Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gale

"And here, the meadow where we hold our morning sun salutations," Halsin gestured with the casual confidence of a half-naked man who had clearly found his calling. "The dew-kissed grass between your toes, the gentle rays warming your face—there's no better way to greet the day."

Gale nodded enthusiastically, trying to match Halsin's energy while simultaneously monitoring Astarion's increasingly frigid demeanor. The vampire hadn't spoken more than three words since they'd stepped through the Reithwin waypoint half an hour ago and Astarion had discovered—surprise—that the "writer's retreat" Gale had described was actually Halsin's trauma recovery center.

"Sounds marvelous," Gale said, feeling Astarion's glare burning into him with more intensity than any magical resistance could protect against. "Quite rejuvenating, I'd imagine."

"Rejuvenating," Astarion repeated flatly. 

Halsin, either oblivious to or tactfully ignoring the tension, continued leading them down the winding path. "And over there, that's our community pavilion, where we gather for meals, music, discussion circles, and—" he winked at them both "—other forms of connection."

Gale cleared his throat. "Fascinating."

"Fascinating," Astarion echoed, voice dripping with venom. 

Halsin turned, eyes twinkling. "We're all about connection here at Newleaf. Connecting to nature, to each other, to the parts of ourselves we've hidden away. Some find it through painting, others through hiking, swimming in our beautiful lake, or storytelling."

Astarion adjusted his bag of holding with exaggerated care. "And here I thought we were coming to write."

"Oh, many do write!" Halsin assured him. "The creative spirit thrives here. But we find that when we open ourselves to all of nature's gifts—"

"I bet you do," Astarion muttered.

"—the words flow more freely." Halsin stopped before a charming cabin nestled among flowering vines. "Here we are! Your home for the week."

Gale admired the craftsmanship, desperately avoiding Astarion's gaze. "It's lovely, Halsin. Thank you."

"I've left some welcome materials inside, including our schedule of activities. Nothing mandatory, of course—at Newleaf, we respect autonomy above all." Halsin clasped Gale's shoulder. "We're glad you're both here. Dinner's at sunset, but feel free to explore or rest until then."

As Halsin departed with a wave, Gale finally risked a look at Astarion, whose face had settled into the too-calm expression that Gale recognized as the precursor to a verbal evisceration.

"So," Astarion said pleasantly, "a writer's retreat."

Gale winced. "Well, technically, you can write here."

"And the part about this being a 'recovery center for traumatized persons' just slipped your mind when you described it?"

"I may have... emphasized certain aspects over others."

Gale stepped into the cabin, grateful for even a temporary escape from Astarion's withering gaze. The wizard had carried guilt for days about his tactical omissions, but seeing the interior now—exactly as he'd planned with Halsin and Shadowheart—renewed his conviction that this had been the right decision.

"Before you continue listing my crimes against honesty," Gale said, gesturing broadly, "perhaps take a look at what I've arranged?"

Astarion followed him inside, words dying on his lips as he surveyed the space. The plush bed with its deep burgundy and purple linens. Twin writing desks positioned by the window. A copper tub large enough for two.

"You did all this?" Astarion asked, his accusatory tone softening almost imperceptibly.

"I had help with the implementation, but yes," Gale admitted. "The design was mine. I wanted it to feel special."

Astarion approached the writing desk, running his fingers along the polished surface. "How incredibly thoughtful. Almost as thoughtful as when you described this place as—what was it?—'a secluded retreat where writers go to find inspiration in nature.'"

Gale grimaced. "That is... technically accurate."

"Oh, and let's not forget how you explained the name," Astarion continued, examining the drawer of his desk. "When I asked about 'Newleaf,' you said it referred to turning over a fresh page in a manuscript."

"A reasonable interpretation!" Gale protested, feeling sweat beading at his hairline. "New leaf, new page—the metaphor extends in multiple directions."

"Multiple directions indeed." Astarion opened the drawer, finding perfectly arranged quills, ink, and stationery. "Just like when you mentioned 'like-minded creative individuals seeking fulfillment,' which apparently translates to 'traumatized slaves learning to enjoy group hugs.'"

Gale moved to the bathing area, desperate to redirect attention. "I had them stock your favorite bath oils. Bergamot and rosemary."

"Don't forget my personal favorite," Astarion interrupted, examining the second desk before shooting Gale a pointed look. "When you assured me there would be 'structured time for focused writing,' you somehow failed to mention that would be happening between sessions of—what did Halsin call it?—'enjoying nature's gifts.'"

"The writing desks are quite nice though, aren't they?" Gale tried, his voice lifting hopefully. "I specified the height, the angle of light, everything."

Astarion sighed, settling into the chair and testing its comfort with a reluctant nod. "I suppose the workspace is... acceptable."

Gale exhaled silently. The desks had scored at least a small victory.

Astarion paced the cabin, testing the springs of the bed with a critical press of his hand before circling back to Gale with narrowed eyes.

"Setting aside your impressive commitment to deception," Astarion said, "perhaps you'd care to explain why you felt I needed to be tricked into attending a recovery center? I’d love to know what transgression of mine warranted this... intervention?"

The question hung in the air, sharper than any of Astarion's blades. Gale had prepared for this moment during countless mental rehearsals on their journey, yet now found his carefully constructed explanation scattering like pages in a windstorm. He straightened his robes, buying precious seconds.

"It wasn't about a transgression," Gale began, choosing his words with the same precision he'd once used to untangle arcane theorems. "I've been concerned, that's all. These past months, you've scarcely left the tower. You barely touch the blood I bring, you've worn through a dozen quills in a fortnight, and you—" He paused, noting how Astarion's eyebrow arched dangerously. "You haven't stepped outside to feel the sun since Shadowheart's visit at midwinter. You finally have the Ring of the Sunwalker, and you barely use it."

Astarion waved dismissively. "I've been writing, Gale. That's what writers do. They write."

"Yes, but the intensity with which you've been doing it—"

"Is precisely what's required to produce something better than Volo's drivel. That idiot's ridiculous book—about our adventures, no less—is selling almost as well as our far superior chronicle, and I will have my revenge.  I know he makes more money writing romance under that pen name than his so-called histories, and I will steal his readership or die trying," Astarion cut in.

Gale took a step forward, emboldened. "I apologize for the deception. Truly. It was wrongheaded and a breach of trust, but I didn't know how else to—" The words caught in his throat as he noticed Astarion's expression shifting, features hardening into the smooth, impenetrable mask he wore when retreating behind his walls.

"What I'm trying to say," Gale continued more gently, "is that I've missed you. We share a bed, a home, even a byline—yet I feel as though you're slipping away. When we finished our chronicle, I thought we would celebrate, enjoy our success together, perhaps finally discuss the wedding date, but instead—"

"Instead I'm focusing on our work, on our first book where I take the lead drafting," Astarion said, his voice softer now. "Something that will make you proud."

"I'm already proud of you," Gale insisted, frustration creeping into his voice. "That's not why—"

Something in Astarion's eyes shifted then—a deliberate transformation Gale recognized too well. The irritation melted away, replaced by a practiced, seductive gleam.

"Enough," Astarion interrupted, slipping forward to close the distance between them. His fingers found the fastenings of Gale's robes with practiced ease. "I forgive you, my meddling wizard. Your heart was in the right place, even if your methods were..." he leaned in, lips brushing Gale's ear, "questionable."

Gale felt his resolve to finish his explanation weakening as Astarion's hands slid inside his robes. A familiar diversion tactic, and yet his first response was relief washing through him like a cooling spell on a summer day at being forgiven. Astarion's fingers traced practiced patterns against his skin, and Gale leaned into the touch despite himself.

"There," Astarion murmured against his neck. "All better now, isn't it?"

The momentary comfort curdled in Gale's chest as realization dawned. This was too easy. The transformation from genuine irritation to seduction had been seamless—a well-rehearsed performance he'd seen countless times before. 

He's letting me off the hook , Gale thought, because finishing this conversation would require discussing whatever it is he's been avoiding. Dammit . 

It wasn't forgiveness; it was evasion draped in the trappings of desire. As tempting as it was to surrender, to accept this false peace offering, Gale couldn't ignore that Astarion was using intimacy as a smokescreen—a beautiful, pleasurable fog to obscure the truth.

"We should really discuss this further," Gale managed.

"Should we?" Astarion asked, deftly maneuvering Gale toward the bed. "Or should I do my best to put your worries about me 'slipping away' to rest before dinner?"

Astarion's lips trailed down Gale's neck, sending shivers through him as the vampire's cool hands slid his robes off his shoulders and batted Gale's hands away when he tried to undress Astarion in turn. Gale's breath hitched, a mixture of arousal and confusion swirling within him. They had barely arrived at Newleaf, had scarcely dropped their bags, and already he found himself torn between desire and the nagging voice of responsibility. Again.

Thought dissolved as Astarion's nimble fingers worked across his chest in slow, mesmerizing circles, pressing against tense muscles he hadn't realized were so tight and brushing lightly over his nipples.

The wizard's eyes fluttered closed. After weeks of Astarion holed up in their tower, buried in manuscript pages and avoiding conversation, wasn't this already progress? Astarion was here and not threatening to leave immediately after learning the full nature of the retreat, as Gale had feared. Perhaps that much was victory enough for one day.

Gale surrendered to the sensation with a sigh. There would be time for difficult conversations later—days stretched before them at Halsin's retreat. For now, as Astarion's palms pressed against his ribs and those cool lips found the hollow of his throat, Gale decided some battles could wait.

"Astarion," Gale murmured, his voice already ragged as his robes slipped to the floor and Astarion yet again batted Gale's hands away from his clothes. "What are you doing?"

Astarion smiled against his skin, a soft laugh escaping him. "Trying something new, since it appears our typical has somehow convinced you we are not ok," he replied, guiding Gale to lie back on the bed. Astarion, still fully dressed, stepped back and regarded him with such heat that his cock twitched with interest just at his lover's glance. "We are ok, Gale, and I'm going to show you."

Gale watched, bewildered and aroused, as Astarion retrieved a quill and inkwell from the writing desk before seating himself on the bed next to Gale's prone body. The vampire's eyes gleamed with a mix of mischief and desire as he uncorked the ink and dipped the quill.

"Astarion?" Gale asked again, his voice barely a whisper. His heart pounded as Astarion leaned over him, the quill poised above his chest.

"Shh," Astarion hushed him, a smirk playing on his lips. "This is an experiment. Lie still."

The first touch of the quill was cool and precise against Gale's heated skin, drawing a sharp intake of breath from his lips. The delicate point trailed across his chest with exquisite pressure—not enough to hurt, but present enough to command his complete attention. Astarion wrote with careful strokes, the ink blooming dark and wet against Gale's flushed skin, each tiny drop of moisture creating a momentary chill before warming to his body's temperature.

"Oh," Gale whispered, unable to form more coherent words as each movement sent cascading ripples of sensation across his nerve endings. The quill's feathered end occasionally brushed against him, a teasing counterpoint to the deliberate pressure of its tip.

He watched, utterly transfixed, as Astarion's pale hand moved with fluid grace—the same elegant control he displayed when working on a manuscript, but now Gale's body was the parchment. The vampire's expression was one of intense concentration, his crimson eyes tracking each line and curve he created.

When Astarion paused to dip the quill in the inkwell again, Gale felt the absence like a physical thing—his skin tingling in anticipation of the next touch, his mind dizzy with arousal and the strange intimacy of being transformed beneath his lover's hand.

"You are..." Astarion murmured, his voice low and intimate as he wrote, "my heart's sanctuary."

Gale's breath caught. The words were beautiful, but there was something... familiar about them. A niggling doubt crept into his mind, growing stronger with each stroke of the quill.

"Your laughter is..." Astarion continued, his voice a soft caress as he wrote across Gale's abdomen, "the melody of my soul."

Gale's heart lurched. He knew those words. He'd read them in one of Astarion's drafts of his damned romance novel, a scene where Yorl wrote on Fitha's body with a quill pen. The realization was a cold splash of water, dousing the heat that had been building within him.

"Astarion," Gale said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "You're writing lines from your novel. This is a scene from your novel."

Astarion paused, the quill hovering above Gale's skin. A playful smile curved his lips. "Ah, caught me in a fib of omission," he admitted, his tone light. "But then, I suppose turnabout is fair play, isn't it? And the experiment worked—I was wondering if the ink wouldn't stick but with a light hand…"

Gale sat up, the words on his skin suddenly feeling like a mockery. "This isn't a game, Astarion," he said, his voice tight. "You can't just... use our intimacy as a test run for your scenes."

Astarion's smile faded, replaced by a look of genuine surprise. "Gale, I didn't mean—"

"Didn't mean what?" Gale interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. "To make me feel like a prop in your story? To reduce our connection to a... a writing exercise?"

Before Astarion could respond, a knock echoed through the cabin. Shadowheart's voice, dry and sarcastic, filtered through the door. "I hope you two are decent because I'm not interested in seeing any more of you than I already have. Trust me, once was enough."

Gale glanced at the door, his jaw tightening with unmistakable frustration. The confrontation with Astarion—so vital, so necessary—interrupted at precisely the wrong moment. Of course Shadowheart would appear now, when words that needed saying hung suspended between them like fragile glass. The irritation prickled along his skin, made worse by the dawning realization that she had, in fact, made a perfectly accurate assumption about their state of dress.

"By all the gods," he muttered, then louder: "A moment!"

With a deep, resigned sigh, Gale pulled on his robes, smoothing the fabric with unsteady hands. "I suppose we'll have to continue this discussion later," he said quietly to Astarion before raising his voice. "You may enter, Shadowheart. We're as decent as we're likely to get."

Shadowheart pushed open the door, her eyes flicking between them with a raised eyebrow. "I see you've made yourselves at home," she remarked, her tone dry. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything... important."

Gale sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Not at all, Shadowheart. Come in."

As Shadowheart stepped into the cabin, Gale couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. The moment with Astarion had been shattered, leaving behind a mix of hurt and confusion. But for now, he pushed those feelings aside, focusing on the present. There would be time to address this later, when they were alone again. After all, that was the point of all of this.  To create opportunities to reconnect outside their daily routine.

But the feeling of the quill against his skin lingered and Gale found himself distracted by the thought of the words smearing under his robes. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the cool dampness of ink not yet dry against his abdomen.

"Well, I see counselor training hasn't changed you a bit," Astarion drawled, recovering his composure with remarkable speed. "Still the same cheerful ray of sunshine we all remember."

Shadowheart rolled her eyes. "And you're still the same insufferable peacock. How comforting to know some things never change."

"One of us has to maintain standards," Astarion replied, gesturing to her practical camp attire of leggings and tunic embellished only with the Newleaf Retreat logo with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

Gale watched their familiar verbal sparring with a distracted smile. There was genuine affection beneath their barbs—a friendship forged in shared mischievousness and mutual respect. It gave him a moment to collect himself, to push aside the hurt that had flared when he realized Astarion was testing the mechanics of his novel's scene on him.

"I've come to drag you both to dinner," Shadowheart said. "Halsin insists on proper welcoming ceremonies, and I've been assigned as your..." She grimaced. "Your guide for the week."

"How unfortunate for you," Astarion said with mock sympathy.

"Believe me, I'm as thrilled as you are," she replied dryly, although Gale could see this all meant somethign to her. "But apparently my 'connection' to you both makes me the ideal choice for facilitating your... healing journey. It's a whole counselor-in-training thing. Humor me? Or at least moderate your undoubtedly gleeful response to this opportunity to destroy me? A teensy bit of mercy, for old time's sake?"

Gale smoothed down his robes, trying to focus on the present moment rather than the words written on his skin. They had a week. A whole week of new experiences. Somewhere in these seven days, he would find a way to reach Astarion, to help him move past whatever was keeping him from embracing his new freedom. And perhaps—if Gale dared to hope—to finally pin down a wedding date—assuming, of course, he could get Astarion to stop dodging the subject.

"We'll be there shortly, Shadowheart," Gale assured her. "Just give us a few minutes to freshen up."

She nodded, backing toward the door. "Don't be late. I'm not explaining to Halsin why his two star guests couldn't make it to their own welcome dinner." With a final smirk, she departed, leaving them alone once more.

Gale turned to Astarion, wanting to address what had happened, but the moment didn't feel right. They had time. Seven days away from their tower, away from the obsessive writing. Seven days to rediscover each other.

He only hoped it would be enough.

Excerpt from Astarion’s Manuscript – The Unmasked Marquis , Draft Chapter IX

...Yorl gazed down at Fitha's body, at the words he had already inscribed across his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the hollow of his throat. His handwriting betrayed him—elegant at first, then increasingly desperate, words flowing into one another as his confession spilled across her skin.

"Are you certain you wish to hear more of my secrets?" he asked, the quill hovering above the unblemished canvas of Fitha’s ribs.

Fitha's breath quickened beneath his touch. "I've spent months deciphering your family's archives," he whispered. "It seems only fair I should decipher you as well."

Yorl smiled, a rare expression that transformed his severe features. Fitha had done more than decipher dusty tomes in his time at the estate. He had decoded Yorl’s defenses, recognized the loneliness behind his arrogance, understood the weight of failed responsibility and guilt that had bent but never broken him. Fitha had seen through every calculated gesture and small cruelty to the man beneath—and still remained.

He dipped the quill. The ink was cold against Fitha’s warm skin, but he did not flinch as Yorl began to write once more.

"Many will say I courted you to keep you silent about what you found in those archives," he murmured, each word appearing on her skin as he spoke it. "That I seduced you to protect my family's secrets."

"And did you?" His voice was steady, unafraid of the answer.

The quill paused. "I protected my family's legacy because it was my duty. But I pursued you because, for the first time in my life, I found someone who saw the world as I did—filled with stories waiting to be understood." He resumed writing, the confession flowing more freely now. "You challenged me. You questioned me. You refused to be impressed by my title or my wealth."

"I was rather impressed by your library," he admitted with a small smile.

"The truth," he continued, writing the words across the gentle curve of his stomach, "is that you found the most dangerous secret of all—that beneath this noble facade is a man terrified of being truly known…

Astarion

Astarion slipped his hand into Gale's as they approached the dining pavilion. The sprawling, open-air structure spread before them, draped with gauzy fabrics that fluttered in the evening breeze. He'd half-expected wooden benches and stern-faced do-gooders ladling out gruel, but the scene before him was irritatingly... pleasant.

Low tables on overlapping rugs dotted the space, surrounded by an obscene number of cushions in jewel tones and earthy neutrals. Lanterns hung from the canopy, casting a warm glow that complemented the fading daylight. About three dozen people lounged about—some clearly bearing the marks of trauma or hardship, others the insufferable earnestness of those dedicated to helping.

Shadowheart appeared at his elbow. "You two can sit there," she said, gesturing to a collection of cushions near where Halsin held court. "Everyone dines as equals at Newleaf." She delivered this line with the flat enthusiasm of someone who had been instructed to repeat it verbatim.

"How revolutionary," Astarion drawled. "I'm sure the cook feels positively liberated."

Shadowheart's mouth twitched. "Don't start. I have to maintain a 'supportive presence' during mealtimes."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of making your job difficult, counselor."

Her eyes narrowed. "Just... sit."

They made their way to the assigned spot, Astarion grimacing as he lowered himself onto the floor. "Grounding," Shadowheart explained without being asked. "Halsin believes recovery requires... reconnection with the earth." Her delivery suggested she'd practiced this in a mirror.

"Fascinating," Astarion replied, arranging himself elegantly against the cushions and reaching up to help Gale lower himself beside him.  The man's knees were a menace. "And does he also believe in the therapeutic value of a proper chair?"

Before Shadowheart could respond, servers arrived with platters of colorful vegetables, fresh bread, and roasted meats. For Astarion, they brought a carved goblet containing a deep red liquid.

He sniffed it cautiously. The scent was complex—deer, rabbit, and something distinctly... elven. He took a small sip.

"Halsin contributed," Shadowheart confirmed, following his gaze. "He said something about welcoming you properly."

The blood was fresh, artfully blended, and infuriatingly thoughtful. He could taste the druid's vitality in it—strong, earthy, and annoyingly wholesome. Not as good as his Gale's, but better than he had any right to expect.

Astarion glanced around at the gathering—at the survivors sharing stories, the counselors nodding encouragingly, at Halsin's booming laugh. Everyone seemed so damnably sincere, so earnestly committed to healing. The profound acceptance radiating from every corner of this place made his skin crawl.

Seven days of this forced communal positivity would drive him to madness. What was Gale thinking, bringing them here? They were fine, right?  He was fine. Obviously.

At least he had Shadowheart to torment—though judging by her stiff smile and rehearsed platitudes, she was suffering enough already.

"Well," Astarion said, raising his goblet in a mock toast toward her, "to new beginnings. I'm simply dying to hear about your training."

The flash of panic in Shadowheart's eyes was almost worth the indignity of sitting on the ground.

Gale leaned forward, creating a gentle barrier between Astarion and Shadowheart with his body. "Actually, I'd love to hear about our schedule for the week. I read the literature, but I'm sure there's so much more to it than one can glean from the written word."

Astarion suppressed a satisfying smirk. Gale had come to Shadowheart's rescue, but it hardly mattered. He'd have plenty of opportunities to give his favorite snarking partner a hard time no matter how often Gale tried to deflect.

Shadowheart appeared grateful for the topic change. "There isn't precisely a schedule," she explained, straightening her posture into something resembling professionalism. "Halsin believes that your hearts and the joys of nature will lead you to the right activities."

"How whimsical," Astarion muttered. "And entirely unhelpful."

"There's a board near the main pavilion with daily offerings," she continued, ignoring his comment with visible effort. "Meditation or yoga at dawn, nature walks, art sessions, group sharing circles…."

"I'd sooner bathe in holy water."

"That can also be arranged.”

Astarion fought back a traitor grin as Shadowheart continued. “There will also be plenty of unstructured time for personal pursuits." She looked pointedly at Astarion. "Including writing."

Gale brightened. "That sounds perfect."

"However," Shadowheart added with the slightest vindictive gleam in her eyes, "as your assigned guide, I'll be recommending one activity each day that is deliberately outside your comfort zone."

Astarion arched an eyebrow. "To what end, exactly?"

"To encourage you to stretch," she replied, her voice betraying that she was reciting Halsin's words again. "Growth often happens at the edges of discomfort."

His mind raced through calculations. Meditation at dawn wouldn't affect his writing schedule too badly—no sleep meant he could write through the night. Group activities would waste precious hours, but if he could minimize participation to one torturous session per day, perhaps he could salvage enough time to continue his work.

He hadn't spent two months crafting the perfect literary revenge—a romance novel that would put Volo's trashy efforts to shame—only to lose momentum now. The deadline from his publisher loomed, and furthermore, he'd promised himself to finish before...

Before what? He shook the annoying thought away.

Astarion sipped his goblet, weighing his options. He could either disabuse everyone of the notion that he—or they, he wasn't sure exactly which Gale thought was broken—needed healing and therefore could skip all the woo woo, or he could lean into Gale's guilt, reminding him that he'd promised a writer's retreat, not whatever this earnest nightmare was.

The second option held more promise. Guilt was a powerful tool, and one he'd wielded expertly for centuries. But he loved Gale beyond all reason and hated to discomfort him more than necessary. Even if he was annoyed at the man currently.

Speaking of discomfort, Astarion observed Gale shifting beside him, wincing slightly as he attempted to reach for a piece of bread. The wizard sat awkwardly, one leg extended, clearly struggling with the floor-seating arrangement. His back had been giving him trouble lately—all those years hunched over books finally catching up to him.

"Darling," Astarion murmured, placing a gentle hand on Gale's shoulder, "you look positively tortured. Here—" He arranged several cushions behind Gale's back, creating a makeshift support. "Lean back. There's no need to contort yourself like a circus performer."

Gale's grateful smile sent familiar warmth through Astarion's chest.

"Thank you," Gale said, settling against the cushions with visible relief.

"What sort of fiancé would I be if I let you suffer?" Astarion picked up a slice of honey-drizzled pear from Gale's plate. "Now open up. If we must endure this rustic nightmare, we might as well make it bearable."

He held the fruit to Gale's lips, watching with satisfaction as his wizard's eyes widened in mild embarrassment.

"Astarion, we're hardly alone—"

"I'm well aware," Astarion purred, glancing sideways at Shadowheart, whose expression had frozen somewhere between professional neutrality and deep discomfort. "Consider it a preview of how fully we're going to be embracing 'nature's gifts' this week. Open."

Gale opened his mouth with a resigned smile, accepting the morsel. Astarion's fingertips lingered against Gale's bottom lip longer than strictly necessary.

"Delicious, isn't it?" he asked, voice deliberately low.

"I'm sitting right here," Shadowheart muttered.

"And witnessing true love," Astarion replied without looking at her. He selected a piece of cheese next, offering it to Gale with theatrical tenderness. "You should be taking notes, Jen. Isn't this precisely the sort of connection Halsin prattles on about?"

Gale accepted the cheese with an indulgent smile. "You're terrible," he whispered, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

"You adore it," Astarion countered, brushing a crumb from the corner of Gale's mouth.

To his surprise, as the meal progressed, Astarion found himself genuinely enjoying the moment. The pavilion glowed in the fading light, conversation hummed pleasantly around them, and Gale's warmth beside him felt like an anchor. Even Shadowheart's pained expression as he continued his performance had a comforting familiarity.

He fed Gale another bite—roasted vegetables this time—watching the play of lantern light across his lover's features. The wizard's face was relaxed now, eyes soft with affection, lips parting eagerly for each morsel Astarion offered. There was something deeply satisfying about providing for him this way, even in such a small manner.

Against all odds, Astarion felt himself sinking into the moment, his irritation ebbing. The earth beneath him did feel strangely... stabilizing. The anxiety that had been driving him to write frantically through each night temporarily receded, replaced by a quiet contentment he hadn't felt in months.

Astarion considered fighting this pleasant sensation—being contrary was not only a habit but also a hobby of his—yet found he lacked the motivation. What was the point? Being contrary now would only spoil this rare moment of peace, and he had plenty of hours in the night ahead for writing. For now, he could allow himself this small reprieve, this moment of connection.

A flash of movement caught Astarion's eye as the meal wound down. At the kitchen side of the pavilion, a familiar figure loaded a plate with food, keeping his head down. Zevlor—the tiefling who had once led refugees through the Shadow-cursed lands. The formerly proud commander moved with purposeful efficiency, as if trying to remain unseen. Before Astarion could process the surprise, Zevlor disappeared into the darkness beyond the lantern light.

"Was that Zevlor?" Astarion asked, nodding toward the spot where the tiefling had vanished.

Shadowheart followed his gaze and sighed. "Yes. He's been here for about three months now."

"I wouldn't have expected to find him in a place like this," Astarion said, genuine curiosity replacing his earlier desire to needle her.

"He..." Shadowheart hesitated, clearly weighing professional discretion against Astarion's familiarity with the tiefling. "After what happened with the refugees and his perceived failures leading them, he resigned from the Hellriders. Halsin convinced him to come here. He mostly keeps to himself."

Astarion nodded, recalling how Zevlor had been found in one of those horrific pods in the Mind Flayer colony—how the commander blamed himself for the Absolute infiltrating his mind, causing him to surrender and doom many of his people.

"Does he ever join the group activities?" Gale asked.

"Rarely," Shadowheart replied. "He takes meals back to his cabin most nights. Halsin says everyone heals at their own pace."

Astarion felt an unexpected pang of recognition. How many others from their adventures against the Absolute had ended up here? The thought softened something in him. Perhaps this place served a purpose after all—for those truly broken by what they'd endured.

But why did Gale think they—or just him?—needed to be here? The question still gnawed at Astarion, dammit. He regretted cutting off Gale's explanation so quickly back at the cabin, having reflexively deflected the conversation toward intimacy instead.

An old trick. Effective, certainly—Gale was delightfully easy to distract—but perhaps not his proudest moment. Still, surely a tendency to avoid difficult conversations didn't warrant therapeutic intervention?  He was simply... busy. Focused. Professional.

He glanced at Gale, who was deep in conversation with a nearby guest about some arcane theory related to the curse that used to infest this very spot. The wizard's face was animated, hands gesturing enthusiastically as he explained a complex concept. When had he last seen that expression directed at him? When had they last stayed up all night debating philosophy or literature instead of Astarion hunched over his desk while Gale slept alone?

Astarion shook the thought away. They were fine. He was fine. Once the book was finished, everything would return to normal. This retreat was an unnecessary detour, nothing more.

Evening shadows stretched across the path as Astarion and Gale departed the pavilion. Gale's voice drifted through the air, expressing gratitude and exchanging pleasantries with Halsin and Shadowheart. Astarion barely registered the words, nodding automatically when appropriate, his mind churning.

Why were they really here? Gale's explanation—concern about Astarion's isolation—scratched at something deeper. The realization crept in like cold water rising: Gale thought he needed fixing.

Astarion's skin tightened at the thought. Was that how Gale saw him now? As some broken thing needing to be fixed? Damaged? A project requiring intervention from Halsin's crew of well-meaning meddlers? The image of himself through Gale's eyes shifted from beloved partner to pitiful creature requiring rehabilitation. Two centuries under Cazador's boot, and now—what? Too fragile to function without therapeutic hand-holding?

"—think it'll be good for both of us," Gale was saying as they walked. "Space to breathe, reconnect."

Both of us.

Astarion's stomach dropped. Shit . This wasn’t just about fixing him at all, but fixing them . Their relationship. The thought froze him even as they continued walking. If Gale believed their relationship needed intervention, what did that mean? Had things deteriorated so badly that Gale saw no option but professional help?

He'd known this would happen eventually. Known that someday Gale would realize his mistake—that tying himself to an undead former slave with more baggage than a merchant caravan couldn't possibly lead to lasting happiness. Part of Astarion had always been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Gale to come to his senses.

Was this it? A last-ditch effort to salvage what they had before Gale admitted defeat?

Their cabin loomed ahead, welcoming and warm. Inside, they moved through familiar motions—Gale lighting candles with a casual flick of his fingers, Astarion arranging his papers on the desk, both changing into sleep pants.

"I know I wasn't entirely honest about why we're here," Gale said, perching on the edge of the bed. "And I'm sorry for that. But I truly believe this week could be wonderful for us." His expression was earnest, hopeful. "The fresh air, the change of scenery... it's not just about the writing."

Astarion kept his face carefully neutral, nodding as Gale continued his gentle apology. Inside, panic fluttered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every word seemed to confirm his fears—this was relationship triage, a last attempt to reconnect before Gale admitted he'd made a terrible mistake in choosing Astarion.

"I just want us to remember what it's like to be present with each other," Gale said, reaching for Astarion's cold hand. "Like we were tonight at dinner."

Astarion nodded again, swallowing the tightness in his throat. "Of course," he managed.

They settled beneath the covers, facing each other as they always did—their nightly ritual, a wordless question about the possibilities of sex that night. Astarion knew the pattern had shifted lately; more often than not, he'd been the one turning away, mind racing with plot points and dialogue rather than desire. His obsession with the novel had crowded out even this, the thing that had seemed effortless between them, against all odds, even from the start..

Astarion reached out, tracing the contours of Gale's face with gentle fingertips—the strong line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lower lip, the small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that deepened when he smiled. His chest ached with a pain so visceral it radiated through his limbs, pulsing all the way to his fingertips as they caressed Gale's skin.

He loved Gale. He loved him beyond reason, beyond salvation. The thought of losing him was unbearable, yet increasingly plausible. What if this retreat truly was Gale's attempt to salvage what remained before walking away?

Gale smiled into the touch at first, eyes softening with familiar warmth. Then his expression shifted as he registered the tremor in Astarion's fingers, the tightness around his eyes.

"Oh," Gale whispered, concern flooding his features. "Oh no." He captured Astarion's hand against his cheek. "Beloved, is this too much? I've screwed this up, haven't I—bringing us here?"

Astarion didn't answer, couldn't answer past the constriction in his throat.

"I'm sorry," Gale continued, words tumbling out rapidly. "I didn't mean to upset you. It was just an idea—a change of scenery, that's all. Nothing more." His eyes searched Astarion's, desperate for reassurance. "We can leave in the morning. We can leave right now if that's what you want."

Astarion shook his head slightly, fingers still against Gale's skin. The panic inside him mingled with need—the need to be anchored, to be reminded that they remained connected despite everything.

"Please," he whispered, voice barely audible. "I need you." He moved closer, pressing his body against Gale's, seeking heat and connection and proof. "Make love to me. Please."

The last word broke slightly, revealing the raw desperation beneath. He didn't care. Pride had no place here, not when he might be losing everything that mattered.

Tears splashed onto Astarion's cheeks—warm, silent drops falling from Gale's eyes as he leaned down to kiss him with devastating gentleness.

"I'm sorry," Gale whispered against his lips between kisses. "I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted—I thought—"

Astarion reached up, threading fingers through Gale's thick hair. "Shh," he breathed. The terror inside him still coursed like poison, but Gale's proximity provided the only antidote he'd ever known.

"Forgive me," Gale continued, voice breaking. "Please, my love, I—"

Astarion silenced him with another kiss, deep and seeking. He didn't want apologies. He wanted proof—tangible, physical evidence that he hadn't already lost what he treasured most.

Their bodies met in a familiar dance, one perfected through countless nights of passion. Astarion pulled Gale against him, the heat of the wizard's skin warming his own in a way that still fascinated him after all this time. How strange that their temperatures could equalize like this—the living and the undead finding equilibrium in each other's arms.

Gale's hands moved with sure purpose, caressing pathways they'd traced a thousand times before, yet each touch still elicited gasps and shivers. Astarion's own fingers traced the planes of Gale's back, the curve of his shoulders, the softness of his stomach. Their intimacy had a language all its own—a dialect built from small sounds and subtle movements that communicated more than words ever could.

The texture of Gale's body against his own—soft hair covering firm muscles where Astarion was smooth—created exquisite friction as they moved together. Astarion tasted the salt of sweat on Gale's skin as he pressed his lips to the hollow of his throat, inhaling the intoxicating scent that was uniquely his.

Gale shifted himself lower, hands gentle on Astarion's hips as he repositioned them both. Astarion knew what came next—they'd danced this particular pattern countless times, and Gale's skill at preparing him with his mouth was legendary. But tonight, the thought of any distance between them seemed unbearable.

"Not that," Astarion whispered, pulling Gale back up. "I need you here. Your fingers—please."

Understanding immediately, Gale nodded and reached toward the bedside table, retrieving the vial of favorite lubricant he'd thoughtfully unpacked earlier. Always prepared, always thinking ahead—how thoroughly Gale he was.

With his face close enough that their breaths mingled, Gale warmed the oil between his fingers before reaching down. The first gentle circles against Astarion's entrance made him gasp, his body arching toward the touch.

"I've got you," Gale murmured, maintaining eye contact as his fingers worked with exquisite care.

The tender pressure broke something open inside Astarion. All the fear, all the love, all the desperate need to be known and kept and chosen—it poured from him in an unstoppable torrent.

"I love you," he whispered, the words tumbling out as Gale's finger breached him gently. "I love you, I love you, I love you..."

The remnants of Astarion's panic constricted him, his body refusing what his heart desperately wanted. He shifted uncomfortably, frustrated by the contradiction—needing Gale inside him, yet unable to relax enough to make it possible.

"Breathe with me," Gale whispered, his finger moving in a gentle pumping motion, never forcing, never rushing. "That's it, my love."

Astarion tried to focus on Gale's breathing—the steady, intentional rhythm—and match it with his own. In through the nose, out through the mouth. His muscles remained stubbornly tight, seemingly determined to protect him despite his wishes.

"I'm sorry," Astarion whispered. "I want—"

"Shhh," Gale responded, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "We have all night. No rush."

The patient reassurance in Gale's voice somehow loosened what force couldn't. Astarion felt the tension begin to dissolve, his body yielding to trust rather than demand. With each gentle stroke of Gale's finger, each soft breath they shared, Astarion's previous panic receded like a tide pulling away from shore.

When Gale added a second finger, Astarion's body welcomed it, opening easily now. The stretch and fullness made him gasp with pleasure rather than discomfort.

"Yes," he breathed, his hands roaming across Gale's back, pulling him closer. "More, please."

Gale worked him open with practiced tenderness, adding a third finger when Astarion was ready. Their tears had dried, but their cocks were wet against each other's stomachs, breathing quickened with desire rather than fear.

When Astarion was thoroughly prepared, Gale reached for the oil again, slicking his own generous length before adding more to their bellies.

"Like this?" he asked, positioning himself so they remained face to face.

"Yes," Astarion nodded, shifting slightly to make space. "Let me—"

He lifted his leg, allowing Gale to hook one knee under it—a position Astarion had taught him, one that maintained their closeness while providing enough leverage for movement. Not ideal for hard, fast sex, but perfect for what they needed now: connection, intimacy, the assurance of being completely together.

Gale lined himself up and pushed forward with exquisite slowness. Astarion gasped and then laughed happily, fears left behind, feeling himself stretched and filled, the sensation overwhelming in its perfection. His body accepted Gale completely now, pulling him in rather than resisting.

"Together," Astarion whispered his relief as Gale bottomed out, fully seated inside Astarion's body.

"Together." Gale smiled against Astarion's lips.

When Gale began to move, it was with gentle, rolling motions that kept them pressed together tightly. Astarion's cock was trapped between their slick bellies, each thrust providing delicious friction against the sensitive underside.

Their lips met in tender kisses—sometimes deep and searching, sometimes merely brushing together as they breathed the same air. Astarion's arms wrapped tightly around Gale, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close as if afraid he might disappear.

Heat bloomed where they connected, radiating outward. Astarion abandoned thought completely, surrendering to pure sensation—the gentle friction where their bodies joined, the warmth of Gale's skin against his, the steady rhythm of their shared breaths.

Every drag of Gale's cock inside him sent ripples of tingling heat through his body. Neither rushed toward completion, content to let their passion build naturally. Astarion rocked his hips to meet each of Gale's slow thrusts, savoring the fullness, the stretch, the delicious pressure against that perfect spot inside him.

"I have you," Gale whispered again against his ear, and something about the certainty in those words unraveled the last of Astarion's fears.

Pleasure coiled low in his belly, building so gradually Astarion hardly noticed its approach. He floated in the moment, body and mind perfectly aligned in their desire for closeness rather than just release.

When his orgasm finally washed over him, it came as a surprise—a slow-spreading warmth rather than a sharp crescendo. Pleasure unfurled through him in languorous waves, radiating from his cock trapped between them, humming outward through his entire body. It rolled through him endlessly, making his toes curl and his fingers tighten reflexively—one hand clutching Gale's hair, the other digging into the soft flesh at his waist.

Astarion gasped, overwhelmed by the intensity of such a gentle climax, his release wet and hot between them. As the pulses began to subside, he thought nothing could improve upon this perfection.

Then Gale tilted his head, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. An offering freely given, as it always had been between them.

"Please," Gale whispered, his rhythm faltering as his own climax approached.

Astarion didn't hesitate. He sank his fangs into Gale's neck, drinking his love in deep as Gale shuddered against him. The taste of Gale's blood flooded his mouth—complex, familiar, home—just as he felt the hot pulse of Gale's release deep inside him.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," Gale moaned without shame, his voice breaking with pleasure as he emptied himself completely.

Gale's head rested in the crook of Astarion's shoulder, his breathing gradually slowing as their shared passions ebbed, and Gale relaxed fully on top of him. 

Astarion savored the weight of Gale's body, the points of connection between them. The hot pulse of Gale's release and softening cock still filled him as Astarion lazily licked Gale's neck to seal his bite and savor the warmth of Gale's blood in his belly. He traced lazy patterns on Gale's sweat-dampened back, following the curve of his spine with feather-light touches.

"FINALLY!" A voice bellowed from somewhere nearby, making both of them jump. "Some of us are TRYING to sleep! Thin walls! VERY thin walls!"

Another voice joined in: "Speak for yourself! I was taking notes!"

Gale's head shot up, eyes wide with horror. "I forgot the privacy spell I had prepared," he whispered, then dissolved into laughter, burying his face against Astarion's chest. "Gods, I completely forgot."

Astarion grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Well, now they know exactly how fine we are, don't they?"

"Privacy, please," Gale called out between chuckles, activating the spell belatedly. "That should prevent further... educational opportunities for our neighbors."

"Pity for them," Astarion smirked, stretching languidly beneath Gale's weight. He felt loose-limbed and languid, the earlier panic a distant memory replaced by bone-deep satisfaction.

Gale pushed himself up, careful not to put too much pressure on Astarion as he withdrew. Rather than casting his usual cleaning cantrip, he extended a hand toward the washstand. The pitcher and cloth floated obediently to him.

"Allow me," he said, wetting the cloth and warming it with a touch.

Astarion watched through half-lidded eyes as Gale tenderly cleaned first Astarion's stomach and thighs, then his own. The gentle strokes of the warm cloth against sensitive skin sent pleasant aftershocks through Astarion's body.

"Mmm," Astarion hummed appreciatively. "Wizards."

Gale smiled softly. "Efficiency in service of tenderness is a specialty of mine." He finished his ministrations and tossed the cloth back toward the washstand, not bothering to watch if it landed properly.

They rearranged themselves beneath the covers, Gale settling with his head on Astarion's chest, one arm draped possessively across his middle.

"Good night, my love," Gale murmured, voice already thick with approaching sleep.

"Rest well," Astarion replied, pressing a kiss to the top of Gale's head.

He lay still, listening as Gale's breathing deepened and evened out. Within minutes, the wizard was fully asleep, heavy and warm against Astarion's side. Astarion continued to hold him, savoring the quiet intimacy of these moments when Gale was completely vulnerable in his arms.

There would be time for the novel later—hours of solitude while Gale slept, plenty of darkness before dawn. For now, Astarion was content to simply exist in this moment of connection, memorizing the feeling of being exactly where he belonged as he let reverie take him.

Chapter Text

Astarion

The water at the lake's edge stretched out, an expanse of placid blue that felt less like a natural wonder and more like a personal affront to Astarion's very existence. The sun beat down on his bare shoulders and chest, his pale skin practically glowing in the midday light. First, there had been morning yoga, of all things, and now this. He tugged irritably at the unfamiliar swim trunks clinging to his thighs—dark blue with ridiculous silver moons and stars that somehow matched Gale's own. Of course Gale had packed these. Had obviously purchased them because Astarion knew for a fact he had owned no such thing. Of course Gale had anticipated this exact scenario.

"This is absurd," Astarion muttered. "I was in the middle of a crucial scene."

His writing had flowed beautifully last night while Gale slept. He had captured the perfect balance of tension and vulnerability between Yorl and Fitha, right until those damned morning chimes had woken Gale, who insisted they participate in "sun salutations" of all things. Stretching and bending toward the actual sun as it crested the horizon. The same sun now beating down on his shoulders—a sensation both wonderfully warm and inexplicably bothersome.

"The water's perfect," Shadowheart called from waist-deep in the lake, her smirk visible even from a distance. "When I first arrived at Newleaf, I couldn't even put my feet in. Now look at me—swimming like I was born in the Chionthar."

"Fascinating," Astarion drawled. "Perhaps you should document this tremendous achievement for posterity."

"It's all about acknowledging your fears," she continued, ignoring his barb. "I used to be terrified of large bodies of water. Then I learned to embrace the experience as part of my healing journey."

"Are you reciting directly from Halsin's pamphlet, or merely paraphrasing?"

Beside him, Gale bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, eyes darting eagerly between the water and Astarion. "It does look refreshing," he ventured hopefully.

Shadowheart waded closer, water rippling around her. "The lake bottom slopes very gradually here, which makes it ideal for beginners to practice. You can walk quite far before it gets deep." She flashed a counselor's smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Let's set an intention for today's aquatic experience."

"I intend to experience the joyful surrender of being buoyed by the water," Gale announced earnestly. "There's something deeply spiritual about allowing oneself to be held by an element so fundamental to all life—"

"I intend to drown Shadowheart," Astarion cut in, flashing his fangs in what might have passed for a smile.

"That's projection of negative emotions," Shadowheart replied smoothly. "Very typical of the early stages of vulnerability work."

"I'm afraid I can't participate in this particular ritual," Astarion said, taking a precise step back from the water's edge. "You seem to have forgotten that I still have all my vampire spawn vulnerabilities." He smiled thinly. "A pity, truly."

"Except the sun," Gale pointed out desperately. He captured Astarion's left hand, bringing it to his lips with gentle reverence. He pressed a kiss to the silver band of their engagement ring, then another to the ornate Ring of the Sunwalker beside it. "You've walked in the sunlight for months now. This could be another first."

The tenderness in Gale's eyes was almost unbearable—that look of hope and excitement that made refusing him feel like kicking a puppy. Gale tugged at his hand with such charming eagerness that Astarion felt his resolve weakening.

"That's not how it works," Shadowheart cut in with smug authority. "The water has to be running to harm you. This is a lake." She gestured at the still surface as if explaining a basic concept to a child. "The vulnerability applies to rivers, not standing bodies of water. Even I know that."

Astarion waited until Gale turned to point out a colorful bird on a nearby tree before flashing his fangs at Shadowheart in a quick, threatening hiss.

Rather than recoil, she burst into laughter and sent a generous splash of water in their direction. Most of it caught Gale, who let out a delighted yelp as droplets speckled his chest and face.

"Oh! That is refreshing!" Gale laughed, shaking his head.

Astarion let out a horrified sound, hands flying up to shield his carefully styled curls. "Not the hair!" he snarled, backpedaling from the water's reach. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to maintain volume in this rustic hellscape?"

Both Shadowheart and Gale exchanged bemused glances at his comment, taking in the vibrant greenery, the crystalline lake, and the golden summer light filtering through swaying trees.

"Yes, I can see how this paradise might feel oppressive," Gale said, gesturing to a nearby meadow where butterflies danced between wildflowers. "All this beauty and fresh air. Truly hellish."

"The birds sing too cheerfully," Astarion sniffed. "It's suspicious."

Shadowheart rolled her eyes. "Your precious curls will survive, Astarion. I promise not to splash if you'll just try. The water's barely waist-deep here."

Astarion opened his mouth for another retort, but his train of thought derailed as Gale lifted a hand to push back his half-damp hair. Water droplets traced lazy paths down his chest, catching the sunlight as they slid over tanned skin. His swim trunks clung to strong thighs, riding low enough to reveal the sharp cut of his hips. Something about seeing the usually robed wizard so exposed, so carefree, sent heat rushing through Astarion that had nothing to do with the summer sun.

Gale caught him staring and raised a single eyebrow in playful challenge, a knowing smile spreading across his face.

"See something you like?" he asked, voice dropping to that low register that never failed to make Astarion's nonexistent pulse quicken.

Before Astarion could respond, Gale closed the distance between them in two swift strides. With surprising strength, he hoisted Astarion up, hands firmly gripping his thighs.

"What are you—" Astarion yelped, instinctively wrapping his legs around Gale's waist and arms around his shoulders. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Entirely possible," Gale laughed, adjusting his grip. His knee made an audible creak as he steadied himself, but his hold remained secure. "But what's life without a little madness?"

Shadowheart burst into applause. "That's the spirit! The couple that swims together, heals together!"

"I'll buy you those first-edition Netherese scrolls you've been coveting," Astarion hissed into Gale's ear as the wizard began wading toward the water. "The ones with the gold leaf illuminations."

Gale merely chuckled, continuing his determined march into the lake.

"The sun's reflection on the water—my eyes!" Astarion tried again, squinting dramatically. "I'm a nocturnal creature, Gale. You're torturing me."

Gale hitched Astarion higher, shifting so he held him aloft with one hand and shielded Astarion's eyes with the other, smiling infuriatingly as he continued forward and the water reached his knees.

Astarion tightened his grip as the water rose higher. When the cool lake water finally touched his feet and backside, the shock of it pulled a high-pitched squeal from his throat that he would later deny ever having made.

Shadowheart doubled over in helpless laughter, clutching her sides as she nearly lost her balance in the water. "That noise! Oh gods, that was worth everything!"

Astarion clung tighter as Gale waded deeper, the cool water now lapping at his thighs. Every instinct screamed to scramble away, but that would mean losing the dignity he had left—which wasn't much, considering the undignified squeak he'd just emitted.

"Is this how I die? Not heroically battling an elder brain, but humiliated in a lake at a glorified summer camp?"

Gale paused when the water reached his waist, Astarion's lower half now partially submerged. Rather than reply to his dramatics, Gale simply gazed up at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. The midday sun caught the amber flecks in his irises, turning them almost golden. His expression held such unabashed adoration that Astarion momentarily forgot his discomfort.

"What?" Astarion demanded, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," Gale murmured. "I'm just happy you're here. With me. In the sun."

Before Astarion could conjure a suitably withering response, the peaceful moment shattered as Halsin's booming voice carried across the water.

"Wonderful! More friends joining us for water immersion therapy!" 

The druid appeared at the shore, surrounded by a motley group of retreat-goers. He wore absurdly small swimming shorts that left little to the imagination, his massive frame practically glowing with vitality.

"Remember," Halsin called out, leading his followers into the lake with exaggerated, splashing steps, "water carries away our burdens just as it smooths stones! Let the coolness wash over your heated thoughts! Let yourself be buoyant, physically and spiritually!"

As the group entered with varying degrees of enthusiasm, Astarion barely registered them. Instead, he found himself transfixed by the way sunlight played across Gale's damp skin. Water droplets clung to his eyelashes, and his hair—usually carefully tied back—fell across his forehead in loose, boyish waves. The wizard's arms had relaxed somewhat, letting the water help support Astarion's weight, but his grip remained sure and warm.

Something fierce and possessive flared in Astarion's chest. Without thinking, he curved his body forward and captured Gale's mouth in a kiss that was decidedly inappropriate for public viewing—open-mouthed and hungry, fingers threading through Gale's damp hair to hold him exactly where Astarion wanted him.

The kiss lasted long enough that someone nearby whistled appreciatively. When Astarion finally pulled back, Gale looked pleasantly dazed, a flush spreading from his cheeks down his neck.

"That was..." Gale cleared his throat. "Um. Unexpected."

"You looked too delicious to resist," Astarion purred, noticing with satisfaction that the water's surface conveniently hid certain physical responses from their audience. "I wonder..." he added, voice dropping to a whisper only Gale could hear, "just how far your newfound appreciation for nature activities extends?"

He shifted slightly in Gale's arms, creating friction that made the wizard's breath catch.

"Perhaps we should test those boundaries," Astarion continued, eyes gleaming wickedly. "After all, isn't that what this retreat is about? Pushing beyond one's comfort zone?" And getting revenge for the sun salutations, of course. That went without saying.

"I suppose," Astarion began, lips brushing against Gale's ear, "we could find a secluded spot along the lake's edge, somewhere. Perhaps—"

"And that's quite enough of that!" Shadowheart's voice cut through his whispered suggestions like a cleric's turning against undead. She splashed toward them, sending ripples that broke against Gale's back. "Some of us are here to heal, not to witness whatever that was about to become."

Astarion pulled back with a frustrated hiss. "Must you interrupt every moment of joy in my existence?" 

"Apparently," she replied with a wickedly satisfied smile on her lips. "Consider it part of your therapy regimen." She clapped her hands like some infuriating school marm. "Now then, since you've both made it into the water, let's try a basic floating exercise."

"Let me guess," Astarion drawled, "another ritual stolen directly from Halsin's handbook of rustic tortures?"

"Actually, it's a trust exercise," Shadowheart corrected. "Perfect for couples working on vulnerability."

"We're not 'working on' anything," Astarion snapped. Gods, how mortifying. "Our relationship is perfectly functional."

Gale cleared his throat. "I think it sounds rather lovely."

Of course he did. Astarion reluctantly loosened his legs from around Gale's waist, grimacing as his feet sank into the mud below. He wiggled his toes experimentally, surprised by the soft, cool sensation of lake bottom squishing between them. It felt... not entirely unpleasant.

"Gale, you'll float first," Shadowheart instructed. "Astarion, extend your arms under the water, just beneath Gale's back. Don't touch him unless he's genuinely struggling."

"I do know how to swim," Gale offered, already leaning back into the water. "I spent summers in the swimming spots along the harbor as a child."

Naturally. Another skill Gale possessed that Astarion couldn't remember if he shared. His feet sank deeper into the mud as he positioned his arms as instructed, watching with reluctant fascination as Gale reclined until his back was fully supported by the water.

Gale's body gradually relaxed, limbs spreading slightly as he found his balance. His hair fanned out around his head like a dark halo, floating on the surface in loose waves. Water lapped gently at his ears and jaw, but his face remained above the surface, eyes closed against the bright summer sky.

The lake held him effortlessly, sunlight dancing across his chest where it rose just above the waterline with each breath. A small smile played at the corners of Gale's mouth, a look of perfect contentment that Astarion rarely witnessed outside their most intimate moments.

"This is wonderful," Gale murmured, eyes still closed. "I'd forgotten how peaceful it feels."

Astarion hovered his hands just beneath Gale's back, never quite touching, watching the play of light and shadow across his lover's relaxed features. Something about the way Gale trusted himself to the water—vulnerable yet perfectly at ease—caught in Astarion's throat. The wizard looked younger somehow, unburdened, as if the water had indeed washed away his usual intensity, if only for a moment.

"You're a natural," Shadowheart said, nodding approvingly. "Now for the hard part. Astarion's turn."

Astarion eyed the water with mounting suspicion. "I'm perfectly content watching, thank you."

"You'll need to breathe to help yourself float," Shadowheart explained, her voice taking on a surprisingly gentle tone. "The air in your lungs increases your buoyancy. It's basic physics."

"I'm aware of how physics works," Astarion snapped. He wasn't, but whatever. At least Shadowheart wasn't exploiting this opportunity to fuck with him. Probably. Perhaps he should have held back on his own jibes earlier. What if she was thinking about a little revenge?

"Just take a deep breath, lean back, arch your back up a little, and trust the water," she continued, demonstrating with her hands. "Keep your chest lifted, arms out to the sides. The water will support you."

Gale moved into position behind him, arms ready to catch should he falter. "I've got you," he promised. 

Astarion hesitated, one foot shifting nervously in the mud. His mind flashed unbidden to Cazador's stone basin, to water closing over his face as his lungs burned for air he no longer needed, the awful feeling when Cazador punched him in the gut and water flooded his lungs. The memory of those sessions—Cazador's twisted idea of teaching patience—made his chest tighten.

"Perhaps next time," he said, his voice brittle with false nonchalance. "I'm not particularly in the mood to—"

"It's perfectly safe," Gale insisted, concern growing in his eyes. "I won't let anything happen to you."

That look—that worried, pitying look—was worse than the water itself. If he couldn't do this simple thing, this ridiculous floating exercise that even children mastered, what did that say about him? About them? Gale wanted him to participate, to share in these experiences, and he couldn't even manage this.

"Fine," he spat, though his body remained rigid. "Let's get this over with."

Halsin's deep voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "If I may," the druid said, wading toward them with surprising grace for his size. "Sometimes a first-time float is better supported by a friend rather than a partner." His smile was warm, free of judgment. "The pressure is different."

Relief flickered across Gale's face. "That's an excellent suggestion."

Astarion glanced between them, then at Halsin's massive forearms. There was something reassuring about that bulk, that certainty. If he panicked, Halsin could simply haul him upright without struggle. And it wouldn't be Gale seeing his failure.

"Very well," Astarion conceded, allowing Halsin to take position behind him.

"Deep breath now," Halsin instructed, his hands hovering just beneath the water's surface. "Fill those lungs and lean back. Trust the water—and me."

Astarion inhaled deeply, surprised to notice how wonderful the air here smelled. He leaned back slowly, stiffly, fighting every instinct that screamed against the vulnerability of the position.

"That's it," Halsin encouraged. "Let go. The water wants to hold you."

As the cool lake rose to meet his ears, Astarion forced himself to relax, to surrender to the strange weightlessness. For a breathless moment, panic surged—then suddenly, he was floating, suspended between water and sky.

The sensation was... extraordinary. The water cradled him, supporting every limb with gentle pressure. Sunlight warmed his face while the lake cooled his body. Sound became distant, muffled, as if the world had receded.

"Wonderful," Halsin's voice rumbled from somewhere above. "You're a natural."

Astarion kept his eyes closed, focusing on the novel sensations. His hair fanned out around his head, his body weightless, suspended. No struggle, no fight—just surrender.

After what might have been minutes or mere seconds, he felt the subtle shift as Halsin's presence withdrew, replaced by the familiar energy of Gale nearby.

"May I?" Gale asked softly.

Astarion nodded slightly, careful not to disrupt his balance. Gale's hands replaced Halsin's, hovering just beneath him—not touching, but there. Present. Safe.

With the initial shock behind him, Astarion found himself oddly at peace in the water. The sun warmed his face while the lake supported his body—an entirely different experience than the cold, sterile baths Cazador had used for his "lessons."

"You've got it," Shadowheart said, her voice gentler than he'd ever heard it. "Now try moving your arms—just small movements at first."

Astarion experimentally swept his arms out to his sides, feeling himself drift slightly in response.

"That's it." Shadowheart demonstrated a small kick. "Your legs work too. Nothing vigorous—gentle movements."

He tried a tentative kick, surprised when his body glided forward through the water. The sensation was strangely freeing—moving without bearing weight, guided by the slightest intention.

"Join him, Gale," Shadowheart suggested. "Show him how you can navigate together."

Gale slipped back into his floating position beside Astarion, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed. They moved in lazy circles, guided by small movements of their limbs, sometimes drifting apart before finding each other again in the center of their orbit.

"Remember this position," Shadowheart said. "If you're ever struggling in water, return to this float. It's your safety net—just breathe, spread your limbs, and the water will hold you."

Safety net. The phrase echoed in Astarion's mind as Gale's hand found his own beneath the surface, their fingers intertwining briefly before releasing to maintain balance. That's what Gale had become for him—a safety net. Someone who would catch him when he fell, who would be there when memories threatened to drown him.

Shadowheart backed away with a satisfied nod. "I'll leave you to practice. Just stay in the shallows where you can stand."

As she waded toward her next victims, Astarion and Gale continued their lazy floating dance, occasionally standing to adjust positions or simply to look at each other.

"Your hair is completely wet," Gale observed, reaching out to brush a soaked curl from Astarion's forehead.

Astarion should have been horrified—his carefully styled locks now plastered to his head—but found himself shrugging instead. "There are worse fates."

Gale pulled him close, both of them standing now, water lapping at their waists. "I'm proud of you."

"For learning to float? A child's skill?"

"For trying something that scared you." Gale's hands found his waist beneath the water. "For letting go, just a little."

Astarion silenced further sentiment with a kiss, tasting lake water and sunshine on Gale's lips. They alternated between floating and standing, playing and kissing, until Halsin's voice boomed across the water.

"Rest break, everyone! Hydration and recuperation are essential parts of the healing process."

Astarion hadn't realized how the sun had sapped his energy until the break was called. They waded back to shore, where a refreshment table had been set up with pitchers of lemonade, fresh fruit, and—Astarion noted—a goblet of warmed blood, discreetly placed at the end of the table.

"I'll get our towels set up," Gale said, heading toward their discarded belongings.

Astarion filled a plate with Gale's favorites—slices of melon, berries, and those little honey cakes he could never resist—and claimed the goblet of blood for himself before joining Gale on the towels spread in a sunny patch of grass.

As they settled side by side, the sun warm on their water-chilled skin, Astarion took a sip from his goblet and found himself smiling. His hair was ruined, his carefully cultivated air of sophistication thoroughly dampened, and yet he felt... wonderful. Genuinely, unexpectedly wonderful.

Gale stretched out on the blanket, propping himself up on one elbow to face Astarion. His eyes crinkled at the corners, that particular smile that always preceded some heartfelt observation. Shit .

"This is exactly what I hoped for when I enchanted that ring," Gale said, reaching out to trace a finger along the magical band on Astarion's hand. "Seeing you in the sunlight, enjoying the water, just—" he gestured vaguely at the scene around them, "—experiencing it all. It's everything I wanted for you."

Something in Astarion's chest tightened uncomfortably. The warmth he'd felt moments ago cooled, replaced by a prickly irritation he couldn't quite name.

"Yes, well. How fortunate that your grand vision for my rehabilitation is proceeding according to plan," he said, the words emerging sharper than he'd intended.

Gale's smile faltered. "That's not what I said. Nor what I mean."

"Isn't it?" Astarion took another sip from his goblet, using the moment to compose himself. Why was he suddenly so annoyed? This had been a pleasant day—he'd actually enjoyed himself, damn it all. Why did Gale's comment make him feel like some project being assessed for progress?

"I simply meant that I'm happy to see you happy," Gale said carefully. "To share these experiences with you."

Gale looked away, the line of his jaw tightening. The silence stretched until Astarion could feel it like a bruise.

"As opposed to my previous state of misery, locked away in our tower working on our novel?" Astarion broke the silence. "Perhaps next you'll suggest I frolic in a field of daisies or learn to bake bread. All part of becoming a proper, functioning person."

Gale sat up straighter, hurt evident in his eyes. "Astarion, that's not fair."

It wasn't fair. Astarion knew it even as the words left his mouth. Gale had given him a tremendous gift with the ring—freedom from a centuries-old weakness. Why was he being such an ass about it?

The answer hovered just beyond his grasp: that perhaps he didn't want the expectations that came with the ring—that having had an obstacle to happiness removed somehow meant he must live up to the expectation of achieving said happiness. That maybe the problem wasn't his vampiric weaknesses—it was him. And the ring would bring all of that, well, into the light, so to speak.

Astarion sighed, setting his goblet aside. The day had been too pleasant to ruin with whatever this was. "You're right," he conceded, not quite an apology but close enough. "The sun and water have clearly addled my wits. I'm not accustomed to so much... wholesomeness."

Gale's expression softened slightly, though disappointment lingered in his eyes. He clearly recognized the deflection for what it was but seemed unwilling to push further.

"What do you say we take advantage of all this sun?" Astarion suggested, patting the blanket beside him. "A short nap before whatever fresh torture Halsin has planned for us next?"

The olive branch worked, partially at least. Gale reclined beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.

"A nap sounds wonderful," Gale agreed, his voice still carrying a hint of that earlier disappointment.

Astarion settled onto his back, one arm behind his head, the other finding Gale's hand between them. The sun warmed his skin pleasantly, nothing like the burning agony it would have caused before the ring. The distant sounds of laughter and splashing mingled with birdsong and the rustle of leaves.

Against all expectations, his eyelids grew heavy. The rhythmic sound of Gale's breathing beside him, the lingering sensation of floating in the lake—it all combined into a gentle lullaby. As sleep crept over him, Astarion's last conscious thought was of that weightless feeling, suspended between water and sky, neither sinking nor struggling, simply... being.

Gale

Gale shifted uncomfortably on the floor cushion, trying to find a position that wouldn't send shooting pains through his lower back. Who knew that saving the world would be easier on his joints than sitting cross-legged in a treehouse? Halsin regarded him with that infuriatingly serene smile—the one that suggested he knew exactly what you were thinking and found it gently amusing.

"Tea?" Halsin offered, gesturing to an earthenware pot steaming between them.

"Thank you," Gale said, accepting a clay cup that looked handmade and deliberately rustic. The liquid inside was amber-colored and smelled of herbs he couldn't quite identify.

Shadowheart sat in the corner, a leather-bound notebook balanced on her knee. She looked like she'd rather be anywhere else, her posture rigid and her expression caught between professional distance and profound discomfort. Gale sympathized.

"I appreciate you joining me," Halsin said, his deep voice filling the circular space. The treehouse was surprisingly spacious, with windows that opened to forest views on all sides. Books, plants, and various totems lined natural wooden shelves. "And allowing Shadowheart to observe. She's making excellent progress in her training."

Shadowheart made a noncommittal noise that might have been acknowledgment or protest.

"Yes, well," Gale cleared his throat. "I didn't want to be difficult."

What he wanted was to be back with Astarion, who had been looking alarmingly pink after their swim—perhaps vampire skin wasn't meant to take that much sun exposure, magic ring or no. But more pressing had been their brewing argument when Halsin interrupted, Astarion stubbornly insisting on returning to his manuscript rather than participating in whatever afternoon activity had been planned.

"So," Halsin took a sip of his tea, "what was happening between you and Astarion before I interrupted?"

Gale shifted again. His back ached, his knees complained, and his patience was wearing thin.

"A minor disagreement about scheduling," he said diplomatically. "Nothing of consequence."

"Hmm." Halsin's expression remained placid. "And how many of these inconsequential disagreements have you had since arriving?"

In the corner, Shadowheart's quill scratched quietly against paper. Gale felt a flare of irritation—at her, at Halsin, but mostly at himself. He'd been so focused on getting Astarion to the retreat, so convinced it would help, that he hadn't considered what his own role might be beyond delivering his reluctant fiancé to Halsin's care.

"I'm not the one who needs—" Gale began, then stopped himself. That wasn't entirely true, was it? Although Gale’s worries about Astarion’s well-being and the impact on their relationship were what had motivated him to bring them here, it ought to have occurred to him before now that perhaps he had issues (separate from his failure to fix their romantic stumbles on his own) that were contributing to the problem. How humiliating not to have considered it before now. Still, it was important that Astarion's needs take priority in the time they had here. "We've had a few disagreements. Astarion prefers to work on his novel, and I'd rather he participate in the retreat activities."

"And why is that important to you?"

The question caught Gale off-guard. Why was it important? Because they'd come all this way? Because he'd arranged everything, had lied to get Astarion here? Because he'd imagined them healing together, not separately?

"The participation in these activities would provide Astarion with a structured environment conducive to socialization and mindfulness," Gale began, his voice slipping into the measured cadence he'd once used when lecturing apprentices. "The integration of physical activity with therapeutic conversation creates an optimal framework for—"

"Gale," Halsin interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. "This isn't a classroom dissertation. I'm not grading your answer."

Gale's words stuttered to a halt. "I—I'm simply explaining—"

"You're explaining very eloquently, yet saying very little." Halsin set his teacup down with deliberate care. "Instead of constructing the perfect response, I'd ask you to sit with the question. Feel it. Why does Astarion's participation matter to you?"

The correction stung more than Gale wanted to admit. He'd spent his life being the cleverest person in most rooms, praised for his articulate analyses. Being told to stop talking and feel was like being asked to navigate with his eyes closed.

Shadowheart's quill had gone silent. He could feel her watching him, waiting.

Silence lingered. Gale took a sip of tea, grimacing slightly at its bitter undertone. Finally, he spoke, quieter this time.

"If he doesn't participate, then this will all have been for nothing."

"What is this 'all' you refer to?" Halsin asked.

Gale sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I lied to him about the nature of this place. I told him it was a writer's retreat when I knew it was a healing center."

"That's a significant choice," Halsin observed, without judgment. "What made you feel that was necessary?"

"He's been..." Gale struggled to find words that weren't excuses. "He barely leaves the tower anymore. He's obsessed with this novel, writing day and night. When I try to talk about anything important, he deflects, changes the subject, or..." He felt his cheeks warm. "Distracts me in other ways."

"Important matters such as?"

Gale looked down at his hands. "We've been engaged for months, but whenever I try to discuss setting a wedding date, he finds a reason to postpone the conversation."

Halsin nodded slowly. "So you brought him here hoping...?"

"That he'd heal. That whatever's causing him to withdraw would be addressed. That he'd be ready to..." Gale's voice caught. "To fully commit to our future."

"And you decided this for him," Halsin said, not unkindly.

"Yes," Gale admitted, the single word heavy with remorse. "I did."

"What does the wedding date represent to you, Gale?" Halsin asked, leaning forward slightly. His gaze remained steady, neither accusing nor pitying.

Gale took another sip of tea to buy time, though the bitter taste did little to soothe him. His fingers traced the rim of the cup, following its imperfect edge.

"Security," he finally said. "Certainty."

"Of what?"

The question seemed so simple, yet Gale felt the weight of its complexity. He'd spent his life seeking knowledge, building towers of facts and theories, all to create something solid beneath his feet. Now, he was being asked to examine the foundation itself.

"That he won't..." Gale couldn't finish the sentence.

"That he won't leave?" Halsin supplied gently.

Gale nodded, his throat tight. "I know it's just a ceremony, just words and promises. But after everything with Mystra—" He stopped, composed himself. "I spent decades devoted to a goddess who discarded me. And when I found Astarion, when we built something together, I thought..." He shook his head. "It sounds pathetic when said aloud."

"There's nothing pathetic about wanting confirmation of love," Halsin said.

In the corner, Shadowheart shifted uncomfortably but remained silent.

"I know his hesitation isn't about me, not really," Gale continued. "What he's been through—his autonomy was stolen for centuries. I understand why he resists anything that feels like control." His voice grew quieter. "Which makes my deception all the worse, doesn't it?"

Halsin didn't answer directly. Instead, he asked, "Do you believe that if you hadn't brought him here under false pretenses, he would have come willingly?"

"No," Gale admitted. "He would have seen it as unnecessary. He insists he's fine."

"And you don't believe him."

It wasn't a question, but Gale answered anyway. "He's hiding. In his writing, in our tower. From the world, from himself... perhaps from me." The admission hurt to voice. "I thought if I could just get him here, you could help him see that. That I could fix this."

"Fix him, you mean," Halsin said, his tone still gentle despite the pointed words. 

Gale winced. "That's not—" He stopped. "Yes. I suppose that is what I've been trying to do."

Silence settled between them, broken only by the distant sounds of birds and the occasional scratch of Shadowheart's quill. Gale kept his gaze fixed on his teacup, yet his eyes betrayed him, flicking involuntarily toward her, compelled to check her expression as an indicator of how well or poorly he was doing.

"Gale," Halsin said finally, "what will happen if Astarion never sets a wedding date?"

The question landed like a stone dropped into still water, ripples of anxiety spreading through Gale's chest. It was the fear he'd been avoiding, the thought he refused to entertain.

"I... don't know," he whispered, the admission feeling like defeat.

Halsin studied Gale with that unnerving compassion that seemed to penetrate every defense.

"Perhaps that is something you might ponder in the company of nature while you are here," he suggested, "rather than worrying overmuch about what Astarion does or doesn't participate in."

Gale nodded, feeling a flush of shame color his cheeks. He had been so convinced of his righteous concern that he hadn't recognized his own controlling behavior—a bitter realization.

"Yes, I think that would be wise," he agreed quietly.

Having his insides poked at this way, his motivations dissected with such gentle precision—well, he understood better why Astarion wasn't exactly happy about having it forced on him. This had all been Gale's idea, his grand solution, and even he wasn't loving the experience overmuch. The irony wasn't lost on him.

From her corner, Shadowheart cleared her throat softly, drawing both men's attention. Her quill had stopped moving entirely, and she looked unexpectedly invested in the conversation.

"Might I interject?" she asked, a hint of unusual hesitancy creeping into her voice despite her newfound role as counselor-in-training.

Halsin nodded. "Of course, Shadowheart. What do you observe?"

She straightened slightly, as if bracing herself. "As an outside observer, I think it's quite clear that wedding or no, Astarion isn't leaving Gale." The bluntness of her assessment startled him. "I doubt I could beat him off Gale with a mace and bandolier of holy water, honestly."

Gale blinked, surprised by both her certainty and her colorful phrasing.

"And it seemed that Gale had known that too," she continued, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Maybe I'm wrong, but I think something might have changed if Gale is doubting now when he didn't before."

Halsin nodded at Shadowheart. "An astute observation. Gale, has something shifted in your relationship?"

Gale exhaled slowly, staring into his tea. "It's the writing," he said finally. "Of all things, it's the writing that worries me."

"But writing is what connected you initially, is it not?" Halsin prompted.

"Yes, and that's what makes this so difficult to explain." Gale set his cup down with careful precision. "It brought us together when I started chronicling our adventures and he began editing my work. It's clearly become a calling for Astarion—he's brilliant at it. And I love collaborating with him. I even loved this romance novel idea at first."

He paused, gathering his thoughts.

"But it's gotten out of hand. He's obsessive, working through the night, forgetting meals, barely acknowledging when I'm speaking to him. I know better than most how easy it is to lose oneself in rewarding work, but—" His voice caught. "It hurts being on the outside of that. Wanting to find balance for the sake of our relationship, our life together, and having him dismiss my concerns as if his lack of balance is simply normal for writers."

Shadowheart shifted uncomfortably, her quill suspended above her notes.

"He won't even try," Gale continued, quieter now. "That's the part that wounds most deeply. Not even an attempt to find middle ground."

The admission hung in the air, raw and honest in a way Gale rarely allowed himself to be.

"And now I feel pathetic," he added with a self-deprecating laugh. "Like a boil has been lanced, and the putrid inside revealed."

Halsin remained silent, allowing the moment to breathe.

"I'm just being needy, aren't I?" Gale finally asked, voicing the fear that had plagued him. "This is me being childishly needy."

"Gale," Halsin said gently, "it is not needy to want time with your partner. It is not unreasonable to desire connection with the person you love."

Something in Gale's chest loosened at the words.

"Your approach—deceiving Astarion about this retreat—was perhaps inadvisable," Halsin continued, his tone free of judgment. "But the intent behind it is not, in and of itself, wrong." He leaned forward. "Take that thought with you into nature as well, sit with it until you can say it and believe it: asking for connection is not selfish."

Gale nodded, unexpectedly moved by the simple permission to want without shame.

"We can talk again later," Halsin said, rising to his feet with enviable fluid grace. "For now, perhaps a walk would do you good. The forest has a way of putting these things in perspective."

Gale left the treehouse with his thoughts as tangled as the roots he was careful not to trip over. He found himself wandering along a winding path that led deeper into the recovering woods surrounding Newleaf. The late afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, creating dappled patterns on the forest floor. He walked without purpose, allowing his mind to quiet as the woods embraced him.

Halsin's words echoed in his head: asking for connection is not selfish. Such a simple statement, yet it struck at the core of what he'd been denying himself permission to feel. He had spent so long trying to be reasonable, trying to understand Astarion's obsession with his writing, taking on the burden of fixing everything that was wrong between them, that he'd buried his own hurt beneath rationalization.

By the time the path looped back toward the camp, the sun was beginning to set. Gale felt his breathing come easier, his shoulders less tense. There was something clarifying about physical exertion and solitude, he had to admit. Perhaps Halsin's methods weren't entirely without merit.

When he finally reached their cabin, soft golden light spilled from the windows. Gale pushed open the door, eager to share his newfound perspective with Astarion.

"I'm back—" he began, then stopped short.

Astarion sat hunched at the writing desk, wearing nothing but his silk undies, his skin a shocking shade of red that made this morning's "pink" look like the palest blush. The contrast between his burnt skin and the stark white lines where his swimming trunks had been was almost comical—or would have been, if Astarion hadn't looked so utterly miserable.

"Don't say a word," Astarion hissed through clenched teeth, not looking up from his parchment. "Not. One. Word."

Gale pressed his lips together, suppressing both concern and the inappropriate urge to laugh. Astarion winced with each movement, the quill trembling slightly in his grip as he continued writing despite his obvious discomfort.

"I wasn't planning to," Gale said mildly, closing the door behind him. "Though I do wonder why you're still writing rather than addressing your... situation."

"Because the muse waits for no man, even when said man has been betrayed by magical jewelry," Astarion snapped, shooting a venomous glare at the Sunwalker Ring on his finger. "Your enchantment protects against lethal sun damage to vampires, not apparently against common sunburn." He shifted and let out a small hiss of pain. "No one thought to mention that little detail."

Gale moved to the bathing area and began rummaging through their supplies. He returned with a clay jar that smelled strongly of aloe and mint. "May I?"

Astarion eyed the jar suspiciously. "What is that?"

"A salve that Shadowheart provided with several others as part of the retreat provisions for..." Gale cleared his throat. "Various types of camp-related discomforts and ailments."

"Evidently she anticipated your capacity for causing me pain," Astarion muttered, but he set down his quill and turned in the chair, grimacing as his skin stretched with the movement.

Gale stood behind him, unscrewing the jar. "I am sorry you're in pain."

"You should be," Astarion said, but the heat in his voice was undermined by the relief that crossed his face as Gale began to gently apply the cooling gel to his shoulders.

"The tan lines are... distinctive," Gale commented, feeling Astarion tense under his hands.

"If you value your life, you will never speak of them again," Astarion warned, though his eyes closed in pleasure as the salve began to work.

Gale worked methodically, watching the angry red skin fade to a healthier pink beneath his fingers. The cooling salve had a faint shimmer to it that he hadn't initially noticed—clearly enhanced with healing magic. As the discomfort eased, Astarion's tight expression softened, his breathing becoming deeper and more relaxed.

"That's... surprisingly effective," Astarion admitted, rotating his shoulders experimentally. "I suppose I should be grateful for Shadowheart's foresight, if not her manners."

Gale smiled as he continued applying the salve across Astarion's back and arms. On any other day, he might have spiraled into self-recrimination over Astarion's sunburn—apologizing profusely, blaming himself for not anticipating this outcome, turning a simple mishap into a referendum on his failures. But his conversation with Halsin and subsequent walk had settled something in him. This wasn't a catastrophe requiring penance; it was just another moment in their shared life. One that provided an opportunity for the connection he so desired, and one which he needn't spoil with a guilt spiral.

"You're taking this remarkably well," Astarion observed, glancing over his shoulder. "No tiresome apologies or wounded puppy eyes?"

"Ouch. Would you prefer I flagellate myself over a simple sunburn?" Gale asked, moving around to work on Astarion's chest.

"It's not that I prefer it," Astarion said, his voice dropping slightly as Gale's fingers traced his collarbone. "It's just unusual."

Gale shrugged. "Perhaps I'm learning."

His hands traveled lower, applying the salve to Astarion's stomach. The redness faded almost instantly now, leaving behind healthy skin that quivered slightly under Gale's touch. What had begun as medical attention was rapidly transforming into something more intimate.

"You're enjoying this," Astarion accused, but his voice had grown husky.

"As are you," Gale replied, nodding toward the unmistakable evidence tenting Astarion's silk smallclothes.

A slow smile spread across Astarion's face. "Well, I'm still quite upset about the burn, you know. It was terribly painful."

"Was it?" Gale asked, playing along as his hand drifted lower.

"Absolutely excruciating," Astarion confirmed, leaning back in his chair. "I think a more thorough apology might be in order."

Gale set the jar aside and slid to his knees with an alarming crack. "Far be it from me to avoid appropriate recompense."

Astarion shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "This would be considerably more pleasant if you weren't kneeling on bare wood. Where exactly is that famous wizardly resourcefulness of yours?"

Gale paused, considering the hard floor beneath his knees. "You make an excellent point."

"I often do," Astarion replied, gesturing impatiently. "Now, be a good wizard and conjure something for your poor knees before you bruise them. I won't have you blaming me for your aches tomorrow. It would rather taint my attempt to blame you for my aches today."

With a theatrical sigh that didn't quite hide his smile, Gale made a subtle gesture. A plush pillow materialized beside him, deep burgundy to match the cabin's decor.

"Better?" he asked, settling it under his knees.

"Much," Astarion agreed, sliding his hips forward until he perched at the edge of the chair. "Now, where were we?"

Gale tugged at the silk smallclothes, pulling them down Astarion's legs with deliberate slowness. The fabric whispered against skin, leaving Astarion beautifully exposed. A familiar warmth bloomed in Gale's chest—not just desire, though there was plenty of that, but relief.

For once, Gale wasn't calculating his every move, wondering if his attention would be perceived as smothering, blowing up the molehill of a sunburn into a mountain of needless guilt. He could simply admire the elegant lines of his lover's body, the way Astarion's healed, pale skin seemed to capture the cabin's amber light.

"You're staring," Astarion murmured, though the pleased curve of his lips betrayed his enjoyment of the attention.

"Can you blame me?" Gale smiled, allowing his gaze to linger appreciatively until Astarion playfully ran a thumb over Gale's lower lip and recalled him to his task.

Gale retrieved the jar again, coating his fingers with the cool gel.

He started at Astarion's ankles, working the salve into reddened skin with gentle but firm pressure. As he moved upward, his touch grew more purposeful, his thumbs tracing circles along sensitive inner thighs. The sunburn faded wherever his hands traveled, leaving behind only smooth, pale skin and Astarion's increasingly ragged breathing.

Gale pressed a kiss to Astarion's knee, then another slightly higher. He continued this pattern—salve, massage, kiss—working methodically upward while deliberately avoiding where Astarion most wanted his attention. With each application, he brought his mouth closer to Astarion's cock, now fully hard and straining upward.

"You're being terribly unfair," Astarion complained, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the catch in his breath as Gale's lips brushed against his inner thigh.

"Patience," Gale murmured, his breath ghosting over sensitive skin.

He leaned forward, letting his tongue flick briefly against the tip of Astarion's cock before returning to his ministrations. The frustrated sound this elicited made Gale smile against Astarion's thigh.

After several more teasing almost-touches, Astarion's composure finally broke.

"Gale," he whined, fingers threading through Gale's hair, "enough games."

Gale met his eyes, enjoying the desperation written across Astarion's features. This was a vulnerability Astarion allowed few to witness—the abandonment of his careful control, his willingness to ask, to need.

With deliberate slowness, Gale took Astarion into his mouth, swallowing him down in one fluid motion until his nose pressed against Astarion's stomach. The sound Astarion made—half gasp, half curse—sent a thrill through Gale. He felt Astarion's body tense, already too close, and quickly wrapped his hand around the base, squeezing gently.

Astarion's head fell back against the chair, a breathless laugh escaping him. "Good save," he managed, his voice strained.

Gale hummed in acknowledgment, the vibration making Astarion shudder. As he continued, setting a rhythm that he knew from experience would build pleasure without rushing toward completion, Gale felt a profound satisfaction that went beyond the physical act. Seeing Astarion surrender to sensation reminded him of that moment at the lake—Astarion reluctantly allowing himself to be guided onto his back, then the surprise and wonder that crossed his face as he realized he could simply float, suspended and supported.

Gale had thought then, as he did now, that there were precious few moments when Astarion truly let himself be held—physically or emotionally. The trust implicit in that surrender was a gift Gale treasured and intended to honor in return.

By making him cum, really really hard.

Gale maintained his rhythm, using every trick he'd learned over their time together to bring Astarion to the edge without letting him fall over. He alternated between deep, enveloping pressure and teasing, shallow motions that had Astarion's hips jerking upward in frustrated pursuit. Each time Astarion approached his peak—breath quickening, thighs tensing—Gale would slow or pull back entirely, sometimes replacing his mouth with a gentle squeeze of his hand until the immediacy faded.

"You're—hnn—absolutely cruel," Astarion gasped after the third such denial, his pale skin now flushed across his chest and neck, perspiration beading along his hairline despite having barely moved.

Gale merely hummed in response, resuming his attention with renewed focus. He could feel Astarion's control fracturing by degrees—fingers clutching harder at his hair, gasps turning to soft, helpless moans.

The fourth time Gale pulled away, Astarion actually growled, a sound that sent a shock of arousal through Gale's own body.

"Please," Astarion finally said, the word escaping like it had been torn from him. "Gale, please—I can't—"

Gale released him, looking up with feigned innocence. "Can't what?"

Astarion's eyes narrowed dangerously, but the effect was somewhat undermined by how utterly wrecked he looked. "Up," he ordered, rising shakily to his own feet.

Gale obeyed, rising up on his knees on the pillow.

"Open," Astarion pleaded, gripping himself at the base.

Gale complied, relaxing his throat as Astarion pushed inside, hands now firmly grasping both sides of Gale's head. The sensation of Astarion filling his mouth and throat completely sent a shiver of satisfaction through him.

He hummed with pleasure around Astarion's length, feeling the vampire's silken skin slide against his tongue, the weight of him pressing against the back of his throat. Gale's eyes watered slightly, but he welcomed the intensity, the fullness, the way Astarion's fingers tightened in his hair with each thrust. There was something deeply satisfying about being the cause of such abandon, about feeling Astarion lose himself so completely.

After the prolonged teasing, it took only a few desperate thrusts before Astarion's entire body went rigid. A choked sound escaped him as he came, pulsing against Gale's tongue. Gale closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation as he swallowed eagerly, again and again. The release seemed endless—proof of how thoroughly he'd worked Astarion up with his earlier attentions.

When the last tremor passed through Astarion's body, Gale pulled back slightly. He looked up into Astarion's dazed expression with undisguised gratification.

Astarion stepped back, chest heaving as he looked down at Gale with heavy-lidded satisfaction. "Now you," he said, gesturing to Gale's obvious arousal still trapped in his clothing. "Take everything off first. I want to see."

Gale stood, his knees protesting the movement after so long on the pillow. He undressed quickly, pulling off his clothes with far less grace than Astarion would have managed, but efficiently nonetheless. Once bare, he sat on the edge of the bed, leaned back on one hand, and spread his knees wide.

Astarion watched intently as Gale took himself in hand, his gaze so focused and appreciative that Gale barely needed physical stimulation. After so long pleasuring Astarion, his own arousal was so heightened that it took less than a minute before he was spilling over his fist with a surprised gasp.

"Apology accepted," Astarion smirked as Gale laughed and collapsed backward on the bed. His body felt deliciously heavy, limbs splayed across the sheets in boneless satisfaction. The ceiling swam pleasantly above him as he caught his breath. Halsin's words drifted through his mushy post-orgasm mind— asking for connection is not selfish. 

Gale closed his eyes, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

Overall, not a bad first day of camp.

Excerpt from Astarion’s Manuscript – The Unmasked Marquis The Scholar’s Undoing , Draft Chapter III

The grandfather clock in the study chimed midnight as Fitha sorted through another stack of yellowed correspondence. Tired eyes traced the faded ink of letters dating back three generations, searching for the legal proof Lord Yorl needed to refute his uncle's claim on the estate.

"Still at it?" Yorl appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, shoulder leaning against the frame. He'd changed from his formal dinner attire to a loose white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. "The candles have nearly burned to stubs."

Fitha glanced up from the pile of documents. "I've almost finished with the letters from 1297. There's a promising reference to a land treaty that might—"

"Surely it can wait until morning." Yorl crossed to the desk, trailing fingers along its polished edge. "You've been hunched over these papers for days. I fear you'll strain your lovely eyes."

"My eyes are quite resilient, thank you. As is my commitment to the task for which you hired me." His quill continued scratching notes onto foolscap.

Yorl placed a hand atop the document he examined. "What if I offered a more diverting activity?"

"More diverting than discovering your great-grandfather may have secretly remarried without informing his children?" Fitha raised an eyebrow. "That seems unlikely, my lord."

"I've opened a bottle of that Amnian red you admired at dinner." His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "And Cook left pastries in the drawing room."

"How convenient that these temptations arise just as I've reached your grandfather's personal journals." Fitha tapped the leather-bound volume beside his elbow. "The very ones you claimed were 'dreadfully dull' when directing me to other resources."

Yorl's smile faltered slightly. "They are. Frightfully tedious. Pages and pages about hunting trips and weather observations."

"Then you won't mind if I verify that for myself." He reached for the journal, but Yorl's hand shot out to cover his.

"The garden is lovely in moonlight," he said quickly. "Perfect for a midnight stroll. The night-blooming jasmine is particularly fragrant this evening."

Fitha leaned back in his chair, studying Yorl with amusement. "My lord, your attempts at distraction grow increasingly transparent."

"Distraction?" He pressed a hand to his chest in feigned offense. "I merely wish to ensure my archivist doesn't wither away in this dusty room."

"Is that what this is? Concern for my well-being?" Fitha folded his hands before him. "Not, perhaps, concern over what I might find in these particular documents?"

Yorl’s smile faltered. "Fitha..."

"Yes?"

He hesitated, then offered a practiced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Nothing worth losing sleep over. Truly."

Fitha tapped the journal with one finger. "We’ll see."

Chapter Text

Gale

Gale settled on a wide log by the bonfire, rubbing his palms together in pleasant anticipation. The flames cast dancing shadows across the gathered faces—some familiar from earlier activities, others joining the evening circle for the first time. His muscles pleasantly ached from the day's adventures, a physical reminder of his commitment to experiencing rather than analyzing.

Shadowheart caught his eye from across the fire and offered a quick thumbs-up. Earlier, she'd helped him build a fantastical sand castle with impossible spires and moats that defied gravity. "Not everything needs to be an exact replica of what exists," she'd said, and he'd taken her words to heart.

The waterfall hike had been glorious. Rainbows had shimmered in the mist while he swam beneath the falls, feeling simultaneously small and infinite. And though he'd initially hesitated at the skinny dipping suggestion, the casual naturalness of it had been liberating. Bodies were just bodies here—neither objectified nor judged.

Most importantly, he hadn't pressured Astarion to join any activities. When he'd returned to their cabin mid-afternoon, his lover had been deep in concentration, scribbling furiously on parchment, surrounded by crumpled drafts. Gale had simply left a carafe of blood, kissed his temple, and slipped out again. The freedom to choose that had felt surprisingly good—for both of them.

Gale shifted uncomfortably on the log, silently lamenting the absence of proper seating. The novelty of "connecting with nature" had worn thin where his backside was concerned. He found himself daydreaming about the plush armchairs in their tower library, with their perfect lumbar support and—

"Budge over, would you?"

Astarion slid onto the log beside him, so unexpectedly that Gale nearly toppled off the other side. His heart leapt at the sight—Astarion's hair was still damp, curling slightly at the temples, and he'd changed into fresh clothes that weren't his usual formal attire but still managed to look elegant.

"You came," Gale said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

Astarion's lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "I did. Several times, if you recall." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I must thank you for last night. Quite the inspiration. I've written sixteen pages today—the scene between Yorl and Fitha in the boathouse is particularly... memorable."

Gale felt heat creep up his neck. "You're welcome?"

"I thought I might join you for this..." Astarion gestured vaguely toward the circle, "...whatever this is. As a treat." He sounded like he was bestowing an extraordinary gift, chest puffed slightly with pride at his own magnanimity in willingly participating in a retreat activity while at the retreat.

That's when reality crashed down on Gale. Tonight wasn't just any gathering. It was a Shadow-letting session—where participants were encouraged to share their deepest fears and traumas aloud. Halsin had mentioned it during their private meeting, describing it as "cathartic" and "transformative," but potentially triggering for the unprepared.

And Astarion was utterly unprepared.

Gale's mind raced. He could invent some excuse—a sudden need for privacy, a headache, a magical experiment requiring immediate attention. He could spare Astarion the shock of finding himself in an emotional confessional session.

But wasn't that exactly the problem Halsin had identified? His constant need to shield, to protect, to manage Astarion's experiences? To decide for him what he could handle?

"Darling?" Astarion cocked his head. "You have that look—the one that says your brain is spinning fast enough to power a gnomish contraption."

Before Gale could decide, Halsin stepped into the center of the circle, his massive frame silhouetted against the flames. He raised his arms for silence, and the murmur of voices died away.

"Welcome, friends," Halsin's deep voice resonated through the clearing. "Tonight, we create sacred space to share what lives in shadow—our fears, our wounds, our truths."

Beside him, Astarion went very still.

"For those joining us for the first time, this is not about banishing darkness, but acknowledging its presence."

He knelt, placing a large basket beside him filled with small squares of dark paper and white chalk sticks.

"Each of us carries shadows—memories, regrets, fears, wounds both seen and unseen. Tonight, we give them shape with our words." He lifted a piece of the dark paper. "Write your shadow on this paper. No one will read it but you. It can be a single word or many. It can be something you've carried for years or something that arose just today."

Halsin stood again, lifting his hands to encompass the circle. "Then, when you're ready, you may approach the fire and make a choice—to release your shadow to the flames, to fold it and keep it close, or to share it aloud before letting it go. There is wisdom in each choice, and no wrong way to honor your journey."

Gale numbly accepted slips of paper and chalk as they passed around the circle. 

"This ritual isn't about erasing our shadows," Halsin continued. "It's about recognizing that they exist alongside our light. Just as these lands were cursed but now heal, we too can discover growth even in our darkest places."

Halsin's gaze swept the circle, warm and accepting. "We begin whenever you're ready. I'll be here to witness, should you choose to share."

Gale desperately scanned the circle until his eyes locked with Shadowheart's across the flames. Her eyebrows shot up when she spotted Astarion beside him, and a silent conversation of panicked expressions ensued. Gale widened his eyes and tilted his head meaningfully toward Astarion, who sat rigid as a statue. Shadowheart responded with a grimace and a subtle head shake.

Gale mouthed "Help!" while gesturing with his eyes.

Shadowheart squinted, then pointed discreetly to the cabin path, raising her eyebrows in question.

Gale replied with a helpless shrug and frantic blinking.

"Shadowheart," Halsin's gentle voice broke their silent exchange. "Perhaps we could model better communication skills than facial gymnastics across the fire?"

Several chuckles rippled through the circle. Shadowheart's cheeks flushed visibly even in the firelight. She straightened, cleared her throat, and walked around to their log, squatting down beside them.

"I see you've joined us," she whispered to Astarion, whose spine remained ramrod straight, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the log. "Perhaps you were unaware of the nature of this event. If you're uncomfortable, there's no pressure to stay. As Halsin would say, 'You don't have to earn happiness. It's as natural as sunlight after a long night.'" Her voice took on a stilted quality as she recited the saying.

She glanced at Gale, then back to Astarion. "You can alternatively simply observe, if you prefer. There's absolutely no requirement to share anything."

Astarion's jaw tightened. "How generous," he hissed, eyes flashing. "The two of you managing my fragility as though I'm not sitting right here." He turned to Gale, his voice brittle. "It's been two centuries since I've needed coddling, darling. I think I can manage to sit through your little therapy session without falling apart."

Gale opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by movement across the circle. An older woman with gray-streaked hair rose to her feet, paper clutched in her hand.

"Shh," someone nearby whispered sharply.

Shadowheart gave them both an apologetic glance before retreating to her place in the circle, leaving Gale with the distinct feeling that he'd made everything worse.

Gale wordlessly unfolded one of the small black squares and offered it to Astarion along with a piece of chalk. Astarion scoffed, waving it away with an elegant flick of his wrist.

"I think not," he murmured, just loud enough for Gale to hear. "You enjoy your confessional. I'll spectate."

Gale stared down at his own blank paper, torn. The ritual beckoned to him—there were certainly shadows he wouldn't mind releasing. But with Astarion radiating cold fury beside him, this hardly seemed the moment for personal catharsis.

For a guilty instant, he wished Astarion hadn't appeared at all, that he'd remained in their cabin with his manuscript. The thought brought immediate shame. Wasn't this exactly what he'd hoped for? Astarion, participating, present?

Across the circle, a young man approached the fire, trembling visibly as he clutched his paper. The words he spoke were lost to Gale, who found himself composing mental shadow-letters instead.

I feel unworthy of love without achievement.

I pretend to have moved beyond Mystra, but sometimes I still ache for her approval.

Less than a year ago I almost killed myself.

His fingers twitched around the chalk, starting to write several times before stopping. How selfish to indulge in his own shadow-letting while Astarion sat beside him, contempt hardening his beautiful features.

But when he dared look up, he found Astarion studying him, the earlier coldness in his eyes replaced by something softer, more contemplative.

"Go on, darling," Astarion said quietly. "If you'd rather share without me here, I can go."

"No," Gale protested, surprised by the offer. "You already know all my darkest parts. Hells, most of Faerûn knows after our memoir." He gestured vaguely toward the fire. "I'd rather just burn them. You wouldn't mind?"

"Not at all," Astarion replied, a hint of his usual smirk returning. "If anything, I understand completely the relief of putting words to paper." His eyes flickered to the dancing flames. "And the relief of burning everything to ash."

With a lightened heart, Gale bent to his task, filling out several slips in quick succession. Beside him, Astarion relaxed slightly, his posture less defensive as they settled in to watch the ceremony unfold.

Gale watched as a middle-aged woman with crow's feet around her eyes approached the fire, her hands trembling as she unfolded her paper.

"My shadow," she said, voice surprisingly steady, "is that I still hear my father's voice telling me I'm worthless, twenty years after his death." She exhaled shakily. "And sometimes, I still believe him."

She tossed her paper into the flames, which flared bright orange for a moment. Several people murmured encouragement as she returned to her seat, shoulders visibly relaxed.

Next came a burly man with a scar across his jaw who stood silently before the fire. He glanced at his paper once, jaw clenched, then crumpled it and threw it into the flames without speaking. The paper caught immediately, turning to ash in seconds. No one pressed him to share; Halsin simply nodded respectfully as the man returned to his seat.

Movement from the next log over caught Gale's attention. A young man rose to his feet—slender, with dark hair tied back in a simple style. Gale didn't recognize him and assumed he must be a new arrival. Brave, to participate in such an intimate ritual on his first night.

The young man stepped toward the fire, his face downturned. As he moved into the firelight, Gale noticed his unusually pale skin. When he finally lifted his head, Gale saw the gleaming red eyes.

A vampire spawn. Oh.  Oh no.

Beside him, Astarion went rigid, a soft gasp escaping his lips before his expression hardened into a furious glare.

"My shadow," the spawn said softly, "is that I had a second chance and I blew it." He tossed not one but several slips of paper into the fire, watching as they curled and blackened. "Freedom was... harder than I expected."

Dismay rippled through Gale. Astarion had released his fellow spawn into the Underdark after defeating Cazador. What was this one doing here, in a healing camp, of all places? 

The spawn didn't elaborate. He simply watched his papers burn before turning away from the fire, deliberately avoiding looking in their direction as he returned to his seat.

All eyes turned to the next person in the circle—Astarion, whose expression had frozen somewhere between rage and panic. Gale instinctively reached for his hand, but Astarion jerked away, his fingers curling into a fist.

"What the hells is he doing here?" Astarion whispered furiously, his voice trembling with rage. He gripped Gale's wrist with bruising force, nails digging in. "Did someone send him? Is this some kind of… plot? Whose?"

Gale tried to loosen Astarion's grip. "Darling, please—"

"Don't 'darling' me." Astarion's voice rose slightly, causing several heads to turn. "That's one of them. One of the spawn. Who brought him here? Was it Halsin? Some kind of twisted lesson?"

The young vampire spawn had noticed the commotion. His red eyes widened in recognition, and he visibly shrank back against his log.

Halsin stepped forward, his expression serene despite the growing tension. "Friends, let us return to our ritual. Remember, this is a space of—"

"Oh, is it?" Astarion stood abruptly, snatching a handful of the dark paper slips from the basket as he approached the fire. "Excellent timing. I have shadows to let. Isn't that what this is for?"

The spawn remained frozen, mouth slightly open, as Astarion approached the flames.

"Was he one of mine?" Astarion demanded, pointing viciously at the spawn. His voice cracked with emotion. "Were you one I lured for him? One I seduced with pretty lies and false promises?"

Astarion wadded up a slip of paper and tossed it at the spawn, bouncing it off his forehead. Halsin moved closer, hands raised in a calming gesture. "Astarion—"

"Was my name on one of those slips you burned?" Astarion's voice rose to a shout, causing several participants to flinch. He turned back to the spawn, stepping closer. "Should your name be on mine? I can't quite remember—there were so many faces, so many names, so many I led to their doom. So many I let have me when I didn't want…"

Tears streamed down Astarion's face now, his entire body shaking. He tore at the paper slips in his hands, scattering black confetti that drifted into the flames.

"Must all their shadows be on my head?" he screamed, advancing toward the terrified spawn. "All the lives I destroyed, all the blood I spilled to save my own worthless skin—should I write all their names? Could I even remember them all?"

Halsin moved with startling speed for someone his size. In one fluid motion, he wrapped his arms around Astarion, lifting him bodily away from the fire. Astarion thrashed violently in his grip, clawing at the druid's arms and leaving bloody welts.

"Let me GO!" Astarion's scream tore through the night, primal and agonized. "I'm the shadow they should fear! Toss me in the fire, why don't you? I'm the one who—"

"Astarion, please!" Gale rushed forward, face contorted with anguish. "Come away from the circle. Please, my love."

Astarion's struggles intensified, his fangs bared in a feral snarl. "Don't you dare pity me," he sobbed, voice breaking. "Don't you dare."

Halsin's arms tightened around Astarion as he carried him away from the fire. The druid's expression remained calm despite the blood seeping from the scratches Astarion had inflicted.

"I've got him," Halsin called back to Gale. "He needs space."

Gale lunged after them. "He needs me."

A hand caught his arm, yanking him backward. Shadowheart stood there, her grip surprisingly strong for someone her size.

"Let Halsin handle this," she said. "He knows what he's doing."

"Get your hands off me," Gale snapped, pulling against her restraint. "You don't understand—"

"I understand better than you think," she countered, tightening her grip. "Trust me, crowding him right now is the worst possible—"

Gale wrenched free with such force that his hand swung back, nearly catching Shadowheart across the face. She flinched, and he froze instantly, horror washing over him at what he had almost done.

"Shadowheart, I—" The words died in his throat as he looked back toward where Halsin had been. The space was empty save for scattered black paper and the glow of the fire. Astarion's broken sobs faded into the distance, then disappeared entirely.

Behind them, the ritual had completely dissolved. One counselor knelt beside the trembling spawn, speaking in soothing tones. Another stood by the fire, gently dismissing the remaining participants with practiced phrases about self-care and tomorrow's activities.

"Well," Shadowheart said, rubbing her wrist where Gale had broken her grip. "I suppose we made the wrong call having Astarion stay for this particular activity." She attempted a weak smile.

Gale stared at her, appalled. "The wrong call? The wrong—" He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. "Gods, Jen, how can you joke about this?"

Her smile vanished, replaced by genuine shame. "I wasn't—I didn't mean—" She took a deep breath. "You're right. That was... that was awful of me. I'm sorry."

"Where would Halsin take him?" Gale demanded, his voice raw with urgency. "Please, Shadowheart. I need to find him."

When she hesitated, Gale's hand went instinctively to the engagement ring on his finger—the twin to Astarion's, enchanted with a locator spell for emergencies.

"Don't," Shadowheart said quickly, noticing the gesture. "Halsin took him to the infirmary. But Gale, he specifically asked for space."

"I don't care what Halsin asked for," Gale said, already turning toward the path. "I care about what Astarion needs. And that is me."

Shadowheart fell into step beside him as they strode away from the fire. "I didn't know," she said quietly. "About the spawn. I swear it."

Gale's jaw clenched as he quickened his pace. Every step filled him with bitter regret. He had pushed for this retreat, had deceived Astarion about its nature, and had forced him into situations he wasn't ready for. And now this—a public breakdown, triggered by the very therapy Gale had thought would help.

The follies of Gale Dekarios appeared to have no end.

Gale's feet pounded the path, propelling him toward the infirmary with single-minded focus. Fucking Tree Stride. He didn’t know the destination well enough to teleport. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat a reminder of precious seconds passing while Astarion suffered alone. Or as good as alone.  However wise Halsin was, no one new Astarion like Gale.  Astarion needed him.

"Gale! Wait!" 

Shadowheart's voice floated from behind, breathless and urgent. He quickened his pace. He'd humored her interference enough for one night.

"It wasn't your fault!" she called, her voice closer now. "You couldn't have known!"

Gale stopped so abruptly that Shadowheart nearly collided with him when she caught up. He whirled to face her, eyes blazing.

"Not my fault?" His voice trembled with barely contained fury. "I brought him here under false pretenses. I pushed him to participate. I sat there and watched while he—" His voice broke. "While he broke."

Shadowheart stood her ground, hands on her hips. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you controlled the entire universe, including which random vampire spawn decides to show up at an open retreat."

"Don't," Gale warned.

"Don't what? Point out that you're being an arrogant ass?" The careful counselor facade dropped entirely, replaced by the sharp-edged woman he remembered from their adventures. "You think you're so fucking important that you cause every misfortune that happens to him? That his pain is your creation?"

"If I hadn't—"

"If you hadn't brought him here, he'd have kept hiding in that tower forever, writing his precious book and never dealing with any of it." She stepped closer, eyes flashing. "You didn't cause this pain, you idiot. You just brought him somewhere he couldn't ignore it anymore."

"I need to go to him," Gale insisted, already turning away.

"And do what, exactly?" Shadowheart's voice lashed out. "Fix him? Take ownership of his feelings because you think they belong to you? If you walk in there all 'this is my fault, I'll make it better,' do you really believe that this time you'll suddenly meddle exactly right?"

Gale's shoulders slumped. "I can't just leave him alone."

"I'm not saying you should." Her voice softened slightly. "I'm saying you need to get your head on straight before you do more damage. Repeat after me: This is not my fault."

Gale stared at her. "Are you serious?"

"This is not my fault," she prompted again, arms crossed.

"This is not my fault," he repeated flatly.

"Now with feeling. Like you might actually believe it."

"This is not my fault." Gale's voice strengthened slightly.

"But maybe it is," she challenged. "Maybe if you'd been a better partner—"

"No," Gale interrupted, surprising himself with his vehemence. "This is not my fault. Astarion's trauma is not my creation."

Shadowheart's eyebrows rose. "Well. That's as good as I can do in the middle of the damned woods while your hair is on fire." She gestured toward the path. "Go to him. But remember—you're going as his partner, not his savior."

Shadowheart's words deflated Gale completely. He stood motionless, her challenge echoing in his mind: you're going as his partner, not his savior .

Could he do that? Truly?

"I don't know how," he admitted quietly.

Shadowheart's expression softened. "That's why the counselors are here, Gale, why you came here. Because some things require a little emotional distance to address, and how can you or should you have that with Astarion?"

She didn't follow as Gale turned without replying and continued down the path toward the infirmary. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind racing through all the possible scenarios awaiting him. What would he say? What could he possibly offer Astarion now that wouldn't sound hollow or self-serving?

The infirmary came into view—a simple wooden structure with soft amber light glowing from its windows. Gale paused at the entrance, hand hovering over the door handle. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, taste the metallic edge of fear on his tongue.

What if Astarion rejected him? What if he couldn't find the right words? What if—

The door swung open before he could knock. Halsin stood there, his massive form filling the doorway. His expression was gentle but weary, the scratches on his arms already fading to pink lines.

"Gale," he said simply.

"Is he—?" Gale peered anxiously past the druid's broad shoulders.

"He's gone," Halsin said. "He left perhaps ten minutes ago, once he had calmed sufficiently."

"Gone?" Panic surged through Gale. "Gone where? Back to Waterdeep? Did he say—"

"Peace, my friend." Halsin placed a steadying hand on Gale's shoulder. "He merely wanted solitude. I believe he mentioned a walk in the forest."

"And you let him go alone?" Gale's voice rose with incredulity. "After what just happened?"

"He is not in danger, Gale," Halsin said firmly. "Not from himself or others. I would not have allowed his departure otherwise."

The assurance should have brought relief. Instead, Gale felt the last of his composure crumbling. His vision blurred, and suddenly his legs seemed incapable of supporting him. He swayed forward into Halsin, who caught him with practiced ease.

"I don't—I can't—" Gale tried to form coherent thoughts, but they dissolved into a wretched sob that tore from his throat. 

Halsin's arms closed around him, solid and strong. "Let it come," the druid murmured, his deep voice rumbling against Gale's ear. "You've been holding this for too long."

And just like that, the careful dam Gale had constructed broke entirely. He sagged against Halsin's chest, his body racked with helpless, confused sobs.

"I don't know how to help him," he managed between ragged breaths. "I keep making it worse."

Halsin merely held him, one large hand moving in soothing circles across Gale's back as he wept with impotent despair.

Astarion

Astarion perched on a tree branch thirty feet above the ground, his back against the trunk, one leg dangling. The world felt distant and muted, as if viewed through murky water. His mind, usually a razor-sharp instrument, now operated in sluggish fragments. Small mercy, that—the fog insulated him from the immediate horror of his public... episode.

Below, at the lake's edge, stood Zevlor. The tiefling wore nothing but swimming trunks, his crimson skin catching the moonlight, his tail curled awkwardly around one leg. He stared at the water with such intense concentration one might have thought it contained ancient prophecies rather than tiny fish and water plants.

Strange. Astarion had never seen the former refugee leader in anything but his weathered leather armor.

Zevlor took one step toward the water, then retreated. Advanced again, then withdrew. A dance of indecision performed for an audience of none—except Astarion, invisible in his arboreal sanctuary.

Is this what recovery looks like? How very tedious.

A detached, floating part of Astarion wondered if Zevlor had ever participated in Halsin's shadow-letting rituals. Had he stood by the fire, voice trembling, confessing how he'd failed his people? Had he screamed accusations at phantom Hellriders or, worse, a scared tiefling refugee?

Probably not. That particular brand of public humiliation seemed reserved for Astarion alone.

The memories tried to penetrate the fog—his own voice rising to a shriek, the way he'd clawed at Halsin, the horror on Gale's face. Astarion pushed them back, retreating further into numbness.

His fingers absently traced the bark beneath them, registering texture without truly feeling it. He should be mortified. Livid. Planning his immediate departure. Instead, he felt... nothing. A vast emptiness, like the space between stars.

Zevlor dipped one toe in the water, then yanked it back as if burned. 

How touching. The fearless leader facing his own little demons.

Was there a word for finding bitter amusement in another's struggle while being utterly disconnected from your own catastrophe? If not, someone should invent it. Perhaps he would, in his next novel. 

Distantly, Astarion registered that he should probably care about where Gale was or what he might be thinking. But the thought floated away like a leaf on the water's surface, impossible to grasp in his current state.

Below, Zevlor cursed quietly and strode away.

With Zevlor gone, Astarion was left with only his thoughts for company—a dangerous proposition on the best of days. The spawn's face floated in his memory, features blurring like a watercolor in rain. Had he known them? Any name escaped him completely, which seemed perversely funny now. Perhaps they hadn't been one of his conquests after all. How wonderfully, bitterly ironic that he couldn't even place the person whose presence had shattered his carefully constructed façade.

He imagined tomorrow's activities: "Special group session for Those Traumatized by Astarion Ancunin. Bring your own handkerchiefs, refreshments provided." They could form a proper support group or club. The Underdark chapter alone would require a meeting hall larger than Halsin's dining pavilion.

A bark of laughter escaped him, hollow and sharp against the night air.

Perhaps the scandal would boost book sales, at least. "Co-author of bestselling historical chronicle loses mind at healing retreat" would make an excellent headline for the broadsheets. Volo would be positively green with envy at the publicity.

His fingers idly twisted his engagement ring, spinning it around and around. The motion drew his attention to what he'd been desperately avoiding thinking about.

Gale hadn't come after him.

Astarion swallowed hard. The numbness receded just enough for a spike of pain to pierce through. Gale always came after him. It was practically a law of nature. Astarion ran; Gale followed. Astarion hid; Gale found him. Astarion lashed out; Gale soothed.

But not tonight.

Unless Astarion had tossed away his engagement ring—which he hadn't—Gale could find him. The enchantment ensured it. And Gale hadn't come.

Maybe he's finally had enough. Maybe he's removed his own ring.

No. Don't think about that. Think about... the novel. How could he use any of this miserable experience in his work?

Perhaps Fitha could discover Yorl's darkest secret and recoil in horror. Or no—better yet—Yorl could witness Fitha in the arms of another and misinterpret entirely. The burning betrayal, the dramatic confrontation... yes. That had promise. He could channel all this wretched feeling into something productive, something controlled.

Yorl would storm away, climb to his estate's highest tower, and there... what? Wait for Fitha to come after him? No, that was too pathetic. Too revealing. Yorl was never pathetic—he was proud, dignified even in his anguish. Unlike Astarion, who had screamed like a common lunatic in front of strangers.

Astarion's eyes drifted closed, his mind circling back to the safe harbor of his manuscript. If there was one thing he truly loved about writing romance—besides sticking it to Volo, of course—it was the possibility to write how things should be, not how they were. He'd leave out any of this kind of ugliness. No public breakdowns, no confusion, no ugly wounds that reopened themselves at the worst possible moments.

Fitha would always understand Yorl's dark secret and would never betray him. Their love story would be clean—a smooth dance toward happily ever after with challenges easily overcome and amusing in retrospect. "Remember when we nearly fell out over that misunderstanding about your uncle's will?" they'd laugh, curled together by the fire, the angst long forgotten.

The page was so much more accommodating than life. Characters did as they were told. They spoke the perfect words at the perfect moment. They didn't hiss insane accusations and claw at old friends.

And when he wrote love so perfectly on the page, Gale would know that Astarion understood how it could be, how it should be. He'd see that Astarion was trying. The book would be tangible proof—every elegantly crafted sentence a promise. Every scene where Yorl overcame his past trauma would show Gale that Astarion knew what healing looked like, even if he couldn't quite manage it himself.

Gale would read between the lines and understand. He'd wait for Astarion to get it right in the real world. He'd see the book for what it was—a roadmap to the perfect love story Astarion intended to give him someday, when Astarion was worthy of it.

Astarion sighed, straightening his stiff limbs. Sulking in a tree was dramatic, even for him. The numbness had worn off, leaving only hollow exhaustion and the sting of his own public humiliation. He’d torn himself open, publicly, and the ugliness spilled out. Now, what remained was a bitter taste of self-contempt.

He couldn’t go back to Gale like this, but what to do? After calming Astarion from his hysteria, Halsin had suggested Astarion should be proud of all he had let go of in that moment and not try to gather it back in by judging himself wrongly for what was “good work.” And if that seemed difficult to do on his own, to give his residual pain to nature. Blah blah something about limitless capacity for acceptance blah.

Part of Astarion deeply resented the idea of following the advice of a man whose crackpot therapeutic nonsense was the reason he had lost his shit so thoroughly, but, truth be told, he didn’t have a better idea.

Well, why not? If it didn’t work, at least there was no one here to see him lose it again.

He climbed down with fluid grace despite his emotional state—two centuries as a vampire had its benefits. At the water's edge, he hesitated only briefly before stripping off his clothes, folding them into a neat pile on a rock. The night air prickled across his skin, cool but not uncomfortable.

Astarion waded into the lake, water lapping at his ankles, then calves, then thighs. He kept going until it reached his waist before easing backward into the floating position Halsin had taught him yesterday. He extended his arms, relaxed his neck, and let the water cradle him.

The stars wheeled above, distant and unconcerned with the petty dramas of vampires and wizards. He kept his mind deliberately empty, focusing only on the sensations—water supporting his weight, gentle ripples brushing his ears, the faint sounds of night creatures calling to one another.

Time lost meaning. He drifted physically and mentally, watching clouds pass over the moon, counting stars that appeared and disappeared as he rotated slowly. His mind, usually racing with thoughts and plans and worries, quieted to a gentle hum.

When his fingers had pruned to a comical degree, he finally stood, water streaming from his body. He dressed carelessly, not bothering to dry himself first. His fine linen shirt clung to his damp skin, his breeches grew heavy with absorbed water. It should have annoyed him—Astarion Ancunín, sloppy and disheveled—but he couldn't summon the energy to care.

The walk back to their cabin seemed longer than before. Lights glowed through the windows, confirming Gale was inside. Astarion paused at the door, swallowing hard. Shame crept up his spine at the thought of facing his fiancé after such a spectacular collapse.

Coward. You've faced worse than your own lover's disappointment. (Hm, but have you?)

Squaring his shoulders, he pushed the door open.

Gale sat at one of the twin desks, a book open before him, though his eyes weren't on the page. He looked up when Astarion entered—and gods, he was a wreck. Hair disheveled from obvious tugging, eyes red-rimmed, clothes rumpled as if he'd been pacing for hours. Probably had been.

Astarion imagined he looked no better. A proper pair of disasters they were.

"Astarion," Gale breathed, rising so quickly he knocked over his chair.

Before Astarion could formulate a response—something witty to defuse the tension—Gale crossed the room and pulled him into a crushing embrace.

"You're soaked through! And freezing," Gale scolded, immediately shifting to practical concerns. "What were you thinking? You'll catch your death."

Internally Astarion snickered, but he didn't bother to make the obvious joke.

Gale's hands moved efficiently, unbuttoning Astarion's sodden shirt, peeling it from his clammy skin. Astarion stood passively, allowing himself to be undressed like a child. Wet clothing dropped to the floor with soft thuds.

"Honestly, you're as cold as—well, as cold as you usually are, but wetter," Gale muttered, wrapping Astarion in a thick towel and rubbing briskly at his arms and back.

Not a word about the bonfire. Not a single mention of screaming and thrashing and making a complete spectacle of himself. Just Gale, fussing over him as if he'd merely stayed out too late and gotten chilled.

Before he knew it, Astarion found himself bundled into bed, wrapped in blankets with Gale beside him, radiating the human warmth that had become his constant comfort over these past months.

The silence stretched between them, taut and uncertain. Astarion stared at the ceiling, painfully aware of Gale's presence beside him—the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the warmth radiating from his body. Words clotted in Astarion's throat, a jumble of apologies and accusations and pleas he couldn't voice.

Should I apologize for the spectacle? Is that what he's waiting for?

Curious, though. Gale wasn't rushing to fill the silence with his usual stream of apologies and explanations. No "I'm sorry I brought you here" or "I should have warned you about the ritual." Just uncharacteristic quiet.

Astarion swallowed hard. "Why didn't you come find me?"

There it was—the question that had haunted him since he'd climbed that tree. The fear that had settled in his chest like a stone.

Gale shifted beside him, and Astarion braced himself. This was it, then. The moment when Gale would finally admit he'd reached his limit. When he'd confess that perhaps, for a glorious moment as Astarion raved like a madman, he'd hoped Astarion might not return at all. That he'd simply vanish and spare Gale the trouble of a proper breakup.

Just say it, Astarion thought, a perverse desire to hear his worst fears confirmed rising within him. Tell me you've had enough.

But no. That wasn't Gale's way, was it? Even if it were true—even if he was aching to be rid of Astarion and his endless parade of damage—he wouldn't say so. Not his Gale. Too kind, too gentle to be as hard on Astarion as he truly deserved.

The silence stretched longer. Astarion's mind raced through possibilities. Perhaps Gale would blame Halsin, or Shadowheart. Maybe there was some ridiculous retreat policy about giving participants "space to process" after breakdowns. Gale did love his rules, after all. Would dutifully follow whatever druidic nonsense Halsin had prescribed.

When Gale finally spoke, his voice was soft and raw. "I couldn't think of a way to come after you without making things worse."

Astarion blinked, thrown off balance by the simple honesty of it.

Gale continued, his voice hesitant. "Was that... was that the wrong call? Did you feel abandoned?"

Astarion felt the immediate "yes" rise to his throat—of course he'd felt abandoned, waiting in that tree for hours. But what came out instead was, "No, of course not."

He paused, confused by his own answer. Because truthfully, wasn't it "no"? Hadn't he appreciated the time to think? Yet his mouth betrayed him again: "Actually, yes. I did."

What in the Nine Hells was wrong with him? Which wire had he managed to cross in his brain to produce this contradictory mess?

"No," Astarion said more firmly, shaking his head against the pillow. "You made the right choice. I needed... space." 

The half-lie tasted bitter, but it was the right answer. The mature one. The one that didn't confirm he was as needy and broken as he feared.

Gale's exhale was shaky. He reached for Astarion's hand beneath the blankets, fingers trembling slightly. "I want you to know that no matter what, I'll never abandon you," he managed to choke out. "I may not always know how to help or what to say, but I'll be there. For whatever that's worth."

Everything, Astarion thought immediately, the word filling his chest with uncomfortable warmth. But he couldn't say it aloud—it was too raw, too honest, too revealing.

"I know," he said instead, squeezing Gale's hand. And he did know. Gale was too good a person to leave, even when he should. And Astarion was too selfish to cut him loose. A perfect, terrible equilibrium.

The thought curdled in Astarion's stomach. Suddenly he was sick of himself, sick of his circular self-pity, sick of this entire wretched retreat with its forced introspection and emotional bloodletting.

"I think I'll pass on any future shadow-lettings," he announced abruptly. "But perhaps we could try yoga again. I'm developing quite the fondness for sun salutations."

He didn't mean it, of course. 

To his immense delight, Gale released a put-upon huff and muttered, "Fuck yoga," before closing his eyes and promptly falling asleep.

Well, and they had four more days to go. What a delight.

Excerpt from Astarion’s Manuscript – The Unmasked Marquis The Scholar’s Undoing The Noble’s Secret , Draft Chapter XIV

Fitha sat surrounded by stacks of parchment, his fingers stained with ink and dust. For three weeks, he had meticulously pieced together the family record, correlating marriage certificates with land deeds, tracing bloodlines through faded baptismal records, and mapping the convoluted paths of inheritance through generations of Marquis Yorl's family.

He barely glanced up when the library door opened. The candles had burned low, casting long shadows across his workspace. His back ached from hours of hunching over documents, but he was close—so tantalizingly close to assembling irrefutable proof against the uncle's claim.

"Saer Willand."

Yorl's voice carried its usual blend of authority and charm, but something in his tone seemed different tonight. Fitha looked up, expecting to find Yorl bearing wine or some other distraction, as had become his habit these past weeks.

"My lord, I'm rather occupied at present." He gestured to the sprawl of documents. "I've nearly completed the lineage chart connecting your great-grandmother's second marriage to the eastern estate holdings. If I can establish—"

"Fitha." He rarely used his given name. It stopped him mid-sentence. "Please. I need to speak with you."

Fitha sighed, setting down his quill. "Is this the urgent matter of the garden fountain again? Or perhaps the cook has prepared another midnight delicacy you simply must share?"

York’s diversionary tactics had grown transparent weeks ago. Whenever Fitha approached certain family records—particularly Yorl’s grandfather's journals—he found reasons to lead him away from his work.

"Neither." York crossed to Fitha’s desk, moving aside a stack of letters with unusual care. "May I sit?"

Fitha gestured to the chair opposite his, curiosity replacing irritation. Yorl seemed different tonight—no forced lightness, no artificial charm. His face held an intensity he'd glimpsed only in rare, unguarded moments.

"I'd like to show you something." He placed a small key on the table between them. "Rather, I'd like to tell you something."

Fitha recognized the key instantly—it opened the locked cabinet where he kept his grandfather's most private journals, the very documents he had been asking to access for weeks.

"I've been afraid," he said, his voice low and steady. "Afraid of what you might find. What you might think of me, and my family, once you knew the truth."

Fitha's pulse quickened. "What truth?"

Yorl's eyes met his, searching. Whatever he saw there seemed to steady him. He took a deep breath.

"The truth about my grandfather. About what happened the summer before he died. About why my uncle believes he has a rightful claim." He swallowed hard. "About what I've done."

Fitha kept perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. The scholar in him burned with curiosity, but something else—something deeper—recognized the cost of this confession.

"You don't have to—"

"I do," he interrupted. "I want to. I'm tired of hiding it from you, of all people."

In the flickering candlelight, Fitha saw something shift in his expression—vulnerability, fear, but beneath it all, a terrible hope. York reached across the table, his fingers trembling slightly as they touched the back of Fitha’s hand.

"You've seen through every defense I've constructed, Fitha. You've catalogued my excuses, charted my diversions. And still you're here."

The admission hung between them, fragile and honest.

"I'm ready to tell you everything," he said.

Chapter Text

Astarion

Astarion reclined against the headboard, observing Gale's sleeping form beside him. The wizard's chest rose and fell in that steady, peaceful rhythm that still fascinated Astarion even after months of sharing a bed. Dawn light crept through the cabin's shutters, painting thin golden lines across the rumpled sheets and Gale's bronzed skin alike.

His mind still felt raw, exposed. Last night's public breakdown lingered like a wound that wouldn't close. After his trance, he'd attempted to channel the experience into his manuscript—surely good drama made for good fiction—but the words had come grudgingly, each sentence a battle. Three hours of work had produced nothing worth keeping.

Eventually, he'd set it aside. One day without writing wouldn't kill the project.

Today, he decided, would be different. No more soul-scraping or public confessions. No more helpful, earnest druid advice. Just... fun. With Gale. Assuming this blasted camp offered any.

The meditation bells began their irritating chime. Astarion watched with delight as Gale's face contorted through its familiar morning sequence: peaceful slumber to confusion, momentary alarm, and finally consciousness. His brow furrowed adorably before his eyes fluttered open.

"Good morning, my precious fountain of purple prose," Astarion murmured, then thrust a piece of parchment directly in front of Gale's unfocused eyes.

"Wha—?" Gale blinked several times, squinting. "I can't—Astarion, it's six inches from my face."

Astarion pulled the paper back slightly. "Better?"

"What am I looking at?" Gale pushed himself up, hair wonderfully disheveled.

"Today's schedule of life-affirming nonsense. I'm selecting our activities, and I want your input. But only if you agree with mine."

Gale's eyes narrowed. "Where did you get this? Aren't these posted in the—" Understanding dawned. "You stole the camp schedule?"

Astarion grinned. "I rescued it. At knife-point. From its cruel captor—a harmless wooden board."

"You can't just—" Gale sighed, running a hand through his hair. "People need to know what's happening today."

"They can ask Shadowheart. Imagine how thrilled she'll be, answering the same question eighty times."

Gale chuckled despite himself. "You're incorrigible."

"Would you prefer me dull and rule-abiding? Imagine, 'Yes, Archdruid Halsin, I'll certainly participate in expressing my shadow through interpretive dance. How innovative!'"

"There's a vast middle ground between stealing and whatever that was." Gale's stern expression cracked into a smile. "Though I suppose I do owe thanks to whatever quirk of fate made you a man who steals schedules rather than follows them."

"Schedules, silverware, hearts." Astarion traced a finger down Gale's chest. "I'm not picky about what I take."

The moment the words left his mouth, Astarion inwardly winced. What an absurd statement. He was exceptionally picky. Only Gale's heart would do for him—had ever done for him. And he had stolen it, hadn't he? One day, there would be a reckoning for that theft. One day, Gale might realize what had been taken and who had done the taking.

Astarion pushed the thought aside. Today would not be that day. Today, he'd make Gale happy by doing what he clearly wanted—making use of that damned ring and participating in these ridiculous camp activities. Atonement, of sorts.

Gale studied the parchment more carefully now, his eyes widening slightly as understanding dawned. "Wait. You're suggesting we actually attend these events today?" His voice carried a note of cautious hope. "I thought after yesterday—"

"What's the most appealing nonsense on this list?" Astarion cut in, tapping the schedule. "The 'forest bathing' sounds promising, though I'm disappointed to learn it involves neither water nor nudity."

Gale's mouth curled into a surprised smile. "I'm—well, I'm delighted." He looked up at Astarion with those earnest brown eyes. "But are you certain? Yesterday was rather intense, and no one would blame you for needing more time."

"I notice you've strategically avoided answering my question about activities," Astarion said, narrowing his eyes. "Unless you're secretly hoping to skip straight to the morning yoga session?"

"Gods, no." Gale grimaced.

"Hmm," Astarion's voice dropped to a purr. "If you insist on skipping yoga—" his tone became playfully chiding before shifting to something lower, more heated, "—then I suppose we'll simply have to work on your flexibility right here."

Astarion watched the parade of expressions cross Gale's face: first disappointment at the obvious subject change, followed by a flash of residual guilt—though interestingly, less than Astarion had anticipated. Then Gale's eyes locked with his, searching, checking whether Astarion actually desired him or was merely creating another diversion.

He did want Gale. Desperately, consistently, in ways that sometimes frightened him with their intensity. And he appreciated that Gale would always check.

“Yes, darling, I’m here. Thank you for checking.”

Gale's expression softened as he surrendered to the moment. "Planning to fold me in half and fuck me into the mattress, are you?" he murmured, a teasing challenge in his voice.

"That was precisely my plan," Astarion admitted, already sliding a hand beneath the sheets. "If you're amenable."

"Fuck yes, please," Gale breathed, reaching for him.

Astarion's chest tightened at the tender look on Gale's face. There it was again—that easy acceptance. The wizard had simply let him dodge the conversation about yesterday's breakdown, content to follow his lead into happier territory.

Relief washed through Astarion—no uncomfortable prodding about feelings—immediately followed by a sharp pang of resentment. Did Gale think him so fragile? So incapable of facing difficult conversations? And since when did Astarion want to have those conversations anyway?

The contradictory emotions swirled for barely a breath before he pushed them away. This was better than talking. This was something he could control. And honestly, who could blame him for following the siren call of thoroughly distracted sex with Gale?  His early-morning rumpled appeal was irresistible.

"One moment," Astarion rolled over to open the drawer Gale had stocked with their various pleasure implements. He selected his favorite plug—elegant black glass with a flared base adorned with a crimson gem—and two vials of lubricant.

When he turned, Gale's eyebrows had risen in surprise. Not disapproval, just curiosity.

"It's morning," Astarion explained with a wicked grin, holding up the plug. "Time to get ready for the day." 

Gale burst into laughter. "Is it on the schedule? 'Seven bells, butt plug insertion ceremony'?"

"Obviously. Participation mandatory, with extra credit for enthusiasm." Astarion climbed back onto the bed, pressing a kiss to Gale's lips. "And I do so love earning extra credit."

They arranged themselves with practiced ease, Astarion on his back while Gale positioned himself above in reverse, his knees straddling Astarion's chest.

"Mmm, hello," Astarion purred, running his hands up Gale's inner thighs. "Lovely view."

"You're ridiculous," Gale said, but his voice carried an unmistakable note of affection.

"You adore it," Astarion replied, reaching up to massage the globes of Gale's plump behind and spread his cheeks.

He bumped Gale's knees a little further apart with his elbows, bringing his pucker within easy reach and lapping at it, relishing the sharp intake of breath above him. He leaned up, applying his tongue more firmly, and was rewarded with a shaky moan.

Gale, not to be outdone, lowered his head to run his tongue along Astarion's length. The wizard had grown impressively skilled with that clever tongue of his—a fact Astarion absolutely planned to remind him of later.

"Two can play," Gale murmured before taking Astarion into his mouth.

Astarion hummed his approval against Gale's skin, working his tongue in circles before pressing it inside. Above him, Gale gasped and pushed back slightly, seeking more. Astarion obliged, slicking a finger with lubricant before sliding it in alongside his tongue.

"Gods, your mouth," Gale groaned, momentarily abandoning his own ministrations.

"Focus," Astarion chided playfully, adding a second finger. "Or I'll think you've lost interest."

Gale responded by sliding his own oil-slick finger into Astarion while taking him deeper into his mouth. The dual sensation made Astarion's back arch.

"That's more like it," he gasped, scissoring his fingers inside Gale. "Ready for a third?"

"Please," Gale gasped. The strain in his voice sent a pulse of satisfaction through Astarion.

He added more oil, then slipped a third finger in alongside the others, careful but deliberate. Gale's body tensed momentarily before relaxing around the intrusion. Astarion returned his mouth to Gale's hole, lapping at the rim stretched around his pumping fingers, drinking in the trembling response this elicited.

Meanwhile, Gale worked his own magic, stroking inside Astarion's ass while running his tongue teasingly around the head of his cock. Astarion's hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more of that exquisite heat.

"Patience," Gale murmured, his breath hot against Astarion's sensitive skin. "I haven't forgotten what you want this morning."

"Bold of you to demand patience while I'm three fingers deep in your—ah!" Astarion's retort dissolved into a gasp as Gale took him fully into his mouth.

Astarion felt Gale reach for something, and then the cool press of the glass plug against his entrance. The initial resistance gave way to a delicious fullness as Gale worked it in with care. By the time the widest part slipped past his rim, Astarion was panting, temporarily distracted from his own efforts.

Once the plug settled into place, Astarion rolled his hips, savoring the pressure against that perfect spot inside him. "You've gotten rather skilled at that."

"I had an excellent teacher," Gale replied, pressing a kiss to Astarion's inner thigh.

Astarion withdrew his fingers from Gale and tapped his flank. "Up. I want to see you."

They rearranged themselves, Gale lying back across the bed, Astarion standing at its edge.

"Now," Astarion said, pressing Gale's knees up and outward, "let's work on those hip flexors, shall we? Butterfly position—it's excellent for flexibility." He guided Gale's legs into a wide spread, knees bent outward.

"Is this a yoga lesson now?" Gale teased, but his breath hitched as Astarion lined himself up.

"Consider it practical application," Astarion replied, slowly pushing into Gale's slick, prepared entrance.

Nothing in this world or the next could possibly feel better than Gale's ass around his cock. Every time, it took his breath away—the tight heat enveloping him inch by inch, Gale's eyes fluttering closed, his lips parting in silent pleasure.

Once fully seated, Astarion ran his hands along Gale's inner thighs, pressing them wider. "Hold yourself open for me," he instructed. "Show me how flexible you've become."

Gale complied, taking hold of his own thighs and pulling them apart, displaying himself completely. Then, with a small, satisfied smirk, he pressed the balls of his feet against Astarion's shoulders, steadying himself.

"Look at you," Astarion breathed, drinking in the sight before him.

Gale was magnificent—hair spread across the pillow in sleep-mussed disarray, one hand lazily stroking his chest while the other reached for his oil-slicked cock. And between his spread thighs, Astarion's own length disappeared into him, connecting them in the most primal way.

He was unfairly lucky, Astarion knew. But all he could do was make it as amazing for Gale as he could—which, he thought with no small measure of pride, was pretty fucking amazing.

He started slow, withdrawing almost completely before sliding back in with deliberate control. He alternated his gaze between Gale's flushed face, the hypnotic rhythm of Gale's hand on his cock, and the mesmerizing sight of his own length plunging in and out of Gale's body.

With each thrust, Astarion increased his pace gradually, gripping Gale's thighs more firmly as he began to fuck him harder.

Gale's heels dug into Astarion's shoulders, toes curling as pleasure contorted his face. The sight sent a fierce wave of satisfaction through Astarion. He gripped Gale's thighs harder, using the leverage to drive into him with increasing force.

"Yes—just like that," Gale gasped between thrusts, his voice breaking as Astarion adjusted his angle to hit that perfect spot.

Sweat beaded on Astarion's brow. Droplets fell from his chin onto Gale's chest, mingling with the sheen already coating the wizard's skin. With each thrust into Gale's body, Astarion felt the jeweled plug shift inside him, pressing relentlessly against that sensitive spot deep within. The sensation was maddening—a constant, delicious pressure that intensified every movement, making him gasp when he drove forward and moan softly when he withdrew. The weight of it, substantial and unyielding, created a counterpoint to his own rhythm, sending dual waves of pleasure coursing through him each time his hips snapped forward.

The sounds they made together were glorious—the wet slide of oil, the rhythmic slap of skin against skin, their combined panting and moaning filling the cabin. Astarion loved it all—the debauched soundtrack to their pleasure.

He watched Gale's face transform with each thrust, the wizard's eyes glazed with ecstasy, his sophisticated vocabulary reduced to incoherent fragments.

"As—ah!—fuck, Asta—gods!"

Gale's hand worked furiously over his own cock, the strokes growing erratic. Astarion noticed the telltale tightening of Gale's balls against his body and recognized the familiar tipping point approaching. 

"Please, I need—fuck!—Astarion, don't stop—"

The desperate plea inflamed Astarion's desire. He felt his own climax building, a white-hot pressure demanding release. Now, he didn't fight to control it, to maintain his usual deliberate pace. Instead, he surrendered to the feeling, letting it rise to meet Gale's mounting pleasure.

"Come for me," Astarion commanded, his voice rough with need as he rutted wildly. "Now, Gale—"

As if obeying a spell, Gale's body tensed. His cock pulsed in his hand, sending thick ropes of cum across his chest and stomach. The sight of Gale's release triggered Astarion's own. He grasped the creases where Gale's thighs met his hips, holding him firmly in place as he buried himself completely, spilling deep inside with a shuddering groan.

This, forever this. If only this could be forever. He would keep Gale as his own forever.

The thought flashed through Astarion's mind with surprising clarity amid the haze of pleasure. Not just desire—not just the sex, but the intimacy, the connection—for the rest of their lives.

As they came down from their shared high, Gale's breathless laughter filled the space between them. He looked up at Astarion with such genuine joy that it made something in Astarion's chest constrict.

Gale ran his fingers through the mess on his stomach, gathering some on his fingertips. "Want a taste?" he offered, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Astarion held Gale's gaze as he took the offered fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean with deliberate slowness. The taste of Gale's release—salty, musky, distinctly him—spread across his tongue. 

"Delicious," Astarion purred after releasing Gale's fingers. "As always."

"Some of us are trying to enjoy a peaceful morning meditation! Isn't one of you a wizard? Have you never heard of Silence?" a voice bellowed from somewhere outside.

Gale's face flushed a brilliant crimson. "Gods, I forgot again."

"Clearly," Astarion laughed, still inside Gale but softening. The embarrassment on Gale's face was delightful—a reminder of how much the wizard valued their intimacy as something private, just for them. He loved that.

"Only because you're so distractingly good," Gale groaned, covering his face with his hands.

Astarion pulled out slowly, admiring the sight of his release trickling from Gale's body. "Do you think they heard everything, or just the grand finale?"

"Astarion, please—"

"Come now, we're among fellow nature-lovers!" Astarion called out loudly toward the window. "Consider it our contribution to the local mating calls!"

"Astarion!" Gale looked mortified.

"What? It's essentially a compliment to your performance," Astarion grinned, helping Gale to his feet and guiding him toward the copper tub. "Besides, I thought the point of this place was to be unashamed of one's... natural urges."

Once they'd cleaned themselves—Gale insisting on a proper bath while Astarion admired how thoroughly fucked-out the wizard looked—Astarion stretched languidly, the plug shifting pleasantly inside him.

"Mage Hand that schedule over, would you?"

Gale's eagerness was almost comical as he summoned the parchment, watching Astarion scan it with barely concealed anticipation.

"This herbalism workshop might not be entirely dreadful," Astarion mused, tapping the listing. "And perhaps swimming again this afternoon? Properly this time."

The radiant joy that bloomed across Gale's face made something flutter in Astarion's chest. The wizard practically glowed with happiness, and Astarion couldn't help but feel a surge of pride that he had put that expression there.

"The book can wait," Astarion decided, surprising himself with how little the admission bothered him.

Soon they were seated in one of the retreat's open-air pavilions, surrounded by various herbs, oils, and mixing tools. The druid leading the workshop—Marius? Markus?—was droning on about the spiritual properties of different scents, but Astarion found himself oddly engaged with the process itself.

The physical act of creation—measuring, blending, testing—carried its own satisfaction. He selected ingredients carefully, creating personalized scented oils for himself and Gale and new lubricants for them both to try, occasionally distracted by the pleasant pressure of the plug still nestled inside him. Each shift sent a delicious reminder of what awaited later, when he'd have Gale remove it and replace it with something warmer and more dynamic.

Beside him, Gale mixed aromatic bath salts with scholarly precision, occasionally stealing glances at Astarion's work.

"That smells divine," Gale commented, leaning close as Astarion added cedarwood to his blend.

The collaborative creativity reminded him of their writing sessions, when they'd toss ideas back and forth, building something together that was better than either could create alone. This was simpler, more tactile, but carried a similar satisfaction. They worked in companionable silence, occasionally trading suggestions, ingredients, or light kisses, the morning passing in a pleasant haze of shared productivity.

Yet even as he corked his final creation (a blend of grapefruit, cedarwood, and basil that Gale had declared "absolutely decadent"), a familiar whisper crept into his thoughts.

This won't last.

Astarion's hands faltered momentarily as the intrusive thought took root. This—the easy laughter, the simple pleasure of creating alongside Gale, the warmth of sunlight on his skin without pain—this was clearly what Gale had envisioned when he'd crafted the Sunwalker ring. This was the life Gale wanted for them: outdoors, engaged with the world, delighting in each other and in life's small pleasures.

And what excuse did Astarion have not to provide exactly that? The ring protected him from the sun's burning touch. But he knew himself too well. Eventually, the darkness would creep back in. Eventually, his sharp edges would cut through this pleasant veneer. 

Perhaps days like today were the answer—alternating between these moments of sunlit participation and his solitary writing. If he could give Gale just enough of this "healed" Astarion, would it be sufficient to keep the wizard satisfied? To prevent him from realizing that, beneath it all, Astarion remained fundamentally unchanged?

He shook the thoughts away, focusing instead on the present moment. On Gale, beside him, meticulously labeling their creations with his elegant script. On how the afternoon stretched before them, full of possibilities.

With deliberate intent, Astarion brushed his hand against Gale's as they packed their supplies, letting his fingers linger just a moment too long to be accidental. When Gale looked up, Astarion raised an eyebrow, a silent question in his expression.

As they navigated between workstations, Astarion bumped his hip against Gale's, another not-so-subtle suggestion of what might await them back in whatever privacy they might find. Each touch was a promise, a prelude.

Gale, ever perceptive, caught on quickly. With an understanding smile, he carefully bundled their creations into a small basket and approached the workshop leader.

"These are lovely," Gale said, indicating their collection of oils and salts, "but I believe we'll continue our... experimentation in private. Perhaps test their various applications."

The leader nodded knowingly. "Of course. Exploration is encouraged at Newleaf."

As they slipped away from the pavilion, Astarion couldn't help but admire the slight flush creeping up Gale's neck, the eager anticipation in his quickened stride. All Astarion could see in Gale's smile was the promise of pleasures the afternoon might bring.

Gale

Gale had watched Astarion's nimble fingers cork the final vial with a sense of growing warmth. There was something so intimate about creating together—whether it was writing their chronicle or blending these scented oils. Yet beneath his contentment, questions bubbled like an unstirred cauldron.

He wished he had asked Halsin more during their counseling session. While it had been revelatory to examine his own tendencies toward fixing and managing, he now found himself caught in familiar uncertainty. Would simply participating in these nature-focused activities naturally ease whatever tension lingered between them? Or did they need to have an actual conversation about the things neither of them seemed willing to address? With Halsin? Without?

Slipping away for another private consultation wasn't exactly feasible at the moment. One simply did not leave one's partner with a plug inserted to dash off for impromptu therapy. Besides, given his tendency to over-explain and meddle, perhaps the wiser course was silence—just going with Astarion's unexpected enthusiasm for retreat activities. He'd ask Halsin when the moment next presented itself.

Yet as they gathered their creations and headed toward the lake, words simmered beneath Gale's carefully maintained composure. 

Do you blame me for last night? Is it wrong that I don't blame myself?

Astarion raced ahead on the path, his pale form lithe and graceful, turning back repeatedly to tug at Gale's hand when he lagged too far behind. Each time they touched, Gale's unspoken questions seemed to press against his lips, seeking release.

Why do your lips twist like that whenever the Sunwalker ring comes up?

At the lakeshore, Gale surprised himself by stripping down first—a daring display that earned raised eyebrows from distant campers and a delighted smirk from Astarion—and eye rolls from Shadowheart. In the water, he demonstrated swimming techniques a discrete distance from the other guests, finding excuses to delight Astarion by secretly brushing his fingers across the base of the plug whenever their bodies aligned underwater.

As they ventured further from shore, Astarion's strokes grew more confident, his initial tension giving way to fluid movement. Gale impulsively guided them toward the far bank where he'd heard hot springs bubbled up among the rocks.

Why won't you set the date?

The question hovered in his mind as they swam side by side, occasionally bumping shoulders. Gale stole glances at Astarion's profile, marveling at how the water droplets caught the sunlight on his skin.

Do you still love me?

The thought consumed Gale as they rounded the bend where steam rose from the secluded hot springs. Astarion's face transformed with childlike wonder, lips parting in surprise as he took in the volcanic pools nestled among mossy rocks.

"You planned this," Astarion accused, eyes narrowing playfully. "You knew these were here."

Gale smiled, relieved his gambit had paid off. "I'd heard rumors. But we needed you comfortable enough in the water to make the swim." 

He'd wondered if Astarion would take to swimming so they could make it here—the springs were nearly impossible to reach by land, with thick brambles and steep rock faces protecting their privacy. Another blessing from nature that Halsin had quietly mentioned to him.

Astarion dipped a tentative hand into the nearest pool and jerked back with a grin. "Scalding! Perfect."

They tested each spring in turn, moving from pool to pool until finding one beneath a natural stone arch. The temperature was deliciously hot without being unbearable, and the formation provided welcome shade.

"It’s so romantic here," Gale said, selecting his words carefully, "It would make a lovely spot for a honeymoon, in the right season."

Astarion merely hummed, sinking deeper into the water until it lapped at his chin. His eyes closed in bliss as the heat enveloped him.

Do you still love me? Why won’t you set the date?  

Gale shoved the annoying question to the back of his mind and slid closer, drawn to the peaceful contentment on Astarion's face. He sent his mage hand drifting back along the shore toward their basket of workshop goodies, then turned his full attention to his partner. Steam rose between them as Gale's fingers found Astarion's shoulders, kneading the tension there.

"You always did love the heat," Gale murmured, leaning in to press his lips against Astarion's neck.

Astarion tilted his head, offering better access. "One of the few pleasures that remained unchanged after... everything."

Their lips met, and Gale poured his unspoken questions into the kiss. His hands traveled from Astarion's shoulders to his chest, tracing patterns across pale skin, thumbs circling nipples that hardened despite the surrounding warmth.

Do you still love me? Can I ever be enough for you?

Astarion's response was physical—fingers tangling in Gale's hair, body pressing closer, soft sounds escaping between kisses. They shifted against each other, the buoyancy of the water making their movements both easier and more frustrating. The heat surrounded them, but the water offered little help with friction as they rocked and ground against each other.

"The basket's taking its time," Astarion whispered against Gale's ear, nipping gently at the lobe.

Do you still love me? I love you so much. Please love me.

Gale captured Astarion's mouth again, hoping his body could communicate what his words could not.

The mage hand finally returned, wafting their workshop basket through the air. Gale caught it easily, flashing a triumphant smile as he set it on the stone ledge.

"Perfect timing." He ran a hand along Astarion's thigh, gentle but purposeful. "Come here."

With surprising strength, Gale gripped Astarion's waist and lifted him onto the smooth rock rim of the pool. Astarion raised an eyebrow, letting his legs dangle in the water on either side of Gale.

"Someone's feeling ambitious," Astarion purred, leaning back on his palms. His wet skin glistened in the dappled light filtering through the stone arch above them.

"Someone's feeling appreciative," Gale corrected, sliding his hands up Astarion's thighs, coaxing them farther apart.

He guided those long legs over his shoulders, his hands shifting to Astarion's hips to adjust him at just the right angle on the edge. The position revealed the base of the plug, nestled securely between globes of smooth, pale skin.

Gale sank lower in the water, letting the natural buoyancy support him. Steam rose around his shoulders as he pressed forward, his tongue tracing the sensitive rim where skin met plug.

Astarion's sharp intake of breath was all the encouragement he needed. Gale circled with his tongue, again and again, teasing the sensitive flesh. His fingers traced patterns on Astarion's thighs, occasionally squeezing in rhythm with each pass of his tongue.

"Don't tease," Astarion whispered, voice catching as Gale worked.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," Gale murmured, his voice a low rumble against Astarion's inner thigh. He bobbed up to dip his tongue into the leaking slit of Astarion’s cock and then sank back down. "Though, given the endless teasing I endure about certain un-set dates, I confess, I'm learning to appreciate the art of prolonged anticipation."

Astarion let out a soft huff, half-pleasure, half-exasperation. "A philosopher, are we? How utterly charming. Now, less philosophy, more action, darling."

Gale chuckled, the sound a little tight around the edges to his own ears. He wanted to retort, to press the point, but neither did he want to ruin this moment. He shifted his attention back to the task at hand, though the thought of the un-set date stubbornly refused to entirely recede.

Gale gripped the base of the plug and twisted it gently, drawing a gasp from above. With deliberate slowness, he eased it free, revealing the perfect, gaping entrance.

He paused to admire the view, one thumb brushing teasingly across the sensitive opening.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his breath ghosting over Astarion's exposed skin.

Reaching for their basket, Gale selected one of the oils they'd just created—a heady mixture of ylang-ylang and clary sage that he'd noticed Astarion favoring during the workshop from the selection of body-safe options. The rich scent bloomed in the humid air as he warmed a generous amount between his palms.

With a tender touch, he traced the slick oil around Astarion's entrance, circling and teasing before slowly pressing two fingers inside. He worked methodically, coating Astarion inside and out with the fragrant oil, curling his fingers to find the spot that made Astarion's breath hitch and legs tighten against Gale's shoulders.

Gale gazed admiringly at Astarion, spread out before him in invitation. The setting was everything romantic literature promised—secluded hot springs, the hushed sanctuary of nature, steam rising around their bodies.

"You know," he said, voice low and appreciative, "I've read countless romantic tales set in natural springs like these. The authors always make it sound so... effortless."

Astarion cocked his head, one eyebrow arched. "And yet you're hesitating because...?"

Gale gestured at their surroundings. "The reality is somewhat more... logistically challenging." 

He was having a hard time thinking of a location and position that wouldn't leave either his knees or Astarion's dick grinding against stone. He also was finding the oil washing away on his hands quickly and realized it would likely do the same if they immersed Astarion's entrance.

Astarion's laughter echoed against the rock walls. "Did your books not mention the practical difficulties?"

"They glossed over certain details," Gale admitted, trying a spot that left Astarion wincing as his hip ground against an uneven surface.

After several more awkward attempts—Gale nearly submerging completely at one point—they collapsed against each other, breathless with laughter.

"So much for the legendary hot spring tryst," Astarion gasped between fits of mirth.

Gale's eyes caught sight of something promising beyond the stone ledge. "Wait—over there." 

He climbed out first, extending a hand to help Astarion. Nearby lay a patch of thick, springy moss bathed in dappled sunlight.

"Nature provides," Gale quoted with a smile.

Astarion heaved himself out of the spring gracefully and posed to let Gale enjoy the sight of water sheeting down his body. Then he stretched out face-down on the verdant cushion, the pale expanse of his skin contrasting beautifully with the deep green. He pillowed his head on crossed arms and turned to wiggle both his eyebrows and his behind at Gale. "Your turn, I think, to do the hard work?"

 Gale eagerly straddled his thighs, reaching for their scented oil again.

"Much better," he murmured, warming more oil between his palms before massaging it across Astarion's lower back and down to the perfect curve of his buttocks. The scents of the oil mixed appealingly with the green smells of the cushy moss compressed beneath his knees.

He took his time, hands working in slow circles, occasionally dipping between to trace the sensitive rim with his thumbs. Gale's own arousal pressed heavily against Astarion, and he began sliding it teasingly along the slick crevice.

"Don't you dare start that teasing again," Astarion warned, though the threat held no edge.

Gale barely managed to restrain himself from an unnecessary retort about turnabout and fair play.  This was hardly the time.  Instead, he indulged in a bit of gentle revenge. He pressed just barely inside before withdrawing completely. "I believe Halsin would call this 'savoring nature's gifts.'"

Astarion laughed into the moss. "If you quote that bearskin-wearing philosopher one more time while your cock is pressed against my ass—"

"What?" Gale interrupted, pressing forward just enough to silence Astarion before pulling back again. "You'll what?"

"I'll find someone else to enjoy nature's bounty with," Astarion threatened half-heartedly.

Gale's hands spread across both pale cheeks, massaging deeply. "An empty threat if ever I heard one."

"Then deliver on your promises, wizard."

Pot, kettle, black, my love.

It was an uncharitable thought.  What was wrong with him?  This was a lovely moment, and there was no need to spoil it with his impatience. Determined to make up for his hidden bitterness, Gale finally relented, pressing steadily forward until he was fully seated inside Astarion. He kept his grip firm on those perfect mounds, using them as leverage as he began a slow, luxuriant rocking rhythm.

"Better?" he whispered, leaning down to trail kisses across Astarion's shoulder blades, carefully avoiding the scars he knew were still sensitive.

"Much," Astarion breathed, a quiet moan escaping as Gale changed his angle slightly.

Gale continued his unhurried pace, whispering against Astarion's skin between kisses. "I love you. Gods, I love you so much."

Each thrust drew soft sounds from Astarion that merged with the natural chorus of rustling leaves and bubbling water—their own private symphony in their moss-covered sanctuary.

Gale let him lose himself in the rhythm of their bodies, watching with reverent fascination as Astarion's pleasure built. The hours of preparation with the plug had done their work—Astarion's body welcomed him with exquisite readiness, taking him easily, trembling already though they'd scarcely begun. 

"There," Gale whispered, adjusting his angle slightly. "Right there?"

Astarion's answering moan confirmed he'd found the perfect spot. Gale maintained the position, his hips rolling in steady, deliberate strokes that had Astarion shuddering beneath him.

"Gods—" Astarion gasped, his fingers curling into the moss.

Gale felt the telltale tensing of Astarion's body, the inner walls gripping him more firmly as Astarion approached his peak already. He leaned forward, pressing kisses along Astarion's shoulder blades while maintaining his rhythm.

"That's it," he murmured encouragingly. "Let go for me."

Astarion came dry and untouched with a choked cry, his entire body shuddering beneath Gale's weight. But Gale didn't stop—he slowed only briefly before resuming his steady pace, reaching for the oil to add more slickness between them.

By the third time, Astarion was trembling constantly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Tears streamed down his face, glistening against pale skin as he turned his head against the moss, looking utterly wrecked. Gale was himself desperate to come, thighs trembling with exertion, emotions hot and roiling. 

"Too much?" Gale asked, his own control fraying dangerously even as he prepared to pull out if Astarion was overstimulated.

"Don't stop," Astarion pleaded, voice breaking. "Please—fill me. I need it. Need your cum inside me."

The raw desperation in Astarion's voice pushed Gale to his limit—both emotionally and physically. What of Gale’s needs? Weeks of unspoken questions, of careful avoidance and growing distance, collapsed into this singular moment of connection. 

"Tell me when," Gale panted, driven by a sudden, overwhelming need for answers. "Set the date for our wedding, and I'll fill you right now."

The words exploded between them like a thunderclap.

Astarion went rigid beneath him. The passionate moment shattered instantly, leaving only stunned silence in its wake.

"What?" Astarion whispered, voice suddenly cold.

Before Gale could respond, Astarion twisted with impossible dexterity, slipping out from beneath him and pulling free of their connection in one fluid motion.

"What?" Astarion repeated, louder this time, rising to his knees on the moss.

Horror washed over Gale as he realized what he'd done. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have—"

"You're using sex to manipulate me now?" Astarion's voice rose, incredulous. "Is that what this is?"

"No!" Gale scrambled to face Astarion across the small expanse of moss. "I just want to understand why you won't set the date. Please, just tell me why!"

"Why does it matter so much? We're together, aren't we?" Astarion's hands gestured wildly between them.

"Because I love you!" Gale shouted back, his composure finally crumbling completely. "Because I want to be your husband! Because every time I bring it up, you change the subject!"

"And have you considered there might be a reason for that?" 

"Then tell me the reason!" Gale's voice echoed against the rocks.

Astarion's eyes flashed dangerously. "Because then you'd be stuck with me forever, you idiot!"

In his frustration, Astarion shoved Gale's chest. The push wasn't hard, but Gale's tired muscles failed him. He toppled backward, arms windmilling uselessly as he plunged into a hot spring pool with a tremendous splash, submerging completely beneath the surface.

Gale barely had time to orient himself—hot water filling his ears, nose, and mouth—before strong hands hauled him upright. He emerged sputtering, hair plastered across his face, to find Astarion standing chest-deep before him, fury radiating from his pale features.

The hot water streaming down his face felt less cleansing and more like a wave of humiliating shame. Silence hung briefly in the air, the only sound Gale's ragged breathing.

"Is this what you've been planning?" Astarion demanded, voice dangerously low despite having just rescued him. "Trap me in some romantic fantasy and extract promises?"

Gale wiped water from his eyes, anger rising through his embarrassment. "I wouldn't have to trap you if you'd just talk to me about this like an adult!"

"An adult? You just weaponized sex to get your way!"

"And you've been avoiding this conversation for months!" Gale shot back, not bothering to lower his voice despite the echo. He knew he was being awful, knew this was not the way to go about it, but couldn't make himself stop. "It's a simple question, Astarion. Why won't you marry me?"

Astarion's laugh was hollow. "You still don't get it, do you? You think you want forever with me because you've only seen what I've let you see."

"That's not—"

"It is!" Astarion cut him off, eyes flashing. "You're in love with a version of me I've carefully constructed for you. The sharp edges filed down, the ugliest parts hidden."

Gale stood his ground in the steaming water. "I've seen your edges. I've felt your teeth. I've—"

"You've seen what I allowed you to see," Astarion hissed. "The adventurer. The lover. The witty companion who helps edit your overwrought prose."

"Then what haven't I seen?" Gale challenged.

"The monster!" Astarion's voice cracked. "The creature who spent centuries luring innocent people to their deaths! The nightmare who can still taste their fear! The broken creature who will never be whole again!" He stepped closer, water rippling between them. "And eventually, you'll see it. Maybe in a year, maybe in ten. And by then you'll be trapped because you're Gale fucking Dekarios, who never breaks a vow once he makes it."

Gale stared at him, stunned by the vehemence.

"I know what I am," Astarion continued quietly. "I'm selfish, Gale. But not so selfish that I'd trap you like that."

"You think I don't know you?"

"I think you're too naïve to understand—"

"Naïve?" Gale's temper flared. "You think I don't have my own darkness? My mother told you about my melancholies. You've seen them yourself—how I get when they strike. Will you leave me when the next one comes because my sharp edges don't suit you?"

"That's different."

"Is it?" Gale demanded, stepping closer. He made sure Astarion's gaze dropped to his still-evident arousal beneath the water's surface. "Or do you think I'm simply wrong inside to want you as you are?"

Astarion's eyes narrowed. "All the proof I need is how you blast your expectations about the fucking Sunwalker ring at me. 'Look at you enjoying the sun, Astarion!'" he mimicked cruelly. "As if I should somehow be all better now that you've fixed that little sun problem for me."

Gale's anger deflated, leaving a hollow ache in its place. He pushed wet hair back from his face, studying Astarion.

"Is that what you think?" he asked quietly. "That because I delight in seeing you enjoy the sun, I somehow demand you never feel anything negative again?"

Astarion opened his mouth for another sharp retort but faltered. His certainty wavered visibly.

"Maybe," he admitted after a pause. "Yes." He crossed his arms defensively, water lapping at his chest. "You're always so... hopeful. So eager to see improvement."

"That doesn't mean I expect perfection," Gale said, voice softening. "Or that I only want the happy moments."

"Doesn't it?" Astarion challenged, but the edge had left his voice.

Gale waded closer, the water rippling between them. "No. It doesn't." 

Steam rose around them like a veil as Gale continued, "I want us to be there for each other—good times and bad. Both are part of what I want to share with you." He reached for Astarion's hand beneath the water's surface. "Let me ask you something: if my melancholies return—when they return—would you leave?"

Astarion's fingers twitched in his grasp. "No."

"Would you want to?"

"No," came the softer reply.

"Then why," Gale asked, squeezing Astarion's hand, "do you think I'm somehow less than you? That all I can take is rainbows and butterflies between us?"

Astarion looked away, his profile sharp against the rising steam. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"Because that's what you deserve, Gale." He swallowed hard. "The very best. And only the best."

Gale stared at Astarion for a long moment, then burst into laughter—not his usual warm chuckle, but something wild and unhinged that echoed against the rock walls. 

"The best?" he managed between gasping breaths. "You think I deserve the best? Oh, Astarion."

The laughter continued, almost hysterical, as Astarion watched with growing concern.

"Let me tell you about Gale Dekarios," he said, wiping water from his face. "The man who was stupid enough to believe a goddess could love him. The failed Chosen who couldn't even manage that basic task. The wizard who swallowed a Netherese Orb and nearly exploded half the Sword Coast."

Astarion's expression shifted from defensive to confused. "Gale—"

"I almost put on the Crown of Karsus! Do you understand how catastrophically foolish that was?" Gale's voice rose, echoing across the water. "My one true achievement—defeating the Netherbrain—was done with you, not despite you. Without that victory and our book providing perspective on my many follies, I'm not certain Waterdeep would have even allowed me back."

He splashed water angrily. "I had every opportunity practically handed to me—raw magical talent, a loving mother, freedom, and resources to make a life. And I managed to squander them all spectacularly."

Gale's voice dropped, suddenly quiet and intense. "My one consolation was thinking you loved me anyway."

Astarion remained speechless, his usual quick retorts nowhere to be found.

"You accuse me of naïveté, of not seeing you clearly," Gale continued. "But who's really wearing rose-colored glasses here? Who's imagining I'm some paragon who deserves romance-novel perfection instead of someone real—someone flawed who can accept you as you are because I need that same acceptance?"

Astarion finally found his voice. "That's different. You made mistakes, but—"

"But what?" Gale challenged.

"You're being too hard on yourself," Astarion insisted. "Your follies were misfortune, not faults."

The moment the words left his mouth, they both knew it wasn't entirely true. Gale felt his expression soften at Astarion's generosity of spirit, even as he couldn't let it be.

"You started with so much less than I did," Gale said quietly. "And yet here we stand—both Heroes of Baldur's Gate. Both authors. Both survivors." He reached for Astarion's hand beneath the water. "So tell me, which of us is better? Why must we even try to judge that?"

Astarion's fingers intertwined with his, but he remained silent, seemingly at a loss.

Gale stared at Astarion across the steaming water, their argument hanging heavily between them. The silence stretched taut, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against stone. Gale had no idea what to say next. Perhaps he had already said too much.

Then, seemingly apropos of nothing, Astarion tilted his head and asked, "Why haven't you apologized for last night?"

The question hit Gale like a physical blow. His mouth opened, then closed as he processed the sudden shift in conversation. A familiar pit of dread formed in his stomach—the reflexive guilt that told him maybe he should have apologized. Regardless of what Shadowheart and Halsin had helped him through in the wake of the incident.

"Because it's not my fault," Gale finally said, surprised by his own firm tone. "It might feel like it is—and I must confess it lingers in the back of my mind whether I will it or no—but it's not. And claiming ownership of every bad thing that could possibly happen to you hasn't been doing us any favors."

Astarion blinked, clearly not expecting that response. Slowly, he nodded.

"You're right," he agreed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "But you should know I'm impossible." A small, crooked smile appeared. "I'm both relieved you finally figured all that out and somehow resent it simultaneously."

He gestured vaguely toward himself, water dripping from his elbow. "I'm insane, Gale. Are you absolutely sure you want this particular brand of madness attached to you at the hip, forever?"

Gale huffed in annoyance, the sound echoing off the rocks as hope and fear bounced and ricocheted wildly inside his chest. "Only your exact brand of insanity will do, I'm afraid. I've grown rather attached to it."

Astarion studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Gale wondered which way the chips would fall. He felt as if they were on the edge of a great precipice and that his own poor choices had brought them here.  He wished for Halsin's guidance and that he had waited to vent his deepest fears until both of them had had more of a chance to benefit from this place and the healing it offered. 

Then, with a decisive nod, Astarion spoke.

"All right then. On your head be it, my love. The twenty-fifth of Leaffall."

Gale's heart leapt into his throat. Before he could fully process the words, Astarion was reaching for his hand beneath the water, tugging him back toward their mossy bed.

"That's—" Gale started, almost afraid to believe it. "Are you saying—"

"I'm saying," Astarion interrupted with a petulant tug, "that I was promised something very specific in exchange for a wedding date. And I've just delivered my end of the bargain."

Gale stood frozen, water lapping at his chest, his mind struggling to make sense of what he'd just heard. Had Astarion truly said what he thought? The date hung in the air between them—concrete, specific, real. After months of deflection and vague promises, after countless conversations that had trailed off into nothing.

His heart hammered against his ribs, the sound of it filling his ears alongside the gentle rush of a waterfall nearby. Astarion's pale eyes watched him, a flicker of vulnerability beneath the impatient expression. Gale realized he was holding his breath.

"The twenty-fifth of Leaffall?" A tentative smile spread across Gale's face, hope blossoming in his chest like warmth from a flame. He searched Astarion's expression for confirmation, afraid to believe too quickly, to want too much, yet unable to stop the surge of joy threatening to overwhelm him.

"Did I stutter?" Astarion asked, one eyebrow arched imperiously despite the vulnerability Gale could see behind his eyes. "Now pay up, wizard. You promised to fill me, and I intend to collect."

Astarion climbed out and situated himself on the moss, stretching back languidly like a cat in a sunbeam. With deliberate slowness, he reached for the vial of oil, pouring it over his fingers before reaching between his legs. His movements were pure performance art—each arch, each sigh calculated to draw Gale's attention precisely where he wanted it.

"Don't take this as encouragement," he warned, sliding slick fingers inside himself with a breathy moan that belied his admonishing words. "Using sex to get what you want is a terrible strategy, and I hate it."

Gale watched, transfixed by the display. His body responded instantly, arousal returning with painful intensity.

"Is that so?" he managed, voice rough.

"Mmm." Astarion's eyes fluttered closed as he refreshed the oil lost to the hot water of the spring. "Except, of course—" he paused, gasping at the sensation of his own touch, "—that I absolutely love when you offer me sex to get what you want." His eyes snapped open, mischievous and challenging. "Still want this madness?"

Gale joined him on their mossy bed and reached for Astarion's ankle, lifting one pale leg to rest on his shoulder. "Yes," he said firmly, positioning himself. "This exact madness." He pushed forward in one smooth motion, drawing a startled moan from Astarion's lips. "Especially when you're bitchy about it."

Astarion laughed breathlessly. "And when I'm not bitchy?"

"Then too. Now and forever," Gale promised, establishing a rhythm that had Astarion clutching at the moss beneath them.

The heat between them built rapidly, intensified by the lingering steam from the hot springs. Astarion was impossibly beautiful beneath him—skin flushed, eyes half-lidded with pleasure.  The most perfect sight Gale had ever beheld.

It didn't take long before Gale was nearing the edge, his control utterly gone. "I love you," he gasped, rhythm faltering as his climax overtook him.

Astarion clung to him, legs wrapping around Gale's waist as Gale emptied himself inside. "Good," he murmured, sounding genuinely pleased. He murmured encouragements until Gale's release subsided. "Now, don't waste it."

Before Gale could recover, Astarion was guiding his hand between them. "Scoop up what dribbles out," he instructed. "Push it back in."

Gale complied in a post-orgasm daze, pulling out and then sliding his fingers through the mess between Astarion's thighs and pressing it back inside him. The intimacy of the act struck him as profoundly erotic.

"Now," Astarion demanded, "finger me until I finish. One more time."

As Gale worked his fingers inside Astarion, the vampire arched beneath him, expression caught between pleasure and vulnerability. "You know what drives me mad?" he panted. "When you do things to make me happy—I both resent it and desperately long for it. That the insanity you want?"

Gale smiled, crooking his fingers just so. They were going to be ok. He could feel it.  "Yes—that exact insanity—"

When his release finally came, this time prolifically wet, Astarion collapsed against the moss, looking utterly debauched.  "Plug," he demanded, still catching his breath. "I've had to give up a wedding date to get your cum. I intend to keep it for a bit longer."

Gale couldn't help it—he burst out laughing, even as he helped Astarion with the plug. Astarion joined him, their laughter echoing against the rocks.

"You're absurd," Gale murmured, leaning down to kiss him.

Between kisses, Astarion teased, "Yes, but you've officially signed up for this absurdity now."

"Best decision I ever made," Gale replied, stealing another kiss.

Exhaustion and relief settled into Gale's bones as they lingered on their mossy bed. He hadn't ruined them. They would be ok. Better. They would be married. He surveyed his soon-to-be husband with fondness. Astarion looked equally spent, his usually perfect hair plastered against his skull, eyes heavy-lidded.

"I don't think I can swim all the way back," Gale admitted, the thought of navigating the cool lake waters suddenly overwhelming.

Astarion grimaced. "Nor I. And our clothes are on the far shore."

Gale smiled, summoning his strength. "That, my dear, is why you're engaged to a wizard." He raised his hands, drawing arcane symbols in the steamy air. "Hold tight."

The world compressed around them momentarily before resolving into the familiar interior of their cabin. They lay dripping on the wooden floor, naked and shivering slightly in the cooler air.

"Our clothes—" Astarion began.

"Are being fetched as we speak." Gale gestured elegantly, sending an invisible mage hand to retrieve their abandoned garments from the lakeshore. "They'll arrive shortly."

Astarion nodded appreciatively, got up, and stumbled toward the bed. "I'm absolutely destroyed," he announced, collapsing onto the mattress. "Who knew arguing could be so exhausting?"

Gale followed him, equally drained. The emotional whiplash of their confrontation, combined with their physical exertions, had left him feeling wrung out. "I believe it was the swimming. And the sex. And then more sex."

"And the hot springs," Astarion added, burrowing into the pillows despite his damp skin. "Don't forget those."

Gale lowered himself onto the bed beside Astarion, golden afternoon light still streaming through the windows despite how late it felt. He reached for Astarion, who turned to face him with a contented sigh.

"Come here," Gale murmured, pulling him close and slipping a hand between Astarion’s thighs..

Astarion settled against him, then suddenly stiffened. "If you think I'm removing this plug, you're sorely mistaken."

"Astarion," Gale said gently. "You can't sleep with that in."

"Watch me."

Gale propped himself up on one elbow. "It's not healthy or comfortable for extended wear. You'll get sore."

"It's worth it," Astarion insisted, though his eyelids were already drooping.

With gentle hands, Gale turned Astarion onto his side. "Let me," he whispered, carefully easing out the plug despite Astarion's grumbled protests.

"Traitor," Astarion muttered without heat. "All my plans to defy nature and get pregnant through prolonged sperm exposure, ruined."

Gale set the plug aside and pulled the blankets over them both. "That's not the way it works, but I promise to replace every drop whensoever you desire," he vowed, pressing a kiss to Astarion's shoulder. "I am, after all, a romantic about cum."

Astarion made a noncommittal noise that somehow managed to sound both petulant and pleased. "Fine," he conceded, already half-asleep. "But I'm holding you to that."

"I would expect nothing less," Gale replied, settling beside him as exhaustion claimed them both.

Excerpt from Astarion’s Manuscript – The Unmasked Marquis The Scholar’s Undoing The Noble’s Secret The Margins of Devotion , Draft Chapter XVII 

The grandfather clock in Yorl's study counted out the minutes with solemn precision as he turned the final page of Fitha's meticulously prepared legal documents. Across the broad mahogany desk, he sat composed, hands folded neatly in his lap, watching Yorl complete his review with those perceptive eyes that never seemed to miss a detail.

Yorl set down the last page and looked up at him. "There's no mention of my... misdeed in this document."

"There is not," Fitha confirmed, his voice steady.

"Why not?" He leaned forward, brow furrowing. "Those facts are relevant to the matter at hand."

Fitha inclined his head slightly. "Yes, technically they are. But they should not actually affect the verdict."

"And yet—"

"Unfortunately," he continued, "juries and judges are human and will be prejudiced by the information, likely overwhelming the legal logic that the estate is still rightfully yours. Justice is more likely to be carried out by the omission rather than the inclusion of those facts."

Yorl studied his face, searching for any hint of doubt or shame in his expression. He found none. Only that clear-eyed certainty that had first drawn him to Fitha.

"And if it wouldn't be?" he asked finally. "If the full facts should have resulted in a different verdict than the one that I desire?"

"I still would have omitted them." A small, wicked smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Because your uncle is an unscrupulous cunt."

Despite himself, Yorl laughed. "Not because you love me and are yourself quite prejudiced in the matter?"

"That too," he admitted readily. "But why be harder on ourselves than needed? The right will win the day today."

"And tomorrow?" Yorl asked, suddenly serious again.

Fitha rose from his chair, circling the desk until he stood beside Yorl. "Tomorrow, right or wrong, I will love you and be by your side." Fitha placed his hand over Yorl’s, his palm warm against his knuckles. "Because that is, in itself, what is right."

Chapter Text

Astarion

Astarion blinked, pulling himself from his reverie. The lamplight cast a warm glow across the bed where Gale slept deeply, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. With gentle fingers, Astarion brushed a strand of hair from his fiancé's forehead—fiancé with an actual wedding date now. The thought sent an unexpected flutter through his chest.

The twenty-fifth of Leaffall. Their wedding day.

He slipped from the bed and padded to the window, pulling back the curtain. The moon hung high and bright in a star-scattered sky. Not even midnight yet. The night felt alive with possibilities, and Astarion felt unusually restless—too wired to write, too awake to lie still beside Gale.

Perched on the windowsill, he gazed out at the moonlit retreat grounds. So he had a wedding date now. And apparently Gale loved him—every vindictive, damaged, monstrous part of him. It was... nice. Perhaps too much to fully believe all at once, but there it was. 

Maybe some of Halsin's ridiculous retreat activities had actually helped. The swimming, the fights, the honesty—would they have reached this point back in their tower, with him locked behind his manuscript? Perhaps they would have eventually. It hardly mattered now.

Energy buzzed through him, making his fingers tap against the wooden sill. He needed to move, to act on a curiosity that had been nagging at him since they'd arrived. And complete a little errand that had been weighing on his mind.

Astarion glanced back at Gale. He wouldn't wake him—the man needed his rest—but he couldn't just disappear without explanation.

At the writing desk, he found a sheet of parchment and quill. After three discarded attempts, he settled on:

Gone for a midnight stroll. Back soon. —A

He placed it on his pillow, then frowned. It seemed woefully inadequate to express the strange, warm feeling expanding in his chest whenever he looked at the sleeping wizard.

With vampiric speed, Astarion slipped outside and gathered handfuls of pale moonflowers and purple coneflowers from the nearby meadow. Back in the cabin, he arranged them beside the note, then paused, struck by an impulsive thought.

Fingers moving with a thief's precision, he wove the remaining stems into a rough circle, adding blooms where they'd catch the moonlight. When finished, he leaned over the bed and, with the delicate touch that had once lifted purses from nobles, settled the flower crown atop Gale's hair.

Gale murmured something unintelligible but didn't wake.

"Much better," Astarion whispered, allowing himself a genuine smile before slipping out into the night.

Astarion strode through the slumbering campground, enjoying the crisp night air and the freedom of movement with fewer eyes to see the infamous bonfire-screamer wandering about unattended. Shadowheart's cabin wasn't difficult to locate—she'd mentioned being quartered near the herb garden.

He rapped sharply on her door three times, then waited with a smirk. Shuffling sounds emerged from within, followed by a muffled curse. When the door finally cracked open, Shadowheart stood blinking in her nightclothes, hair mussed and eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

"What in the Hells do you want at this hour?" she hissed, leaning against the doorframe with folded arms.

"Good evening to you too, darling. You look simply ravishing with that pillow crease on your cheek."

She touched her face reflexively, then scowled. "I'll ask once more before I slam this door and cast Silence on it: What. Do. You. Want?"

"I need to speak with that vampire spawn from the circle. From last night."

Her expression shifted from irritation to guarded concern. "Monius? Why?"

Astarion's smile tightened. "You know why. Will you help or not?"

Twenty minutes and considerable persuasion later, they stood outside Monius's cabin. Shadowheart gave Astarion a warning look before knocking gently.

The conversation that followed was stilted and uncomfortable—Monius initially fearful, then confused as Astarion apologized for his outburst. When Astarion finally asked whether Monius had been one of his victims, the younger vampire's brow furrowed.

"No... it was Petras who tricked me. Sort of looked like you but less… whatever. I never met you... not until you freed us."

Relief washed through Astarion, though it did little to diminish his broader guilt. They spoke briefly of Cazador, of Monius's struggles in the newly formed spawn colony in the Underdark, of his banishment, of his hopes for recovery, of finding purpose. When they departed, something had shifted—a small weight lifted, though many remained.

"That wasn't as disastrous as I expected," Shadowheart said as they walked back toward the central path where they would part ways.

"Your confidence is truly heartwarming."

"Oh, shut up." She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite to it. "That was... decent of you. Unnecessary at this hour, but decent."

"High praise indeed."

She stopped at the fork in the path, studying him with her usual penetrating gaze. "You're changing, you know. Would have been easier just to avoid him."

"Yes, well. Apparently, I'm trying new things."

"Good. Now get back to Gale and let me sleep." She turned toward her cabin, then paused. "And Astarion? Well done."

He watched her walk away, oddly touched by the gruff approval.

With his Monius errand complete, Astarion felt strangely unburdened. Shadowheart's grudging approval lingered pleasantly in his mind as he wandered away from the main camp paths. His feet carried him instinctively toward the lake, drawn by a curiosity that had been nagging at him since their first day.

The moonlight painted silver trails across the water's surface as he approached silently, old habits of stalking prey serving him well in the darkness. And there, just as Astarion suspected, was Zevlor.

The tiefling stood at the water's edge, his tall silhouette unmistakable against the moonlit lake. He paced back and forth along the shoreline, occasionally extending a foot toward the water only to withdraw it sharply, as though the mere touch might burn. Every few moments, Zevlor would glance around anxiously, ensuring nobody witnessed this peculiar dance of indecision.

Astarion watched from the shadows of a large willow, amused by the familiar pattern. After several minutes of this entertainment, he decided to announce himself in the most irritating manner possible.

He cleared his throat loudly and stepped from the shadows. "You know, if you stare at it any longer, the lake might actually develop feelings of rejection."

Zevlor startled violently, nearly toppling into the water he so carefully avoided. When he recognized Astarion, his expression darkened. "Wonderful. Just the person I hoped to encounter."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Was this private pacing session reserved in advance?" Astarion leaned against a tree, his smile deliberately grating. "I must have missed the sign-up sheet."

Zevlor folded his arms. "What do you want?"

"Nothing much. Just enjoying the night air. Thought I'd say hello to a fellow hero of Baldur's Gate." Astarion strolled closer, noting how Zevlor subtly shifted away from the water's edge. "Beautiful night for a swim, don't you think?"

"If you came to mock me—"

"Not at all." Astarion softened his tone slightly. "In fact, I'm genuinely curious. What is it about the water that's so off-putting? You come here night after night, yet never actually step in."

Zevlor's jaw tightened. "That's none of your concern.“

"Fair enough." Astarion shrugged, disappointment of his curiosity a fleeting visitor.

Then, making a split-second decision, he began unfastening his shirt. "Well, why not?"

"What are you doing?" Zevlor asked, alarm clear in his voice.

"Taking a swim." Astarion dropped his shirt to the ground and continued undressing until he stood only in his smallclothes. "Care to join me?"

Zevlor stared at him in naked shock. "You can't be serious."

"I assure you, I am." Astarion waded into the lake, the cool water swirling around his ankles, then his calves. He turned back toward the shore and extended his hand. "Coming?"

"You were always my least favorite of your little band of heroic lunatics," Zevlor said flatly.

"And yet I'm the one you've got." Astarion's hand remained outstretched, unwavering. 

"Why should I trust you?" Zevlor refused to meet his eye.

Astarion simply shrugged and reached out again, water lapping gently around his calves as he waited.

Astarion watched as Zevlor's face twisted through a series of increasingly dramatic expressions, as if he were being asked to wade through molten lava rather than pleasantly cool lake water.

"You are insufferable," Zevlor finally said through gritted teeth.

"So I've been told. Hand?"

With a theatrical huff that suggested Astarion had threatened him at knifepoint rather than offered a friendly swim, Zevlor stretched out and grasped Astarion's outstretched fingers. His feet remained firmly planted on dry land, toes curling at the edge where sand met water.

For a fleeting moment, Astarion imagined simply yanking the tiefling forward—the spectacular splash, the outraged sputtering, the absolute hilarity that would ensue. But no. He had, apparently, developed a conscience. How tedious.

Instead, he steadied Zevlor's hand as the tiefling inched forward, his face a mask of concentration.

"There we are," Astarion said, offering his arm for support as Zevlor's foot finally sank beneath the surface. "Catastrophe averted. The world remains unshattered."

"Don't patronize me," Zevlor muttered, but his grip on Astarion's arm tightened as they waded deeper.

The tiefling's breathing quickened as the water rose past their knees, then to mid-thigh. His eyes darted constantly between the water's surface and the shore, as if calculating the fastest escape route.

"Relax," Astarion said, surprised by the lack of mockery in his own voice. "Look—we're nearly waist-deep, and remarkably, we both still exist."

Gradually, as they stood in the gentle lap of water with nothing disastrous materializing, Zevlor's death grip on Astarion's arm loosened. His breathing slowed, and his shoulders, which had been nearly touching his ears, lowered to a more natural position.

They stood like that in silence for several minutes, two figures in the moonlight. Strangely, it wasn't entirely uncomfortable.

"Swimming," Astarion said abruptly, "is largely about trust. Particularly floating."

Zevlor shot him a suspicious glance. "I am not—"

"The key is to let your body relax completely," Astarion continued as if Zevlor hadn't spoken. "Tension is the enemy of buoyancy. Breath is its friend."

"I have no intention of—"

"Watch." Astarion released Zevlor's arm and leaned back, allowing his body to rise to the surface. He spread his arms wide, face tilted toward the stars, demonstrating the perfect floating posture that Halsin had taught him.

When he righted himself, Zevlor was staring at him with a mixture of fascination and horror.

"Absolutely not."

"Come now," Astarion said, positioning himself behind Zevlor and placing his hands beneath the water—exactly as Halsin had done for him. "I'll spot you. You won't sink."

"This is ridiculous—"

"Just lean back. I won't let you go under."

Zevlor remained rigid, his expression suggesting he'd rather face the Netherbrain again than surrender to the water.

Astarion merely waited, hands steady, patient in a way that would have shocked his former self.

With the face of a man placing his head on the chopping block, Zevlor made several abortive attempts to lean back. His horns dipped toward the water before he jerked upright again, eyes wide with alarm. Astarion waited, hands steady beneath the tiefling's shoulders.

"If you tell anyone about this—" Zevlor began.

"Yes, yes, you'll disembowel me with your bare hands. I'm positively terrified. Now lean back."

Zevlor exhaled sharply through his nostrils, closed his eyes, and finally committed. His body tensed initially as water lapped at his ears, but then—success. He floated, suspended above Astarion's hands by the gentle buoyancy of the lake.

Looking down at the battle-worn tiefling's face, Astarion found himself smiling genuinely. The moonlight softened Zevlor's harsh features, and for a moment, he looked almost peaceful.

"How does it feel?" Astarion asked, surprising himself with his interest. Would Zevlor experience this differently? Would the sensation that had so calmed Astarion affect this hardened commander the same way?

"Strange," Zevlor answered after a moment. "Like... being held by something larger than yourself."

Astarion nodded. Not poetic, exactly, but close enough to what he'd felt himself. The weightlessness, the surrender to something vast and indifferent yet somehow supporting. Two such different souls—a vampire spawn and a tiefling commander—experiencing the same simple wonder. Apparently, some things were universal.

When Zevlor seemed comfortable enough, Astarion slowly withdrew his hands. "I'm letting go now. You'll stay afloat."

Zevlor's eyes widened, but he managed to maintain his float. Astarion joined him, sliding into his own floating position nearby. They drifted in companionable silence, their bodies making slow, lazy circles on the water's surface.

"Why did you help me with this?" Zevlor asked eventually, his voice quiet beneath the chorus of night insects.

Astarion considered the question. "Perhaps I'm developing that wretched disease called empathy," he replied. "Don't worry—I'm seeking treatment."

Zevlor actually chuckled, the sound strange and rusty. "Aren't we all."

They exchanged a few more quiet words about nothing consequential—the stars, the retreat, the merits of floating versus swimming—before Astarion decided it was time to leave the tiefling to his newfound aquatic freedom.

"Well, this has been delightful, but I've other mischief to attend to," Astarion said, righting himself in the water.

He felt oddly satisfied, buoyed by his good deed. The sensation made him itch for some counterbalance—some small act of chaos to restore the natural order. But Zevlor had done something difficult today. Or rather, something seemingly simple that had been difficult for him. Astarion could relate.

They parted without further incident, Zevlor staying behind to practice his floating while Astarion gathered his clothes and headed back toward camp. Rather than dressing, however, he carried his bundle through the shadows, his wet undergarments clinging uncomfortably as he made his way to Shadowheart's cabin.

Shadowheart deserved a little wake-up call for her smug approval earlier. Couldn't have her getting too full of herself.

With the silent precision of a master rogue, Astarion rigged a bucket of water above her doorway, carefully balancing it so that opening the door would create a delightful morning shower. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, grinning wickedly.

"Let's see how counselor-y you feel after this," he whispered.

Deeply satisfied with his night's adventures—making amends with Monius, teaching Zevlor to float, and preparing a deliciously petty surprise for Shadowheart—Astarion slipped back into their cabin with a lightness that surprised him. 

Closing the door softly behind him, he brushed ineffectually at his still-damp undergarments before giving up and stripping them off entirely. He snatched a towel from beside the copper tub and dried himself, running the fabric through his hair and over his limbs with brisk efficiency.

When he turned toward the bed, the sight of Gale stopped him midmotion. His wizard lay peacefully asleep, exactly as Astarion had left him—still crowned with the makeshift circlet of moonflowers and purple cone flowers. The sight of that absurd flower crown resting atop Gale's darling head made something flutter in Astarion's chest.

"Ridiculous," he whispered fondly, crossing the room to retrieve his unnecessary note. He crumpled it and tossed it into the small waste bin.

The remaining flowers he arranged in a water glass he filled from the pitcher on the bedside table. Moonlight caught the white petals, making them glow softly against the darkness of the cabin.

Astarion lifted the blankets and slid into bed, careful not to disturb Gale. The lake water and night air had left Astarion's skin chilly to the touch—even cooler than his usual room temperature. He eyed Gale's sleeping form, radiating warmth like a hearth.

He tried—truly tried—to resist the temptation.

For approximately three seconds.

With deliberate mischief, Astarion pressed his lake-chilled palms directly against Gale's bare chest.

Gale's eyes shot open as he let out an undignified yelp, flailing spectacularly. The flower crown went flying, landing somewhere across the room with a soft thump.

"What the—Astarion!" Gale gasped, fully awake now and glaring at the vampire, who was shaking with silent laughter. "Your hands are freezing!"

"Are they?" Astarion asked innocently, reaching toward Gale again. "I hadn't noticed."

Gale caught his wrists before he could make contact again. "Where have you—why is your hair wet?"

"Midnight swim," Astarion said, still grinning as Gale held his wrists at bay. "Among other activities."

"You're impossible," Gale muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"A work in progress," Astarion corrected, offering no resistance as Gale pulled him closer despite the chill of his skin.

Astarion melted into the kiss—his cool skin finding delicious contrast against the wizard's sleep-warm body. Despite the chill Astarion had brought to bed, Gale's mouth remained hot and welcoming, his tongue teasing along Astarion's lower lip in a way that made him shiver for entirely different reasons.

When they parted, Astarion glanced around the darkened room, suddenly aware of what was missing.

"One moment," he murmured, slipping from Gale's embrace and padding naked across the floor.

"Where are you—" Gale began, looking adorably confused as he propped himself up on his elbows.

Astarion found the flower crown where it had landed beside the writing desk. Remarkably, it remained mostly intact despite its flight across the room. He returned to the bed, the moonlit crown balanced delicately between his hands.

"Your royal accoutrement, my lord," Astarion said with exaggerated formality, placing the slightly crushed circlet of flowers atop Gale's tousled hair. 

Gale touched the crown with bewildered fingers. "You're putting flowers in my hair at...whatever ungodly hour this is?"

"They suit you," Astarion said simply, settling back onto the bed. "I missed them."

Gale's expression softened into that particular smile Astarion treasured—the one that suggested Astarion had done something unexpectedly sweet without realizing it. Rather than suffer the indignity of being called "adorable" or some equally mortifying endearment, Astarion surged forward to kiss him again.

He slid his hands beneath the waistband of Gale's sleep pants, trailing cool fingers along the warm skin of his hips. Gale shivered delightfully beneath his touch.

"These need to go," Astarion declared against Gale's mouth.

Gale wriggled obligingly, helping Astarion slide the offending garment down and off. When Astarion moved to wrap his still-cool fingers around Gale's rapidly hardening length, the wizard caught his wrist.

"Gods, your hands are like ice," Gale complained.

Astarion grinned wickedly. "Hmm, I suppose the warmer hand should do the stroking."

Gale caught his meaning immediately. "Clever vampire. Always finding ways to make others do your work."

"It's a talent," Astarion agreed, sliding his body alongside Gale's and pressing their hips together.

He stretched for a vial of scented oil they'd created yesterday, its lavender-sage fragrance filling the air as he uncorked it. "A little assistance, perhaps?"

Gale accepted a few drops, warming them between his palms before reaching between them. His slick, heated hand wrapped around both their lengths, drawing a soft gasp from Astarion at the delicious slide.

"Better?" Gale asked, his voice low and rough as he began a slow, tantalizing stroke.

"Much," Astarion purred, wrapping his arms around Gale's shoulders and capturing his mouth in a deep, languid kiss.

The flower crown listed slightly to one side as they moved together, Gale's hand working between them while Astarion focused on kissing him senseless—trailing his lips and teeth along Gale's jaw, down his neck, and back to his mouth.

Their pleasure built slowly, unhurried and gentle, until Astarion felt the familiar tightening in his core. He broke their kiss to press his forehead against Gale's, breaths mingling as they tipped over the edge together with matching sighs.

After a moment, Gale whispered a quick prestidigitation, vanishing the evidence of their pleasure before pulling Astarion close. He curled his frame around the vampire's cooler body, tucking Astarion's head beneath his chin.

Astarion cuddled happily into the warmth and let his mind drift as Gale's breathing slowed. The wizard's arms were draped over him, radiating heat that Astarion's perpetually cool skin greedily absorbed. He pressed closer, one hand resting on Gale's chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his palm—a luxury his own silent chest would never provide to Gale. Ah, well, he would provide flower crowns and midnight mayhem in recompense.

His thoughts turned to his manuscript. Strange how it had begun as a petty attempt to outdo Volo and had evolved into something far more personal. The final chapters were already taking shape in his mind.

He was nearly done with it. The thought brought both satisfaction and a curious emptiness. What would Gale make of it all? Perhaps tomorrow would be the day to let him read the whole of it, instead of the random scenes he'd been feeding him before. He could spend the morning wrapping up the final bits, and then... what? Hand it over and simply watch Gale's face as he read?

Astarion nestled deeper into Gale's embrace, his fingertips tracing idle patterns across his lover's skin. Perhaps he could finish the manuscript in the morning, then leave Gale to read while he participated in one of those ridiculous camp activities. Something physical that would keep his mind occupied, preventing him from obsessing over each of Gale's reactions as he turned the pages.

And later, there was that firefly thing on the schedule. It sounded absolutely twee but... well, like it might be pretty. Romantic, even. The sort of absurdly sentimental experience that would have made the old Astarion sneer and roll his eyes.

But was that still him? This strange new contentment felt like a foreign language—one he was slowly, clumsily learning to speak.

Gale shifted slightly in his sleep, pulling Astarion closer with unconscious possessiveness. The flower crown, miraculously, still clung to his head, though now at an even more precarious angle. Astarion smiled against Gale's chest, too comfortable to reach up and adjust it.

His eyelids grew unexpectedly heavy—he realized he had rather overexerted himself on several levels, and true sleep was trying to claim him now. It felt like surrender—not to an enemy, but to something gentler. Something safe.

Wrapped in Gale's warmth, he slipped peacefully into darkness.

Gale

Gale stretched out on the thick blanket, enjoying the surprising comfort of their midnight picnic setup. All around, fireflies pulsed in the darkness like tiny, erratic stars.

"Did you know," he whispered to Astarion, "that firefly light is produced through a chemical reaction in their bodies? It's actually quite fascinating—nearly one hundred percent efficient energy conversion. Not even the most skilled mage could—"

"Yes, that's lovely," Astarion interrupted, rolling to his side and propping his head on one hand to face Gale. "But you're avoiding the subject."

Gale sighed. The entire evening had been like this. He'd spent the afternoon alone with Astarion's manuscript, reading it front to back while the vampire had uncharacteristically volunteered for a group hike. Since Astarion's return, he'd been relentlessly pursuing Gale's opinion on the novel, yet somehow preventing any substantive discussion.

"I'm not avoiding anything," Gale said. "I'm simply appreciating the natural beauty of—" He raised his hand subtly, directing a nearly imperceptible gust of wind toward a cluster of fireflies. They scattered, completely ruining his attempted charm of arranging them into a heart shape.

Astarion narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing with your hand?"

"Nothing," Gale said quickly. "Just... conducting the firefly symphony."

"You were trying to manipulate them into some shape, weren't you?" A smirk played at Astarion's lips. "How adorably sentimental."

"Speaking of sentimental," Gale tried again, "your novel—"

"Yes!" Astarion sat up straighter. "Tell me what you thought. Not the line edits—we'll get to those later. The overall impression. Did you like it? Was it convincing? Will it destroy Volo's reputation and establish me as Faerûn's premier romance author? Well? Say something!"

Gale opened his mouth to respond, but Astarion immediately continued.

"I know the middle gets a bit slow. I've been thinking about cutting that entire section with the cousin. And perhaps the ending is too neat? I considered having Fitha leave for dramatic tension, but I wanted a happy ending. Was it too saccharine? Too obvious?"

"Astarion, I—"

"The masquerade scene works though, doesn't it? I thought that was particularly inspired. The way they finally—"

"Darling," Gale placed a finger over Astarion's lips. "Do you actually want my opinion, or would you prefer to continue both asking and answering your own questions?"

Astarion blinked, seeming genuinely surprised. "I... well, of course I want your opinion."

"Are you certain? Because each time I begin to offer it, you interrupt with another question or comment."

Astarion opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking slightly chagrined. "Do I really?"

"You do," Gale smiled softly, brushing a strand of silver-white hair from Astarion's forehead. Above them, the fireflies continued their random dance, utterly resistant to his magical attempts at romantic choreography. 

Gale forced himself to remain silent. The old urge to help Astarion find his words, to gently guide the conversation to its natural conclusion, tugged at him—but he resisted. Astarion needed space to speak, and Gale needed to hear him without intermediation or assistance.

The silence stretched longer than Gale expected. He returned to his futile attempts at firefly manipulation, trying to coax the tiny lights into some semblance of order with subtle magical gestures. The glowing insects stubbornly maintained their beautiful chaos, ignoring his gentle arcane nudges.

"I already know what's wrong with it," Astarion finally said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Gale's attention immediately pivoted back. "Oh?"

"The problem is..." Astarion twisted his engagement ring on his finger. "I can't decide if I want you to confirm what I already suspect, thereby validating my concerns, or if I want you to tell me something entirely different, allowing me to believe the issue exists only in my imagination."

Gale considered this, tilting his head. "It's an entirely different experience being on the editor's side of things. I find myself at a curious loss for words. How did you manage it so effortlessly when you were revising my words?"

Astarion laughed, a genuine sound that momentarily brightened his features. "By having absolutely no qualms about being an ass and hurting your feelings." His expression sobered slightly. "Not about the writing, anyway. Other things..." He trailed off, looking away.

The weight of that unfinished sentence hung between them. Gale traced the edge of the blanket with his finger, considering how to proceed. The manuscript had been illuminating—far more revealing than Astarion likely intended. The parallels between Yorl and Fitha's relationship and their own were painfully obvious.

"Very well," Gale said decisively after another thoughtful moment. "Then I shall follow your example and offer unfiltered criticism, if that's what you want. But if you would rather speak your own concerns first, I'm all ears."

Astarion chewed his lower lip, one fang briefly overlapping the pale skin. Gale tried not to be distracted by how adorable that little peek of sharp tooth was against his lip.

Astarion sighed dramatically, throwing himself back onto the blanket.

"Fine. The truth is, the novel is atrocious." He waved his hand dismissively in the air. "Not the writing itself—that's perfectly competent. But the story..." 

Gale raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"It's too idealized," Astarion continued, his voice growing frustrated. "The protagonists might as well be paper dolls for all the dimension they possess. Yorl is handsome and brooding with just the right amount of dangerous mystery, and Fitha is clever and determined with exactly the perfect hint of vulnerability." He grimaced. "The whole thing is saccharine fluff with only the barest excuse for conflict."

Gale watched Astarion's face carefully. Beyond the harsh critique, there was something else there—a vulnerability that rarely showed itself.

"And yet," Gale prompted gently.

"And yet..." Astarion hesitated, looking away from Gale's gaze. "I enjoyed writing it that way." His voice dropped lower, almost confessional. "Because, well... hello Fitha, my name is Yorl."

The admission hung in the air between them. Gale felt his heart expand with unexpected tenderness.

"I'm just not sure who would enjoy reading it," Astarion continued, touching the manuscript that lay beside them. "It's entirely too perfect, too neat. Real life isn't like that."

Gale couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped him. Astarion's head snapped up, eyes narrowed.

"What's so amusing?" he demanded.

"You're mostly right," Gale said, "about the assessment. But you're entirely wrong about who would want to read it." 

Astarion frowned. "Meaning?"

"EVERYONE will want to read it that way," Gale said with certainty. "It's a romance novel, darling. Well-written fluff with original, emotional intimacy that makes Volo's own offerings look like a golem copied them from a medical sex manual. It is going to vanish from the shelves faster than a rogue’s shadow vanishes on a moonless night."

Astarion looked genuinely surprised. "You can't be serious."

"Completely serious," Gale insisted. "People like tropes. They like comfort. They like heroes they can root for and relate to, and your characters are just flawed enough to be interesting without being off-putting."

"That's your most arsehole interpretation?" Astarion asked, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

"Indeed. Is it great literature? No. Is it delicious romance? Of the very tastiest variety." Gale reached out to touch Astarion's cheek. "Your readers will devour it, I promise you."

Gale watched the emotions play across Astarion's face, noting the moment when his lover's expression shifted from vulnerability to triumphant glee.

"Volo will be absolutely livid," Astarion crowed, bouncing up to his knees with sudden energy. "Can you imagine his face? That pompous quill-pusher who thinks his trashy little stories are the height of literary achievement!" He mimicked an exaggerated shocked expression. "Why, I can practically taste his jealousy already. We'll have to attend one of his 'esteemed readings' just to witness his expression when someone inevitably asks him about my superior work."

"Humble as ever," Gale laughed, reaching out to pull Astarion back down beside him.

"Humility is for those with something to prove," Astarion began, but whatever cleverness he planned to follow with was abruptly cut short by a sudden deluge of frigid water cascading over both their heads.

Gale spluttered, blinking water from his eyes to see Shadowheart standing over them, an empty bucket in her hands and a satisfied smirk on her face.

"What in the Nine Hells?" Gale demanded, pushing his soaked hair from his forehead. Astarion, meanwhile, had gone completely rigid beside him, water dripping from his nose and chin.

"You might want to ask your betrothed about that," Shadowheart said, hefting the empty bucket onto her hip.

Gale turned to Astarion, who was attempting to look innocent despite resembling a drowned cat. "What did you do?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what she's referring to," Astarion sniffed, though his lips twitched with poorly suppressed amusement.

"He did the same thing to me," Shadowheart said flatly. "Bucket trap. On my front door."

"But why pour water on me ?" Gale protested.

Shadowheart shrugged. "Collateral damage. You chose him."

Astarion draped a dripping arm around Gale's shoulders. "Did you hear that, love? You're suffering the consequences of associating with someone who has, as you so eloquently put it yesterday, 'all those beautiful, sharp edges.'" He waggled his eyebrows. "Still worth it?"

Gale blew a raspberry at him, then began casting prestidigitation to dry them both off.

"Actually," Astarion said, ignoring the magical warmth beginning to evaporate the water from his clothes, "I'm rather glad you stopped by, Shadowheart. I need to make sure you save a particular date on your calendar."

"If this is about another prank, I swear to Selûne—" Shadowheart began.

"The twenty-fifth of Leaffall," Astarion interrupted.

Gale's heart fluttered in his chest. Astarion was telling someone else—making it real.

"What's happening then?" Shadowheart asked suspiciously.

"A wedding." Astarion examined his nails with studied nonchalance. "Mine, to be precise. And I'll need a best man, or whatever the proper term would be in your case."

Shadowheart's expression went through several rapid transformations: surprise, suspicion, and finally, a poorly hidden pleasure.

"This is how you ask me to stand up with you? After dumping water on my head first thing in the morning after keeping me up half the night?"

"Would you prefer sonnets? A formal declaration?" Astarion grinned. "I thought we understood each other better than that."

"You're impossible," Shadowheart said, but her voice had softened. "Of course I'll do it. Someone has to make sure you don't flee at the last minute."

Shadowheart hesitated, still clutching the bucket as if considering whether to fill it again for a second assault.

"Stop calculating the fastest route to the lake and back," Astarion said, patting the blanket beside them. "Come sit. We need to discuss more interesting matters than your petty revenge."

"Petty?" Shadowheart's eyebrow arched dangerously. "You rigged a bucket over my door that soaked not only me but three patient logs and my breakfast."

"Water under the bridge," Astarion waved dismissively. "Or rather, over your head. Now come here—we need to talk wedding colors."

With a theatrical sigh that rivaled Astarion's own dramatic tendencies, Shadowheart finally set down the bucket and joined them on the blanket. "Fine. But only because I'm genuinely curious what sort of circus this will become."

"Circus implies disorganization," Astarion sniffed. "This will be an exquisitely orchestrated spectacle."

Gale leaned back on his elbows, content to watch as Astarion immediately launched into a detailed description of his vision—which apparently included Shadowheart in what he called an "appropriately princess-like gown."

"Absolutely not," Shadowheart protested. "I'll wear my formal clerical vestments. They're perfectly—"

"Boring," Astarion cut in. "And predictable. No, no, I was thinking midnight blue silk with silver accents. It would complement your coloring beautifully." He turned to Gale. "Don't you think?"

Gale held up his hands. "I'm staying entirely neutral in this discussion."

"Coward," Astarion grinned, but there was no bite to it. He turned back to Shadowheart. "Just to be perfectly clear—I am the bride in this scenario, and I fully intend to exercise my right to be an absolute terror about every single detail. You might as well accept your fate now."

"You can't just declare yourself the bride," Shadowheart argued.

"Watch me," Astarion replied.

Gale smiled as they continued to bicker. The specifics of the ceremony mattered little to him. So long as his mother and Tara could attend, nothing egregiously illegal transpired, and Astarion said "yes" at the appropriate moment—that was all he required. The rest was just window dressing.

"—and I was thinking perhaps we should commission a bard to compose an original—" Astarion was saying when Shadowheart's attention suddenly shifted. Her gaze fixed on something beyond Astarion's shoulder, her expression transforming from irritation to surprise.

Gale followed her line of sight. At the edge of the meadow stood Zevlor, awkwardly holding a blanket and looking like he wasn't sure whether to approach or retreat.

Beside him, Astarion's hand slid under the blanket covering their laps to grasp Gale's fingers tightly. When Gale glanced at him, Astarion waggled his eyebrows meaningfully, a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

Before Gale could question whatever this silent communication meant, Shadowheart had turned back, and Astarion's face had immediately assumed an expression of perfect innocence.

"Sorry," Shadowheart said, returning her attention to their conversation. "I..."

"Yes?" Astarion prompted, his voice a study in casual disinterest.

Gale narrowed his eyes, suddenly curious. What exactly had Astarion been up to during his nocturnal adventures last night?

"I should go," Shadowheart said, rising from the blanket while trying—and failing—to appear casual. "Just remembered I'm supposed to... well, share my attention equitably among the participants."

"What a remarkable coincidence," Astarion drawled, watching her straighten her clothes. "And here's poor Zevlor looking to participate."

"I'm just doing my job," she insisted, though her cheeks had colored slightly.

"Of course you are." Astarion's tone dripped with exaggerated sincerity. "The souls of the traumatized cannot possibly heal themselves. Go forth, great priestess of Selûne, and minister to that particular wounded spirit."

"You're insufferable," Shadowheart muttered, but she was already gathering her bucket and backing toward the meadow's edge. "We'll finish discussing the wedding later."

"We certainly will," Astarion called after her. "I've still got the matter of your dress to settle!"

They watched as Shadowheart approached Zevlor, her body language transforming from irritation to something softer, more careful. She placed a hand on the tiefling's arm, guided him to a spot several yards away where they could spread his blanket.

"Is this your doing somehow?" Gale asked, turning to Astarion with raised eyebrows.

Astarion tilted his head, examining his nails with affected nonchalance. "I might be willing to share the details of my midnight activities... for a price."

"And what price might that be?"

Astarion leaned closer, lips curved in a teasing smile. "Admit that I'm the bride in our upcoming nuptials."

Gale laughed. "That's all? Very well, my dear. You are unquestionably the bride."

"Say it properly," Astarion insisted, eyes gleaming.

Gale sighed dramatically, though his heart felt wonderfully light. "I, Gale of Waterdeep, hereby formally acknowledge that Astarion Ancunín is the bride in our impending marriage, entitled to all attendant privileges including but not limited to: outrageous demands, ceremonial tantrums, and the final word on every detail of the proceedings."

"Much better," Astarion purred, settling against Gale's side like a satisfied cat. "Well, if you must know... I may have given our tiefling friend a swimming lesson last night."

"You did what?"

"Don't look so shocked. I can be helpful when I choose to be. And, well..." Astarion did the spinny wrist thing he did whenever he wanted to look flippant, but his face belied the attempt. "This place has not been entirely unhelpful to me.  To us. It seemed a pity that Zevlor hadn't found the knack of it as effortlessly as we have."

"Effortlessly, hm?"

Astarion raised his eyebrows with cool superiority, but Gale could see the vulnerability around the corners of his mouth as Astarion continued. "Indeed. And, in fact, I think we should extend our stay a while longer, don't you? It seems all this 'nature's gifts' stuff has us spending so much time on extended sexcapades that we haven't really had enough time left over for all the talky bits. Which aren't all that bad either.  Come to think of it."

Gale suppressed a grin and attempted a reasoned nod. "Of course. I'll tell Halsin in the morning that we'll take the cabin for another week." He hesitated, not wanting to stress what felt like astounding luck, but he honored his need by pressing forward anyway. "And perhaps request a few couples' sessions on his calendar? Just to ensure the 'talky bits' get their moment in between our nature-fueled, ah, 'sexcapades?'"

"Good thinking, darling. Perhaps a session to two for me as well? Good, I'm delighted that's all sorted." Astarion paused, then sighed and gave Gale a real, radiant smile as their eyes met and understanding passed between them. "Alright, enough of that, I hadn't finished telling you about everything that happened while you were sleeping."

As Astarion launched into a detailed account of his nighttime adventures, Gale found himself overwhelmed with unexpected emotion. Here they were, sitting beneath the summer night sky, planning their future together, gossiping like any ordinary couple. Ha! Scheduling couples therapy, like any normal couple!

What strange, beautiful forces had brought them to this moment? The tadpoles, Cazador, the Netherbrain—all the horror and pain that had somehow, improbably, led to this: Astarion's cold hand in his, those animated ruby eyes, the sound of his laughter carrying across the meadow.

Gale sent a silent prayer of thanks to whatever gods might be listening—even Mystra, whom he had rejected for this man. For once, he didn't need to search for the right words to capture the perfection of this ordinary moment.

It was nothing more or less than love.

* * *

BALDUR'S MOUTH  

16th of Flamerule, 1492 DR

ENGAGEMENT ANNOUNCEMENT  

Heroes of Baldur's Gate to Wed!

The esteemed wizard Gale Dekarios and vampire hero Astarion Ancunín have announced their intention to marry on the 25th of Leaffall. The ceremony will take place in Waterdeep, where the couple currently resides. This union marks the first publicly celebrated marriage between a human and vampire in the Sword Coast's recorded history.

WATERDEEP WAZOO  

3rd of Eleint, 1492 DR

LITERARY REVIEW  

"The Margins of Devotion" Captivates and Titillates

Astarion Ancunín and Gale Dekarios's debut romance novel has taken Waterdeep's literary salons by storm, outselling even Volo Geddarm's recent memoir three-to-one. This tale of forbidden passion between a noble and his archivist contains prose that makes Geddarm's attempts at romance under his well-known pseudonym, Valhalaeria the Vaunted, read like dusty academic treatises. One advanced reader declared it "scandalously good—the sort of book one hides behind more respectable tomes."

BALDUR'S MOUTH  

17th of Eleint, 1492 DR

LITERARY DISCOURSE  

Scholar Questions "Devotion" Author's Proclivities

Noted literary critic Bartholomew Quill has raised eyebrows with his review of "The Margins of Devotion," writing: "While technically proficient, the sheer volume and variety of intimate scenes suggest disturbing insights into the authors' personal experiences. One wonders if the notable power couple’s time has been primarily spent in bedchambers." When reached for comment, Ancunín reportedly replied, "Jealousy is such an unattractive quality in a critic."

WATERDEEP WAZOO  

10th of Leaffall, 1492 DR

SOCIETY PAGES  

Wedding Preparations Underway for Season's Most Anticipated Union

Preparations for the Dekarios-Ancunín wedding have thrown Waterdeep's finest tailors, florists, and caterers into a frenzy. Sources close to the couple report that former adventuring companion Jenevelle Hallowleaf will serve as Ancunín's attendant, while Dekarios has asked noted Baldur's Gate scion and fellow hero of the mind flayer crisis Wyll Ravenguard to stand as his witness. The guest list remains closely guarded, though it is rumored to include several individuals of historical significance.

BALDUR'S MOUTH  

24th of Leaffall, 1492 DR

WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENT  

City Prepares for "Wedding of the Season"

The union of Gale Dekarios and Astarion Ancunín tomorrow promises to be the social event of the season. Security measures have been heightened following rumors of a crashed wedding rehearsal dinner, where an uninvited Volo Geddarm allegedly attempted to present the couple with an unauthorized biographical account of their courtship. Witnesses report the manuscript was promptly incinerated by a spell from Dekarios while Ancunín laughed "in a manner most unsettling."

WATERDEEP WAZOO

26th of Leaffall, 1492 DR

SOCIETY EXCLUSIVE

Love Conquers All: Inside the Dekarios-Ancunín Wedding

By Felicia Brightquill, Society Correspondent

Despite extraordinary security measures that included arcane wards, tiefling bouncers, and what appeared to be at least one disguised Harper agent, this reporter successfully infiltrated what many are calling "the wedding of the decade."

While the spectacle itself was everything one might expect from the union of two heroes of Baldur's Gate—floating candelabras, exotic guests from across the realms, and what this reporter swears was a tressym serving as a ring bearer—it was not the pageantry that left the most lasting impression.

No, dear readers, it was the unmistakable love evident on the faces of our grooms.

When Astarion Ancunín, resplendent in midnight blue with silver embroidery that sparkled like starlight, turned to watch Gale Dekarios enter the hall, this hardened reporter nearly wept at the raw emotion that transformed his usually guarded countenance. The vampire hero—a figure who has inspired both awe and fear throughout the Sword Coast—appeared utterly vulnerable in that moment, his eyes never leaving his approaching partner.

For his part, Dekarios, wearing robes of deep plum with golden accents, matched his lover's gaze with equal intensity. Their vows, exchanged beneath an archway of enchanted flowers that shifted color with their words, were both eloquent and uncharacteristically concise for the verbose wizard.

"You are the unexpected chapter in my story," Dekarios told his partner, his voice carrying through the magical acoustics of the hall. "The one I never planned to write but now cannot imagine living without."

Ancunín's response, delivered with that trademark sardonic smile that softened as he spoke: "Two hundred years of darkness made bearable by the promise of finding you at the end of it. I would suffer it all again if it meant waking up beside you each morning."

This reporter was hardly the only witness left spellbound by these two lovers.  For those who speculated which of the Heroes of Baldur's Gate would be in attendance, the simplest answer is all of them. Even the renowned former Commander of the Hellriders, Zevlor, who was previously said to have disappeared from public life entirely, made an appearance. Halsin Silverbough, known to our readership as both a hero of the mind flayer crisis and as the leader of the well-regarded Newleaf Retreat, was in attendance both as guest and as recipient of the happy couple's largess, as they elected to request donations to the retreat in lieu of wedding gifts.

Anyone lucky enough to be in attendance was struck by the evident joy of these two figures who, against all odds, found what can only be described as a love for the ages.

As the festivities wound down and the last enchanted lanterns flickered out, this reporter caught a final exchange between the newlyweds. Astarion was overheard murmuring, “You know, darling, I never thought I’d be the one to say this, but I think I could get used to happy endings.”

To which Gale replied, “With you? I’m sure we will always get the ending right.”