler pleasures: the murmur of camaraderie, the crackle of the fire, and the quiet satisfaction of filling empty bowls in a haven that felt, however briefly, like a home.

Gale handed a generous serving of stew to Karlach, who accepted it with a grateful grin, then strolled over to where Shadowheart and Astarion sat locked in an animated discussion that Gale could not quite make out.

Grabbing a ladleful for himself, he made his way towards them just as Astarion hissed, "We are not—" but Gale's approach abruptly halted the conversation that was evidently getting somewhat out of hand between the vampire and the cleric.

Both Shadowheart and Astarion turned to Gale, their frowns still lingering, and the flush on their cheeks hinted at the intensity of the disagreement, though Karlach's amused expression suggested the row was more spirited than serious.

Gale raised an eyebrow, silently inviting an explanation, but neither seemed inclined to offer one. Shrugging inwardly, he moved to a chair beside Karlach and settled in with his bowl. After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat and said, "I wanted to talk to you about something."

Karlach's spoon paused halfway to her mouth. She let it clatter back into her bowl, her brows knitting together in concern. "What's going on? Is the orb acting up again?" she asked, worry written clearly in her features. Shadowheart and Astarion, their squabble forgotten, turned their attention towards him with a similar quiet unease.

Gale waved a dismissive hand, offering a reassuring smile. "No, no, nothing like that. Although... it is somewhat related."

The tiefling leaned back, her attention fully on Gale. "Go on."

Gale scooted his chair closer, so his voice would not be lost beneath the buzz around them. "While I was in Sorcerous Sundries doing some research, I learned they are keeping a tome in their hidden vaults. The Annals of Karsus. It could provide more information about the Netherese crown."

"And you just happened upon this tidbit?" Astarion interjected, evidently still miffed at Gale for going alone.

"The bookseller told me."

Astarion arched a sceptical brow. "They what, just volunteered this information?"

Gale grinned. "No secret stays hidden from this handsome face and irresistible charm."

Astarion's lips curled into a sharp smile. "Perhaps we should have let you handle Orin instead. You might still have a fighting chance with the Netherbrain. Good luck, Sunshine." He let out a huff, his crimson eyes glinting in the dim light. "So, tell me, oh illustrious Wizard of Seduction, when shall we embark on this grand endeavour?"

Shadowheart opened her mouth, though whatever she meant to say was cut short by a swift kick from Astarion beneath the table. The cleric's face scrunched as she stroked her abused shin, sending a withering look in Astarion's direction. The elf, unperturbed, kept his gaze on Gale, his smile growing wider.

"Where?" Gale momentarily lost track of the conversation, distracted by their unusual behaviour and now held captive by the charming curve of Astarion's lips.

"To steal the tome, obviously," Karlach interjected, rolling her eyes as if she could easily decipher Gale's scattered thoughts.

"Just like that?" Gale glanced at her, feeling a warmth in his chest at their willingness to accompany him without even needing to ask.

She shrugged. "Should we be expecting a ceremonious invite?"

Gale chuckled under his breath. Trust Karlach to make it sound so simple. He found himself oddly touched by how readily they assumed his burdens as their own.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, eating as Astarion sat looking bored. Gale pushed around the food in his bowl, idly pressing down on the fatty meat and watching the fragrant stew ooze out of it.

It was Karlach who eventually broke the silence. "So... isn't Mystra going to be, uh, reeeaaally pissed off if she finds out you are sniffing around this book?"

Gale's stomach sank. That particular complication had, of course, crossed his mind, but he tried not to dwell too much on it.

"That is a distinct possibility, but quite frankly, what else can she do? Is she going to tell me to kill myself?" Gale's lips twisted into a wry smile.

"Touché," added the tiefling.

"I mean, technically, she can still just flat out kill—" Astarion started to argue, but a voice interjected:

"Ah, Mystra is a fickle mistress," Minsc chimed in with his characteristic earnestness, having overheard their conversation.

It took Karlach, Shadowheart, and Jaheira three days to return. Their mission to resolve some Guild matters had apparently taken a dramatic twist, and when they did return, they were not alone. What began as a straightforward effort to address internal squabbles had evolved into something far more perilous—a desperate race against time to rescue Jaheira's old friend, the storied Minsc himself.

Gale had read plenty of tales about the man, some fantastical, others downright implausible, but sorting fact from fiction was no easy feat. A hero of the Bhaalspawn crisis, Minsc stood as a towering figure in both lore and literal stature, a man who seemed to laugh in the face of overwhelming odds. He was the kind of legend that bards adored, their songs woven with equal parts bravery and absurdity. One such tale involved Minsc and his rodent companion being turned to stone, mistaken for an elaborate statue, and displayed as a landmark in the Wide for nearly eighty years. Until, as the story went, a wild magic surge shattered the enchantment and released the pair back into the world. Gale had always been sceptical of such accounts, prone as he was to applying reason to even the most dazzling of myths. But standing here now, looking at the eccentric duo, he was not entirely unconvinced.

When they arrived home, covered in blood and dirt, Karlach, brimming with excitement, told them how the task escalated into a more significant challenge when they discovered that Minsc was under the influence of a tadpole and in the clutches of the Absolute, making him responsible for a series of Guild member murders. As if negotiating their way out of that were not enough, they also found themselves entangled in a power struggle between the Guild and the Zhentarim.

In just a handful of days, the trio faced trials that seemed to have taken them through the planes of Hells and back. They were visibly worn by their harrowing experiences, but Karlach seemed even more awestruck by Minsc and Jaheira than ever, if that were possible.

Minsc and his familiar, Boo, proved to be an... interesting addition to their group. The Rashemaar hero was not exactly how Gale had imagined him based on the heroic stories, but he seemed kind and, most importantly, ready to support their cause. They could not afford to be choosy when it came to supporters.

The sizeable man now leaned closer and spoke while wildly gesturing with his spoon.

"You know of the Vremyonni?" he asked, pointing the utensil at Gale.

Gale frowned, searching his brain for information, then nodded. "They are renowned male spellcasters of the Rashemaar."

Minsc hummed in agreement. "You remind me of them, young spellcaster."

Gale suddenly found himself under the spotlight, feeling a touch uneasy as all eyes turned towards him.

"While girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away," Minsc continued. "Trained to work their craft in secrecy. It's an old custom, not well-observed. In truth, I thought it was born of caution, after some catastrophe wrought by wizardly men-folk of old. Now I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys."

A dense and uncomfortable silence descended upon them, leaving Gale completely immobilised and struggling to find words. The unforeseen comment from a relative stranger had thrown a delicate subject into the open, and the aftermath felt like an unwelcome, heavy blanket settling over the group, making the air thick and stifling. Unspoken judgements hovered, while those passing them had only a partial understanding, if any, of Gale's entire story.

Gale's hand shook, and he wanted to tell the man to shut his mouth. They were barely acquaintances. How dare—

Minsc reached out, seemingly to give a friendly pat on his shoulder to dispel some of the awkwardness, but pale fingers curled around his wrist as Astarion intercepted the move.

"Weren't you a vampire hunter, or something of the sort?" Astarion asked, pushing the sizeable man's arm away and releasing him, bringing Gale's rapidly spiralling thoughts to a halt. "I heard about all that business with Strahd." Suddenly, the atmosphere was tense for an entirely different reason. Gale should have been worried, but all he could feel was relief and gratitude for Astarion, who seized attention like a lantern in a room filled with light-starved moths.

Minsc's brows furrowed as his muscles tightened, his gaze like twin arrows fixed on the elf. "That was... unpleasant business. Minsc does not enjoy thinking about it."

"Understandable," Astarion said, with a faint hum of sympathy that didn't quite reach his eyes. He leaned back, tracing a fang over his lower lip, a clear challenge. Jaheira, across the room, grew motionless as she surveyed the exchange. "Still, it begs the question—do you still hunt vampires?" The tone was breezy, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath the words.

Gale could only assume the others had filled Minsc in and that he was aware one of their companions was a vampire spawn, but it seemed the Rashemaar was something of a wild card.

"Minsc only hunts evil," he said finally, biting down on a generous portion of meat. With that, he turned to his hamster and began muttering to himself, his tone jovial as if nothing had happened. The spell broke, and the chatter slowly returned, like a morning tide creeping in.

Gale glanced at Astarion. Their eyes met, and he offered him a small, strained but grateful smile.

"Oh yes, clearly no feelings at all," Shadowheart muttered under her breath, narrowly dodging Astarion's elbow aimed at her ribs.

✦

"I propose we pay a visit to the devil's boudoir," Astarion said, looking over Gale's shoulder with a smirk plastered across his face as his eyes skimmed the parchment Gale held—the very document the Archivist had reluctantly surrendered after their carefully worded assurances that their business with Raphael was of the utmost importance. Gale recognised that look on the elf's face. It was the one that usually ended with them fleeing for their lives while everything around them burned to the ground. Given that they were already in the Hells, things could only get worse.

"We absolutely should not venture into the devil's boudoir," Gale countered, every fibre of his being uneasy at the mere thought of 'Raphael' and 'boudoir' in the same sentence.

"Imagine what kind of secrets Raphael could be hiding there," Astarion said, leaning closer to Gale, his proximity causing his stomach to lurch.

"That's precisely the kind of revelation I'd rather avoid," Gale responded, resisting the tempting allure of his purely academic curiosity.

Astarion inched even closer, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It could prove to be quite helpful."

"It's more likely to be deadly. Very likely deadly," Gale argued, trying to resist the pull of his own foolish heart. Deep down, he knew that saying no to Astarion was a futile endeavour. "You're just curious to explore the twisted and sick things he has in his collection, aren't you?"

"Can you blame me? It's the devil's boudoir," Astarion replied, his excitement reminiscent of a mischievous child about to embark on an ill-advised trip to a fireworks stand.

Gale, seeking support, cast a pleading look towards Karlach. She simply shrugged and replied, "Believe me, mate, I want to get out of here as quickly as any of you—probably more so. But I wouldn't mind setting fire to all of Raphael's underwear while we're at it."

Gale released an exasperated sigh, and Shadowheart, with mock sympathy, gently patted his shoulder as she followed Astarion down the corridor, heading straight for the devil's bloody boudoir.

The corridors of the House of Hope stretched before them like veins of malign splendour. Wrought iron filigree shaped as barbed tendrils curled along every edge, adorned with inset jewels that glowed faintly, the colours shifting between ruby and emerald like an indecisive flame. Beneath their boots, the floor gleamed with the sheen of polished black marble, fissured with veins of gold that seemed to pulse like quicksilver.

Entering the House of Hope was nothing short of a suicide mission. They had faced a handful of those recently, but Raphael's ostentatious lair promised a whole new level of misadventure. The plan was to go in, steal the hammer, and get out before the devil even realised what had happened. Yet, as Gale found himself standing before a large bed and an incubus in the form of Raphael—bearing his unmistakable hauteur but wearing far fewer clothes—he had to accept that every time he thought things could not get worse, they always managed to find new and imaginative ways to do so.

"Why don't we play a game?" the fiend asked, his words drawn out, lounging on the oversized bed as his gaze lingered on Astarion with an intensity eerily reminiscent of Raphael's. "You win, I give you everything you desire. But you'll enjoy yourself more if you lose."

"We are not here to play games," Karlach snapped, visibly uncomfortable.

"There is one way to leave here alive, darling. Play with me? Pretty please? I'd hate to have to kill you," he continued, ignoring Karlach, his words directed entirely at the elf.

"What's the game?" Astarion asked, his voice carrying the weight of the incubus's flirtation, but the way he shifted his weight betrayed his discomfort.

"It's a surprise," the incubus purred. "Off with your clothes."

There was a long beat of silence, and it hit Gale like a boulder that Astarion was considering the offer.

"He bears a striking resemblance to Raphael, and he reeks of his games and schemes, for gods' sake. I sincerely hope you're not contemplating his offer." Gale's heart battered against his ribs like a wild bird caught in a cage, each beat frantic and aching, as if it sought to shatter its prison and take flight. The fiend's words churned in his mind, leaving a nauseating weight in his stomach. The mere suggestion of Astarion giving himself over to this creature made his throat tighten, his breathing uneven.

It wasn't jealousy, not truly, not this time. This wasn't about Gale wanting, being pathetically in love. This was different. The thought of Astarion being used, being made into an object for someone else's amusement, twisted in his gut like a dagger. The memories Astarion had shared, his scars, the pain he carried, were fresh and raw in Gale's mind. The very idea of it made him sick.

"Astarion," Gale tried again, his voice low and trembling but steady enough to cut through the tension. "Tell me you're not seriously considering this."

The elf glanced at him, his expression an impenetrable mask of indifference. Gale clung to the fragile hope that hesitation flickered there, that the silence did not already mean surrender. But the pause dragged on too long, and Gale's mind was already working overtime as it began to parade the worst images it could summon in the span of a heartbeat.

Astarion's lips quirked into that insufferably familiar smirk, cutting as a dagger's edge. "Oh, do stop wringing your hands. I'm simply weighing our options."

"Options?" Gale's voice rose in disbelief, his feigned calm unravelling at the seams. "This is not an option. It's lunacy! You cannot seriously—"

"Cannot what? Believe that accepting this fiend's generous offer might, just might, be worth entertaining for a moment? Forgive me if I don't leap to judgement based on your moralistic melodrama." Astarion folded his arms, his posture deceptively casual, though his gaze gleamed with defiance.

Gale gaped at him, incredulous. "My moral—" 

"Ah," the incubus interjected smoothly, the sound a honeyed drawl. "I could listen to this delightful lovers' spat all evening, but I am, regrettably, on a schedule. I do need an answer. Do you accept?"

The word "No!" cracked through the air, Gale and Astarion snapping in unison.

The fiend arched an elegant brow, unimpressed. "Well, that's disappointing."

"You don't get to make this choice for me!" Astarion bellowed, rounding on Gale with sudden fury. His eyes burned like molten rubies, and he advanced a step, his anger palpable, forgetting the creature on the bed entirely.

Before Gale could respond—before he could calm or argue—the fiend clapped his hands sharply. "Aaand that's enough of that, children," his amusement as sharp as his sudden movement. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled a spell directly at Gale.

He barely managed to react, a defensive ward blooming to life in the nick of time. The spell struck his shimmering shield with a crackle of arcane energy, scattering harmlessly into sparks. He staggered back a step, breathless but unharmed, the rush of blood deafening in his ears.

The harsh clamour of steel drawn from scabbards reverberated off the stone walls, mingling with guttural shrieks as imps materialised, their twisted forms coalescing from the void.

At first, Gale felt a surge of hope as they seemed to be gaining the upper hand against the incubus. Their coordinated assault hinted at a swift resolution to the conflict. Yet hope turned to ash as the fiend vanished, a planar shift whisking it into the ether, rendering all their attacks futile.

Silence gripped the room for what felt like an eternity as they glanced at one another, chests heaving with exertion. Then, like a crashing tidal wave, motion and noise returned with a vengeance. Just as the imps surged forward to attack, with a sound like tearing fabric, the incubus reappeared. He wasted no time, hurling another spell that arced straight toward Shadowheart. The enchantment struck true, her step faltering as she shook her head, disoriented. Her spear trembled in her grip, but her focus snapped unnervingly towards Astarion.

She lunged. The blade of her spear whistled through the air, seeking its mark, but Astarion's reflexes outpaced her assault. He twisted away, narrowly avoiding a blow that would have impaled him.

"Don't hurt her!" Karlach screamed at Astarion as he dodged again and managed to strike the hilt of one of his weapons against Shadowheart's head.

"I'm trying!" Astarion snapped, his anger and annoyance radiating. "But what do you want me to do? Let her skewer me like a roasted pig?"

He managed to push her off with great difficulty, Shadowheart hitting the floor hard and sliding further across the smooth stone surface. Astarion wasted no time, sprinting towards Gale, trying to put some distance between himself and the charmed cleric.

Shadowheart whipped her head around with fierce determination, her eyes locking onto Karlach next. Charging at full speed, she threw herself at the tiefling, causing Karlach to crumble under their combined weight. Metal armour screeched against the ground, the sound of weapons clashing, and the pained grunt that tore from the tiefling as she hit the floor.

"See? Not so easy!" Astarion shouted as he avoided a strike from an imp and retaliated, causing it to explode in a burst of magical energy.

Gale's heart raced as he dashed towards the unfolding nightmare, his steps echoing the pounding of his own dread. Shadowheart loomed over Karlach, spear raised high, the tip glinting with lethal intent.

"Gale, stop!" Karlach's roar froze him mid-step. For a moment, he hesitated, a spell poised at his fingertips, his instincts warring with her command.

The spear came down, slicing through the air in an arc of raw brutality. Though the blow lacked its full force, the edge of the blade still bit deep, carving a line across Karlach's cheek. Blood welled immediately, a deeper crimson against her sweat-slicked skin. Gale's breath caught as he lifted his hands, arcane energy thrumming in readiness. Every fibre of him demanded action, yet his heart quailed at the thought of striking Shadowheart, even in her enchanted frenzy.

"Fight it!" Karlach's voice broke, raw with desperation. Her fingers closed around the haft of the spear, straining to stave off the next assault. "Snap out of it!"

"I can't!" The words were raw and guttural, forced through clenched teeth and a jaw locked with anguish. Tears coursed down Shadowheart's face, falling like drops of molten glass to splatter against Karlach's bloodied skin. The cleric's body trembled with the strain of resisting the curse, her muscles taut as a drawn bowstring.

"You can," Karlach grunted, her golden eyes locking onto Shadowheart's, blazing with defiance. "You've got this. You're stronger than this—stronger than anything. You're incredible." The words carried an intimacy that felt jarring amidst the carnage, a gruesome juxtaposition to the violence unleashed upon her person.

Shadowheart's arms quaked, her grip faltering as she warred against the enchantment. A wail of despair tore from her mouth like a dirge in Gale's ears, etching yet another memory that would haunt him for eternity.

The incubus chose this moment to reappear, his form materialising just paces from Astarion—a fatal error. Without hesitation, the elf turned sharply from the imp he had been fighting, his blade sinking into its target with deadly precision. The incubus collapsed, incapacitated, and his control over Shadowheart faltered—visibly slipping, though not entirely broken.

A strangled gasp escaped the cleric as she wrenched herself free from the fiend's influence. Her body sagged, leaning heavily on her spear, still all but straddling Karlach. She gasped for air, drawing in deep, ragged breaths. The silver cascade of her dishevelled braid tumbled forward, pooling on the floor beside the tiefling's head.

Karlach lifted her hand, her fingers brushing against the cleric's cheek, smearing a line of blood in their wake. "That's my girl," she murmured, her voice a mixture of exhaustion and pride. A wicked smile stretched her lips, even in the face of agony.

Shadowheart's expression crumpled. She sagged, her face pressing against Karlach's outstretched palm. She kissed it with trembling lips in what seemed like a silent offering of apology.

"This is all very touching," Astarion shouted as he drove his blade into the imp before him, causing it to explode. "But if you've forgotten, we still have a shapechanger strutting about in his smallclothes." He straightened, sweeping a soot-covered ringlet of hair out of his eyes and gestured towards the fiend on the floor.

Shadowheart rose to her feet. She painted a sinister figure against the flickering torchlight as she pivoted to confront the incubus, her shadow stretching long across the walls.

Each deliberate step she took echoed with a malevolent resonance, the grating of her spear against the stone floor sending shivers down Gale's spine. Her face was a tempest.

Gale's knees felt unsteady as the swirling maelstrom of power enveloped them, a palpable aura of dread emanating from Shadowheart as she reached out to the power Selûne had bestowed upon her.

Once the final screams quietened and only the charred, sizzling remains of the fiend were left, Gale attempted to meet Astarion's eyes, but the elf steadfastly avoided his gaze. With some distance now, after the intense emotions had ebbed to a smouldering ember, Gale could understand the reason why. The urge to apologise, to make it better, gnawed at him, but this was neither the time nor the place.

"We need to go," Shadowheart said, her shoulders rising and falling with each unsteady breath.

She was right; they needed to get out of here before it was too late.

Karlach ran a hand down her face, attempting to steady her nerves. "Let's just grab the bloody hammer, help Hope, and get out of here."

"Oh, is that all?" Astarion's retort dripped with sardonic disdain.

"Do you have a better plan?" Karlach snapped. "No matter what, the moment you take that hammer, we are fucked. Let's just get this party on the road before that smarmy bastard gets back."

Without awaiting a response, she strode through the door, as always, leaving them little choice but to trail behind. They re-entered the Archives in utter silence, then Gale made a beeline to the Archivist to strike up a trivial conversation, giving Astarion a chance to swipe anything within reach.

Gale kept a subtle eye on him, carefully manoeuvring the Archivist's attention away from Astarion as he continued his enquiry about the items and books in their possession while they 'waited for Raphael's arrival.' Astarion moved with practised grace, fingers skimming over relics with a thief's reverence, selecting only the most valuable. The hammer waited, glinting on its pedestal, the last piece of his haul. As he reached out for it, there was no glance for reassurance, only the deliberate stilling of his breath as his hand closed around the haft.

As predicted, the instant Astarion removed the hammer from its stand, it felt as if all the air was sucked out of the room. Gale briefly worried they might suffocate, but nothing happened.

And then suddenly everything was happening all at once.

In one second, they were rooted to the spot, and in the next, they were making a frantic dash for the door.

"Karlach!" Astarion shouted, and the tiefling turned in perfect synchrony. With a deep grunt, the vampire hurled the hammer towards her, and she caught it mid-stride, her movement flowing with a graceful flourish. Her laughter erupted like a firestorm—manic and wild—as she spun it in her grasp, testing its heft.

Gale hesitated for a brief moment, his hand lingering on the door handle as he surveyed his companions. Karlach and Shadowheart stood resolute to his right, exchanging determined glances as they readied themselves for whatever challenges lay beyond. A quick glance to his left revealed Astarion, who finally met his gaze with a strange, unfamiliar, yet surprisingly unhostile expression. With a decisive nod from the elf, they moved as one.

The events blurred together in a storm of action, leaving Gale no time to pause or think as they carved a path through what felt like an endless onslaught of enemies.

They had navigated the convoluted passages to the prison, fought countless hellish beasts, and battled through not one but two spectators to rescue Hope, Raphael's prisoner. They had persevered through every impossible obstacle, and now this was it. This was where they were going to die—a breath away from freedom.

The portal to safety pulsed with arcane light, tantalisingly close yet unbearably distant. Its magic sang to him, but beneath the melody was a discordant hum, a warning he should have heeded. He should have known better by now. In this place, nothing was ever so simple.

Raphael arrived with all the subtlety of a stage magician unveiling his grand finale. One moment, the air crackled with anticipation; the next, he was there, his form materialising with an imperious flair that set Gale's teeth on edge. The devil stood resplendent in his infernal finery. His smile was a dagger sheathed in silk, his eyes alight with cruel delight.

"My, my, leaving so soon?" Raphael's voice was a rich, mocking purr that filled the chamber. "And after all we've shared? Tsk, how ungrateful."

Gale's heart sank, his pulse quickening as he fought to mask the dread that prickled at the fringes of his composure. The promise of the gate's power still throbbed in the air behind him, but it felt hopelessly out of reach now, a dream on the cusp of shattering. He tightened his grip on his staff, casting a sidelong glance at his companions.

A fresh wave of chaos erupted.

A wave of fire rolled through the chamber, scorching stone and air alike. Gale staggered back, throwing up a shield just in time to deflect the searing heat. Cambions surged toward them, their weapons gleaming. Raphael unleashed another booming tirade, this one in perfect rhyme, before the first notes of what sounded like music filled the chamber.

"Is he... singing?" Gale gasped, his words strangled with disbelief.

Astarion, momentarily forgetting he was supposed to be angry with Gale, outright laughed. The sound broke through the din, high-pitched and almost manic, and if it weren't for Karlach grabbing him by the scruff and dragging him out of the way, a cambion would have taken his head clean off.

"Eyes forward, fangs-for-brains!" Karlach barked, her greatsword cleaving through a winged demon mid-lunge. Frustration coloured her tone, though she struggled to hide the amusement rattling at the edges of her voice.

Gale barely had time to react as another fiend leapt at him, jagged claws outstretched. He raised his staff, releasing a blast of arcane energy that sent the creature sprawling. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he turned, spotting Shadowheart locked in a deadly duel with another one of the towering winged creatures. Her magical shield wavered under its onslaught, but her expression remained cold and unyielding.

"A little help here!" she snapped, her call cutting through the bedlam.

Gale thrust his hand forward, conjuring a bolt of crackling lightning that streaked across the battlefield, striking the cambion square in the chest. It roared and collapsed, smoking. Shadowheart spared him a nod before diving back into the fray, dismantling the final monument that seemed to power Raphael's defences.

The devil, still singing, floated above the carnage. His crimson wings flapped, conjuring a searing torrent around him as his song reached an absurd crescendo.

"This is embarrassing," Karlach muttered, half-covering her eyes as she peeked at Raphael through splayed fingers during a momentary lull. Gale could only nod in agreement as he flung another spell into a cluster of demons.

Then he saw it—Astarion, ducking and weaving amongst the remaining fiends, his daggers flashing in the firelight. He was close. Too close.

"Astarion!" Gale shouted, but the vampire only grinned, his gaze fixed on Raphael.

With a fluid motion, Astarion vaulted onto a fallen cambion and leapt, daggers slicing through the air. Raphael's throat was cut mid-song, the melody turning into a warbled sound as Astarion's other blade struck true, plunging deep into his sternum.

The devil's eyes widened, his voice choking on the final note. He crumpled to the ground, gasping.

At that moment, Hope—Gale had almost forgotten she was there—unleashed a final prayer to her goddess, and the remaining fiends collapsed to the ground without another sound.

"What a fucking arsehole," Astarion said, looking down at the fallen body beneath his feet, and Gale wholeheartedly agreed.

✦

Gale's gaze lingered on Astarion's form as the elf stood with his back to him, methodically unfastening the clasps of his armour over the side of the bed. The candlelight flickered, painting shadows across the elegant curve of his shoulders. Each motion was measured, precise, but Gale recognised the tension in his frame: the slight tremor in his hands, the stiffness in his neck.

"I wanted to apologise," Gale said, the words leaving him before he could second-guess them.

Astarion froze, his fingers halting on a clasp. "Oh? For what?" he asked, his tone light but barbed.

"You know what." Gale's breath hitched as he ran a hand through his hair, struggling to arrange his thoughts. "I let my emotions get the better of me. I overstepped." He hesitated, the memory flashing clear in his mind—the fiend's smirk, Astarion's deflection, and something buried underneath. "I couldn't bear the thought of you having to go through it. That's all."

Astarion turned slowly, his expression shuttered, though his lips pressed into a thin line. "And who, precisely, gave you the right to intervene?" His voice was soft, but his words struck with precision. "Do you think... what? That a few shared nights grant you some claim to my choices?"

"No," Gale said firmly, meeting his gaze. "That's not what this is. It wasn't arrogance or jealousy, I swear, I just..." He stepped closer, his heart racing, but his cadence steady. "I just... I think you've had to make impossible decisions before. Too many. And I couldn't stand by while you felt forced into another one."

Astarion's jaw clenched, his gaze flicking away as if looking at Gale was a weight he couldn't bear. "You don't understand," he said, his retort clipped. "I don't need pity. Or guilt. Or your insistence on playing the hero. I don't need saving."

"I know," Gale said, quieter now, but no less steady. "But I'm not going to stop caring just because you don't want me to."

The tension hung heavy in the air, the only sound the low hum of their companions' voices drifting from the far end of the parlour. Astarion's hands slipped from the armour clasp, curling into fists at his sides, then relaxing again.

"You're so aggravating," Astarion muttered finally, his tone dry. The usual bite was muted, as though he couldn't summon the energy to sharpen it. "And entirely too earnest for your own good. One day, it'll get you killed."

Gale huffed, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "I can think of worse fates."

Astarion sighed, the sound long-suffering but edged with something more elusive, harder to place. He returned to unfastening his armour, casting a glance over his shoulder. "I'll allow it this time. But don't think I'll make a habit of tolerating your bleeding heart."

Gale also released a thundering exhale, some of the weight lifting from his chest, though a lingering unease clung to him like an itchy cloak he couldn't shake off. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to reach out, to gently take hold of Astarion's arm and draw him into a heartfelt embrace. Yet the tender intimacy of shared nights felt like it belonged to another world entirely. A harsh reminder that, despite everything—despite every moment of vulnerability he'd foolishly taken as progress—their connection was little more than wishful thinking. 

✦

The plan was to head straight to Sorcerous Sundries in the morning, and Gale should have been preparing—poring over maps, cross-referencing tomes, and hypothesising the most likely location of the vaults. Yet instead, the evening found him perched on Karlach's bed, thumbing through a book Shadowheart had handed him. It was filled with absurd, entirely fabricated tales of Baldur's Gate's history, and as Gale read aloud the most ludicrous passages, they all shared a laugh.

Karlach lay sprawled across the bed, her head resting near his thighs, hair fanned out across his legs, her broad horn occasionally nudging him as she shifted to get comfortable. Shadowheart lounged on his other side, idly twisting a lock of the tiefling's hair around her finger as she listened.

"Couldn't help but notice," Karlach said as Gale flipped to a new page, her tone light, though the undercurrent of meaning was unmistakable, "things have been a bit prickly between you and Fangs since yesterday."

Out of the corner of his eye, Gale caught Shadowheart giving her hair a gentle tug—a subtle warning for Karlach to tread carefully.

"We're fine," he said curtly, keeping his eyes on the book. This was not a conversation he wanted to have, least of all now.

"Fine, huh?" Karlach didn't sound convinced. She pushed herself up, then with a press of her finger tilted the book down so she could see his face. "Is that why you're hiding out here with us instead of doing whatever gross things you two usually get up to?"

"I'm not hiding," Gale replied, his voice tight with indignation. "I'm spending time with my friends and, erm, examining serious historical data which I'm sure will, at some point, prove useful."

Karlach arched a sceptical brow, clearly unimpressed with his blatant effort to dodge the question. "Trouble in paradise, wizard?"

"There is no paradise to have trouble in," Gale replied, tone clipped, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the page he was no longer reading.

Shadowheart tilted her head, her calm voice cutting through Karlach's teasing. "What do you mean?" He could hear the frown in her voice.

He sighed, closing the book with more force than necessary. "I mean, whatever this… arrangement is between myself and Astarion, it's not serious. It never was. And he has every right to be angry with me."

"I don't get it," Karlach said, her brows furrowing too. "I thought you two were—well, you know…"

"We share a bed," Gale said evenly, his words precise as if reciting a spell. "On occasion. But there is nothing more to it."

A baffled silence followed, heavy enough to send a ripple of unease through him.

"Oh, Gale," Karlach groaned at last, her face buried in the palm of her hand.

Before she could say more, Shadowheart spoke, her tone gentler but no less insistent. "But you're obviously in lo—"

"Well, and he isn't, so there's that," Gale interrupted sharply, the words tumbling out too quickly. He tossed the book aside, already trying to rise, eager to flee.

A firm hand clasped at his shoulder, keeping him in place. "Alright, alright," Karlach said, her grip steady. "No need to combust on us." She scoffed, glancing at Shadowheart and they shared a look Gale couldn't decipher. "You're such a flighty little thing sometimes."

He sank back reluctantly, his chest tight with embarrassment.

"Speaking of which…" Karlach was still looking at Shadowheart, who gave a subtle nod. The unreadable expression on Shadowheart's face made Gale's curiosity stir uneasily. "There's something else we wanted to talk to you about anyway,"

Gale let out a breath and eased back onto the bed. If this was meant to steer the conversation away from Astarion, he wasn't going to stop her. But Karlach's expression—a mix of hope and hesitation—had him on edge.

"We've been thinking…" Karlach began, her usual upbeat tone tempered. "If we make it out of all this alive, maybe… maybe I could stay with Hope."

"What…" Gale blinked, her words catching him entirely off guard. His frown smoothed out as understanding dawned. "Yes! By the gods' grace, Karlach, that's a brilliant idea! How have I not thought of that before?"

"Seemed like you were busy mooning over a certain vampire," Shadowheart quipped from her spot, not even bothering to look up from the braid she was twisting between her fingers.

Gale shot her a withering look regardless.

"She isn't wrong," Karlach mumbled with a grin, but then she grew serious again. "Anyway… like I was saying. There are portals down there. To Baldur's Gate and to Waterdeep. I mean, we could maybe figure out who's on the other side in Waterdeep. See if there's someone who can help me out. Make a deal or something."

Gale's thoughts were already racing ahead, formulating plans. "Yes, absolutely. That's a solid lead. A real possibility."

"It wouldn't be the same as living in Baldur's Gate," Karlach admitted, her voice quieter now, and Gale's focus snapped back to her. "I wouldn't really be able to come home—not properly. But… it'd be better than the alternative." She paused, her tail flicking restlessly against the bed. "And maybe we could see each other sometimes. You know, if it works out."

Gale felt a pang deep within, a sharp ache that took him by surprise. "We'll need to survive first, of course," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. Reaching out, he clasped her hands in his. "But this… this sounds like a good plan. And if there's anything I can do, Karlach, you have my word—I'll help however I can."

Karlach's eyes softened, then the next moment she surged upright and wrapped her arms around him. The sheer force of the hug made him gasp, but he didn't pull away.

The familiar scent of cinnamon and smoke clung to her, a strange comfort that seemed to settle in the air between them.

"Thank you, Magic Man," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

For a moment, Gale froze, thrown by the sudden contact. Then, slowly, he allowed himself to return the embrace, holding her as tightly as she held him; as if this fragile thread of hope was something tangible they could both cling to.

And just for a moment, he let himself believe in a future that wasn't cloaked in darkness.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

Gale stood before the imposing gates of Sorcerous Sundries once again, the soaring arches gleaming in the early morning daylight. Every polished surface seemed to reflect the sun's splendour, as though the building itself sought to dazzle and overawe. It was not quite nerves that stirred within him, but a peculiar unease that tightened with every step across the threshold.

The strategy they had devised was efficient, or so it seemed on parchment. Wyll, with Dame Aylin at his side, would lead the others to confront Lorroakan directly, serving as a distraction. Meanwhile, Gale, Astarion, Shadowheart and Karlach would slip away to find the vaults, seize the book, and make their escape.

The moment they stepped inside, Rolan's eyes locked onto them from his usual spot behind the counter, his expression twisting into something sour enough to curdle milk.

"Rolan! A pleasure to see you again, my friend," Wyll greeted, his tone rich with warmth and unfailing courtesy as he sauntered to the counter. He leaned against it with casual ease, his bright smile a study in disarming charm. Gale, standing a step behind, stifled a snort at the way Rolan's sneer faltered ever so slightly under the assault of Wyll's gallant affability.

"We're here to speak with your mentor. It's about the Nightsong," he added, his voice lowering to an exaggerated gravitas. He even winked, as if offering some conspiratorial hint, though the gesture was too overt to fool anyone.

It was fortunate, Gale thought, that the shop was so desolate at this hour. Had there been anyone else within earshot, Wyll's veiled attempt at a ruse might have unravelled entirely and would likely have invited unwanted attention.

Rolan said nothing at first. He regarded their mismatched assembly with an unimpressed arch of his brow before his focus shifted to something beyond them. Gale turned his head slightly, following the tiefling's line of sight, and immediately recognised the reason for Rolan's scrutiny.

Standing near a bookshelf were Karlach and, poorly disguised under an illusion spell, Dame Aylin. The enchantment had transformed the aasimar into the form of a burly orc male, but it did nothing to diminish her otherworldly presence, which lent an almost comical discordance of raw divinity housed within brute mortal flesh. They were pretending, and failing miserably, to seem like ordinary patrons. Karlach was hunched over, attempting to blend in by flipping through a volume that was clearly labelled as the cleaning staff's logbook with overplayed interest, while Aylin held another tome in front of her face, peering conspicuously over the top like a curious owl trying to keep an eye on the proceedings.

Rolan's glare lingered on them briefly before returning to Wyll. His gaze narrowed, flickering between the warlock's eyes as though trying to unearth the truth of his intentions.

Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it. With a sigh, he said, "Upstairs. It's the first portal to the left." He paused, biting the inside of his cheek before lifting a finger to trace a fresh cut on his lower lip. "Be ready. He commands a host of elemental myrmidons." It was plain he had seen through their façade, offering no pretence of indulging Wyll's futile charade.

Gale had just turned to make his way towards the staircase when Rolan called out to him.

"Tolna's not in today, but her office is the one on the left at the landing," he said curtly. Gale frowned, and Rolan's amber irises gleamed like torchlight in the depths of a dark cavern as he added, "She mentioned the tome you were asking about." He hesitated for a moment, shifting his weight as he glanced down at the scrolls he was sorting. "Consider this a... gesture of thanks for what you did for us in the cursed lands." His expression twisted, as though the sentiment itself were a necessary but distasteful chore.

Gale blinked, then a moment later it dawned on him. The bookseller. The vaults. Rolan was telling him where they could find the vaults. He could have kissed the mage, but instead, he tempered his excitement into a placid smile and said, "Thank you. That's... unusually magnanimous of you."

"Don't push your luck," Rolan muttered, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Now, get out of my sight. I've better things to do than waste my time on the likes of you." He waved a dismissive hand, but there was no real heat behind his words.

Gale chuckled. Dammon had been right; Rolan really was impossibly grumpy.

And that was how Gale found himself deep in the bowels of Sorcerous Sundries, sweating profusely for entirely the wrong reasons as he watched Astarion disarm what felt like the hundredth trap in the vaults they were so determined to breach.

The journey through the obstacles had not been without lessons. Soot streaked their clothing, and the faint scent of singed fabric pervaded the air, a reminder of earlier, less successful attempts at lockpicking and disarming mechanisms. Gale's fingertips were smudged black from a spark that flared too close, while Astarion's hair bore a few scorched tips he stubbornly ignored. Shadowheart and Karlach had fared even worse, their faces and armour marred by the backlash of a concealed protective spell.

But now, after a gauntlet of increasingly exasperating contraptions, Astarion worked with practised proficiency, quick, confident, and infuriatingly in his element.

As they moved through the vaults, the tiefling and the vampire gleefully looted everything within reach, their defiance a pointed and profane 'fuck you' to that bastard Lorroakan. Gold, trinkets, magical oddities, and anything not bolted down vanished into their bags with the kind of reckless abandon that made Gale, not for the first time, quietly question the series of decisions that had led him here.

Gods, was he actually a criminal now?

Well, one way or another, he was certainly in deviant territory, judging by the heat pooling low in his stomach as he watched Astarion's deft fingers glide over the intricate mechanisms. It was not only the elegance of the motions, but the assured competence behind them that sent a shiver of unwelcome excitement through him.

The air between them remained fraught, thick with the caustic residue of the previous day's argument, tension clinging like oil to water.

Their quarrels were nothing new; their barbed words and clashing wills had long been their familiar dance. But before, the strain had always dissipated, reaching some kind of conclusion. Ever since their confrontation with the vampire spawn, coupled with the ill-fated encounter with that wretched incubus, the cracks in their fragile equilibrium had widened. Each disagreement was a new fault line splitting further apart with every passing day, each clash pushing them closer to a precipice. This time, the discord persisted, suffusing the space between them like a noxious miasma, volatile and waiting for a stray ember to ignite.

Days spent in close quarters had done little to soothe matters. If anything, they had only sharpened every edge. Lingering touches, abandoned caresses, and desire left unslaked all served to weigh down the air between them.

The final trap clicked free with a quiet, anticlimactic sigh, drawing Gale's attention back to Astarion. The elf straightened with languid ease, brushing a stray curl from his face. He cast a smug glance over his shoulder, but as his gaze settled fully on Gale, that self-satisfied smile turned sly. Of course, he could see it, every indecent thought coursing through Gale's deranged mind.

With a flourish, Astarion pushed open the final door, stepping aside like a doorman ushering in a patron.

The chamber was modest in size, faintly illuminated by glyphs looping across the stonework. Shelves of dark wood lined the walls, sparsely populated with artefacts and weapons. Gale's eyes swept the room, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, until they settled on a shelf along the far wall.

There it was.

His steps were slow, the sound of his boots resonating from the walls as he approached. The book rested unassumingly upon the timber, its cracked leather cover faded and worn, blending into the subdued surroundings. It might have been mistaken for an ordinary tome, but the faint pulse of power wafting from it betrayed its true nature, like heat radiating from an unseen flame. His hand trembled as he reached for it, his fingertips brushing the ancient leather. The scent of vellum, wax and the faint tang of arcane wards filled his lungs, heady and familiar. But just as his fingers curled around the binding, something shifted.

For an instant, Gale thought he had triggered a trap they had overlooked, and his heart leapt into his throat. Yet nothing happened. As the moment stretched, he realised the sensation was not immediate; it felt distant, like a ripple echoing from somewhere far away.

The atmosphere warped, the magic thrumming through the tower wavering like a disturbed reflection on water. A sudden chill coursed down Gale's spine, raising the hairs on his skin. He turned sharply to his companions, and their wide-eyed, alarmed expressions made it clear, they, too, had felt the strange, arcane tremor resonate through the very bones of the structure.

"Well, I guess someone had to be dumb enough to provoke the winged wonder," Astarion quipped, his tone light but tinged with a grim note to it. Gale could only nod dumbly; the elf was right.

A wizard's tower was more than stone and mortar; it was tethered to its master, connected on a profound, almost symbiotic level, even in their absence. While not alive in any conventional sense, it was an extension of its wizard, a fragment of essence fused with the structure itself. Gale, if he focused hard enough, could still sense the steady, familiar hum of his sanctum in Waterdeep.

This sudden dissonance could only mean one thing—Lorroakan was dead. With his passing, the tower's intricate harmony had collapsed, its magic severed from its master. What remained was a desolate core, a raw and untamed connection to the Weave, waiting to be claimed, to be bound anew.

"Grab the book, and let's get out of here," Karlach urged, her golden eyes darting warily around the chamber.

Shadowheart nodded in agreement. "We don't want to be here if he managed to summon the city guard before he…" She made a quick, slashing motion across her throat with her finger.

Gale, without another thought, picked up the tome. It sang to him, its pull harsh and insistent, a melody only he could hear. He forced himself to ignore the call, slipping it into his satchel as they bolted for the door.

He was certain it was a rare stroke of fortune that had guided them. Within minutes, they burst into the bookseller's office, lungs burning and gasping for air. Gale narrowly avoided colliding with Lae'zel, who was poised to rush through the portal. The gith dodged out of the way just in time, allowing Shadowheart, Karlach and Astarion to stumble through after him.

"What happened?" Shadowheart asked immediately between heavy breaths, looking at the rest of the party. Their calm was a notable contrast to their dishevelled state.

"We were just about to come get you. Lorroakan is dead," Wyll said plainly, confirming Gale's suspicion. "Let's just say he and Dame Aylin…" He gestured behind him to where Aylin, back in her usual aasimar form, stood outside the door, deep in conversation with Jaheira and Halsin. "…didn't exactly see eye to eye." He tapped his stone eye for emphasis, a grin tugging at his lips.

Karlach was the only one to let out a loud bark of laughter at his poor stab at levity. It echoed through the quiet room, but it was enough to lighten the mood and make the air feel easier to breathe.

Gale turned towards Rolan, who stood off to the side of the room with his arms crossed. The tiefling's bruised lips twitched into a faint smile.

"The bastard is gone," he said with a deep, relieved sigh, as if the enormity of the words were only now beginning to sink in.

Karlach stepped forward, worry evident in her expression as she scanned Rolan's bruised face and asked, "Are you all right?"

Rolan sighed, his tone softening in a way that was almost friendly. "I am, now that the bastard's in bits." He huffed a humourless laugh. "He was a cruel, vicious man. By day, I'd tend the shop, but at night, he'd fire off the most nonsensical questions. For every answer he didn't like, he'd beat me. I could have killed him with my own two hands, but I kept telling myself it was a test. It had to be. I thought it was the price I had to pay to become a true wizard." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I realise now he was just a sick man."

Gale's stomach twisted at the confession. He had held resentment towards Elminster for years, but the idea of his mentor raising a hand against him? That was unimaginable.

"So, what's the plan?" Gale asked, breaking the silence. Rolan's sharp amber stare bore into him, unblinking, before his expression mellowed.

"I see things clearly now," he said. "If I wish to master the Weave, I must do it myself. Thankfully, I have everything I need right here." He gestured broadly at the structure, his hands spanning across the space that had served as both sanctuary and prison. "I'll move Cal and Lia in immediately. Lorroakan wouldn't allow them to stay here. They're going to love the tower."

As he spoke, a subtle hum filled the air, delicate but undeniably present. Gale's brow furrowed, and then, with sudden clarity, he understood. The flow of magic around him felt stable, tranquil, utterly at peace. A smile crept onto his face as the realisation struck.

"I sense congratulations are in order," he said with a grin, and Rolan's lips curled into a satisfied smirk.

The tower had already accepted the other wizard as its new master.

For reasons Gale could not entirely explain, the thought filled his chest with an unexpected warmth. Perhaps it was knowing that Rolan, after so much suffering, had finally found a place to belong.

"I wouldn't have this—the tower, my family, without you," Rolan said, his gaze sweeping over the group. "Please, take whatever you need." His eyes rested on Gale, pointed and knowing. It was clear he knew that their loot included more than just gold and trinkets, but he seemed entirely uninterested in challenging them over it. "But know this, Ramazith's Tower and its master are now your friends," Rolan continued, his tone carrying an uncharacteristic note of sincerity. "And when the time comes, we will stand by you as allies."

✦

When they returned to the tavern, Gale, without sparing another glance at the others, made his way to his bed and collapsed onto the edge.

From the corner of his eye, he saw them hover uncertainly, glancing at one another, until Karlach gave a pointed jerk of her head and they all dispersed quietly, leaving Gale in peace. An overwhelming wave of fondness for all of them welled within him, leaving him momentarily breathless. They had done this for him, not because he had begged or pleaded, but simply because he had mentioned it. He had not even needed to ask.

He sat in silence for several long moments, his hands trembling as he fought to steady himself.

The light padding of footsteps broke the stillness, and he did not need to look up to know who it was. The bed dipped slightly as Astarion sat beside him. The elf said nothing, but Gale could feel those watchful eyes on his every move. He reached into his satchel, his hand brushing past the familiar jumble of components and scrolls before closing around the book. Pulling it free, he let it rest in his hands for a moment, the weathered leather soft against his fingers, its etched runes catching the dim light.

The familiarity of the moment struck him like a thunderclap, and for an instant, the present dissolved. The comforting scent of the tavern shifted, giving way to the perfume of well-loved books, polished wood and the smouldering candles of Gale's study in Waterdeep. The smell enveloped him like a shroud, and the tang of expensive wine ghosted across his tongue. Then the memories surged—the book opening, the pain, biting and visceral, followed by cold, unrelenting fear. His hands shook as they had on that fateful day, and he was once again a man at the mercy of his own failings. Was this another mistake? Another lapse in judgement that would lead to ruin?

His heartbeat quickened, chest tightening under the weight of a thousand failures.

And then, Astarion leaned closer, their shoulders brushing; his presence was grounding despite all the awkwardness of the past day. That small, firm connection was enough to tether him to the here and now. The storm of his thoughts slowed, the noose unspooling just enough for a sliver of clarity to return.

This time was different. He was not alone. Whatever path he walked, whatever calamities awaited him, there would be hands to pull him back from the abyss. There were people who cared for him, not because they had to, but because they chose to. Even when Gale himself was not sure he deserved it.

With a deep breath, he opened the book and began to read.

✦

He finished jotting down the last of his notes. He had been working for what felt like an eternity, and his temples throbbed with a dull, skull-crushing ache. The bone-deep exhaustion from everything that had happened left his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. All he wanted was to collapse into bed and sleep for a hundred years. But finally, finally, he had it. He knew how to reforge the crown. This could actually work.

He leaned back, exhaling slowly, and glanced over at Astarion, who was curled up on his own bed, a book resting lightly in his hands as he read in quiet concentration. As if sensing Gale's scrutiny, he lowered the volume, their eyes locking.

"Um… Gale!" Karlach's voice, clipped with alarm, shattered the moment before it could form. Gale was on his feet in an instant, Astarion close behind. They had barely made it a few steps into the parlour when they spotted a figure standing in front of the tiefling.

Word, it seemed, had travelled fast.

"Elminster?" Gale said, his tone caught somewhere between surprise and guarded intrigue. Even now, a part of him still felt a flicker of warmth at the sight of the old man.

"Hello, m'boy," Elminster greeted, his voice rasping with age yet carrying a familiar warmth. His eyes fixed on Gale, the gaze both searching and oddly hesitant. "Don't mind me, just taking in a fresh lungful of Baldurian air. A distinctive aroma, though perhaps not one worthy of bottling."

Gale felt the urge to groan. The man never seemed capable of getting straight to the point.

"I hear you've been browsing the wares of that most esteemed emporium, Sorcerous Sundries," Elminster continued, his tone casual but his expression keen with interest. "Indulge my curiosity, what wonders did you uncover there?"

Gale had to choke back the hysterical laugh threatening to escape. Beneath the carefully constructed veneer of false pleasantries and small talk lay an undertow of disquiet.

"We found the Annals of Karsus," Gale said plainly. There was no point in skirting the issue. Mystra would know already. "It proved an enlightening read," he added for flavour, his words tinged with a sardonic undercurrent that bore the unmistakable influence of a certain vampire.

Elminster paused, his watery old eyes narrowing as he studied Gale. He seemed momentarily thrown, unprepared for Gale's willingness to volunteer the information with such candour. "So, you have learnt the truth of the enemy we face," Elminster said carefully. "The very tool with which its eponymous creator unmade magic itself. Perhaps now you begin to grasp what is at stake here, my boy."

He hesitated, his voice softening. "Though what Mystra asked of you was extreme, it was not without merit. Nor was it demanded lightly."

Astarion stepped beside Gale. He did not need to look to feel the barely contained fury pouring off the elf; the stillness that was so telling, so precarious. Even the air around them seemed to grow colder.

When Gale finally chanced a glance, he caught Astarion's profile in the flickering candlelight: the furrowed brows, the hard set of his jaw, lips pressed so tightly together that they had lost all colour, and the way those deep crimson irises burned. Astarion's silence brimmed with tension, like a storm held at bay; it was clear he was grappling with unspoken words, each one teetering on the edge of eruption, threatening to spill forth in a torrent of likely uncouth remarks aimed at the elderly mage.

A small part of Gale could not deny the perverse curiosity to hear it. Yet he refused the indulgence, knowing too well the risk. Instead, he let out a faint, almost imperceptible breath—a soft, closed-lipped exhale that carried a low hum of warning. He trusted Astarion, with his keen senses, would pick up on it.

He needed the elf not to attract the elderly mage's attention to himself, and he could only hope his own expression betrayed nothing. If Elminster, or by extension Mystra, ever discovered Gale's true affection for Astarion, it would only put the elf in danger, particularly if they decided to pursue the crown.

"What are you saying?" Gale asked, his voice carrying a note of irritation as he turned back to Elminster. "Or, rather, what are you not saying?" The exhaustion of these mind games was beginning to wear him down.

Elminster sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Mystra knows you defied her, Gale. Of course, she knows. She is Mystra. And she bids you come to her holy shrine in the Stormshore Tabernacle," Elminster continued, his tone sombre. "There, she will grant you an audience at last."

Gale froze.

What?

His eyes widened, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. "Mystra's willing to speak to me again?" he asked, blinking rapidly. "Was this your doing, Elminster?" After everything that had happened, after all this time, a spark still flared, unwelcome and pathetic. Despite it all, a part of him clung to the belief that he was still special enough, worthy enough, for his goddess to grant him a meeting.

"She knows what I see in you, just as I know what she sees in you," Elminster said gravely. "I was not born an old man, Gale. I know all too well the ache of having a goddess fill your heart with longing. Looking at you now, it is like gazing into a mirror that reflects centuries long past."

That peculiar, pitiful rush of excitement fizzled out like a candle flame snuffed between fingers, and Gale scowled.

Perhaps that had been true once, but not any more, not exactly. There was a time when any comparison to Elminster would have swelled him with pride. But not now, and certainly not here, not for this.

"The past is the past, Elminster. And the future is, well, yet to be decided." He kept his tone polite, though an unwelcome, searing desire for the old man to be gone prickled beneath the surface. "And that future will be decided by me, not by Mystra," he added.

Elminster hummed quietly. "If there is another way, I trust you can find it. It is not in your nature, or mine, to stop searching, to accept the first answer to any dilemma. Put that brilliant mind to work, m'boy. Trust in yourself."

Gale hesitated, uncertain of the sincerity behind those words. Was Elminster truly placing his faith in him, or were they nothing more than vacant platitudes meant to pacify?

"Trust in the Weave. If you are willing, trust in Mystra. There is a conclusion yet to be written in this sorry tale, Gale of Waterdeep, and yours is the quill that will write it."

Astarion shifted beside him, the floorboards creaking faintly beneath his weight. Gale's thoughts, restless and intrusive, flitted to wondering what Astarion would do in his place, something violent, no doubt.

For one manic, delirious instant, Gale allowed the vision to take form. He imagined his fingers tightening around the dagger Mystra had so graciously bestowed upon him and driving its enchanted blade deep into the heart of the man before him. To watch Elminster crumple to the floor, blood blooming at his lips, until the last shudder of his death rattle fell silent. To see his eyes roll to white as his life force drained away, to be the one who finally ended a millennia-spanning existence.

And yet, at the same time, he wanted to collapse into him, to beg to be held like a child. He wanted to weep into the folds of his robes, to plead for reassurance, for forgiveness.

Elminster, though Gale would never admit it aloud, was the closest thing he had ever had to a father figure.

But his affection was never freely given. Elminster's fealty, as it always had and always would, belonged to Mystra. And Mystra would always come first.

Elminster cast one final, inscrutable look at Gale, a mixture of emotions too complicated to untangle, before vanishing in a flash of magic, leaving Gale standing there with unspoken words caught in his throat. Gale had a nagging feeling that this would be the last time he saw the old mage.

"She wants to talk," Gale said, the words tumbling out before he could fully process them. His voice was vacant, as if spoken by someone else entirely. It made sense; such a conversation was long overdue on both sides. But he had not thought he would ever get the chance. Unless… "She's scared," he murmured to himself, his tone dark, the realisation heavy on his tongue.

The stifling silence in the room made him glance up, and his stomach twisted as he realised his companions were all watching him. Only now did he notice just how large their audience was, and the heft of their scrutiny made him long to disappear as easily as Elminster.

Gale had always detested discussing his personal life in front of others, but this moment was particularly excruciating. Apprehension roiled in his mind, anticipating the conclusions they might draw from overhearing fragments of the conversation. Would they judge him? Mystra? Elminster? The thought sent a jolt of unnameable painful emotions surging through him, rending and directionless.

The mere idea of hearing her name spoken with derision on his account made his chest constrict with irrational sentiments. He knew it was misplaced, knew she was not beyond reproach, knew Elminster was not either, but the instinct to defend them still burned too fiercely to quash. What stung was the prospect of seeing their relationship reduced to condescension or scorn by people who could not possibly understand. They had shaped him, taken his life and moulded it for better or worse. The anger he carried towards them was his, as intrinsic as the Weave itself, and the thought of anyone else passing judgement felt like a trespass he could not tolerate.

His gaze flicked to Karlach's wide, sympathetic eyes, then to Wyll's furrowed brow, each expression twisting the knot in his stomach. They had not been there. They had not seen the bond he had once shared with Mystra, or how deeply the Weave had been entwined with his very soul. That life was gone, but hearing it disparaged, or worse, hearing her disparaged, was still unbearable.

Unearned anger flared, searing and restless, like an exposed nerve. If he stayed, he knew it would boil over and consume him.

Nobody spoke as Gale exhaled a long breath through his nose, turned, and made his way towards his bed. Once there, he raised the privacy enchantment with a flick of his fingers and methodically began removing his robe. The familiarity of the routine calmed him somewhat as he stripped each layer away. His magic sensed a disturbance as Astarion entered the barrier.

"Why do you want to meet her?" the elf asked, his voice frigid and devoid of emotion.

"For months, she has rejected all my pleas for an audience. Now I finally have my chance, and I will not let it slip," Gale replied, his voice surprisingly composed in contrast to the chaos in his mind. Clad now in his simple white wrap shirt, he folded each layer of his robes with meticulous care, his eyes fixed on the task and avoiding the elf entirely.

Astarion stepped closer, forcing Gale to tilt his head up. "So, you're planning on crawling back to her like a beaten dog?" Astarion's words were cold, each one cutting with precision.

"I don't know what I want," Gale admitted quietly, his exhaustion bleeding into his tone. "I want to talk to her. I want to hear what she has to say." He was too tired, too wrung out, desperately not wanting the exchange to swell into an argument.

"You just said she's scared of you. She'll likely try anything to appease you," Astarion pressed.

Gale sidestepped him, placing his outer garments carefully into the wardrobe next to his bed. He turned to face the elf, his expression carefully guarded. "Why do you care?"

Astarion stood there, his cheeks still smeared with soot from the earlier explosions. Faint streaks marked where he had clearly tried, and failed, to clean himself up. Gale felt an overwhelming urge to reach out, to gently wipe the smudges away, to hold that angry, restless expression in his hands until it softened into something more at ease.

He wanted to respond to Astarion's storm with quiet calm, but then the elf spoke again.

"Because we have a plan. And if you march off into the sunset with your darling little goddess..." The composure Gale had been clinging to evaporated in an instant, replaced by a rush of rekindled anger.

Gale slammed the wardrobe door shut with such force, it creaked open again. "What is your problem?"

"She's going to manipulate you. Use you for your power," Astarion shot back, his tone rising.

"And, pray tell, how's that any different from what you've done?" Gale's voice was sharp now, almost a snarl. "What you still do? Hoping I'll say no to Mystra because otherwise, you'd lose a powerful ally."

And there it was, out in the open. The one thought he had buried so deeply, avoided so rigorously, even in the privacy of his own mind. The accusation now hung in the air like smoke from a doused fire.

Astarion grabbed him by the collar, yanking him close, his face contorted with undiluted fury. His breath was ragged and uneven, but no words followed.

Gale did not flinch. He stood firm, their faces inches apart, in the eye of the storm, eerily still while deadly emotions wreaked havoc around them. "You can't say I'm wrong. Everyone around me, ever since I was a child and first reached out to the Weave, only ever wanted to be with me, to be near me, to talk to me because of my abilities and power. Magic is who I am. The Weave and Mystra are who I am."

The words spilt out, unfiltered, and Gale was not even sure he meant them. But he saw how they landed on Astarion. The elf's eyes darted between Gale's, his expression difficult to read, but not enough to conceal the sting of Gale's words. It was there, a fleeting crack in Astarion's composure. Seeing it, Gale felt a mean, ugly impulse to hone in on that, to press just enough to make Astarion feel a sliver of the pain Gale had carried for so long.

It was childish, cruel, and so far removed from who Gale believed himself to be. Yet Astarion had a way of bringing out the worst in him.

"Fine," the elf said, releasing Gale's collar with a scoff before shoving him back and turning away.

More than anything, Gale wanted Astarion to prove him wrong, to ask him to stay, to tell him Mystra was not worth it. All he longed for was to draw the elf into his arms, walk away from it all, and forget his goddess entirely.

He could forge the crown, create a new way of wielding magic, something unbound, something that would set them both free, and never have to see this expression on Astarion's face again. If only he asked.

But Astarion would not. That was not who they were, and he would never ask Gale to stay, because to him, Gale was a valuable asset, nothing more.

Gale's chest rose and fell in uneven bursts as he waited, for what, he was not sure.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, the words stopping Astarion in his tracks. The elf turned his head just enough to the side, but his face was hidden from view. "I have to meet her," Gale added.

For a moment, Astarion lingered. Gale braced himself, convinced this was it—the explosion he had been waiting for. But the static in the air sizzled out like an impotent force, leaving him with nothing but a hollow sense of unfulfilled anticipation.

The spell tugged faintly as Astarion slipped through the privacy ward, its shimmer flaring once before sealing him off again.

Gale collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow as he swallowed the bitter sting of tears.

✦

"The old man wasn't lying." Gale's gaze travelled across the prayer hall, pausing on each of the marble-sculpted deities before landing on Mystra's likeness. "She's opened a summoning channel." He aimed for a neutral tone, but the strain threading his words betrayed him.

Shadowheart and Karlach stood close by, their eyes following Gale's as they studied the statues of each god. Neither wore armour, though simple weapons hung at their sides. Gale had asked them not to rush in with blades drawn and spells unleashed, and he was relieved and grateful to see they had heeded his request.

To Gale's surprise, Astarion was there too, his silence carrying more weight than words in the charged atmosphere. He leaned casually against a nearby pillar, idly picking at his nails with a dagger, the very picture of undisturbed nonchalance. He too was without armour, dressed instead in a soft black shirt with subtle ruffles at the neck and wrists, neatly tucked into plain dark leather breeches.

Gale had to look away. Keeping his thoughts clear around Astarion was fast becoming an insurmountable task. Too many emotions clashed within him, too many unspoken words clamoured for release, and too many precarious, friendship-undoing, world-ending questions teetered on the tip of his tongue.

Instead, he forced his mind to latch onto the magic that engulfed them, an overwhelming force brimming with vitality. It thrummed against his skin, filling his lungs and veins, and pulsed like a foreign heartbeat under his skin, hovering at the threshold of discomfort.

"A stream of pure, undiluted Weave," Gale continued. "I only have to reach out, and it will carry me to Mystra, wherever she may be."

Karlach placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch gliding down his arm in an affectionate caress. The heat of her palm, warmer than ever, burned against his skin in a way that made Gale's heart clench painfully, the ache settling deep.

"Go on, then. We'll be here waiting for you when you're done," she said softly.

The tiefling and Shadowheart wore matching expressions of quiet concern, and he could not fault them for it. A night spent alone had given him a chance to regain his composure; the anger that had once burned hot within him now felt anaemic and pale. For once, he found himself appreciating their care, even if it left him feeling just a touch more exposed.

Despite his efforts to resist, his traitorous attention strayed back to Astarion.

The elf's crimson eyes locked on him this time. Unlike the others, his expression was not gentled by worry or care. It burned with something perilously close to anger, yet harsher still, something Gale could not name but felt acutely. The intensity of that unexpected, unbroken stare made his breath hitch, but he forced himself to focus. He nodded to Karlach before turning back towards the pulsing magic ahead.

Gale scratched the nape of his neck, a humourless laugh escaping his lips. "Time was, I'd have given my right arm for a chance to speak with Mystra again. The left one too. Maybe a knee." The half-hearted joke fell flat.

Shadowheart, standing shoulder to shoulder with Karlach, reached out. Her palm was warm as she cupped his cheek, gently turning his head to face her. Gale could not stop himself from leaning into her touch, as if trying to draw a fragment of strength from it. "You're ready for this, Gale," she said with quiet conviction.

"Am I?" His chuckle broke, and he was mortified to realise it came out wet and wobbly around the edges. He cleared his throat, straightening himself with a deep breath. "You're right. I'm a strong, capable wizard. And this is no more than a casual reunion with an ex-lover." He shifted his weight awkwardly. "My omnipotent, omniscient ex-lover." His hands hung uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching in aimless patterns. "I always wondered what being nervous would feel like. I hate it."

Astarion scoffed, loud enough for Gale to hear even across the distance between them. Naturally, the elf knew better. He had seen Gale tangled in every shade of apprehension and anxiety long before they had even entertained the notion of friendship, and countless times since.

Karlach shot Astarion an annoyed glare over her shoulder, then turned back to Gale, schooling her expression into something that said, 'don't mind him'.

"Do you know what you're going to say to her?" she asked.

Gale huffed a laugh at that. "You know, during my time locked away in Waterdeep, I prepared a rather comprehensive speech for her on the subject of our former relationship and the manner in which it ended. Alas, recent events have rendered the majority of it moot, so—" he risked another glance at Astarion, who was still giving him an indecipherable look "—I'm going to have to improvise," he said, then turned his gaze back to the tiefling and the cleric in front of him. "Unless you have any words of wisdom to impart before I go?"

Shadowheart looked at the towering statue of Mystra above them, her brow furrowing in thought. After a moment of silence, she spoke. "Could we go with you?"

Gale shook his head. "The summoning channel she has provided is one only I can enter, no matter how much I'd prefer not to face her alone."

The cleric appeared lost in contemplation for a fleeting moment, undoubtedly reflecting on her own complicated ties to Shar and Selûne.

"Perhaps consider seeking her forgiveness. I don't like it, but it could be your only chance to be free of the orb," she suggested, her fingers trailing over the cursed mark on her skin. Gale tracked the movement, and he could not help but wonder if she ever regretted her choice. He was not cruel enough to ask.

He turned the idea over in his mind, its weight as tangible as a physical burden. Could he set everything aside, his anger, his hurt? In the grander scheme, perhaps it made sense. To cast off his pride and ego, if only for a moment, and peer through the thick, black veil to see if a future awaited him beyond.

"You're right," he said after a beat, forcing a lightness into his tone. "A heartfelt apology is the surest way to a goddess's heart and her favour." He laughed, but it was shallow, more a performance than an attempt at genuine humour. A parody of confidence to allay the tension around him.

It seemed to work on the two before him, their worried expressions giving way to something more reassured. But from the corner of his eye, he caught Astarion's expression hardening, his silence growing more pointed, his disapproval almost palpable.

Gale pressed on. "I'd pray she's in a forgiving mood… if she weren't the one I'd be praying to." He winced at his own words, shaking his head as though to clear his rambling thoughts. "I'll only be gone for a matter of moments. The Outer Planes experience time quite differently from our own," he added, and wetted his lips nervously. "Wait for me."

He lifted his head, looking at Astarion properly this time, and for a heartbeat, neither moved. Then, in a softer voice, he added, "Please."

✦

The Astral Plane, as ever, was familiar and alien all at once. Depthless colours and scattered stars bled into one another, a shimmering ocean of infinite hues, shifting and blending into a slurry of too much. Shapes both vivid and ephemeral hung suspended, neither near nor distant, as though space itself had forgotten how to measure.

The magic around him was entirely overwhelming. Once, when he was stronger, when he was a true Chosen, when the Weave was at his service, easy and malleable, this had been an easy weight to carry. But now, atrophied muscles strained under the extra burden, and he felt himself crumbling, washed up on a beach only to be sucked back in by cruel waves and collapsing sand under his palms.

"Gale of Waterdeep. You look well."

That voice.

Gale's entire body trembled at the sound. He stood frozen, taking in one of Mystra's many forms. The figure before him was the one she had most often favoured when appearing to him, her attempt at familiarity, no doubt. But it was an ill-suited visage, dredging up memories that churned painfully in Gale's chest. Gods, for all their power, always failed to understand the intricacies of human emotion.

He had to tread carefully here; his feelings, his own life and magic were no longer the only things at stake. He composed himself, forcing a jovial tone past the knot in his throat. "Mystra," he said, struggling to keep the quiver from his voice. "I never thought we'd speak again like this. Why am I here?"

She regarded him with cool disinterest. "There is much unsaid between us, but time runs ever short. You discovered what lies at the Heart of the Absolute, the Crown of Karsus, and you disobeyed my instruction. Why?"

Gale had often felt himself diminished in her presence, reduced to the stature of a chastened schoolboy, facing the stern scrutiny of a teacher after wreaking havoc through foolish, juvenile antics.

"I didn't want to die," he said simply. After a pause, he added, "And when I saw the crown, I thought I might not have to. If I could only understand its power…"

"And you believe you have the right to such understanding?" Her voice remained rigid, immovable like iron that had long forgotten the warmth of the foundry. "The past cannot be undone with self-pity, nor can a future be forged. Only with the truth will you see the way ahead."

Truth.

The word struck him like the toll of a heavy bell, its resonance unsettling as it lingered in the air. Gale's anxiety swelled in a sharp, unremitting wave. For once, he did not have to guess, for she offered the explanation freely.

"The fragment of magic you tried to return to me was not of my creation. It was the Karsite Weave."

The world tilted violently, as if it had been torn from its axis.

"It is a corrupted, half-born magic wrought in the brief moment Karsus ascended to godhood," she continued, unperturbed.

Gale felt as though he were submerged underwater, her words reaching him distorted and muffled. His breath came shallow, little more than a gasp, and his vision swam.

"It hungers for power just as he did, and it can never be sated." She pressed on, and the outlines of Gale's surroundings blurred as darkness crept inward, like ink bleeding into parchment as his panic expanded. "You unleashed something that would consume all magic in existence."

No.

"And yet"—he blinked his eyes clear just to catch the cold scrutiny—"you thought only of preserving yourself."

"That can't... that can't be it," he rasped finally, the words tripping over one another as his mind scrambled for clarity. His gaze darted away, skimming the star-dappled expanse beneath his feet, as if meaning or answers might be hidden among the celestial shapes scattered below his soles. "It wasn't... it couldn't have been," he whispered, the phrase dangling unfinished and uncertain, more to himself than to her. The words were barren, stripped now of conviction, as he struggled to summon any shred of proof, any fleeting memory, to challenge her. But all that came to him was sense—how it all aligned, how finally, after months of grappling, understanding came to him in a cruel awakening.

He tilted his head and looked up at her at last, his bleary vision meeting her shimmering, emotionless stare. "I only wished to prove myself worthy. I had no idea…" The enervated protest slipped out, only to wither and die in the stillness that followed.

He had always carried the burden of his shame. But this… this revelation burned him from within, a fire so consuming it left no ash. It was not simply a mistake; it was ruin, cataclysmic, diabolical. His thoughts whirled, a tempest of horror and self-loathing.

He pressed quaking fingers against his temples. He felt sick, his own pulse thundered in his ears, like the drumbeat of an execution march, and a part of him now understood why Mystra wanted him dead. For a brief instant, he wanted himself dead too.

"You were already worthy. What you lacked was patience, and it cost you dearly. When the Karsite Weave entered your body, your gifts were the first thing it consumed. The only reason the orb sleeps is because I have allowed it to feed on the true Weave. A temporary measure, but one that will not be enough to save us.

"With each day that passes, the elder brain threatens to become a new kind of god, its worshippers a scourge of soulless illithids. If you will not use the orb to end this abomination, then you must find a way to separate the crown and host."

The strange, uneasy silence drew back like a wave retreating from the shore, leaving him suspended in a moment of stillness, an eerie void where anticipation and dread gathered. For a heartbeat, there was nothing, just the empty stretch of sand left behind as he waited for her to continue. Gale's brows pushed together in a deep frown. He had not expected Mystra to allow him near the crown, let alone encourage him to try to put his hands on it.

"And when you've done this, you must surrender the Crown of Karsus to me."

Ah. Of course.

Out of all the possible emotions warring inside him for dominance, it was anger that swelled; it rose hot and violent, washing away the retreating stillness as the ferocious wave came crashing back. It slammed into him with force, tearing through the guilt upon which she had so carefully built her request.

All of it—the manipulation, her cold indifference—was never about Gale, nor the world she claimed to protect. It was always about her: her survival, her power, her ceaseless grasp on divinity.

He needed to calm down and, more than anything, to gain time, time to think, to process, to find a path through this labyrinth of despair and impossible choices. But time was not a luxury he had. For now, he would have to promise her what she wanted, or he would not survive long enough to figure out the rest.

She might have been possibly the most powerful goddess in existence, but she still did not have the ability to read minds freely.

"I won't let you down again. When the Absolute is vanquished, I will surrender Karsus' power to you. You have my word," Gale heard himself say. The lie slipped out effortlessly, far too effortlessly. Perhaps he had spent too much time with Astarion, or perhaps he truly was beyond redemption. The untruth sat on his tongue like poison, and yet it flowed so naturally.

Mystra gave him a long, searching look, but if she had seen through him, she gave no indication. "Thank you. May the Weave's light guide your purpose, and its wisdom guide your hand."

She sounded vapid, her words like a recitation from a well-rehearsed script, stripped of all warmth or sincerity. Had she always been so void of feeling, so detached from the humanity she claimed to cherish? Or had Gale been so desperate for belonging, so ravenous for even a crumb of approval and affection, that he had convinced himself there was meaning in her perfunctory tone? Were her promises ever laced with love, or had he been clinging to an illusion, mistaking her indifference for divine wisdom? After spending so much time with his companions, witnessing their unfiltered, wild emotions, their ability to feel so deeply, Mystra's emptiness was jarring.

This was not love. It never had been. Mystra, radiant and remote, was incapable of such an ordinary, mortal thing.

A rift split open, abrupt and shattering, as though the very core of his denial had fractured at last. He could not stay here. Every fibre of his being screamed to flee, to break free, to claw his way out of the stasis her presence imposed.

He wanted to get back to his friends. He frantically conjured their faces in his mind just to find some peace—Karlach's warm smile, Shadowheart's palm pressed against his face, and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest when the picture of Astarion's seething expression surfaced before his mind's eye.

Fucking guileful, conniving arsehole.

But now, set against the stark contrast of what Gale had once believed real emotions to be, it became painfully clear who the fool truly was.

Astarion was often unkind and manipulative, and no doubt saw Gale as a useful pawn to further his ambitions. Yet it was Gale who had been the idiot, blind to the care hidden beneath the elf's biting words, his exasperated complaints, his barbed sarcasm.

He could see it now, plain as day. The flashes of fury in Astarion's eyes when Elminster appeared, barely concealed beneath a mask of disdain. Gale had dismissed it then, assuming the anger was rooted only in fear of losing him as an ally. But it was when Elminster's words struck at the very heart of Gale's insecurities, delivering the cruellest blow to his pride and self-worth, that Astarion's rage had nearly boiled over, too visceral to be born of mere pragmatism.

The recollections unspooled, one by one, each a moment Gale had failed to understand at the time. He recalled the Underdark, how Astarion's worry had been written in his every movement when he thought Gale lost to the explosion. The memory of them lying together in the quiet that followed Astarion breaking beneath the weight of his past.

Long before they resolved to pursue the crown, before the Rite loomed on the horizon, Gale remembered Astarion talking him back from the edge more than once. Each time was marked by fierce, almost indignant words spoken in Gale's defence, Astarion railing against Mystra's control with a passion that surprised even himself. Then there was Moonrise, after the battle, when Gale had been so fragile he could hardly string together coherent thoughts. Astarion had been the one to cut through the haze of despair, his razor-edged tongue slicing through the fog with truths Gale had not wanted to face but needed to hear.

There were other memories, too, smaller but no less significant. Astarion, inviting him along to the Scrollkeeper's Lodge, a place so heartbreakingly intimate and integral to the elf's painful history. Astarion, keeping a watchful eye on those around them, his attention flitting back to Gale, always watching, gauging his reactions, reading his every thought and keeping a step ahead of Gale himself at times.

Yes, Astarion had been difficult, his words often cruel, his defences rising at the slightest hint of confrontation. He wore his emotions as if they were a blade, honed and cutting, meant to shield his vulnerability from being seen. Yet his actions had always betrayed him. They were transparent, brimming with an affection Gale had been too blinded by his own self-loathing to recognise. He had been so pathetically unused to being cared for that he had not seen it—not until now.

Fuck. Gale was a fucking idiot.

"The future of magic rests on your shoulders, Gale of Waterdeep. I promise you—it is a burden you are strong enough to bear."

Her voice barely registered, distant and faint, as if carried on a breeze he could no longer feel. His heart thundered, not with pride, nor purpose, but with a single, aching thought. His mind was consumed by the image of one person, and one person alone, and he needed to go.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Astarion

Astarion knew Gale would be back momentarily, but every passing second pressed on his nerves like a blade—insistent, unrelenting, a prickling agitation spreading beneath his skin. The room felt stale and suffocating. An innate, almost feral urge gripped him, commanding him to leave. He wanted to be gone before Gale returned, before he had to endure that inevitable apologetic look on the wizard's face.

Astarion had been seething for days. A slow, simmering heat writhed beneath his skin like a disease he couldn't shake.

It had started with Gale, naturally.

The wizard's pitiful, transparent attempt to squirm out of their deal after that little midnight rendezvous with Astarion's fellow spawn had already been irritating enough to sour his mood. But then, as if the fates themselves conspired to test his patience, that decrepit windbag Elminster had made his grand, unwelcome entrance. The old goat, stinking of pompous self-importance, had waltzed in to deliver Gale a "divine audience" with his wretched goddess; a worthless scrap tossed his way like a bone to some slavering mutt. The memory alone made Astarion want to break something, possibly Gale's face.

What a laughable choice. Truly, Astarion couldn't decide which part offended him more: Gale's complete lack of self-respect or his nauseatingly predictable loyalty. Grovelling to a goddess after everything her demands had already cost him was a weak, craven display. It was pitiable.

And yet, most infuriatingly, it was none of Astarion's concern. Not really.

Not that such an inconvenient truth had the decency to leave his thoughts alone, of course. He was, after all, losing his gods-damned mind.

Their entanglement was nothing more than a fleeting indulgence, a dalliance of convenience. Shared nights for pleasure and distraction, not permanence. No matter what delusions Gale clung to or what misguided notions he thought he had earned, Gale's newfound boldness, his ridiculous presumption that he had any right to insinuate himself into Astarion's choices, wasn't just misplaced. It was galling.

So if Gale wished to roll over like a good little lapdog for Mystra, to bow his head and let her slip the leash back around his neck, what of it? Let him grovel. Let him debase himself in servitude. It wasn't as though that lamentable display would render him useless as an ally. Gale's potential was unimpaired, even if his dignity was obliterated.

So why, then, did the thought of it claw at Astarion's insides? Why did it evoke loathing so primal it felt like swallowing glass?

The truth sat heavy and accusing, suppurating like an infection. Gale throwing himself back into Mystra's arms would mean the end of this arrangement. It would mean Astarion being discarded, left behind in the dust of someone else's greater calling.

He swore under his breath, the sound louder than intended, as Karlach looked at him and caught his eye. Her worried glance felt like a spotlight, and he rewarded her concern with a cold scowl sharp enough to send her gaze skittering away.

His restless hand drummed against the hilt of his weapon. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the dagger spinning into the air, the blade catching the light as it ascended in a lazy arc. Astarion caught it effortlessly, the slap of metal against his palm oddly satisfying. He turned it over in his hand, resisting the pressing compulsion to test its edge against something, anything, to vent the fermenting disdain threatening to swallow him whole.

The future Astarion had envisioned, the image he had so carefully planted into Gale's mind, had taken root in his own. Now it surfaced unasked, poisoned by the thought of its unravelling. The visage of Gale with the crown, himself ascended, the two of them standing as equals, a partnership of sorts, powerful and untouchable, slowly withering away with each passing second.

Astarion had known anger before. Courted it. Relished it. But this? This was something far worse. It was foul and sticky, clinging to him like tar, souring in his gut. Anger born of helplessness.

And helplessness was intolerable.

Gale had no right to evoke such feelings, and Astarion had no reason, none whatsoever, to let them fester.

Perhaps it was better this way. It had to be. Gale was fond, yes, but fondness would not stand against divine devotion.

Astarion slammed the blade into a bookcase next to him, the force alone enough to splinter the cheap wood.

He had no intention of sitting idly by, waiting for what felt like an inevitable betrayal.

He turned abruptly, already halfway to the door, when a pulse of magic raced through the air, lancing from his skull to the soles of his feet. The room crackled with energy, and Gale reappeared, standing in the very spot where he had vanished moments before.

Astarion felt his face twist, and he loathed himself for it. He must have looked pathetic, waiting for Gale's return like the loyal dog he accused the man of being.

As the shimmering magic faded and Gale came into sharp focus, his expression wasn't wary or remorseful as Astarion had anticipated. No, Gale's eyes were glacial, his demeanour a fortress, cold and unyielding. Astarion flinched, a flicker of surprise quickly smothered beneath practised indifference.

Shadowheart stepped forward, wanting to start her immediate interrogation, but Gale simply lifted his hand, asking for patience. Karlach pulled the cleric back, and they communicated with silent but meaningful stares, as they always did. Shadowheart's motion aborted, her shoulders sagging as she gave in and allowed Gale to pass without a word. Astarion would have rolled his eyes if he were not too busy feeling the weight of the man's gaze.

It locked on him, unblinking and unnervingly direct. The force of it raised the hairs at his nape. He wasn't used to being on the receiving end of this kind of look from Gale.

He had always been able to read him with ease; the wizard wore his thinly veiled emotions bright and clear on his face and in every gesture. But not today.

He shifted uneasily as Gale closed the distance between them with brisk, purposeful strides. Astarion opened his mouth, the beginnings of some biting remark forming, but the sheer unfamiliar intensity in Gale's stare strangled it before it could take shape. For once, he was at a loss.

Without a word, Gale caught him by the arm and began dragging him out of the building. Astarion followed blindly, too bewildered to muster any protest, much less demand that Gale take his hand off him. He stumbled inelegantly, barely avoiding walking straight into a guard who was inspecting the toppled hulk of a Steel Watcher, then allowed himself to be hauled along without ceremony, like some errant child caught sneaking sweets.

They were heading for the inn; that much was obvious. Astarion's anger, still roiling when Gale had first seized him, had flared into brief irritation, a bristle of indignation at being manhandled. But even that had dulled now, fading to the periphery of his thoughts. In its place, something restless began to coil. His throat tightened under the burden of the unspoken, a creeping sense of dread settling in with every step.

Memories surged up, wrenched to the surface by distress—Gale pulling him close, his warmth bleeding into Astarion's perpetual chill. Large hands touching but never claiming, never taking more than was offered; soothing, when Astarion had spent centuries bracing against demand. And those damned smiles, brimming with that infuriating, unearned kindness he had tried so hard to dismiss, mock, or hate.

But now, staring down the edge of loss, every fragment of their time together gleamed like a precious gem, and Astarion wanted to hoard them like a dragon unwilling to part with its spoils.

He didn't want it to end. Not yet. Not when there was still time. He clung, selfishly, to the elusive comfort they had carved out between them, unwilling to let it slip through his grasp before it all went tits up. He finally had something that was his and his alone. Cazador couldn't put his filthy hands on it and ruin it for him, and he wasn't ready to part with this.

They reached the tavern, and the door at the end of the stairway loomed closer. For one insane moment, he considered throwing himself down onto the steps like a petulant child. Plant his feet, refuse to move. Maybe he could bargain, fall to his knees and offer his body as some twisted peace offering, reminding Gale of what he was good for, what he could give him.

It was disgusting how easily his mind slipped back into those old grooves, as if they were carved into his very being.

Yet he did nothing to stop them. He simply followed, his feet moving as though tugged by an invisible thread, detached from the rest of him.

Gale, however, didn't head towards the parlour door. Instead, he turned abruptly, steering Astarion into another room. The wizard's gaze swept the space, checking for any signs of life. It was empty, no one to bear witness to whatever fresh indignity Gale intended to unleash.

Good. The absence of prying eyes was a relief; if they were going to have this conversation, the last thing Astarion wanted was an audience.

The wizard moved with purpose, raising a hand to cast a ward over the door. The lock clicked softly, though to Astarion it might as well have been a peal ringing in his ears. Another deft gesture, and a privacy shield shimmered into existence, sealing them in with suffocating finality.

The air seemed to shift almost immediately, growing dense and charged as a rush of energy coursed through Astarion. Gale's magic had been affecting him more and more of late. Now it wrapped around him in an instant, slipping inside him like silk winding around his spine, so smooth and intimate it left him momentarily off-kilter.

But there was no time to dwell on the sensation. Gale turned and looked at him, his eyes manic, his chest heaving, and now that Astarion truly looked at him, now that he forced his own screaming thoughts aside, he could hear Gale's heart rattling like a caged wild animal.

Astarion frowned; Gale's expression was unsettling. "What…" is wrong with you? he wanted to ask, but before he could finish the sentence, Gale stepped firmly into his space, his torso brushing against Astarion's with every ragged exhale as he rasped:

"Can I kiss you?"

Astarion's mind blanked. His carefully honed mask cracked, fissures spreading faster than he could patch them. All of it splintered under the weight of that single, absurdly simple question, and before he could stop himself—before the words had even settled in his mind—he was already moving.

One hand clawed into Gale's robe, pulling hard at the fabric at his waist, while the other curled tight around the back of the wizard's neck, yanking him closer. A desperate, stifled sound broke the silence. He wasn't sure who it came from, but it was quickly swallowed as their lips met in a frantic, uncoordinated crash.

Finally.

Gale's broad hands found purchase at his hips in a possessive grip, just shy of painful. The scent of him, the unmistakable fragrance of arcane residuum mingled with the heady musk of sweat and dark spice, pervaded Astarion's senses. The scrape of stubble along his jaw, a delicious drag against his skin. He pressed into the touch, lips parting on a gasp that was smothered immediately by Gale's mouth. Tilting his head, the man sought to deepen the kiss, but Astarion knew he needed to wrest back control, or he was going to be swept away entirely.

His fingers tightened in Gale's hair, tugging him back just enough to still his movements, keeping him exactly where he wanted him. Their lips brushed faintly, a teasing ghost of contact. Astarion tempered the pace, drinking in the heat between them, the unsteady, shivering breaths that mingled on his tongue.

He could feel Gale practically vibrating out of his skin. His lashes hung heavy, eyes fixed on Astarion's lips with the dazed intensity of a man entranced.

Astarion dragged his tongue across Gale's lower lip, brushing the seam of his mouth before dipping inside, savouring the guttural rumble it drew. Astarion's grip loosened, releasing the strands of hair, and Gale, freed, immediately moved closer. The slowed, measured kiss quickly dissolved into something more impatient again. Every inch of them pressed together as they tore at each other's lips.

Astarion made a half-hearted attempt at restraint, but selfishness quickly edged out caution. Hunger and control vied for dominance within him, but the steady, entrancing thrum of Gale's pulse beneath his skin tipped the scales. When his fangs grazed the wizard's lips, just enough to break the delicate surface, Gale didn't pull away; he didn't even flinch. The faint bloom, metallic and rich, spilt over Astarion's tongue—a communion both violent and primal. He folded the copper tang into a deep, lingering kiss, a soft hum escaping him as he drank in the sensation, savouring every stolen moment.

His hand trailed from the nape of Gale's neck to the base of his skull, his fingers curling just so in the way he knew Gale liked. The wizard whimpered shamelessly, his hips stuttering forward as his body aligned with Astarion's in a feverish line of heat. Gale was already growing hard, his arousal pressing against Astarion, but instead of pushing forward, rutting against him, Gale gently swayed back, seeking his gaze.

A moment of profound stillness enveloped them, each locked in an unspoken exchange, their chests rising and falling in tandem. Gale's heartbeat pounded a relentless beat. His lips glistened with spit and smeared blood, and Astarion's jaw clenched against the pull of instinct, his thoughts slipping towards the cusp of indulgence before he shook himself free and dragged his thoughts back to the matter he had nearly forgotten.

Astarion cleared his voice, breaking the silence. He needed to know, needed to hear it spelt out if this was how it ended. His throat felt tight as he forced himself to speak, striving for a light-hearted tone but falling painfully short. "So, you and that goddess of yours…"

The words trailed off into nothing as he caught sight of Gale's face. The walls that kept the wizard's emotions so distant crumbled in an instant, and the moment stretched, slowing to an agonising crawl, like a death knell tolling in the distance, beyond his reach to halt. Astarion saw it coming before Gale had even opened his mouth.

"I'm in love with you," Gale blurted, and the world shrank around Astarion to the size of a needle's tip.

For a moment, he wondered if he had misheard, if Gale's words had been mangled in the fray of his nerves. But the look on his face, unmistakably mortified yet stubbornly sincere, made it clear the declaration had been entirely intentional, however poorly executed.

Astarion's lips parted slightly, but once again no sound escaped. The stillness that gripped him felt foreign, unnerving. Gale's eyes widened in the fraught silence that followed, as though even he hadn't anticipated his mouth betraying him so spectacularly. His jaw worked wordlessly for a moment before the dam broke, and the words spilt out in a flood of frantic energy.

"I, ah, shit… I didn't mean for it to come out quite like that. There was supposed to be," he gestured vaguely, as though waving at an invisible script, his hands fluttering in an artless mimicry of spellcasting, "more poetry, perhaps a metaphor or two. But... there it is. I'm in love with you."

Astarion stared. Not "I'm fond", not even "I love you". No words that could be misunderstood, by mistake or design.

Gale took a shaky breath, and then, as if determined to dig himself even deeper, pressed on.

"I don't expect you to feel the same," Gale added quickly as the silence stretched, bordering on uncomfortable, tripping over his words. "Nor do I wish to burden you with... expectations. I would never presume to," he stopped himself with an audible exhale, and rubbed the back of his neck, "I only wanted you to know. This," he pointed at the space between them, "I'm happy to continue as we were, even if you don't... I just want this to be honest. If this is not what you want, if I've overstepped," he hesitated again, his throat bobbing uselessly, "say the word, and I'll abide by it. All I ask is that, if you must make that choice, you do so now."

Gale's voice fractured on that last word, another rupture in his hastily assembled exterior. Desperation warred with brittle hope in his eyes as he waited, giving a chance for Astarion to speak.

Something tightened inside him, a fleeting pang he couldn't name—irritation, perhaps, or trepidation, though neither fit neatly. It bubbled beneath the surface, like magma restless in its chamber. He smoothed over the feeling with a slow blink, his lips curving into a small, insincere smile, a counterfeit of his usual ease.

"You're telling me that you'd be perfectly content to keep this arrangement going, knowing full well the sentiment isn't mutual?" he asked, a brow arched, sceptical.

"Precisely," Gale nodded, his tone steady, almost too calm.

Astarion's smile dimmed for the briefest moment before he veiled it with another amused scoff. "Forgive me if I find it hard to believe that you," he tapped his index finger against Gale's chest where the orb glowed dimly under layers of clothing, "of all people, could carry on a casual dalliance while hopelessly pining for me like some lovesick bard." Astarion forced another laugh, but it rang hollow even to his own ears.

That ever-present frown deepened on the wizard's face.

"Don't cheapen my emotions," he said firmly. "If you don't wish to continue, I'll understand, and I'll accept that. But don't pretend I don't mean it when I say I love you."

He said it so easily. That fake laughter died on Astarion's tongue in an instant, and before he could stop himself, his mouth opened and out slipped a single unbidden syllable.

"Why?"

"Why?" Gale echoed, clearly puzzled.

"Why in the Hells would you ever," Astarion paused, forcing his mouth to shape the words as if they were something unsavoury, "love me?"

People of every stripe had stumbled over themselves to profess their undying devotion to him, their declarations trembling with all the depth of a fever dream. Always the same—lust dressed in tawdry finery, a chemical haze spun into false sentiment by fucking or the hope of it. And this was no different. The wizard should have known better than to pretend otherwise.

Gale forced a deep exhale, shaking his head, before letting his forehead fall gently to Astarion's shoulder. It seemed he needed a break from the eye contact, and Astarion allowed it, even if the increased proximity made his stomach tighten.

"You're the single most frustrating person I've ever known," Gale began, his breath warm against the cool skin of Astarion's exposed neck. "No one else possesses the ability to so effortlessly drive me to the precipice of lunacy. You lie, cheat, manipulate, and you're dreadful company when you're in a foul mood. You have a frankly questionable moral code that I won't even pretend to understand."

"This is a promising start," Astarion interjected dryly. His hands stayed at his sides, uncertain of where they belonged.

"And yet," Gale lifted his head to meet Astarion's eyes, his gaze so intense it bordered on uncomfortable, and Astarion suddenly wished he would look away once again, "you deliver an equal measure of sheer delight. What we share has been the most exhilarating experience of my life in decades. You make me feel alive in the strangest ways, even at my lowest. You make me want to cast aside my piety just to revel in yet another one of these cursed days."

He swallowed, his voice growing quieter but no less resolute. "In the midst of all the pain and the ceaseless heartache that shadows us in the aftermath of every loss, I take comfort in knowing I will wake to find you by my side. That thought alone gives me strength to face whatever this world throws at us."

"You are beautiful," Gale went on, "but beyond that, you are bright, resilient, and, gods help me, I trust you. For all our arguments, all the bickering, I know that, against all odds, you have my back."

Astarion felt an unfamiliar heat crawling up his neck, spreading to his cheeks, unwelcome, ushering in an emotion that felt like an ugly, ill-fitting robe in a colour he had never seen before. "All right, you've made your point, wizard. You can stop talking now," he muttered, raising a hand to cover Gale's mouth, as if silencing the words could banish their effect. His thoughts spun, encumbered and sluggish, like thick cotton soaked in rain.

Empty praise he could handle; he could revel in it. Being called handsome or beautiful, being admired for his strength, for his allure, for the way he could pleasure someone, that was easy, familiar. But this? This felt like being laid bare, flayed alive, every carefully constructed barrier peeled away to expose the ugly, quivering thing beneath.

He could feel Gale's smile against his palm, his mouth brushing against the sensitive skin, making Astarion snatch his hand away as if burned, revealing the grin on Gale's face. His lips had stopped bleeding, but the fresh wound looked enticing nonetheless.

He needed to say something. Anything. This was the moment to end it. His mind scrambled for cruel words, cutting enough to bleed this thing dry, but they remained trapped somewhere in his throat, stunted in their infancy, lodged tight and immovable.

His forehead fell against Gale's, and for a heartbeat, he stalled, trapped in the liminal space between rejection and surrender. Gale's heartbeat thundered in his ear, his smell everywhere. Astarion was selfish. He couldn't let this go. Not like this.

He tilted his head, his lips finding Gale's in a moment of acquiescence. It was soft at first, tentative, as though testing the waters of something he had no business touching. But that fleeting gentleness burned away in an instant, giving way to that persistent, fierce hunger. His hands moved, sliding up Gale's arms, his grip firm, fingers digging into fabric and flesh underneath as though grounding himself in this dangerous, heady reality.

There was a tragic unravelling waiting somewhere just around the corner. But in that instant, with Gale's warmth pressed against him and adoration shining in his eyes, Astarion couldn't bring himself to dismiss it. He could almost convince himself this was all just the flattery, just Gale's words weaving their way under his skin.

"What do you want?" Gale panted against his lips. The sincerity in his tone was inescapable, too open, too unguarded, and Astarion couldn't bear to look at him. He leaned back until his shoulders met the door, covering his face with the crook of his arm, blotting Gale from view.

Not seeing him made it easier to voice the words that had been screaming at the back of his mind for what felt like an eternity. "Touch me," he whispered, his voice barely clinging to the air. The plea carried the ghost of Gale's own, muttered once in the seclusion of that flimsy tent many tendays ago. The same words had been the spark that ignited all this bloody madness.

Gale stifled a sound suspiciously close to a whimper and managed a quiet, "Where?"

Astarion's hand fell to Gale's chest, fingers curling into the worn fabric of his robe once more, before tugging him forward into a brutal, demanding kiss. He poured everything into it, all the need and obsession that had festered since that cursed moment when Astarion's teeth first sank into Gale's wrist beneath the ceaseless rain of goblin arrows. Then he leaned back, met Gale's stare, and slowly, deliberately, began to push him down.

In the realms of normalcy, this might have seemed cruel, demeaning even, to coerce Gale to his knees in the shadow of his unanswered confession. But this was Astarion. This was Gale. And normalcy, it seemed, had no foothold in the tangled web of their existence.

Gale's eyes widened briefly as understanding dawned, but there was no hesitation, no resistance. He yielded to Astarion's touch, sinking lower and lower until his knees, always protesting, met the ground with a dull crack and a thud. A part of Astarion hoped this would be enough to snap Gale out of it, to jolt him back to his senses and end this before it spiralled further. Anyone else would have scrambled upright, outraged, humiliated. But not Gale. Never fucking Gale.

Instead of retreating, his hands slid down Astarion's sides, coming to rest on his waist. When Gale finally looked up, the barefaced devotion in his gaze made it seem as though Astarion had offered him his hand in marriage, not an opportunity to take his cock in his mouth.

"If it would help," Gale began, his voice low, words tentative. "I'm stronger now, and the Astral Plane... there, touch isn't constrained by the same... physical limitations."

Astarion screwed his eyes shut for a heartbeat and shook his head. "Gods, listen to yourself, you prick. I don't need some dreamscape fantasy or a parlour trick," he said, sharper than intended, but when he peered at the man in front of him, it wasn't the wounded expression Astarion half-expected that greeted him. Gale's gaze softened, the corners of his eyes crinkling as a faint, maddeningly affectionate smile spread across his lips. Astarion hated that—how Gale, somewhere along the way, had learned to see through his words, past the barbs, and no longer recoiled.

"Are you certain about this?" Gale's voice was hushed, his breath grazing Astarion's skin where the loose fabric of his shirt parted at his waist. A shiver ran through him, a fleeting tremor he failed to subdue, though he masked the moment of vulnerability with a theatrical eye-roll.

"Do I look uncertain to you?" he retorted, the words clipped but carrying an edge of strained levity. He inhaled deeply, willing the tension from his shoulders before jutting his chin as if daring Gale to challenge him.

"If you wish to stop, say the word." Gale's hands shifted lower, curving behind Astarion's knees, easing him closer. Astarion swallowed, smothering the absurd urge to laugh. Of all things, hearing his own words returned to him in that steady, eager tone... He sealed his lips stubbornly, unwilling to test what might slip free if he dared to respond.

Gale's hand traced along the gentle swell of Astarion's thighs before settling at the simple lacing of his trousers. The fabric gave way under Gale's fingers and, within moments, for the first time, Astarion stood in front of him fully exposed. He wasn't hard, not yet. Too many emotions entwined with too many thoughts, weighing down the shimmering arousal that burned dimly just out of reach, but Gale didn't falter. He didn't pause to remark.

Leaning in, he dragged his nose, then the coarse graze of his stubble, against the plane of Astarion's stomach. It sent another tremor through him. Embarrassing, really; after centuries of being displayed, admired, and claimed, a grown man nuzzling to his underbelly should not have made him weak in the knees.

Gale kissed lower, slow and intent, his mouth charting a worshipful path down the shallow grooves of Astarion's abdomen. Each touch was tender, almost devout, as though he were venerating something sacred. Closer and closer, every brush of his lips left a smouldering mark in its wake, until Astarion could feel the humid rise and fall of Gale's breath against his cock.

And there it was: terrible and beautiful in equal measure, a flicker of want. A faint stir at first, until it flared, like a long-dormant ember finally meeting air. Heat unfurled in the pit of Astarion's stomach, curling there, then growing insistent all at once.

Gale's lips brushed against him, and the reaction it tore from Astarion was shamefully immediate, a shocked moan on the tail end of a forced exhale. The velvet glide of Gale's tongue was painstakingly unhurried, teasing, coaxing him into hardness one languid stroke at a time. Astarion's knees buckled slightly, his hand shooting out to grip Gale's shoulder, not to stop him, but to anchor himself against the heady desire building inside.

"Fuck," he gasped, the word torn from his throat as Gale's tongue traced along the underside of his quickly swelling length. Then, before he could fortify himself against the onslaught, that impossible wet heat enveloped him entirely.

It would be a lie to claim he had never envisioned this. Astarion had indulged in the fantasy of Gale on his knees more times than he cared to admit, conjuring the image in stolen moments when his grip on his treacherous thoughts slipped, letting them wander where they pleased. Gale, mouth stretched wide around his cock, breathless and pliant, had plagued him like a curse. But even in his most debauched imaginings, Astarion hadn't foreseen this; the tormenting slowness of Gale's pace, the way he moved with excruciating reverence, like a prayer given form, and certainly not the sound, the deep, broken groan that spilled from Gale as he took him deeper.

Gale halted for only a moment, as though granting Astarion the mercy to collect his composure, or perhaps to pull away. Astarion did neither. His fingers twisted in Gale's hair, gripping tight before he forced himself to let go. This wasn't his to control. He wouldn't take this from Gale, wouldn't claim it as his own, even though every instinct screamed at him to wrest back some semblance of power. He wanted the man to have this, to take this, as if it were some kind of fucked-up consolation prize.

Gale's mouth left him, releasing him with an obscene sound. Then, with a tantalisingly slow pace, he sank down again, taking him deeper this time, inch by tormenting inch. Astarion's gaze flicked downward, catching the slight furrow of Gale's brow, the determined set of his jaw as his nose skimmed Astarion's pelvis, his length gliding easily until it pressed against the back of the man's throat. Astarion could feel the involuntary flutter of muscles tightening around him, the tell-tale struggle of a body unused to such demands. A strained, muffled choke escaped Gale, followed swiftly by a breathy moan, born of equal parts resolve and pleasure, as he forced himself to adjust, to take more despite the challenge.

Trust Gale to approach sucking cock with the same insufferable, overachieving diligence he applied to his magic. Astarion sighed inwardly, exasperated that his deranged mind found it all the more arousing for it.

Gale withdrew again, a little winded. Out of practice, clearly. But what he lacked in finesse, he more than compensated for in intensity. His lips returned, wrapping around Astarion with renewed fervour. The steady pace was now gone, replaced by something frantic. His tongue teased and lapped, while one hand gripped the base of Astarion's cock firmly, and the slick grasp of his palm fell into a maddening rhythm.

Astarion's attention was slipping, his focus wavering. He was reduced to sensation, his entire existence narrowed to the engulfing pleasure that the man dragged out of him with every purposeful flick of his tongue and firm stroke of his hand.

Astarion wanted to keep watching, wanted to commit every detail to memory, from the stray strands of hair falling across Gale's brow to the way his dark lashes fanned out against his cheeks.

"Gods," Astarion rasped, his voice hoarse, roughened by disbelief and desire. "I wish you could see yourself right now. So fucking perfect." He reached out, tucking a loose lock of hair behind Gale's ear, his fingertip tracing the curve of it, pausing where that damned earring caught the candlelight. It glinted like a taunt, a cruel little mockery.

But before that errant fury could rear its head inside him, it dissolved as Gale responded. A pleased little sound escaped him as he tilted his head into Astarion's palm slightly. Their eyes met, and the heat pooling in Astarion's belly swelled, relentless and all-consuming.

He cursed, the words torn from him as his head fell back with a dull thud against the door, his chest heaving harshly, not from need of air, but driven by the cavalcade of unrelenting sensations alone.

Pleasure teetered on a knife's edge, balanced precariously between rapture and something far more sinister. The pull of release loomed on one side, promising blissful ruin as salvation. But on the other, shadowed spectres stirred—familiar memories and cold, faceless horrors lurking just at the fringes of his awareness. It was an impossible tightrope to walk, and Astarion didn't know which way the fall would take him.

Gale must have felt the shift. Maybe it was the way Astarion's face betrayed him, or the faint tremor in his body, but he stilled, sitting back on his heels. His lips were swollen, slick with spit and arousal, pupils blown wide and glassy.

"'starion." Gale's voice was hoarse, his throat raw from the effort of trying to take Astarion too deep. The call of his name, slurred and low, dragged Astarion's attention back to him.

Gale drew him a little closer, hands firm on his hips, guiding Astarion forward. The man's mouth hovered near the head of Astarion's length.

"Take what you need." Gale's voice came out as a whisper that seemed to turn the tainted blood in Astarion's veins to molten fire. A balm and a curse all at once. Astarion forced a jagged inhale through his nose, his fingers tightening again in the thick waves of Gale's hair, and the man's answering satisfied sigh was immediate.

Of course.

Gale had never wanted Astarion malleable, nor had he ever needed him to play the part of a pliant, hollow thing. He knew that the man was truthful when he claimed to trust him, and, against all better judgement, Astarion found himself trusting Gale in return.

The thought sent a jolt of raw, electrifying need through him, imprisoning the shadows that threatened to drag him under, behind secure bars. He was finally untethered, caught in the vortex of heat and want.

He moved without thought, his free hand sliding to Gale's face, his fingers curling around his jaw, tilting it just so. Astarion dragged his thumb along Gale's reddened lips, watching them part instinctively. He traced lower, skimming the rough plane of his stubbled cheek, revelling in the coarse scrape against his skin. The contrast perversely satisfying.

He pressed harder against the hinge of Gale's jaw, digits biting until the muscle twitched and gave, prising his mouth open in silent compliance. Astarion let the flushed head of his cock rest against Gale's lips, taunting, testing, savouring the charged stillness between them. Then, a flicker of movement—Gale's tongue, tentative but eager, meeting him halfway. Willing, yet restrained. That exquisite contradiction sent a dangerous thrill coursing through Astarion.

At last, he canted his hips forward. Gale's lips split further, stretched wide as he sank deeper, until that clenching heat swallowed him whole again. His body went still, just for a heartbeat, his cock throbbing in the tight grip of Gale's throat. It was overwhelming. Addictive. The sheer intimacy of it left him light-headed.

When he moved again, it was measured at first, a shallow thrust that forced a stifled groan from Gale. Astarion felt it resonate through him, a low vibration that curled around his length and sent a shiver racing up his spine. The rhythm built easily, a slow roll of his hips that sent currents of pleasure washing over him. His gaze locked on Gale, utterly captivated by the sight: waterlines flushed and damp, dark lashes clinging together with unshed tears. The faint glow of the orb pulsed in time with Gale's heartbeat, a dim, steady light illuminating the space between them.

Astarion watched the slow slide of his cock past Gale's stretched lips with awe. His fist tightened in the man's hair, pulling harder now, coaxing more of those pitiful, wet sounds from him, little warbles of exertion that filled the hollow spaces inside him.

Each slick, obscene noise fanned the flames higher. Each snap of his hips drove him further to the edge, the pressure building to a breaking point he could not escape. His movements stuttered as his back arched against the door, his head tipping back. He felt it cresting; his voice cracked around Gale's name, wrecked, a plea and a warning all at once.

Before he could retreat, in a weak attempt at courtesy, Gale's free hand gripped his hip with startling strength, holding him steady, urging him deeper, encouraging him to give in. Astarion's vision blurred as the wave finally broke, pleasure crashing over him with a force that left him gasping. He spilt into Gale's throat, his cock buried to the hilt, and Gale swallowed around him without hesitation, each strained contraction dragging another pulse from him until there was nothing left to give.

For a long moment, the world was weightless. The room blurred into a hazy expanse of warmth and shadow, his body boneless and convulsing with the aftershocks. He barely registered Gale easing back, brushing a light kiss against Astarion's hipbone as he withdrew. But then there was a small sound, a quiet moan from Gale that snapped Astarion's attention back into focus at once.

His gaze dropped, and the sight struck him like a blow. Gale's cheeks burned with what seemed an equal measure of shame and arousal, streaked by the stray paths of escaped tears. His lips were bruised and swollen, parted around depraved little sobs. His hips stuttered forward in unbidden, halting movements, the last remnants of his composure unravelling thread by thread as he rutted against him.

Astarion tilted his head, watching with unblinking, predatory fascination. The sight was captivating, the formidable, erudite wizard reduced to a trembling mess at his feet. His gaze traced the lines of Gale's body, lingering on the shameless strain of his cock against his trousers, twitching with every desperate roll of his hips.

A slow, cruel smirk curved Astarion's lips as he pressed his leg harder between Gale's thighs, forcing a strangled moan from the man. The contact sent a violent shudder through Gale's frame, his breath catching as he moved harder, grinding himself down in pathetic, frantic jerks. The noise that spilt out of him was half sob, half whine, obscene in its helplessness.

Then Gale's hands were on Astarion's waist, clutching at him, clinging like a drowning man to a rope. His palms slid beneath the light fabric of the shirt, feverish fingers digging into cool flesh, his wide, glassy eyes never straying from Astarion's face.

For a sick, dizzying moment, Astarion felt like a god. This mere mortal kneeling before him in the wake of a confession that reeked of devotion, surrendering power so freely it left his thoughts reeling.

Astarion's hand caught Gale's chin, thumb pressing against the small wound left by his own teeth before sliding two fingers past the swollen, spit-slick seam of his mouth. Gale's lips closed around them without resistance, his tongue laving eagerly at Astarion's skin as he sucked.

Astarion's smile stretched wider, lashes lowering, his voice rough with delight. "That's it, Sunshine. Take it deeper."

He began to move his fingers, the languid thrust of them slowly fucking into Gale's mouth, matching the erratic rhythm of his hips. The reaction was immediate. A broken sound spilt from Gale's throat, more whimper than groan, as his resolve finally shattered. Astarion's fingers slid free, and the man bit down, his teeth sinking into the swollen flesh of his lips as his body jerked violently, shuddering through his raw, unrestrained release.

The sight alone was enough to conjure that now familiar, vast and uncontainable affliction in Astarion's chest.

He sank to the floor gracelessly, his hands cupping Gale's face as the man swayed closer now that they were at eye level. Astarion's palms settled firmly against Gale's flushed skin, thumbs stroking over the dark crescents beneath his eyes, grounding him as much as himself. He held Gale steady, his gaze never wavering, watching as the last ripples of pleasure coursed through the man, leaving him utterly undone.

When Gale finally blinked his eyes open, the air between them thrummed with residual intensity.

Astarion stared at him, every muscle in his body poised between vulnerability and mockery. He felt the habitual dark impulse rise, to taunt Gale, to strip this moment bare with a cutting remark about rutting like a desperate animal in heat and spilling over in his trousers with all the artlessness of an overeager youth.

But something in the wizard's expression stopped him. It was open and arresting.

Gale's tongue flicked out, tracing his lips, and Astarion's gaze tracked the motion. The small wound torn open by Gale's own teeth left a bead of blood welling.

Astarion's eyes fixed on it, a battle of compulsion and desire, but before he could conjure a single coherent thought, Gale was there—closing the space between them, slotting their mouths together in a perfect, ravenous mess of tongue and teeth. He licked past fangs, returning blood and spent pleasure to Astarion like some unholy sacrament.

All the barely-there thoughts evacuated Astarion at once. He moaned, a soft and wholly uninhibited sound breaking free as Gale all but devoured him with a zeal that bordered on feral. The taste, the heat, the sheer force of it left Astarion shaking, his fingers tightening on Gale's face.

Astarion found himself unsure who was in control, who had been in control, but for the first time in a long while, he didn't care. Not as long as Gale kept kissing him like this, with an urgency that spoke of need, with a tenderness that felt like worship. It wasn't a kiss meant to take or conquer. It was something far more terrifying.

And yet, it was something that made him lean in anyway.

✦

Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale 

Gale blinked his eyes open, the world filtering in slowly, shapes and shadows shifting into focus. A familiar form rested against him, cold where his own skin was warm. He glanced down. Silver curls spilt across his chest, gleaming soft as woven starlight in the moon's pale glow. Astarion lay draped over him, a comforting weight, his back rising and falling in that strange, halting rhythm that never failed to fascinate. Loose fingers circled Gale's throat with absent possessiveness, the cool press of the elf's palm a steady, unmoving presence against his skin.
Astarion had not merely stayed. He was asleep.

Gale's heart and lungs clenched in unison, and something thick rose in his throat. He had done something reckless again. His confession to Astarion had been a selfish gamble, one that might easily have sent the elf walking away without a backward glance. Yet in the storm of emotions, the need to clear the air had emerged victorious, drowning out his fear. And now? Now he was no less confused. He had braced for rejection, so certain of it that when Astarion did not pull away, when he relented instead, Gale had lost his footing and let himself be swept along.

His arms tightened around the elf, and Astarion mumbled a soft sound, tilting his head to nuzzle into Gale's neck. Longing pressed hard against Gale's ribs, searing him like an iron brand—painful, inescapable, exultant in its torment. Yet beneath that fierce rapture, dread lingered still. Morning would come, as it always did, and with it the weight of the unknown.

Teasing, mockery, even a measured admission that this had been a mistake—those he might endure. What he could not bear was Astarion lashing out, raising once more the towering, unscalable walls between them.

Gale buried his face in the elf's hair, letting the familiar scent overtake his senses: citrus, bright and crisp, with that terrible, beautiful undertone beneath it. The lump in his throat ached, tears threatening even as he swallowed them down.

In time, exhaustion claimed him. The world softened, his grip on wakefulness slipped, and at last sleep pulled him under once more.

The next time he roused, a sharp rap at the door shattered the quiet, scattering the remnants of the waning ward. He jolted upright, breath catching as his gaze darted across the unfamiliar room. Magic flared beneath his skin, a restless current rising in response to his alarm. For one treacherous moment, the boundary between dream and waking blurred—then, too quickly, memory returned.

Now, without the haze of the night and the intoxication of arousal, his thoughts began to spiral. Panic and mortification came marching in, dragging with them one murky recollection after another.

A low grumble cut through his racing mind, snapping him out of it. Beside him, Astarion stirred, and Gale's wide-eyed stare flew to him. The elf's hair was a riotous tangle, his sigh heavy with the languor of disturbed rest. He scrubbed at his eyes, indolent and unguarded, and despite Gale's mounting trepidation, the sight sent something tumbling loose inside him.

"Darling," Astarion drawled, his voice thick with sleep yet laced with amusement, "you might want to wipe that look off your face before we leave. Unless, of course, you'd like the entire party to know exactly what happened here yesterday."

Another knock sounded, louder this time.

"Shit," Gale groaned, the noise wrenching him into motion. He all but fell from the bed in a sprawl of limbs, scrambling for some semblance of dignity. He could not look at Astarion. He could not bear to see the elf's features harden as his memories inevitably surfaced in the dim morning light.

But then came a sound. Low and silken, it wove through the air, catching him mid-motion. Astarion was laughing.

Gale turned, half-dressed and wholly unmoored, to find Astarion lounging at the edge of the bed. With a lazy elegance, he held up Gale's outer robes, his shoulders shaking with quiet amusement. Gale accepted the offered garment reflexively, his eyes drawn to the subtle curve of Astarion's lips.

He shook his head minutely. "Have you anything fresh to wear?" A safe question. A neutral one. One that would not cast him further into damnation, would not call forth anything he could not yet face.

He risked a glance at Astarion's rumpled attire. If his own expression was a telling testament to last night's indulgence, then Astarion's state might as well have been blazoned in bold ink across the front page of the Baldur's Gate Gazette.

Astarion arched a brow. "No, Sunshine. I know this comes as a shock, but a sleepover was not part of yesterday's itinerary. I came somewhat... underprepared."

A more rational man might have offered to tidy Astarion's appearance with a flicker of magic. But all rational parts of Gale had long since been reduced to a fine, simmering soup, boiled away by sheer desire. So, of course, he reached for his pouch—grateful for the spell that allowed it to carry far more than its modest size suggested—and produced two sets of neatly folded clothing.

"Here." He handed over a simple black shirt and a pair of well-tailored leather breeches, both enchanted to adjust to the wearer's form.

Gale could see the shape of some undoubtedly sardonic quip poised upon Astarion's lips. Yet instead, the elf only let out another low chuckle, softer this time, and took the offered garments without complaint.

Turning away, more to gather himself than to offer privacy, Gale set about pulling on something looser, more comfortable. Behind him, the unmistakable sounds—the whisper of fabric and the rustle of movement—told him Astarion was following suit.

He tied off the last fastenings and turned.
Gale froze.

Astarion stood before him, wrapped in Gale's clothes, still as a statue, watching him.

It landed like a strike.

His clothes.


On Astarion.

Gods. What in the Hells had he been thinking?

Heat surged through him, swift and startling, chased by a rush of fondness so fierce it left him reeling. His thoughts mired between sense and the wretched pull of arousal. From the fog of half-formed memories, one rose with crystalline clarity: the kiss. The first surrender of lips to lips, the heady descent into a temptation he had scarcely allowed himself to consider.

His skin tingled with the ghost of it, and before his mind could muster a single reason to hold back, his body was already moving.

Two strides closed the distance between them, his hands finding purchase in soft, tousled strands of hair. Whatever Astarion had tried to say caught in his throat like a breath half-held, his mouth parting in startled surprise.

Gale, using this to his advantage, kissed him deep, uncaring of the lingering taste of sleep. The elf's sharp inhale dissolved into a low, guttural sound as he yielded, leaning in with an urgency that matched Gale's. Cold lips moved against his, teeth grazing just enough to draw a gasp. Astarion's hands gripped Gale's waist, twisting into the fabric of his shirt as he responded, locked in an aimless battle for dominance.

Gale tried not to hope. Tried to sever the delicate, budding sprouts that had taken root in the very core of his soul, threatening to bloom unrestrained.

He pulled back slowly. Astarion stared at him, lips reddened and spit-slick, slightly ajar. For a moment, they simply looked at one another, tension crackling in the charged silence.

Another impatient knock rattled the door, followed by a muffled string of curses.

Astarion huffed a laugh that sounded utterly defeated. His expression shifted into something beautifully open, and relief swelled in Gale with such force that he could not hold back his own answering chuckle.

"Are you ready to face the cleaning staff, Sunshine?" Astarion teased, his tone carrying nothing but a playful lilt.

"Not in the slightest," Gale muttered. With a sigh, he let his forehead drop against Astarion's shoulder in a gesture half in jest, half in genuine despair.

Astarion's hand slid to the nape of his neck, fingers pressing into the base of his skull, his thumb tracing an unhurried stroke over sensitive skin. When he spoke, his voice was gentler than it had any right to be.

"Come now, darling. Let us go before they batter down the door." He said it so softly, with barely masked affection, that Gale's traitorous heart turned itself inside out. He was suddenly, keenly aware of how much he had revealed of himself. How utterly, irreversibly naked he had bared himself the day before.

He sighed, straightening with no small degree of reluctance. After swiftly gathering their discarded attire and stuffing it into the pouch, he allowed Astarion to steer him towards the door.

In the corridor, an older woman stood waiting, arms folded over a broom. Her thunderous expression softened into one of simple annoyance as Gale handed her a small pouch of gold.

"For your troubles," he said, summoning the most beguiling smile in his repertoire.

The subtle flush that spread across her face lent him a small, smug satisfaction.

They strode on in silence, their steps falling into effortless synchrony. The hour was early, the world swathed in the colours of dawn. Light seeped through the high windows, casting long, drowsy shadows across the wooden floorboards. Gale was surprised to realise they had slept through the better part of a day and night, a rare indulgence. The fatigue of recent ordeals, compounded by the tempest of emotions that had battered him, must have finally exacted its toll. What surprised him more, however, was Astarion's choice to surrender to true sleep rather than mere reverie.

He had witnessed it only once before, deep in the Underdark, a memory as tenuous as it was bittersweet. The brittle trust, the quiet vulnerability of Astarion allowing himself such rest in his presence. It had tightened Gale's chest, a pressure so tender it bordered on ache.

And now, as he glanced at Astarion again, that same ache rekindled. He knew they would have to talk about it sooner or later—his choice about Mystra and the crown—but he needed time to shape the words, to keep them from undoing what had been so precariously forged between them. Yet unease churned in his gut. One misstep, a single ill-placed word, and this fragile accord could splinter beneath them.

He understood that feelings did not come easily to the elf. After everything Astarion had endured, Gale was frankly surprised he welcomed any kind of intimacy at all, physical or otherwise. Though Gale fancied himself a foolhardy romantic, he had no need for borrowed poetry or extravagant declarations, nor did he wish for words forced from a place of discomfort. So long as Astarion remained by his side and walked the path as an equal, there was no need to dress their feelings in gilded verse. Gale was already here to do that for both of them. But he had to know if this was truly what it seemed to be; whether it was something to build upon, or something best left to crumble.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted when the entrance to the parlour arrived sooner than expected. He knew that even if they managed to slip in unnoticed, their reprieve would be short-lived. The others would wake soon, and he had no doubt a relentless interrogation awaited them somewhere down the line.

He paused just short of the door, turning to Astarion, but before he could say anything, his attention snagged on a familiar figure perched upon the bannister of the staircase leading up to their level.

Sharp, unblinking amber eyes scrutinised him, then slowly shifted to Astarion.

Oh, fuck.

"Tara," Gale said, his voice cautiously schooled to neutrality, though it took no small effort to keep it so.

Gale gestured for Astarion to go ahead, and the elf raised a perfect, pale brow before glancing at the tressym. With a nod that somehow managed to serve both as a greeting and to convey faint amusement, Astarion pushed open the parlour door and slipped inside, leaving Gale and Tara alone.

The silence that followed was loaded and brimming with tacit censure. Tara's gaze raked over him, eyes heavy with judgement, and Gale, damn him, flushed, his cheeks burning hot as he fought the childish urge to fidget.

This.
This was precisely what he had hoped to avoid.

"I was going to apologise for the delay," Tara said at last, her tone rich with feigned politeness, "but it seems you have found a means to entertain yourself in my absence."

Gale sighed, long-suffering. "I trust your journey was safe," he replied, a poor deflection that only served to betray his discomfort.

Tara regarded him with a slow, deliberate blink, her tail flicking in a manner that spoke volumes. "Uneventful, for the most part," she said airily. "Though there is a bronze dragon making a rather theatrical spectacle in Waterdeep's harbour, quite literally. Stirred up a storm in every possible sense. But no, nothing that hindered me." She continued, nudging a small enchanted satchel at her feet with one dainty paw. "The metal you requested."

Gale reached out to retrieve the package, his fingers brushing briefly behind her ear in a quick scritch. "Thank you, Tara," he said, gratitude clear in his tone. "Any word from home?"

"Nothing new." Tara twined her tail about herself. "The Zhentarim and the Xanathar Guild remain as incapable of civility as ever. The City Watch, predictably, are tripping over their own boots trying to manage the fallout. All rather tedious."

Her tone was almost flippant, yet her expression remained keen, pinning him with its quiet intensity.

"However," she added with a tilt of her head, "there are rumours of the Absolute's claws reaching the city's outskirts. If that is what you were asking."

The brief interlude, the handful of stolen hours in which he had allowed himself to forget, to be only a man and not a doomed thing, vanished in an instant. His hands tightened on the satchel, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of the news. Bad tidings, indeed. But Tara did not need to bear more of his burdens than she already did.

"Thank you," he said again, quiet and heartfelt. "Truly, Tara. Your help means—"

"If you are that grateful," she cut in, tone clipped, "perhaps consider writing to your mother. I daresay she would appreciate it."

His shoulders went rigid, though he forced himself to release a measured breath. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and simply said, "Noted."

The smile he offered was wan, the kind that he knew did not quite reach his eyes.

It wasn't that simple.

Gale and Morena's relationship was built on shallow waters, trivialities, and gossip shared over tea or wine. He could not recall the last time they had spoken of anything of true substance. What could he possibly write to her about now? The orb? The growing weight of his mortality?

She did not even know about the blight trapped inside him, not the full extent of it, let alone the stakes of his current predicament. She was under the impression that Gale had finally relented, after months of her pleas for him to leave his tower, and had opted for a Baldurian holiday, for gods' sake. Gale intended to keep it that way.

"Good." Tara stretched languidly, her wings rustling. "Is there anything else you need of me, Mr Dekarios?" she asked, her voice smoothly formal, though her tone suggested any further requests would come with a lecture.

Gale's expression softened as he reached down, running a hand over her soft, glossy fur and feather, revelling in the silky texture as she leaned into the touch.

"That's all, Tara. Thank you," he said again, pausing before adding with quiet sincerity, "for everything."

The tressym squinted at him, feline eyes narrowing to slits. Gale felt like he was made of glass, all thought and worry laid bare under her inspection.

She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. "This better not be a goodbye, Gale," she said softly, but with a note of warning.

Gale's face did a strange thing. He wanted to give her a reassuring smile, but instead, a current of unbridled emotion took over him, and he felt his mouth tremble.

"Gale," the tressym began, pressing her head under Gale's palm, "you have always been a clever boy. Whatever trouble you are in, be it the orb or whatever other disasters you have got yourself tangled in, you will figure it out. You always do. You are my favourite human for a reason, after all. Even if you are, shall we say, neither cheap nor easy to keep."

Gale chuckled softly despite himself, his chest easing with the warmth of her words. "I owe you so much, Tara."

"You do," she agreed briskly, though her tone was light. "So do not go dying on me. Now," she said, her eyes flicking briefly towards the door where Astarion had disappeared, "go and do whatever foolish thing you have decided is worth risking your life over. And when it is done, bring your friend," she lingered just a fraction too long on the word, her voice dipping into mockery, "to your mother's for tea. She will have questions, you know. Probably fewer if you do not show up looking like you have been thoroughly—"

"Tara," Gale groaned, the tips of his ears burning.

"What?" she asked, blinking with feigned innocence. "I am only saying your mother might find his… company illuminating. He certainly seems entertaining."

"Tara," he repeated, this time with a hint of warning edging his tone.

The tressym made a soft chirping sound, her equivalent of a snort, arching into his touch once more with a soft purr.

"Until later, Gale," she said pointedly, mercifully ending the conversation. Then, with a powerful leap, she sprang onto the windowsill and vanished onto the roof.

✦

He felt as though he had been thrust into the sunlight after weeks in darkness. His mind had been so consumed by Astarion that the outside world had all but ceased to exist. He had clumsily skirted thoughts of Mystra and Elminster, but everything else had been blotted out.

After Tara left, he returned to their rented room, only to find Wyll's father there.

The Duke stood in the corner of the parlour, locked in a terse exchange with Wyll and Jaheira, their words clipped and severe.

The rest of the party, awake despite the early hour, pretended not to listen, though the occasional sideways glance and hushed whisper betrayed them. At the very least, their distraction allowed Gale to slip away to his bed unnoticed. In time, he would be told what had transpired, if it was his business to know.

Astarion was already there, scooping up the books from the rumpled covers of his bed and lining them neatly on the small bedside table with a casual sort of efficiency, his expression giving little away.

Gale sighed and sank onto his own bed, his eyes never leaving the elf. Before he could think of something to say, Karlach's voice rang out as she approached.

"Morning, gentlemen!" she greeted, her grin too wide for Gale's liking as she strode into their cramped shared space, Shadowheart trailing behind her with a serious expression.

"Slept well, did we? Or," the tiefling snorted, "not at all?"

Gale resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Astarion threw himself back against his mountain of pillows and shot Karlach a look of playful defiance. "Good morning, darling." He flashed his fangs in a smile that looked more threatening than friendly. "My, what a keen interest you take in my affairs. One might think you were the one losing sleep over them."

Karlach laughed on cue. She wagged a finger at them both, barely containing her mirth. "You two disappear for an entire day, and neither of you comes back decapitated. Now, I do not want to jump to conclusions, but…"

"Then let us not," Gale interjected, holding up a placating hand. "Whatever theory you are presently constructing, I assure you there are graver matters to discuss."

Karlach's smirk only widened, bright with implication. "Uh-huh. Sure." With an air of supreme satisfaction, she plopped onto the bed beside Astarion, who, despite all his usual grumbling, shifted his legs to make space for her.

Shadowheart looked skyward and settled beside Gale. "Come on, wizard. You owe us an explanation," she said dryly, levelling a look at him.

Astarion leered, batting his lashes dramatically. "Well, if you insist—"

"About what happened with Mystra," Shadowheart clarified, shooting a flat, unimpressed look at the vampire, whose mouth clicked shut, his expression souring immediately.

Gale sighed, a twinge of guilt needling at him. He had, admittedly, left them all in the dark for the entire night. Gesturing for the tiefling and cleric to get comfortable, he said,

"Let me get us some coffee."

He rose slowly and made his way to the kitchen. This conversation would benefit from a hot drink and perhaps a pastry to soften the weight of it.

As the coffee brewed, his thoughts drifted, guilt twisting deeper with every passing moment. Lost in his own selfish turmoil, he had not even noticed when Wyll and the others had set out on another mission. Only now, with Ulder Ravengard standing in the parlour, did realisation strike. Last Gale had heard, the Duke was imprisoned. Whatever his companions had endured to free him must have been a daring, perilous undertaking, and he had not even offered his aid. His stomach knotted at the thought. How could he have been so consumed by his own troubles that he had failed to care, or even notice, what his companions had been through?

The gurgle of the pot pulled him from his brooding. He poured the rich, dark liquid, breathing in its aroma as he steeled himself for the impending conversation. Moments later, with steaming mugs in hand and pastries precariously balanced on a plate, he rejoined the others. Taking a sip of the freshly brewed coffee, he began to recount his audience with Mystra.

"So it's Karsus' weird magic stuck in your chest?" Karlach concluded, speaking around a mouthful of almond cake as she worked through the revelation.

"I knew the orb was no ordinary ball of magic, but for it to be Karsus' malignant creation…" Gale exhaled sharply, trying to expel the dismay still pressing down on him. The knowledge had yet to fully settle, lingering like the fragments of a fever dream rather than solid truth. "Gods, how did I not see it? I was no naïve apprentice at the time. I considered myself an archmage, and yet I was fool enough to be taken for a common conjurer."

Shadowheart reached out, placing a steadying hand on his arm.

"At least now I'm armed with the truth and… Mystra's expectations," he added.

Astarion turned sharply, eyes narrowing as his gaze fixed on him. "You told her you would bring her the crown." The words left no room for denial, slicing through the warm air like an ice knife, cold and unforgiving.

Gale sighed. "I told her what she needed to hear, Astarion. I'm not yet certain what the best course of action truly is."

Karlach tilted her head. "You think she could get rid of the orb?"

Gale raked a hand through his dishevelled hair. "I know she can."

"And she hasn't yet, because…?" Astarion's voice had lost some of its frost, but there was still a barb in his tone.

"She will not do it for free." Gale drained the still-too-hot coffee in one gulp, the burn a welcome distraction from his restless energy.

Astarion let out a derisive huff of laughter, and defensiveness surged within Gale. His gaze snapped to the elf in defiance. "I have said it before. She does not owe me anything. Our meeting may have been eye-opening in certain ways, but I was the one who erred. I wrought this upon myself." The words felt worn from endless repetition.

The elf's expression contorted, lips parting as if to unleash an argument Gale already knew would set his teeth on edge. Irritation coiled within him, bracing for the strike—yet instead, Astarion paused. His shoulders sank, and he dragged a hand over his face in weary resignation.

And just like that, the tension drained from Gale, leaving him unsteady in its absence.

"Alright," Karlach said, glancing anxiously between them. "We'll deal with things as they come. We've got enough on our plate as it is."

She hesitated a beat too long, looking to Shadowheart, who let out a slow, measured breath, then turned to Astarion.

"There's something else," the cleric began cautiously.

Karlach shifted beside Astarion, rubbing the back of her neck, clearly uncomfortable, but in the end, she was the one to push on.

"While we were busy dealing with the whole Mystra situation, Wyll and the others hit the Steelwatch Foundry. Blew it sky-high with the help of the Gondians."

Gale's mind jolted at the words, pieces clicking into place. The fallen hulk of a Steelwatcher, which he had barely registered the day before as he and Astarion made their way back to the tavern, now came back to him. He must have looked surprised, because Karlach, watching him closely, kept going.

"Yeah, man. They even made it into the Iron Throne. Crazy bastards. Had the sense to go in disguise, so Gortash isn't breathing down our necks just yet. But let's be real, that won't last."

She flicked a glance at Astarion, then wetted her lips. "Anyway, that's not really—Look, what I was getting at..." She grimaced, rolling her shoulders as though she could shake the words loose. "Jaheira's been sniffing around, digging into that hideout where your old... you know… she found some guards." A pause. "They were pretty messed up. Disoriented."

Shadowheart, evidently losing patience, cut in.
"The ritual will take place under the Szarr palace," she said. "And it begins on Highharvestide."

Astarion stilled, and Gale's heart, traitorous as ever, climbed into his throat, hammering an erratic rhythm that left him light-headed.

He swallowed hard. "That's in two days." His voice wavered, the words catching before they left him. "But he cannot perform the Rite without Astarion."

Shadowheart and Karlach both nodded in grim unison before all three of them turned slowly to the elf.

Astarion's expression was unreadable. After a long beat, he let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "How very charitable of Cazador's thralls, offering up secrets on a silver platter." His mouth twisted into a semblance of amusement, but his eyes remained dispassionate. "He wants me home. It's a trap," he said simply.

Gale had to fight back a surge of unease at Astarion calling the palace "home".

A moment of silence stretched between them. Astarion inclined his head, just a fraction, hardly a motion at all. "Then I'd better get ready."

A pang went through Gale's chest. He was not sure what he had hoped for, but disappointment settled in regardless. Foolish. They could not run forever. Even if Astarion refused to show his face, Cazador would never stop hunting him. Still, Gale had hoped to cling to this newfound peace for a few more days before everything inevitably changed.

"We," Karlach corrected, folding her arms, and Gale and Shadowheart both nodded along, leaving no room to question their intent to go with him.

Astarion glanced at them, his eyes shifting over each in turn as though searching for some hidden agenda.

Finally, his gaze landed on the tiefling, and he gave a seemingly nonchalant shrug. "Well then. We need weapons."

Karlach flashed a smile, excitement sparking across her face and banishing much of the suffocating gloom that had descended upon them. "You're in luck, mate. After that whole mess in that bastard's prison, the lads had a bit of a run-in with some nutty Umberlee worshippers. Long story short, we now have a bloody treasure trove of stabby things and tin suits."

"Ugh, not Umberlee," Gale groaned, rubbing his temple. The name alone was enough to summon a headache. "It's always the same sinister chanting, the bloodstains, and that unmistakable stench of rotting kelp. Gods, I hate Umberlee."

"I concur," Astarion drawled, all remnants of his previous dark mood seemingly gone, though Gale knew better. "But I must admit, they do have a rather intriguing sense of style when it comes to their attire." His smirk made a slow return, and for the first time since the conversation had started, he seemed almost... pleased.

"That they do," Karlach agreed, mirroring his grin with a wolfish one of her own. Shadowheart rolled her eyes, though her exasperation tumbled into a low chuckle.

Gale looked between the three of them. "I fail to recall anything particularly noteworthy about the fashion choices of Umberlee's faithful." His mind rifled through the breadth of his knowledge—liturgy, history, the Fair Seas Festivals in Waterdeep—but nothing about their clothing stood out.

"Come, Sunshine," Astarion said instead of offering an explanation, nodding towards the far end of the parlour where the party kept their weapons and armour. "Let's take a look at this loot, shall we? I need a new dagger."

Gale did not hesitate. He would have done anything Astarion asked in that moment, knowing that, for all his carefully maintained composure, the elf was grasping for distraction—something tangible to anchor himself against what was to come.

Karlach and Shadowheart rose from the beds, each pausing to give Astarion's shoulder a brief, firm squeeze in passing. A fleeting gesture of solidarity. Then they slipped away to join the others.

Astarion waited only a moment before setting off, leading Gale towards the far end of the room. They rounded a corner where a folding screen marked the threshold to the small, secluded space.

There, amidst racks of stowed blades and an armoire of untouched garments, Gale found himself before a table where a piece of delicate scale mail lay waiting.

At first glance, it seemed unassuming, but up close, its craftsmanship defied expectation. Intricate and sinuous, as though spun from the very essence of the sea. Each scale shimmered with liquid grace, the seamless joints holding him fast in quiet awe. The construction was near imperceptible, the scales interwoven with such artistry that it appeared less like armour and more like a second skin, designed to grant complete freedom of movement.

At last, he understood the shared looks of delight between Karlach and Astarion earlier.

Surely the clerics of Umberlee in Waterdeep had never donned such scandalous attire. Had they done so, his hapless, hormone-addled teenage mind would have etched the image indelibly into memory.

Astarion's voice, smooth as velvet, broke his reverie. "You should try that one on," he said offhandedly, but the familiar lilt in his tone was the very same one he used when he tried to goad Gale into something outrageous.

Gale scoffed and folded his arms. "Hilarious," he deadpanned. "I would require a constant tether to the Weave to maintain the glamour necessary to wear such a thing, and I suspect the gods would frown upon such frivolous expenditure of arcane energy."

The silence that followed was subtle, but Gale had a feeling it did not slip past Astarion that he had landed upon "the gods" rather than "Mystra".

He stood motionless, his back to the elf, willing the warmth born of the intrusive mental image Astarion had conjured to retreat from his face.

The floorboard creaked under Astarion's feet as he drew closer. Not close enough for their bodies to touch, but enough for Gale to feel the phantom weight of his presence.

Then, deft fingers combed through Gale's hair, sweeping it aside in a gesture so unhurried it might have seemed idle were it not so deliberate.

Before he could so much as draw breath, cool, parted lips pressed against the flushed column of his neck, and whatever air he had been holding wrenched itself from his lungs. The contact was searing, an unbidden spark that licked fire down his spine, leaving his limbs weak and his pulse hammering against his ribs. He gasped, a sound embarrassingly close to a whimper, and his hands flew to the frame of the armoire, grasping at the polished wood in a futile attempt to anchor himself.

Astarion's lips curved against his skin, the barest suggestion of a smile. He leaned in, his voice slipping into that low, indulgent register that coiled so easily around Gale's senses.

"That's more like it," he purred, every syllable a lure, every word a snare. "So responsive."

Gale meant to retort, to muster something with a modicum of composure, but the words withered the moment Astarion's hands found his waist. One drifted lower, slipping beneath his shirt, nails tracing idly down his side before coming to rest at the band of his trousers.

"I could prove you wrong," Astarion murmured, a honeyed thread of suggestion.

Gale blinked, equal measure dazed and bewildered. "What?"

A chuckle, low and utterly indecent, thrummed against the side of his throat. "I said, I could prove you wrong," Astarion repeated, unhurried. "You would look exquisite in that armour. Every line fitted, every tempting inch still on display. And, of course," he edged even closer, his breath falling in soft puffs against Gale's jaw, "it would leave just enough room for wandering hands to slip beneath."

As if to illustrate the notion, Astarion's fingers dipped just under the fabric of Gale's breeches. A wisp of a touch, there and gone in an instant. Gale tensed, a sharp inhale betraying him, and he felt the answering grin against the back of his neck, smug and self-satisfied.

His gaze darted to the paravent shielding them from the rest of the room. A flimsy thing, offering only the illusion of privacy. The others were beyond it, talking, laughing, distracted. But one step too near, one sound too telling, and—

"On a bed fit for royalty," Astarion continued, his words thick as molasses, pouring into the hollows of Gale's mind as though he held dominion there. "I could lay you out amongst the pillows."

Gale made a sound, something caught between a laugh and a breathless exhale. "What is it with you and cushions?" He aimed for dry amusement, but the words tangled, unravelled by the languid, calculated path of Astarion's hands as they skimmed across the skin of his abdomen.

The elf made a scandalised sound. "Comfort, darling. Decadence. I may be a hedonist, but even I have my limits. A little luxury never hurt anyone, least of all me."

"Yes, naturally," Gale muttered. "If there is one thing that ruins intimacy, it is insufficient upholstery."

Astarion paid him no mind as he pressed on. "I would not strip you bare, of course. Not right away." Gale could feel the shape of each word against his fevered skin. "No, I would take my time."

There was still humour laced in Astarion's tone, but it did little to temper the effect of his remark. Gale sighed, his head tipping back despite himself, finding rest against the firm press of Astarion's shoulder.

"I'd savour every inch that delightful garment deigned to leave exposed," Astarion went on, softer now, his voice an intimate hush steeped in wicked temptation. "Until you were begging me for more."

A shudder ran its slow course through Gale as his head lolled aside, baring his throat to the elf's ministrations. "You're insufferable," he rasped, though the accusation lacked all conviction.

"Mm. I think you mean irresistible," Astarion countered smoothly, without missing a beat. Gale might have rolled his eyes if not for the fangs grazing the tender juncture where his neck met his shoulder—just enough to leave the faintest indents in his skin. The want, the need, to feel them sink in, to let that sharp, exquisite pain unfurl into something richer, was near overwhelming. The thought alone sent heat pooling low in his belly.

He tried for a chuckle, but it crumbled before it could fully form, collapsing into a fractured moan as Astarion's hand curled about his throat. There was no intent to restrain, yet the touch felt unmistakably like a claim. Gale leaned into it without thought, tilting his chin in search of a kiss, but slender fingers caught his jaw, halting him just out of reach.

Astarion was close, unbearably so, his breath a whisper against Gale's parted lips, taunting him with the mere suggestion of what he craved, yet withholding, as though he knew precisely how keenly Gale longed for it.

The memory of the night before bled into the heady, intoxicating urgency of now.

At last, Astarion pressed a small, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth.


Then he was gone.

The absence struck like a snapped rope, sending Gale swaying, untethered, bereft. His breath came uneven, his body still grasping for the vanished contact.

"Company is around the corner, darling," Astarion said quietly.

An undignified noise escaped Gale in protest, his mind too sluggish to catch up, but over the erratic drumming of his own heartbeat, he could hear it too, the faint approach of footsteps and chatter. Lae'zel and Shadowheart, closing in fast.

Gale turned, ready to fix Astarion with a withering glare for winding him up in a place like this, but the words died in his throat the moment he laid eyes upon the elf.

Astarion, still draped in Gale's own garments, looked nothing short of ruinous. His lashes hung low, his smirk slanted in unrepentant satisfaction. Colour sat high upon his cheekbones, the tips of his ears flushed, and though he had no need for breath, his chest rose and fell as he forced himself to temper his own evident arousal.

Shadowheart and Lae'zel strode past their feeble cover, oblivious.

"Stealing a goose and killing it for its meat is a petty crime, Lae'zel. I don't understand why you're so worked up about this," Shadowheart said with airy dismissiveness.

"Geese are warriors of the sky. They ought to be honoured, not butchered," Lae'zel hissed, her voice low and brimming with contempt. Gale needed no glance to envision the righteous fury twisting her features.

And just like that, the moment shattered. They both dissolved into laughter, the reckless absurdity of it all too much to bear. Gale reeled back against the table for support, breathless, their mirth unfurling into something unrestrained and perilously close to outright giggles.

Astarion wiped at his eyes, stray tears of amusement making his crimson gaze all the brighter. Then, as if seized by some delicious impulse, he stepped forward in a single fluid motion, closing the space between them. His palm found the nape of Gale's neck, fingers a frigid brand against flushed skin, and he pulled him into a kiss—fervent, and possessive.

Gale couldn't help but smile into it, warmth unfolding within him, slipping beneath his ribs like golden light through cracked shutters.

He patted Astarion's side with an air of fond resolve. "We should get back to our companions before they stumble upon something that will earn us tendays of relentless crude jokes."

Astarion grinned, eyes glinting with dangerous mirth as if weighing whether the risk might be worth it after all.

But then, with one last deep inhale, he stepped back. As he did, his hand drifted behind Gale, fingers curling around the hilt of an ornate dagger.

He rolled the weapon between his fingers, testing its balance. Its edge caught the dim light before, with a flick of his wrist, he turned the motion into a flourish and gestured for Gale to step out of their secluded corner.

✦

Dammon surveyed the raw metals spread across the worktable, his keen gaze flicking to Gale with a questioning quirk of his brow. "You're sure about this?"

Gale inclined his head, the gesture brisk with certainty.

"Will you stay to assist?" Dammon asked. "I'll need your hand with the incantations once the materials are ready."

"Of course." Gale stepped closer to the workstation, his attention catching on the darkmantle hide base Dammon had already completed. He reached out, fingertips hovering just above the fabric. Sleek. Supple. Masterfully stitched.

Slipping away from the inn had been no small feat, but Karlach, though unwitting, had provided the perfect distraction. Her successful goading of Astarion into yet another card game had given Gale the opening he needed.

"I won't be long. Just a brief stroll, a breath of air. Mayhap a visit to the library," he had said, feigning nonchalance.

Astarion had tilted his head, eyes narrowing in quiet assessment. A flicker of something passed across his expression, but uncharacteristically, he said nothing. Perhaps, after everything, he had expected Gale to crave solitude. He only gave a slow nod before turning back to deal another hand, not even insisting that Gale should not venture out alone.

Yet as Gale stepped outside, leaving behind the clash of Lae'zel's barking orders and Halsin's sonorous laughter, he could still feel Astarion's gaze following his departure—watchful even beneath his supposed indifference.

Now, in the forge's flickering glow, Gale exhaled, slow and steady, letting the heat of the flames settle over him. He ran a reverent hand over the hide stretched before him.

"This is remarkable work, Dammon," he murmured, fingers tracing the precise seams.

The tiefling grunted in acknowledgement. "Thank you. This next part, however," he nodded towards the metal, "would take a tenday at least under ordinary circumstances. With a Fabricate spell, though, we might have it finished in a few hours. I take it this is urgent?"

Gale nodded, his eyes still fixed on the hide.

"Well then, wizard. I hope you're well rested," Dammon said, flashing a wide, easy smile.

"I won't claim the skills of a master smith," Gale admitted, "and there's no guarantee the spell will function flawlessly in a process this intricate. But I can shape the pieces as needed."

"Leave the fine work to me." Dammon's confidence, honed through years at the anvil, lent Gale no small measure of reassurance. "You handle the forms and enchantments, I'll see to the rest."

They had settled the particulars upon Gale's arrival. At first, Dammon's brows had shot up, met with Gale's increasingly flustered attempts to explain his vision: something akin to the attire of Umberlee's clerics, albeit far less ostentatious and with more—significantly more—coverage. But with some careful sketching and discussion, they had arrived at a design that would meet Astarion's needs.

Gale rubbed his hands together, his excitement barely containable. "I've been experimenting with a pair of spells of my own design. The first, Sunshade Warding, is meant to catch and scatter sunlight the instant it touches the armour. As for the hide, I devised a subtle illusion imbued with shadow to help it blend into darkness—Umbral Veil. From my studies, the star metal should hold onto these enchantments for quite some time."

"Sounds good!" Dammon said, then seized an apparatus Gale could not even begin to name, gave it a deft twirl, and set to work.

Gale watched, absorbed, as the tiefling moved with practised ease, undaunted by the forge's blistering heat. Dammon took the mithril first, its polished surface catching the firelight as he placed it into the crucible. It yielded swiftly, melting into a liquid shimmer, but the star metal, denser and defiant, resisted. Holding a small pendant in one hand, Dammon muttered a quiet incantation, adjusting the bellows, coaxing the embers to greater intensity. Sparks leapt as he sprinkled a fine dust of flux over the fragment, compelling it to surrender.

At last, the two materials began to merge. Dammon stirred the molten alloy with a rod etched in infernal sigils, murmuring under his breath as if coaxing the elements to bond. Gradually, the swirling mass steadied, its glow fading from a volatile near-white to a smouldering ember.

Then Gale, too, turned to his task. Reaching into the Weave, he let its energy surge around them in crackling bursts, power coursing through him as he channelled it into the newly forged metal. The alloy shimmered, shifting like quicksilver under his command until the first scale took shape, hardening into a deep obsidian sheen.

He picked it up, turning it over in his palm. The edges were uneven, warped where they should have been crisp. Frowning, he ran a thumb along the flawed ridges.

Dammon cast an appraising glance and shrugged. "It's fine. I can probably work with that."

But Gale shook his head. Mending it would take too long, time they did not have.

"Let me try again. The issue isn't the materials or the spell, it's the way I'm channelling. The magic flows too freely, untempered, disrupting the shaping process."

He released a slow breath, casting a glance at Dammon, then gave a brief nod, a silent signal that he was ready to try again. But before lifting his hands, his fingers closed around the misshapen scale. He paused, then, almost absently, slipped it into his pocket.

Dammon lifted a brow but said nothing, tapping idly against the anvil as he waited.

This time, Gale wove his magic with measured restraint, releasing it in careful increments, aligning each thread of the Weave to his intent. The alloy responded in kind, slick darkness flowing into polished forms beneath his fingertips.

A small smile played at the corners of Gale's lips. He could feel it, the delicate balance between force and finesse, the hum of arcane energy settling into harmony with the forge's heat. He held his excitement in check, mindful of his rhythm, watching as the petal-like scales blossomed from the alloy one by one.

Once the last had cooled, he turned his focus to the enchantments. He imbued the concealed base first, deftly weaving Umbral Veil into the stitches. Then, one by one, he turned his attention to each individual piece, bestowing upon them Sunshade Warding as though handling the most precious of gems. Magic threaded through every fibre of the fabric, sank into every grain of the metal, his very essence poured into the spellwork.

Beside him, Dammon picked up each scale in turn, refining their edges with the practised ease of a master craftsman. His hammer fell in measured strokes, smoothing imperfections, while finer instruments carved delicate sigils into the gleaming surface.

They worked in near silence, broken only by the rhythmic clang of Dammon's tools and the low hum of magic in the air.

By the time the final spell settled, exhaustion weighed heavily on Gale. Even well-practised incantations exacted their toll, but working with fresh enchantments, shaping new arcana into being, demanded more of him still. His hands trembled with fatigue, his thoughts thick with sluggishness, his breath slow, as though the very marrow had been drained from his bones.

He did not remember falling asleep.

When he next stirred, it was to a firm but gentle shake.

"Gale, I think our task is complete," Dammon's voice broke through the lingering haze of exhaustion.

Gale blinked, his surroundings swimming into focus. He had slept, though not long enough to restore what had been spent. The arcane wellspring within him lay depleted, its depths run dry, and the weight of exertion clung to his limbs like leaden chains.

With effort, he pushed himself upright, dragging breath into weary lungs, and turned towards the armour. His heart skipped a beat.

In the low firelight, it gleamed dark as the deep ocean at midnight, a perfect balance of form and function. The darkmantle hide had melded seamlessly with the alloy they had created. Dammon had wrought a marvel in mere hours, surpassing even Gale's most hopeful imaginings.

The very thought of offering this to Astarion made his foolish heart swell. Yet Gale knew it would change nothing. Astarion was set on ascension, and more than anything, Gale wanted to honour the path he chose for himself, even if watching him drift further from what he once was left a deep ache in his chest and stung his eyes.

Astarion had made his desires clear. And Gale pondered, not for the first time, what might become of him if he were to take the crown, or reforge it for himself. If he reached for godhood, would his voice lose its colour and warmth? Would it become distant and untouchable, like Mystra's? Perhaps then he and Astarion would walk the same path. They could be powerful and safe, their souls shielded against the fragile tenderness of mortal existence.

He looked at the tiefling. "Truly exceptional, Dammon," he muttered, open admiration in his tone.

Dammon exhaled a chuckle, rubbing at the soot smudged across his brow. "Anything for my favourite customer," he said with a lopsided grin, tired but satisfied. A fine veil of sweat and dust clung to him, and his once pristine hair was now a wild, dirt-streaked tangle where his hands had raked through it one too many times.

"Was there any star metal left over?" Gale inquired.

Dammon sifted through the scattered remnants on the workbench before retrieving a sizeable chunk. "Aye. Here," he said, extending it towards him.

Gale barely glanced at it before shaking his head. "Keep it."

Dammon faltered, his grip tightening around the metal. "What? No. Gale, I cannot. This is... this is worth a fortune."

"I have no further need of it, and your help has been beyond any price," Gale replied firmly. "I asked much of you, and you delivered. Consider this my thanks."

The tiefling's tail flicked once, betraying his uncertainty. He looked at the star metal, then back at Gale, measuring his sincerity. "You sure?"

"Quite," Gale assured him.

Dammon let out a breath, rubbing his thumb over the metal's surface. He was silent for a moment, but then, with a small nod, he set it carefully back upon the table. His fingers hovered over it, thoughtful.

"...Thank you," he said at last.

Gale glanced at the finished garment one last time before straightening with resolve. "Now all that remains is a blessing, and the work shall be complete."

Dammon picked up a rag and wiped his hands. "And who exactly can provide such a potent and lasting blessing?"

Gale's lips curved slightly. "Oh, I know just the person."

It was time to talk to Dame Aylin.

✦

Chapter Text