[in which I try to cure my writer’s block by attempting to write this scene in my own voice. Gale’s Romance Scene Act II]
It is not at all unusual to see beams of light or wisps of magic drifting from the wizard’s tent. Usually, no one minds the occasional energy rippling the air as Gale conjures magic or reads spells. But tonight, the camp hums—differently. Your gaze wanders to his corner as you feel the Weave brushing against your skin—not in passing, but as if meant for you alone, like a warm whispered invitation.
Curious, you stand to visit his tent.
“Good evening!” Gale chirps. And you stare at how different he looks. His eyes shine in purple orbs and a mystical gleam shrouds his sides. “I am here in behalf of Gale of Waterdeep. He wishes to extend to you an invitation for a private conversation in a more suitable locale.”
You raise an eyebrow. “On behalf of Gale? You are not Gale?”
He smiles. “You are speaking to a mere projection of Gale. His appearance, his voice, and a certain measure of personality—reconstituted in this case to play as an emissary and usher. Would you care to join him?” He asks. “What little I could gleam from the portions of his mind that is open to me, it is a matter most urgent.”
Most urgent? Something tugs at your heart. You can’t help but feel that its urgency is yours as well. Whatever it is that unsettles him, it seems to stir the same unease within you. A burden he carries, a worry festering quietly at the back of his mind—you have the urge to share it with him and take it all away.
“Very well,” you say. “Show me the way.”
“Gladly.” He extends his hand. “Simply follow yonder path, and soon you will find him.”
You find him sitting on a clearing, his hands gracefully dancing through the air, pointing at the stars, tracing at the horizon in graceful arcs as the Weave hums in anticipation. The space around him begins to shift, charged—alive. He is painting magic. And the night sky is his great canvass.
A burst of shimmer, and an aurora unfurls the sky like a celestial curtain. Tendrils of colors thread through the heavens as it poise itself in grand hues of emerald and lavender. For a moment, you see the resemblance—the colors matching you and him.
Surely a coincidence, you thought.
But it has been so long since you’ve gazed upon something so prismatic. The glorious art that towers you takes your breath away and you try to soak up the image in your mind. Down here in the Shadowlands, there are only shades of darkness, so immensely different from the city you grew up in and the art that has brought you before everything changed. Before your sister was taken. Before the Illithid worm, this curse, and before all the series of events that have slowly changed you. Breathing in the colors, you almost forget the charms of artistry.
He finally looks at you when you step closer. A faint twinkle in his eyes glow as if the Weave has left residues of light in him. “I love this time of night,” he begins.
He leans back with his arms as you sit beside him.
“There’s an almost reverent silence that accompanies the peak of darkness when you’d almost believe that the dawn will never break. The cradle of eternity.” He waves a hand on the sky, then looks at you, tenderly. “The timelessness of lovers, that most beautiful of fantasies.”
You share his gaze. “It is breathtaking.” You say. To the aurora, or perhaps to him—you left it hanging and hope he notices. “Is the starry sky your doing?”
“Indeed.” He nods. If he notices your remark, he does not show it—yet. “The curse is still present of course—just veiled and at arm’s length for now. Not a trick I can repeat often. But tonight? Tonight is different.”
“What makes you say that?”
“This may be my last night alive,” he says, voice quiet but unflinching. Your heart sinks. Suddenly the aurora fades from your interest and nothing holds your gaze now but him. He is talking about his orb, and Mystra’s pathetic will.
“I thought this place would bring me peace. I thought it might make the weight of what I must do feel a little lighter. But, I am not so sure.”
“Is this truly what you want? To die for the promise of Mystra’s forgiveness?” You try hard not to spat the words. Out of everyone else in camp, it is you who burst out mad in defiance over what Elminster, or Mystra wants him to do.
He sighs. “Babe or crone. Coward or hero. Death is assured. Mystra’s forgiveness is not.”
“Yes,” you almost exclaimed. “It is unthinkable to trust the words of someone who put you in so much pain already. You do not have to trade your life for her forgiveness.”
“But if you knew the end was near, would you not want to ensure it had meaning?”
Ever the person to hope for something, even at grim things. Ever the optimist. You thought. He complicates this, but for you it is so simple. Your hands ball into fists at your sides. The thought of him dying alone should have never crossed his mind. You will never let it. Hells, you will defy even the gods before you let it happen.
“I am terrified,” he confesses and you share the sadness in his eyes.
“I will not claim it otherwise. My face could scarcely conceal it even if my words sought to deny it. There is no point in running from the inevitable. Better to meet it on my own terms.”
“But nothing is inevitable, Not when we face it together,” you gave him a small smile. Your hand briefly brushes his. “You don’t have to die.”
An assortment of emotions passes his face. Fear, sadness, hope—and a yearning that you are all too familiar with. Your breath catches.
“One moment with you can sate me for a lifetime and prise the fear from my heart. I am so very glad you came…to share this with me. I know this is all unreal, but I created it for you. You must know that you’re—“ he trails off, hesitation in his eyes for a moment as he searches yours behind long lashes. “You are very special to me.”
His words catches you off guard. You can only stare as he continues. “If things were different. If we were home, I’d have taken time to do things properly. To say it all better. But time is short—”
“—I’m in love with you.” He says it softly, the words trespassing the safe distance you promise to keep. Your own yearning finally put into words, mirrored. You don’t look away from him. You can’t. Not when his eyes hold yours with a resolve that unmakes death’s shadow over him, defiant of his own vulnerability.
Your heart stumbles. You have imagined this scene countless times under the stars—alone, when sleep does not come to you after a long day of adventure. You have admired him ever since Emerald Grove. A melancholy desire blooming deep in your soul but you tucked it away hidden. You understood the distance he kept considering the weight of his curse—a decision that you regarded as admirable. But now… He has handed you something so fragile and true. He has brought your own desire into the open and everything inside you unravels.
“I’m… in love with you too.” You echo.
And in that fragile quiet between confessions, something shifts. The Weave all around you softens, becoming sweeter and lighter, as if responding to the unspoken bond blooming between you. For a moment, you forget about the perils of your journey. The thought of love shrinks death itself. You can see it in the way Gale looks at you—no sorrow lingering in his eyes. There is hope instead. But not of blind optimism, genuine hope. As if you are the solid ground he needs after wandering for so long. Your acceptance of him changes him. He leans to you with belief.
He believes you can save him.
[will continue this soon!]
