Summary: Gale feels abandoned, again. (A short one while I get back into the swing of things)
He read it in silence, finished, and threw it upon the desk where it sat unmoving. He stared at it accusatorily, although he could not bring himself to reread the brief message.
AO3 if you prefer.
Chapter 13: A slow recovery
Grey skies remained a constant in colder months, and this afternoon was no exception. The library was quiet save for the metronomic swish of Tara's tail and the dull thud of shuffling books. Tara stared down into the temporarily deserted harbor through narrowed eyes as flakes drifted lazily past the pane. Gale, meanwhile, busied himself with organization, having heard one too many times about the unsatisfactory placement of his tomes on monastic meditations. It was a small gift, he supposed, that the Orb hadn't taken his literacy when it had taken everything else. Tara sighed audibly at her post, an irritable twitch to her ears. He did not look up from his idle arrangement, but sensed a brewing storm, with clouds as numerous as those outside.
“Mr. Dekarios. We really must discuss the state of the tower.”
"I'll tidy when you're next away." He waved a hand dismissively. "A prestidigitation a day keeps the mice at bay." He added mildly, a thumb holding his place as he searched about for a bookmark.
"I think you'll find it is me who keeps those miscreants away." She huffed, eyeing him. "Even so, with the worsening weather, we should ensure we're well prepared before winter sets in properly." She prodded. He glanced up, surprised at the seriousness of her tone.
"We've plenty of supplies and clutter to sort through." His tone light, but questioning. "Enough to keep us busy through winter, I daresay," he added, though Tara appeared no more relieved.
“Undoubtedly." She admitted. "But…" She paused, hesitant to continue, "Your coffers dwindle, and we can never be too prepared for-" She let the sentence drop as their eyes met, her gaze awash with concern.
"Ah." He said softly, then smiled, amiable and hollow. "Do not fret, Tara. We've still many options available to us." It was a kinder lie than the reality; he knew their supply of artifacts had shrunk considerably. He'd expected her to look away dejectedly as was common whenever they broached this topic, but instead her ears perked, and her tail quivered.
"I am quite glad to hear you say that, Mr. Dekarios." She enthused. "I quite agree. In fact, I've been thinking—"
"A dangerous hobby, I'm told." She rolled her eyes, brushing aside his attempt at humor like an unappetizing morsel.
"As I was saying," She continued, suddenly more buoyant. "I was thinking it may be… beneficial to seek out some assistance…"
"Assistance?" He looked at her, puzzled. "I've written to all the preeminent authorities on magical maladies, and we both know the orb is far beyond any cleric's ability." He frowned. "I've even requested aid from Elminster, though that particular correspondence goes unanswered." He said pointedly, ignoring the twinge of hurt. Tara's tail flicked again, nervously.
"We've indeed exhausted the typical avenues of research, but I believe there may be another suited to assist us." He raised an eyebrow as she hurried. "One specialized in artifacts—"
“—No.” Gale cut her off firmly; no name need be uttered. He felt the weight of her observation and shifted the lining of his robes to obscure the mark from her view just in case.
"You'd not even consider it?" Tara looked aghast and a little wounded. For a moment, Gale wavered, then shook his head.
"I suspect she would not be inclined to assist me these days, given our…less than savory parting.” He rubbed his chest anxiously; he did not wish to linger on this discussion—for his sake and the orb's. "And I cannot ask her to risk her life simply to prolong mine." He looked at Tara squarely. "I already risk yours and all of Waterdeep." Tara rolled her eyes, unmoved.
"Why not allow her the chance to make that determination herself? Besides, skirting consequences always did seem her specialty.” Tara retorted sourly; Gale regarded her, bemused.
"I've never known you to be so complimentary." A flicker of annoyance crossed her face.
"If you will not request her aid, you may as well avail yourself of her services. Surely you can see the sense in that?"
"It is not so simple," Gale looked at the tressym reproachfully, then glanced away. "You’re just not familiar with the intricacies of non-feline relationships.” He mumbled and punctuated the point with a firm closure of the book, though he still did not allow their gazes to meet.
“Quite the bold pronouncement to say you are!” Tara shot back hotly. “I never suggested you ply her with a hunted pheasant. But some honesty from the two of you would hardly have gone astray.”
“Add it to my ever-growing list of regrets then.” He said petulantly and stared stubbornly out the window at the falling snow. The silence between them filled the tower until he at last sighed.
"You must understand, I am not so selfish a man that I feel entitled to her company simply because I once enjoyed it. Were I to reenter her life now, I would only serve to burden her further." He said frankly, the weight of the words settling heavily on his shoulders. Tara crossed the room in a bound and placed two reassuring paws on his knee.
"Let her choose; you may be surprised." She said softly. "Just promise me you'll give my suggestion some thought. Unless the insistence of your oldest friend is no longer persuasive to you?" She asked testily.
“No orb, catastrophic or not, could ever dampen my respect for your opinion, Tara, you know that. I will consider extending an invitation.” He conceded. "It is not so simple as drafting a letter." He added conservatively. Tara began to lick at her paw, though she did little to hide her pleased demeanor.
“Of course, Gale.”
True to his word, it proved no simple undertaking; he drafted no less than three versions of the invitation. The first had been far too frank, laying bare the truth of his condition, the danger it posed, and the desperation of his position. The second had seemed too apologetic, a sycophantic plea for assistance that felt embarrassing to pen, let alone dispatch. While the third felt appropriately formal, an inquiry, a reasonable request to another, despite their past complications.
Tara was far too optimistic; he knew that, but as he swooped the last letter of his signature, he could not help but feel an insidious glimmer of hope bloom in his chest. If Talia agreed to an arrangement, then perhaps there could be some addition to his numbered days. Perhaps something could grow in the desolation that now defined his life. He did his best to quash the flickering hope.
Though he'd acquiesced to Tara, he still largely assumed that Talia would politely decline the offer and continue on with her life unimpeded. His intrusion as unwelcome as his apology had seemed to be. That wasn't to say he did not plan for other contingencies, on the off chance she did reply favorably. However, he shuddered at the thought of revealing the extent of his fall, especially when she had met him at the height of his prestige. Powerful, important, and impressive. He was a poor imitation of that man now, barely able to summon a basic spell while the Weave still burned within her.
He swallowed the painful jealousy that gnawed at him. Perhaps if she did arrive, it would be best to keep such things to himself. They were not friends after all, and this would serve more as a business venture than a personal visit, despite what Tara may wish. Although perhaps she could be trusted with the truth of his situation, regardless of the pernicious view it would garner him.
He looked over the envelope, his neat handwriting addressed to her directly. Tara had assured him she could locate the sorcerer and deliver the letter. He'd chosen to ignore the lack of such assistance she'd offered when he'd last attempted to reach her. With the last of the preparations complete, he laid the letter on his desk, ink glinting in the firelight. He eyed the fireplace and briefly considered whether the letter would feel more at home among the flames. But he'd stayed his hand and watched Tara flit to his desk, take the plea in her mouth, and dash out the window, anxious to be gone before he could wrench it from her possession. He'd stood there until her figure became an unrecognizable spot on the horizon, wondering how one would go about rescinding an invitation.
He didn't have to wait long. Tara had returned within the tenday, an unreadable air about her as she settled the letter atop his other unanswered letters. In recent months, the previously steady flow of invitations to galas or dissertation defenses had dried to a trickle. Detached and self-focused as the arcane community was, word of his sabbatical had permeated the circles, tarnishing his reputation further. He'd hesitated, a hand hovering above the letter. Unsure if he ought to ask after Talia's well-being before opening her reply so as not to seem rude, but Tara had disappeared as soon as she'd deposited her spoils. With unanticipated fervor, he snatched up the envelope and tore it open.
He read it in silence, finished, and threw it upon the desk where it sat unmoving. He stared at it accusatorily, although he could not bring himself to reread the brief message.
“Apologies. I am unable to assist. -Talia”
He'd never known her to be so brief, so impersonal. He briefly considered the ludicrous possibility that the document was some bizarre forgery, given how unrecognizable the tone appeared. But slowly, achingly, a dawning acceptance took hold. He considered, for a time, writing back something crude and petty. To make some mention of her belief that she appeared when needed. Compare her absence to the one she’d implied of Mystra. Make some mention of how vindicated she would feel to see him brought low. Not only did the hypotheticals do nothing to assuage his anguish, he felt ashamed for having considered doing so.
Instead, he'd settled into the nearby chair and allowed the last hope he'd granted himself to ebb away. Allowed the last tenuous connection to his life before to sever. It had been too great an ask, he'd known that as he drafted the letter, the message had contained an undeniable current of pleading despite its formality. Although he'd been purposefully vague in his intentions, certain that though she would not come for him, she could, perhaps, be coaxed to the tower by curiosity. But the truth of the matter remained that she had no use of him, even less so than before. She owed him nothing, and he could offer her nothing. Their last interaction colored by his duty to Mystra and forced decorum. She had likely been uninterested in his underwhelming apology from the start, and this dismissal all but solidified that fact. He steadied his hands, pressing them firmly into his desk with enough force that his fingers began to sting from the strain. Breathing through his nose, his chest began to sting. There would be no deliverance for him, and with a sharp breath, he at last accepted what he’d already known to be true: the world had no need of him.
⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺
Talia awoke to her room in turmoil. The floors and walls trembled with a violent anticipation, as thick haze of magic filled her senses. She crept from her bed onto the shaking surface, a smug heavy darkness pressing into her eyes. She glanced down as the carved runes that dotted the floor of her room fluoresced, and the space seemed to bend inward. The wooden floorboards buckled and splintered as if supporting an unseen but monstrous weight. A half-formed portal of the deepest blue crackled angrily in the air. It tore chunks of magic from her wards and sigils, warping the teleportation circle into an odd oblong shape. Talia's heart pounded; the number of people with the knowledge—let alone ability— to access her room via teleportation could be counted on a single hand. The vortex of power tore every book, dish, and provision from her shelves, shoving them into unceremonious heaps in the corners of the room. The floorboards continued to rattle and whine as the very seams of her demiplane strained against the incoming force. Great fissures formed in the air around the portal, light pouring from its jagged maw. Her vision seemed to blur as the serrated edges of the portal bit at reality. It clung desperately to the space with invisible teeth, its hold steadfast.
Then all at once the wind ceased, the portal buzzed like a hive, sank to the floor, and dissipated, leaving a man curled inward in an expanding pool of blood.
That face—his face— carved itself into her mind. Palid and sallow, and twisted by an untold anguish as he clutched at his chest. He had clawed at it, driven by some pure animalistic instinct, bruises and deep scratches from his nails marked where he’d torn his shirt open in a fit. By the time he’d hit her floor, his breathing was ragged and shallow. He shivered, his hair knotted from his writhing. His mouth was so contorted by pain that it seemed in a permanent silent scream.
Her eyes scoured his huddled form as she forced herself to take a step, and then another, and then another, lurching towards his mangled form. She dropped to his side, the blood lapping at her legs as she thrust her hands onto the damp fabric of his robes. Panic dominated her mind, but behind the fear lurked a pull. A wicked, ruinous consumption that seemed to sap even the air around him. The force pressed on the back of her eyes and made her teeth ache; the pressure radiated out from him in waves.
She quashed the feeling best she could and shoved his shoulder aside as blood bloomed from his core. Her eyes darted frantically, searching desperately for the source of injury, certain she’d find some garish knife wound or the foam of a poison on his lips. Instead, blood gathered in larger and larger amounts around the fierce light that radiated from his chest, blinking out of sync with his fading pulse. He groaned and mumbled his goddess's name, and something else, too mangled to be understood.
She stood, dripping with his blood, and whipped her head around in search of something to heal him. Much of her room now lay at her feet, save for a lone shelf of potions that had survived the onslaught. She dashed between overturned furniture and shattered jars and swept the contents into her waiting arms. Antidote, vitality, healing, she barely read their labels as she dumped them beside him.
She gripped his face, hard enough to bruise, forcing open his jaw. Liquid drained from the bottles, but it took an age for the contents to empty. He gave a sputtering cough, his eyes rolling but seeing nothing. His breathing smoothed from a ragged gasp to a silted wheeze, and his skin grew feverish instead of cold. He would not die here, but they could not remain; he would need more than her meager offerings.
She grabbed at his robes, the fabric squelching beneath her fingers, and threw her weight against him with a grunt. The magic in her blood coiled and uncoiled like a snake, seeking out something familiar and safe. She marked the floor beneath them with a teleport sigil, and with a soft hum and pop, she thrust them both into the portal. They landed hard on a dusty road near the Farm Ward of Waterdeep. As he lay in the mud, she ripped apart what remained of his ragged robes in a frantic search for his personalized teleport scroll. Another heaving shove, and they had tumbled out onto the cool tiles of his foyer— all while she wailed for Tara.
They hastily splayed him across the dining room table, battered, bruised, and deathly still, aside from the barest rise and fall of his chest. She raided his far better stocked storeroom for healing aids, pulling only those she knew to be most potent. They clinked softly in her arms as she rushed back to his side, stepping quickly around the many stacks of books strewn about. Brew after brew disappeared down his throat as they waited with bated breath for him to stir, but as the hours ticked on, neither scroll nor solution roused him from his stupor. His condition neither worsened nor improved, and soon Tara departed to the Hospice of Saint Laupsenn in search of experienced clerics, while Talia, with fumbling hands, wrote to Mystra’s House of Wonder. Her eyes darting between the parchment and the body on the table.
Word of a mysterious illness was enough to summon Ilmater's clerics quickly, and soon a handful of the cloister crowded the doorstep, armed with proclamations that their god had uniquely gifted them the solution for the crisis. However, every arrival was marked by hesitance at the threshold. Any with even an inkling of magic stopped short of the room, shying away from the force they could not see but only sense. Each battling back the feeling that they trod upon the teeth of a great maw that waited patiently beneath them.
Talia knew the feeling well and fought her body's natural reluctance constantly. But it had worsened as he had. It had crawled out from the dining room like some treacherous fog and now emanated throughout the tower. She shivered with the untraceable sense that something had gone dreadfully wrong. As though she was treading across cracking ice, or walked upon a swaying branch above an open chasm too vast to see the edges of. Veterans of their craft and venerated experts alike all seemed to cower in its presence. The clerics who did brave the approach arrived with their own medicines and tinctures, and a reverent silence fell as each person attempted treatment, and one by one they professed their failure. The blood had been cleared and his breathing had steadied, but the mark itself looked no better. Angry purple veins flowered across sickly-looking skin, evidence of the unimpeded illness, the circle entombing itself deeper in the skin with each passing day.
They received no word or emissary from the House of Wonder until a week had passed, a small group appearing on their doorstep one morning. Though she'd never admit it, Talia had breathed a sigh of relief when they'd arrived, certain of some kind of imminent divine intervention, some miracle to save the all-powerful Goddess’s Chosen. They were headed by a stern, severe-looking woman with an odd, unplaceable air about her. Her underlings scurried about, examining Gale and reporting their observations to her, solely. Talia swore she overheard some mention of "within the week". They seemed the only group unfazed by the mark, though they remained appropriately horrified by his condition. After their hurrying and scribbling was done, they'd withdrawn into prayer, while the spread of the darkened veins continued outward from the mark.
They had been frustratingly unhurried in their penance, the door of the drawing room they'd claimed firmly shut. Talia had lost count of how many times she'd pounded on the door as he seemed to worsen. Eventually, they emerged, solemnly, heads bowed, eyes askant, moving aside for the woman who strode to Gale's bedside. She towered over him, affixing him with a disapproving gaze. Talia had watched her hands expectantly, though they did not move.
"May Mystra forgive him." Was all she offered. The silence that followed stretched thin, broken only by a sharp hiss of breath, which Talia realized had come from her.
"What are you saying?"
A rumble of magic thickened the air, her magic oozed from her like poison. She could taste it, the windows collected frost as the room's temperature dropped. She started towards the woman, only to have a bundle of feather and fur block her path. Wide feline eyes glared up at her from the ground, as spells sparked to life in the surrounding hands.
"You heard the woman, Talia."
She stepped back, the oppressive weight of magic lessened, though the suspicious eyes did not. They watched her carefully, their spells still primed as they silently filed from the room. Tara gestured for her to remain as she saw the cloister out. The frost faded from the window, though she did not breathe until the outer door had slammed shut.
Talia found herself at his bedside most days as his condition worsened, certain that every beat of his heart would be his last. He would not stir, and they could do nothing to slow the spread. His chest became enshrouded in the embrace of purple tendrils and deadened by hundreds of bruises. Thousands of loose papers, half-read books, and increasingly obscure and dangerous materials piled up on the tower floor. Tara had eventually found Gale's research, stowed away carefully in the bowels of his study. Each of his notebooks was crammed with his neat script, but required a full term of academic coursework to parse its meaning. Some of his writings were profound in nature, highly analytical and tediously technical, though others were more familiar, small poems or reminders to himself.
Relocate previously invisible arcane ink well —invisible again, perhaps?
The sum of knowledge, within a reader's grasp,
though read aloud, your voice is sure to rasp
She'd surprised herself with a chuckle and flipped the page, scanning for other eccentricities and smiling fondly at his rambling parlance. A familiar name, written quickly, drew her eye to the corner of the page.
Apologize to Talia —again. Flowers? Dinner? Artifacts?
She closed the book with a snap, brushing aside the looming guilt. She stowed the book carefully; as her magic stirred. She was doubtful Gale would appreciate awakening to a singed notebook. When he awoke, she repeated firmly to herself as she reached for a different tome. She ran a hand over the handsome leather cover, the darkened surface miraculously unscuffed. As she parted the pages, the spine creaked with disuse, the paper notably fresh. His script seemed neater than before, the wording more concise and the margins completely devoid of his chaotic scribbles. She ran a finger down the page, the formality a stark contrast to the other works. Names, locations, and inked theories flew by, landing her near the bottom, where a line had been circled and underlined numerous times, a comparably strange messiness in an otherwise spotless journal.
The Weave is incomplete
She frowned down at the page.
Since that fated day, Mystra's most perfect crown has lacked a keystone—a point at which all Weave remains anchored. It is my belief that its absence gives way to the almost imperceptible variations found in rudimentary spell casting. The undercurrent of instability found in malformed or wild magics. Of course, were one to locate the missing component, one could, hypothetically, return oneness to the Weave, such is my intent. Through my many months of research, I am certain that I have located the remaining piece of Her fractured tapestry…
An ambitious claim and an even more ambitious goal. Talia's frown deepened.
Even an inexperienced apprentice knows that the raw power of the Weave cannot be manipulated through traditional means. The collective nature of its composition means isolation can lead only to dysregulation. The threads of the Weave were never intended to be woven alone. Without the stabilizing component of surrounding magic, the natural result is, of course, implosion. A void of magic, seeking familiar structure with which to reacquaint itself.
The whole concept made her head ache; here, laid out between these pages a wildly outlandish idea was presented as almost sensible, obvious even. She rolled the idea around in her mind. Stabilizing magic, did healing magic not meet that exact criteria? Had they simply overlooked a simpler answer? She glanced down at the page again, eyeing his explanation of containment. The passage was long and convoluted, filled with esoteric wording and academic jargon, an entire thesis that would have no doubt been lauded by his peers.
It described the structures and bindings required to house the fractured piece, strengthened and infused by the Weave. The following instructions went much the same, each step infused with Weave as if the goddess's hand guided each motion. She read on, failing to hear the rustle of wings until they brushed the hair from her neck in a gust.
"I've never seen you read so intently. What have you found?" Tara asked curiously, balancing carefully on the back of the sofa.
Talia indicated the passage wordlessly, still muddling through her own thoughts and ill-prepared to parse more. Tara read silently for a moment, nodding her head occasionally in sage agreement with whatever was written, before looking back to Talia, a glimmer of hope in her face.
"Oh my brilliant, ridiculous wizard!" She chirped, delighted. "This is it, isn't it? He's gone and found the solution without us." She paced across the seat's edge, tail flicking about.
"An infusion…" She murmured. "Just enough to stabilize the structures within." She turned back to Talia, expectantly.
"Well? Enough dawdling… we've much to do."
The preparation passed in a blur. After so long without a path forward, the momentum had renewed their focus. They gathered the rest of his journals, pulling any page that spoke of extractions, rituals, or containment. They mixed bolstering elixirs, recouped their supply of healing solutions, and poured over his writings. The air in the tower grew tense and focused, neither having much to say lest a passing comment blow away their last bit of hope.
The sun hung low in the sky, the last golden sliver of brightness just peeking over the harbor waters before it was overtaken by evening. They stood at the foot of Gale's bed, the night's long shadows cast across his gaunt face. Talia paced anxiously as Tara watched from the bedside stand.
"And then you…?" Tara queried for the hundredth time.
"Channel the Weave in my hands and press it into the mark. We've been over this Tara. I understand my part."
"Yes, yes of course you do." The tressym sniffed primly. "But do remember these are powerful magics we are dealing with here, and there is still much unknown. Should anything happen—" Talia cut across her sentence swiftly.
"—Nothing is going to happen to him Tara, I swear it. We've contingencies on contingencies." Tara looked solemn for a moment.
"There is not only him to consider." She said shortly. Talia laughed, breathy and hollow, but avoided the feline's eye.
"Please, the goddess of luck shines on me far too often for me to be done in by something like this." She said with a reassuring smile. The cat's eyes were on Gale, and Talia wondered what in particular drew her attention. The yellowing bruises or the shallow breathing? The stillness of his form or the tangle of veins that encircled him, swollen and darkened by cursed magic?
"Are you ready, Talia? Earnestly?" Tara's concerned voice broke through her thoughts, like a keen blade.
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