Interview with the Waterdavian Hero of Baldur's Gate
A Shared Space - After a night together, Gale wants Tav closer
Reading List - Snippet, where Gale shares his... extracurricular activities
Chase Me - Gale and Tav cast illusion magic for the kids at the Grove
Cooking Lessons - Tav tries to help Gale with cooking, very briefly
Inspirational - Gale has an interesting dream about Tav. Tiny bit smutty.
Treat the Bite - Gale treats Tav's owlbear nip. He did warn her...
Sharing the Bed - Oh no there's only one bed... Or is there?
- Upsetting -
A God's Folly - Two scenes of a deeply dysfunctional relationship between God Gale and Tav (P1 / P2)
She was chosen - Gale only just stops himself from ending the brain at Moonrise
Into the Vault - Scene from Karsus’s vault leading into Act 3 Romance scene
Long Form (In the works)
- An unapologetic wild magic sorcerer meets an initially Pre-Orb Gale. Their relationship goes from fun and flirty to dangerous and enabling. Two people who adore each other to their own detriment.
*REWORKED Chapter 1
Chapter 2: Doth protest too much
Chapter 3: Cry Havoc!
Chapter 4: A rose by any other name
Chapter 5: If music be the food of love
Chapter 6: The better part of valor is discretion
Chapter 7: There is flattery in friendship
Chapter 8: Reason and love keep little company together nowadays
Chapter 9: To die upon the hand I love so well
Chapter 10: The course of true love never did run smooth
Chapter 11: The Orb
(Art for this Tav/Coupling under #TornPages)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
"Silent statues stared at the behest of a silent God. They would offer no insights now, no flash of inspiration or guiding light. The Weave was lost to him, and what little he could reclaim would be all he had left of Her. She truly would not come for him, Her role in his salvation had come to an end."
AO3 if you prefer.
Chapter 12: After the Orb
The warmth of the morning sun settled on Gale's face, though his eyelids remained shuttered beneath its beams. Blessed though consciousness was, it brought with it a thousand aches and pains. Every breath struggled through bruised ribs and laboring lungs, and every movement marked by a twinge of discomfort. He lay unmoving, taking stock of his weakened state and then, with great hesitance, opened an eye. The brightness and color of the world beyond his eyelids cleaved his mind in two with a searing precision. He quickly squeezed them shut again and waited for his head to cease spinning. He shifted, a tightness pulling across his chest. His unsteady hand found it bandaged, the linen taut over whatever sore bruise lurked beneath. With far greater caution, he reopened his eyes, shading them as the brightness gradually faded and the room came into view.
He surveyed the space, instantly recognizing the handsome wooden shelves, worn posts, and curved walls of his bedroom. Heavy ornamental drapes had been drawn to obscure most of the window, and what little sun had peeked through fell squarely on his face. His most prized collection decorated the walls, all first editions or signed copies. His less valuable compendiums were stacked haphazardly on most open surfaces. He pressed himself up from the bed, groaning slightly as he did, and brushed the green velvet curtain further aside. All appeared in order. His books in place, his altar primed with fresh candles, and his discarded robe still on the floor; it all was perhaps a bit dusty but otherwise untouched. He gripped a bedpost to stabilize himself, the polished wood familiar to the touch. He turned away from the intruding light, and his head gradually cleared. Tara was nowhere to be seen, but the small indent on the blankets at his feet suggested her recent presence.
His eyes fell upon the altar beside his bed, His Goddess’s stern countenance portrayed in stone, Her unseeing eyes boring into him. Had She saved him? Returned him to his home, his bed? He could think of no other plausible answer. Curious tendrils of thought wrapped around the memory of the temple, and then sharply withdrew as his mind burst into flames. Excruciating and blinding, the memory lashed out like a wounded animal. It slashed at him with red-hot claws, even the mere recollection overwhelmingly painful. He retreated as best he could, the pain subsiding as the rage cooled. For now, the memory would go untouched.
The rest of him had fared no better; he felt as though he’d been dragged behind a horse; his joints complained loudly of disuse, and his arms felt rubbed raw. His throat and mouth felt uncommonly dry; his lips parted to speak, though he remained voiceless. Carefully, he slipped from his bed and limped over to the mirror. His knees wobbled like a foal’s and nearly sent him tumbling; a hand on the bedding was all that kept him upright. Even from his vantage point, he could see he looked… unwell. His hair had grown longer than he was accustomed to, his face scruffy and unfamiliar. He looked thinner, and the circles beneath his eyes looked notably bruised. He tested the injury on his chest, a little soreness, but nothing to account for the volume of bandaging. He unwound the strip slowly, more and more of his skin coming into view.
He raised his gaze from the wrapping to the mirror and allowed the rest of the bandage to fall; it spooled carelessly onto the floor as he beheld his appearance. His eyes fixated on a circular scar across his chest. He leaned closer, his eyes darting across his whole figure. With trembling fingers, he followed the lines, the circular pattern gorged into his skin, and the faint purple veins that forged their own trail up his neck and down his stomach. He bit back his growing revulsion and continued the inspection. The furthest reaches of the tails that burst from either side looked recently healed, the skin still pink and new. The circle itself appeared to be…glowing. Radiant and malevolent, it pulsed slowly in time with his heart and seemed to grow brighter with each beat.
He stepped away, distancing himself as best he could from the horror in his chest. His mouth opened in a silent cry, though no words came; only a hoarse and desperate whine escaped him as the circle flashed brighter still. Gale forced down the fear and bile that rose in his throat as he stared at the foreign entity pulsing beneath his skin and between his ribs. With fumbling hands, he moved to cover the now blinding light as a vicious wave of agony emanated from the circle.
He doubled over, the pain breathtaking. Ancient, unending hunger flooded his mind. It tore through him with savage determination; his skin burned, and his bones popped from the pressure inside. It screamed, it thrashed, it tore at him. It writhed, with a hunger so profound there could be no satiation. His ears deadened to everything beyond the endless howl of starvation. He pawed desperately at his chest, his fingers digging into the softness of his skin. He drew blood beneath clutching fingernails, willing his hands to pass through the barrier so that he might excise it from his body. He felt overcrowded, his heart and lungs compacted against the expanding circle within him. If he would not feed it, it would seek out sustenance itself, no matter the cost. Another wordless cry left his mouth as he sank to his knees. He did not understand, could not understand. He knew nothing beyond the hunger; he knew only that it would be fed. It was not to be reasoned with, cajoled, or abated. It would be fed, or it would consume him, piece by excruciating piece.
He felt the vibration of hurried footsteps and the soft clink of a chain, felt the flash of cool metal against his sweltering chest, and his body instantly quieted its revolt. Like a dip in the ocean on a blistering summer day, he knew peace. The cooling salve flooded through him, easing the aches, tempering the flames, and soothing the sting. He stayed unmoving and flat against the floor, his breath escaping only in gasps. Slowly, the buzzing in his ears dimmed to a low roar.
“Mr. Dekarios! Mr. Dekarios?! Gale!”
A feline face looked down into his profusely sweating one.
“Mr. Dekarios, can you hear me?” He nodded noiselessly. “Oh, thank goodness.” The tressym sighed with palpable relief. Gradually, pieces of the world returned to him. The cool floor against his feverish back, the swish of a tail, the thump of his heart. He moved to sit up but was met with two dainty paws on his shoulder, pressing him back down.
“Give yourself a moment.” She said softly. “This is the first you’ve been awake for.” He did not fight her, mostly because he couldn’t muster the strength to, but his mind still whirred.
“First? There have been others?” He croaked, his voice still regaining its timbre. “How many? How often?" His voice failed him as more questions spun through his mind. Tara purred soothingly but shook her head.
“As always, Mr. Dekarios, you are a fine wizard but a dreadful patient. You must rest.” As if to prove her point, she flitted to the bed’s headboard and waited expectantly. Gale hauled himself upright, stumbled, a bit nauseous, and collapsed face-first into bed.
“I believe explanations are owed, if you don't mind.” He said conversationally, fighting for some dignity while muffled by the pillow. He heard the rustle of unsettled wings and turned over to see her perched on the headboard. She looked anxious.
“It was that damned book…” She muttered bitterly. “It… nearly killed you. Did kill you. If it weren’t for—” She paused. “Suffice to say, it has been a trying couple of months.” Gale’s mouth was dry again.
His head swung as he searched for some indication of the date. He raised a hand and waved it casually, a flash of Weave appeared between his fingers, pinks and purples mixing violently and then fading as quickly as it had come. Still too fatigued, he surmised, the Weave had little respect for the weak and pliant.
He sat up quickly, making his head spin. “Have you told others of my condition? And what of my duties? Has Mystra—” He asked hurriedly.
Tara sighed, cutting across his interrogation. “No, Mr. Dekarios. Nor shall I, but I will not say more until you've rested. Such an ordeal is not for the faint of heart.” She looked disapproving.
"Don't you think I've rested enough?" He said playfully, though he noticed the rest of his questions had gone unanswered. She looked surprised.
“You seem in remarkably high spirits, considering.” She remarked and watched him closely.
“Oh, a few months of bed rest and a mysterious injury are hardly enough to waylay Gale of Waterdeep.” He flashed her a reassuring smile, though his eyes did not match the effort, and she looked no more convinced. He rubbed his chest, soothing the now-faded soreness.
“And you’re feeling otherwise well?” She queried, cautiously. Gale frowned.
“What is this about, Tara? It is unlike you to be so withholding.” The tressym shifted testily and glanced towards the window as if contemplating an escape. “You have known me to be resilient, have you not?” Gale frowned.
“It is only that, I had presumed—” She trailed off, as he stared at her questioningly. She seemed to brace herself, fluffing her fur discontentedly.
Gale softened his tone. "Please, Tara, I am fumbling through the darkness of ignorance, lend me a light?" Though her eyes narrowed, she sighed again, resigned.
“Your mark, you no doubt felt the pull of its hunger, yes?” Gale nodded, surprised she could sense it too. Though perhaps he should have expected as much, given the potency of the magic. “It consumes the Weave, voraciously. It must be fed by a source, often a powerful one, lest your condition deteriorate to the point of death. So I had assumed…”
Gale’s eyes widened. He tried a flourish, muttered the words that should spark fire to life in his hand. Instead, it sputtered and struggled, dwindling like a tree choked by vines, and then vanished. Fear and disbelief gripped him, while his chest began to sing in a painful chorus.
He heeded her; his eyes traveling downward to his chest, where the circle pulsed brighter and brighter. His panic rose as he braced for the onslaught of pain.
Tara hopped onto the bed, her paws on his knee.
“Mr. Dekarios, listen to me.” She insisted, her expression pleading. “You must calm yourself, look at your mark.”
“Please, Gale, breathe.” His chest stung, sharp needles of pain prickled across his skin. He thought of calmer days and sweeter mornings. Of humid Waterdavian summers and misty spring rains. He drew in a breath, careful and slow, inhaling another with similar intention. Gradually, the light abated. He leaned heavily against his wooden headboard, staring accusingly between the mark and his hands.
“Does this mean—” He could not speak the next words, his throat seized, his muscles were taught with dread. He closed his eyes, willing away the rising horror. Tara wound across the bed to his side.
“We don’t know what it means.” She said softly, pressing her head against his elbow.
He swallowed thickly as he searched his room in desperation for some anchoring force. His eyes came to rest on Her. Poise and strength, that is what She expected of him. He felt Tara shift beside him, as if reading his mind.
“Think of yourself, my dear. You must rest.” She chided softly.
He nodded miserably, the weight of exhaustion suddenly heavy on his shoulders. He fought off the fatigue as best he could, swirling questions still filling his mind. They would have to be pacified later, but for now, sleep called to him more powerfully than any need for knowledge. With eyelids growing heavier by the minute, he slid beneath the sheets and closed his eyes to the world.
The next morning came easier. Air entered his lungs more readily, his body moved with less stiffness, and the mark seemed more or less content. With protesting knees and a woozy mind, he slipped from his bed. He did not need to make it far. He knelt before his altar, his eyes traveling hungrily over Her features. It was a fine attempt, he supposed, but Her beauty could never be captured in the rigidity of stone. His heart ached for Her; he winced as the mark bit at him in retaliation, a reminder that even with its hunger sated, it lingered.
He sighed. She would not be pleased. Worse, She’d be disappointed—at his failure, at his loss. Shame swelled in his chest, overtaking the fear that had saturated his mind. It had been many years since he’d felt so powerfully ashamed. But She had saved him despite his failings. With Her love and guidance, he could survive this. He let his eyes close and sat in silence, and allowed his mind to unfold, reaching out beyond himself to grasp at the whisper of the Weave. He’d expected the usual pop of color behind his eyelids, the brush of softness, and the balmy, warm air of brewing rose tea. Instead, he felt only the loose breeze of a drafty building and the sullen blank stare of a statue.
Irritated, he sought the threads of ambient magic in the air and opened his hand expectantly. A flame sputtered, danced, and died. He closed his hand with a hiss, fingernails sinking into the flesh of his palm. The room flashed violet, and he placed a hand to his chest, the sting of discomfort rising with his anger. His face felt hot, and his muscles tightened uncomfortably. He closed his eyes again, leaving the senses of his body behind to delve deeper, in search of the Weave. He’d been like a harpist once; his fingers knew the movements, but now they felt unyielding and stiff like he'd donned damp, knotted wool. He’d cursed their sluggishness before but would have paid a dragon’s hoard for such dexterity now. He dismissed his weakened threads with contempt. He wondered if his attempt had drawn Her notice. What did She behold? A great and powerful archmage, unable to summon even the most basic of cantrips.
He sighed, rose from his knees, and sank back on the bed. With a turned head, he eyed the statue again, Her features impassive, and Her judgment unspoken. Silence at this juncture was…surprising. He’d been certain that at least an admonishment awaited him. That She would announce Her displeasure before She offered Her guidance or retribution. He wondered how long he would be allowed to stew. It was never his place to speculate on what divine impetus moved Her, but more than ever She seemed an enigma. Surely She must've been aware? He'd no doubt that the moment his hands had met the book, perhaps even the moment he'd even conceived of the idea, She'd been aware. Then what purpose did the silence serve? It would not be the first time She'd punished him in this manner, nor did he suspect it would be the last. Perhaps his penance had already begun. If silence was Her wish, he would endure as he always had.
His eyes traveled over the fissures that ran across his plaster ceiling, just as he'd done on countless sleepless nights. In younger days, he'd likened their twisting paths to spellwork as it interwove with the Weave. Would they, too, be lost to him? A ridiculous notion, he reminded himself sharply. Divinely ordained as She was, She was as bound by obligation as She was empowered by it. Regardless of Her duties, She would hear him, if not for the sake of his duties then for the sake of the love they shared. Filled with a sense of resolve, he removed himself from the bed and trod upward to his study; his efforts would begin right away.
For the many weeks that followed, he sequestered himself on the top floor of his tower. Refusing sleep, sustenance, and company until he could once again hold a flame steady in his hand. He stormed, cursed, and raged, paying the price each time. The heat of his face would descend to his chest, and the light of the mark would flash like a brand against his skin. He took to keeping scrolls of calm emotions nearby; the forcible sedation and apathy preferable to the alternative.
Nothing came easily, not as it once had. Sigils seemed to slide across the page, spell lines warbled and shifted. The Weave no longer awaited his call eagerly, no longer danced at his request. It did not caress or calm him; it simply moved, stilted and unnatural. Skills he had mastered as a child could not be reclaimed without endless repetition. Although with every desperate inch he clawed back, he felt no more whole than before. His new spellbook reflected his newly austere lifestyle; plain in content and cover. He had scribbled all he could recall in its pages, lest those memories be stolen too. Even the flash of joy he'd tasted when the fire remained lit had been dampened by a blunted pain in his chest.
The brief respite he granted himself were sojourns to Her temples. Many faces and footsteps frequented the House of Wonder, its noble walls housing both institutions of learning and of worship. Hundreds attended to their business amid intricately carved columns and lush courtyard gardens. But few lingered as he did. A secluded shrine—one of the oldest erected—was where he held his vigils most days. It was a circular room, with pillars segmenting much of the wall. Many versions of Her incarnations were depicted: a sculpture of a girl with flowing hair, a mosaic of a woman, reticent in demeanor, and the abstraction of the Weave glittering in glass. Glossy tiles of blue gave the floor an almost water-like quality, as though he tread atop the ocean while he reached for Her in the sky. The Weave itself hung heavy in the air, detectable even through his dulled senses.
His knees grew sore against the stone floor of Her temple, his forehead flattened by prostration. In the months that followed, he was never far from Her sites. He could not be certain what had angered Her most, so he pleaded forgiveness for it all, his every perceived slight, his every failing. He swore his obedience, promised to carve out any weakness that lingered if it would return him to Her. Instead, the silence seemed to press in on him from every side as if the very air of the temple rebuffed him. It slid down his throat and stifled his calls to Her, his pleas to be heard. On shaking legs he'd thrown himself at the feet of Her statues. He spoke of their love, of his reasonings, and of all he would do to please Her. He pleaded and wept and spoke until his voice cracked and broke. He could make no sense of it, what meaning was there in Her absence? What lesson was he to learn? Why now, after all they had shared, had She abandoned him?
Silent statues stared at the behest of a silent God. They would offer no insights now, no flash of inspiration or guiding light. The Weave was lost to him, and what little he could reclaim would be all he had left of Her. She truly would not come for him, Her role in his salvation had come to an end.
But he continued his vigils all the same. Barely noticing the sinking sun until it had bade the last vestiges of the day's light farewell. The wind rattling the windows of the temple, like skeletal fingers against the glass. He'd remain perfectly still in the dark. His eyes wet with unceasing grief.
Eventually, Tara would arrive to coax him from the temple, though each time he was tempted to remain there indefinitely. He'd stumbled home like a drunkard while she'd spoken in hushed tones to the clerics. An attempt to stymie the whispers that swirled in the shadows of the temple's columns, murmurs of a lost Chosen and a fallen archmage.
Delusional as it had come to seem, a small part of him had believed his circumstances to be temporary. That with some rest or ritual, the gnawing feeling would fade, his abilities would return, and he would redouble his efforts to cleanse himself of the mark. But Her silence remained steadfast, and his abilities remained dampened.
The months dragged on, and with each day, his spirits sank lower. When he could rise from his bed at all he avoided mirrors, unable or unwilling to gaze upon the man who had ruined him, his contempt vomitous. The sight of him was enough to spark the mark to life with disdain. Loss echoed through his body with such profound reverberation that even the ache of the orb was dwarfed by it. More of his habits fell away as he dedicated himself singularly to his studies. He could not muster desire for much else.
Tara's absences grew more frequent, departed to gods-knew-where in search of appropriate sacrifices. While he became accustomed to the draftiness of an empty home, the creak of unused doors, and the staleness of undisturbed air. His tower, once his holy sanctuary, now functioned equally as his prison. Rooms, once filled with invention and learning, held nothing now beyond his own dull isolation.
Slowly, his abilities returned to him, though none so valued as illusions. The more aptitude he gained, the further he would withdraw. Her conjured image stood regal and stoic, regarding him with impassive eyes. His heart hammered out a guilty rhythm as he set his jaw and endured the pain for even a glimpse of Her, his Goddess, his love. He whispered to Her, told Her of his many troubles and his few triumphs. Of the deadened version of the Weave that flowed through him now. Of the world that seemed content to continue on without him. He relived the life they'd shared, a fantasy he knew, but for the briefest of moments real, his heart re-breaking each time the spell shattered.
Most days, he would retreat to visions of the vast, endless astral sea. His eyes shuttered against the waking world until he could reopen them amid the gently lapping waves of eternity. The shallow boat he occupied rocked gently in a directionless current, though it did not matter where it carried him. The star-filled waters had held his purpose once, but now offered only a siren's call to drown himself in its eternity.
It was impossible to know how much time he spent adrift, but it was Tara's return that would pull him from his stupor. She would fuss over him as he prepared their dinner, flitting about, up in arms at the disordered state of the tower and of him. She'd inquire on how he'd spent his time, and he'd fabricate a convincing falsehood. Solutions he'd theorized and discarded, new meditations he'd been tempted to try, and dishes he'd concocted. He'd perfected the guise of a whole person, laughing when appropriate, listening avidly, and smiling when prompted. The whole thing was a hollow act of theater, but a necessity for her. She did not need to see him as the lifeless, decrepit form that huddled on the floor of his library.
No miracle cure or grand solution would manifest, he understood that now. Their supply of artifacts dwindled further with each bout of hunger. Precious and non-precious items alike were sacrificed at the dread altar of the heart. Neither of them spoke of the future, and what was to be done when the supply ran dry. Tara refused to acknowledge any deadly eventuality, but Gale knew better than to presume a happy ending to his inauspicious tale. Her time away grew longer and longer, as he withdrew further. She worried over him just as she always had, but he could sense a shift, a current of unease beneath her concerned mothering, her optimism curdling. He did his best to soothe her worries, speaking of solutions and possible routes of repair, while he remained unable to dream of a future beyond the next sunrise.
He grabbed her by the elbow as she moved to follow their host.
“Talia,” He eyed her nervously. “These accommodations will not be sufficient.” He whispered and gave her a meaningful look.
“No? Too lowly for an archmage?” Talia asked innocently, an eyebrow cocked.
“No.” He said stiffly. “I only mean that two…dashing adventures, traveling alone…” Her eyebrows raised further as he looked at her, prompting. “People may make assumptions about the kind of…quarters we’d prefer.” He folded his arms, as if to guard himself from the sentiment.
“I’m not sure I catch your meaning.” She whispered back, smiling slightly as he frowned.
“The bedding arrangement!” He whispered back, looking a little desperate.
“Hardly our biggest problem.” She shrugged and strode off after their host, who was tapping their foot irritably. She all but dragged him alongside her as he clung to her elbow. The host stared at them as they approached the door, while Gale turned redder with every step.
As the door swung, he cleared his throat. “I’m afraid we cannot—” He stopped short, and squinted his eyes. Taking in the two separate beds within.
“Oh… that is… Yes, thank you, this shall do.” He muttered, still looking into the room. But the woman had already disappeared down the hallway, leaving them to their dusty shared room. Talia threw down her pack and sat on the bed, still smiling.
“See, nothing to worry about.” She said lightly, as she watched him. His face down-turned and furrowed as if pondering a particularly complex spell focus.
"So it would seem.” He said finally, looking up but still frowning. She reclined on the bed and stared at the crumbling ceiling.
“Disappointed?" She smiled to herself; she did not need to see his face to know the frown had deepened.
“No, of course not.” He said quickly, the hint of a wavering edge in his voice. “Simply surprised they didn't even ask us which we'd prefer.” He wondered aloud.
“We don’t look the type, I suppose.” She uncrossed her legs and swung a leg off the bed, sitting up.
“The type?” He was still frowning.
“You know…” She raised her eyebrows suggestively as he regarded her blankly. “The types you charge a…cleaning fee on top of their lodging fees?” She said it with a grin. He looked away, his expression annoyed.
"An absurd supposition on their part.” He muttered bitterly, this time Talia frowned and opened her mouth before thinking better of it.
“We could very well be involved.” He continued incredulously. "They haven't the foggiest idea of the nature of our relationship." Talia laughed lightly as Gale bristled slightly.
"If you want me in your bed Gale..." She prodded gently, fighting to keep the smugness from her tone. Gale paused, then shook his head vigorously.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"After all, had he not wielded his vast ability in Her name? Had he not been the very portrait of duty and fidelity? And did She not love him all the more for it? "
AO3 if you prefer.
Chapter 11: The Orb
⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺⟺
He’d been dispatched to the event solely to soothe wounded egos, and nothing more. A reaffirmation of the Scriveners', Scribes', and Clerks' guild’s magical commitment to their fellows in the Trade Ward. Perfectly mundane. Not the kind of event he’d ever suspect she would attend, no matter how inscrutable her motivations tended to be. A small part of him regretted the formality with which he’d handled their exchange, especially after the blasé facade had faded to something more… injured. In truth, he could have been warmer to her, but the situation required a delicate touch. He could not afford to be drawn into her orbit, not when he stood at a precipice.
He’d penned and discarded many versions of letters to her, some apologetic, some stiffly formal, and one he’d promptly incinerated after too many glasses of wine. He had agonized over every word and syllable, certain there was some wondrous phrasing that could undo that night. Though when the time had come and he was faced with her, he had been struck dumb, and had relied upon polite conversation to keep him afloat. Since their parting he had shied away from other bonds of this plane. It was all too clear that mortals thought only of the present, and nothing of the vast unseen possibilities that hovered just out of sight. Reaching desperately for the cure of their most immediate need; while he sought eternity. None seemed capable of seeing the banality of all else.
After all, it had been his lofty ambitions that brought him to Mystra’s side. Where he would remain had he anything to say about it. He treasured every moment with Her as the otherworldly privilege it was, glad of the value he could provide. However in the quiet moments he swore he could sense a growing distance. Despite all he’d accomplished She seemed further from his grasp than ever.
Bouts of silence was always to be expected of the divine, as they cast their gaze across the astral sea and beyond. Trivial concerns like the beckonings of mortals fell to the wayside when one tended to the very threads of existence. He understood, of course, that her absence merely reflected the trust She held for him. She expected much of him and believed him ready for the burden. Her quiet withdrawal was proof enough of that, even if it tore at his heart. After all, had he not wielded his vast ability in Her name? Had he not been the very portrait of duty and fidelity? And did She not love him all the more for it?
And yet, the cavity left by Her absence weighed mightily. He craved—with every fiber of his being—Her gaze, Her notice. When She had first taken him under Her exalted wing, the future had seemed a place of possibilities as infinite as the Weave itself. He had done his best to deliver on the unspoken promise. Striving ever higher, seeking the boundaries of magic in Her name. Anything to pull Her eyes to him once again, but none appeared to please Her. No act grand enough to garner anything beyond passing acknowledgment. He had seen unfathomable power by Her side, power to sculpt kingdoms, to alter planes. The power to carve his name into the annals of history with such permanence he would never be erased. He’d spoken of his ambitions, illustrated in painstaking detail how he could reach further, fly higher, if only She would provide him the means. She was all of creation; to stand in Her shadow was an honor most high, but to wield the might at Her command? In Her name? He could imagine no greater act of romance. Who knew what lay beyond the horizon for him, further renown? The chance to become a myth in his own right? With Her help, he could all but mount the golden stairs of divinity and take up his place beside Her. Free himself of the title he shared with many to stand not as Her Chosen but as Her equal, Her partner.
But instead, She withheld from him, unmoved by any argument or plea. She spoke of his duty to the Weave but concealed whatever specific intentions She held for him. Leaving him uncertain of what She wished for him beyond duty. Had he not known better, it would have felt almost… patronizing.
Still, he strove to provide what he could to Her, prove himself through acclaim and mastery, pouring all he had into every gift. Though it earned him the admiration of his peers and the jealousy of his colleagues, such things barely turned Her head. Every act seemed to be weighed equally, regardless of their difficulty in obtaining. As though She had foreseen his every attempt and deemed them all uninspired. He had reasoned that perhaps the issue lay with the origin of the offerings, concerned that anything of this world was too far beneath her to warrant a second look. He needed something worthy of Her, something as irreproachably perfect as She was, something just as divine. A reminder of his power and a token of his devotion
The halls of the long-forgotten temple shone with an eerie internal light; the ambient magic that coursed through its walls provided the sourceless illumination. The surface gleamed a glossy black hue, impossibly smooth and functionally colorless. There was little distinction between the wall and the floors; their edges melted together in the darkness. Had he not felt the stone beneath his feet, he’d have assumed he walked on open air above a void and below a starless sky.
It had taken him days to peel back the multi-layered wards that guarded this place, although everything beyond had been suspiciously easy. Nary a sword-wielding undead nor poison-laden trap had waylaid his progress. Only the deathly stillness of the temple’s silence oppressed him. Here, tucked away at the end of the world, even Mystra’s presence seemed distant from him. He’d expected an overwhelming swell of power as he neared his goal. Any portion of The Weave not moderated by Her was bound to possess unimaginable potential, its raw presence enough to make most buckle.
But as he neared, he felt only anticipation and the certainty of his mission. Everything had aligned; all the tenuous information, dubious research, and vaguely mapped locations had led him exactly where he needed to go, and now he neared it with every step. It was close, so impossibly close. He’d tried to imagine how She’d react, a difficult feat when angling for a previously unseen reaction. Surprise? Certainly. Pride? He hoped so. Most of all, more than anything, he wanted to be seen by Her. Truly seen. Seen and adored. He wanted Her eyes to sparkle with unearthly light when She looked upon him. For Her to reach down to him, not just in a caress but to lift him to Her. For all this effort, it was just the beginning for them.
The hall ended bluntly, no fanfare or theatrics. Simply a flat wall and a single tome upon a cracked stone pedestal. The book hummed with an unnatural beat; the edges of the covers appeared to strain against the pages, as if attempting to push itself open. It bathed the corridor in a silvery blue light, and threw his shadow far behind him.
With excited nervousness he rehearsed the steps. Peel back the cover and secure the Weave, simply enough in theory. He had triple-checked his supplies, memorized the spells and prepared the necessary sigils. The book sat on its pedestal, pulsing faintly, and so near. He was ready; he’d prepared. So why then did he hesitate? It was not like him. Hesitancy in magic meant death, or worse. Certainty that’d always been his way. He wanted this, for Mystra, and he’d never denied Her anything before. Emboldened by his thoughts of Her, he reached out and yanked open the cover.
He would never fully reclaim the memories of what happened but felt the sharp sting as he was driven to his knees. His face against the stone floor, the surface pressed into his nose. Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. He felt cold, empty, weak. A flare of indignation allowed him to move his arms, he attempted to rise only buckle under his weight. Pain radiated from his center and raced up his arms and legs. He remained on his stomach, unmoving, as the room faded in and out of view. He wanted to call out, to beg for help. But the silent black hall stole the air from his lungs.
Mystra.
Surely he would not wait long, surely She would save him. He was Her beloved, Her Chosen; he’d give anything and everything to Her, for Her. She’d never let him pass from this world on a cold stone floor, alone. Not when this had all been in celebration of Her. There was still so much he could give her, this had only been a trifle of what he was capable of providing, if she’d only given him the chance. He could not recall why he’d attempted to sit up; or why he even drew breath when it was such agony. Everything in him screamed, every part of his being felt like it was being unwound and rewound. A rapidly unraveling spool of a man.
Mystra.
Featureless faces swam in his vision or his mind, he could not determine which. Manifestations of his unyielding ego, of his presumption, of what he deserved. He’d been warned by everyone: teachers, lovers, friends, that he reached too far. That he wanted too much. That he believed in his ability beyond reason, that he had an unfillable, insatiable need for more, always. That hunger felt real now, actualized. A clawing, senseless desperation that paid little heed to its surroundings as it consumed. Leaving deep gashes inside him as it sought what he could not deliver. Scraping out what little it could pull from his shattered body. Prestige and importance fell void at its feet, as intangible as they were fleeting. The nebulous ‘they’ had been right. All his accomplishments and accolades would not save him, they would only serve to venerate the shell left behind on this stone slab. They served him only as a tombstone to his final great failure. He would not be saved.
More faces, his mother, Tara…Oh, she was going to be so disappointed. In his delirium, he heard her chastising words. Saw his mother’s face stained with tears as she eulogized him.
Mystra.
Something older and primal within him understood that his chance of survival dwindled. With one last great burst of effort, he reached for The Weave. Not for Her but for the very thing that had defined his life, even before Mystra had made herself known to him. Perhaps if he trusted it enough, offering what little energy he possessed, it would bring him where he needed to go. Perhaps it would find the kindness to save him. The pain blocked the formation of thoughts, so instead, he focused on feelings. He dreamed of home, of forgiveness, of being safe, cared for, and known. In his last moments of consciousness, he swore he heard a familiar voice. But it, like everything he'd ever desired, it slipped through his clutching fingers into the howling, starving darkness.
Anyone.
More dreams came, ephemeral and disjointed. His mind floated through a senseless fog of pain. There was a scalding heat, something cool pressed against him, a soft guiding pressure. He couldn’t remember having a body; all he’d ever known was the pain. The mind-numbing, savage pain. A light, and a scream, and then his scream, dry and raw. The moments his mind could process anything were agonizing; he ached for the darkness, to be free of this. And then a flood.
Like whiskey on fire his body burned. This pain was different, distinct, infused with a rush. He could feel every inch of himself, while his blood boiled and raged in his veins. He could feel… the Weave, as it sparked to life in his fingertips. Had She come for him, finally? Perhaps She could bear his pain no longer. She had come to deliver him. If not to the light of day then at least to the bliss of nothingness. After so long in the dark he grasped for the lighthouse in a raging sea. The Weave danced between his fingers, and jolted through his chest with a raputious shock. And then peace. A soft brushing across his face, a hummed tune. He could almost recall a time before the pain. Darkness swallowed him again.
Slowly pieces of his consciousness returned, as he surfaced from unknowing depths. He willed his mind to comprehend but instead he caught only snippets of garbled phrases. .
“—don’t understand—” worse—”
“—dying…”
“—do you think—...force fed—.”
“— vitality potions aren’t— ”
“—no other solution— “
“—you’ll lose–”
“You can’t keep— “ “I can.”
The words slid through his mind, all of them so far away, so immaterial. Assigning them some sense of meaning was excruciating. Words, thoughts, dreams, and hallucinations became so entangled there was no discerning which was which. One night, it felt possible to open an eye. After many attempts, he managed, but the deluge of color, after so long in the dark, sent him spiraling. He quickly closed it. Delving back into the blissful darkness, with conversations floating past him.
“I’m not sure…I like…so severe…”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“...He will soon wake.”
And then, one rainy spring morning, he could breathe. Though he could muster no strength and pain hounded him still, he was allowed a few stray thoughts and even a murmur. The rain beat softly against the window pane, and at his side, he felt the slow, soft breathing of Tara’s form. Beyond all likelihood, it appeared he’d survived.
Summary: Absolutely excruciating meetup between Gale and his not-quite-actually-an-ex Ex. Messy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"“The sway of a Goddess is not to be underestimated.” He looked away in silence, as she awaited more.
“But they’re not even people.” The wizard looked at her strangely, whirling the pipe between his fingers and taking a breath in. Smoke curled delicately around his face as he puffed.
“Most were mortals once.” He murmured, “And they know, all too well, what drives mortal hearts.”"
AO3 if you prefer.
Chapter 10: The course of true love never did run smooth
✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆
Talia put little faith in rumors, especially those whispered by the magic community. They tended to be only one of three types: outlandish lies, aggrandizing self-flattery, or blatant slander. So when she’d first heard the rumblings, she’d pushed them from her mind. Though the more ignorant she wished to remain, the more omnipresent they seemed to become. A passing comment at a tavern catering to the magically inclined, a whispered exchange between arcane merchants in Baldur’s Gate, a murmured conspiracy from a dungeon expedition.
“Mystra’s taken another mortal lover… ”
“…man from Waterdeep…”
“young for an archmage, don’t you… ?”
“...swanning about telling everyone who’ll listen.”
She knew it was woefully naive every time she dismissed it as idle gossip. Hopeful that maybe there was another archmage in Waterdeep so closely tied to the Goddess of Magic. She had, after all, many Chosen. Talia foolishly allowed this small candle of ridiculous hope to sputter within her chest as she went about her days, uncertain what she even expected to come of it. Somehow, though she’d managed to forgo meeting him for most of her life, he now seemed around every corner, mentioned in every conservation and constantly lingering in her periphery. She'd retreated to the familiar haven of her work, accepting any job that crossed her path. But even that was not safe from his influence.
While on a delivery to a museum in Candlekeep, she’d been waylaid by a particularly lively curator. Who’d enthusiastically informed her of an upcoming magical demonstration. A feat of greatness they’d called it, not one to be missed. She’d considered it, the notion of arcane novelty was appealing. Until they’d mentioned that one of Mystra’s Chosen would be presiding. She’d wrinkled her nose and attempted a smile she hoped didn’t look as pained as it felt. Her hesitance had only encouraged the curator, who’d assured her that it was no less than Mystra’s favorite Chosen. Explaining in detail how they’d spoken to him personally and was certain of his credentials. Relaying the tales he’d heard of the plane of gods and goddesses, wonderous, infinite, and powerful. They had paused their indorsement only to wonder aloud what it would be like to lay with a goddess, as the man had implied.
Talia had taken advantage of his faraway imaginings to slip out the back door. A little immature, admittedly, but the confirmation had been an uncomfortable blow and not one she relished wrangling with a stranger present. Since then, she had remained ever wary of the wild magic that still stirred in her stomach at his name, though she cursed herself each time.
She’d known all along how their involvement would end. He was, after all, as she expected. Prideful and talented, ambitious and unflinching. Had that been the sum of his parts, she’d have managed him easily; she was well practiced in braving the panache of wizardry. They could have been friends, proper friends, not whatever confused grey mire they’d created. But it was glimpses of something else, something authentic that unsettled her in a way she’d been unprepared for. He sought to disguise it most days, retreating instead into aphorisms and platitudes.
After a couple weeks of sulking, she’d begun the arduous task of clearing herself of him. She’d thrown herself into the embrace of anyone who struck her fancy. Unintentionally, and somewhat ironically, leaving a trail of the brokenhearted in her wake. The longest she’d managed to maintain was a few salacious months with a diabolist until, that too, lost its sheen. By that point, she’d resigned herself to the truth of the matter. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding that, when she spared it a thought, made her heart sting like a hand thrust into a snowbank. But she had little cause to dwell on it and had survived worse, far worse.
Despite this newfound wisdom, she still took great pains to avoid any chance encounter, carefully circumventing Waterdeep. If deliveries were needed, she’d contract them out to adventurers or scholars headed that way. Clients hailing from the City of Splendor would be met at alternative locations or through letters. Anything to avoid setting foot in the city. Although, she’d never successfully shaken the guilt of fleeing the city without so much as a word to Tara. In penance, she’d occasionally send a strip of some exotic beast to the tower, but only when she was confident she’d moved on by the time it arrived.
If there was one thing she remained certain of, it was that he would search for her. If nothing else to simply issue an apology. He was never the type to let a display of discourtesy be the last memory someone had of him. There were, of course, more invasive and reliable ways someone could be found, but most were considered horrendously impolite, so she presumed herself safe from those. But the mundane methods still posed a problem which had prompted her expansive avoidance efforts. She was aware the whole endeavor was needlessly childish, but everything had gone so wrong. By the time she’d cooled enough, she’d already heard the whispers, and she did not wish to face him properly. It was better to let the hurt heal with time.
Though she’d seen neither hair nor hide of him physically, word of his work seemed a favored topic among gossiping academics. They whispered of some tower he’d raised with a flick of his hand, silver fire he’d conjured in his goddess’s name, a dangerous battle he’d quelled with only his presence. She grew increasingly tired of the tales, finding them to be at best trite and at worst sensationalized.
She was fortunate that their association, however brief, had not boosted her own reputation. Any additional eyes on her had only ever spelled trouble. She had been successfully cornered in a seedy bar by an equally seedy-looking reporter, who had demanded to know the nature of her arrangement with Gale of Waterdeep. After much back and forth, she’d sent them on their way with the assurance she’d never spoken to the man in her life. It did not take much to picture the headlines of such a rag, A Divine Doublecross?! Or maybe Gale of DoubleDeep? Her own reputation had remained manageable, not as far-reaching or impressive as his, but enough for solid connections. Most recently, she had been requested as a mediator in negotiations between an enclave of wizards and a merchant’s guild. The wizards insistent that only the magically inclined could understand their position, while the merchants refused to withstand another wizard.
She’d arrived at the guildhall and climbed the stairs to the meeting hall, amid much boisterous debate. The worn log walls did little to dampen the noise. Tables had been carefully separated and shifted end to end, forming two formidable rows with a large gap between them. Merchants and wizards alike sat facing each other, sheltering behind their lines and speaking quite loudly over the space between them. Already, accusations of conspiracy and cruelty flew through the air. One half-orcish gentleman suggested rather crudely what a particular wizard could do with his magic wand. Talia had slithered through the crowd in search of the most rowdy, plying them with drinks and compliments. She’d taken aside merchants and whispered of the veritable treasure trove wizard towers tended to be. The wizards, meanwhile, required a bit of underhanded shmoozing. She’d crowed about whatever dissertations or rebuttals they’d recently published, regardless of topic or quality. Whispered to them about talent and dismissed cries of jealousy. Finally, with the wounded prides tended and the greater hostilities banished, the time-honored tradition of elaborate introductions began.
After the formalities, handshaking, and head nodding had concluded and the breadth of work had begun, she’d snuck out to the quiet of the balcony. She’d stolen only a few moments before the door had opened behind her. The scent of exotic cheeses and aging parchment floated across the air, as an elderly man placed a wizened hand on the railing beside her.
“Good evening, Ms. Gallimatia.” He greeted her. “It has been an age! Why, when I last saw you, you were only a sprout of a girl.” He chuckled fondly, a strangely familiar sound though she’d not heard it in decades. “And under far less favorable circumstances.” He added, strangely affable.
“I trust everything afforded has been to your liking? If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, the blue granite cheese is truly a feast for the senses. In this humble wedge of cheese lies the essence of culinary artistry, a testament to the transformative power of time and tradition.” He continued to wax poetic about the different assortment of dishes offered, as she waited politely. Eventually, the flow of gastronomic descriptions slowed and then faded as Elminster regarded her again, inquisitively.
“I’d heard rumblings that the conciliator was of supernatural charm, but I am pleased to discover a sorcerer of most import. Though it seems I’ve worried myself for not, as I was certain you’d sworn off the arcane community wholly.” His tone was pleasant, but she prickled at the phrasing, doubtful it was a passing observation.
“All of the prowess, none of the attitude.” She rattled off a slogan with half-hearted enthusiasm and a weak flourish. The corner of Elminister’s eyes wrinkled, amused.
“Oh? Not by my recollection, unless my memory has become truly fallible.” He said with a smile. “Or am I to presume the brightly plumed owlbear that ran rampant through the council chambers after the unscrupulous chairman was relieved of his treasured tome was mere happenstance?”
“No idea where you’d get such an idea,” She hummed absentmindedly, unsurprisingly fidgety under his gaze.
“One hears things.” He murmured cheerily. “Although I couldn't help but notice you seem uncommonly dour this evening, my dear. And there is nary a fuming schoolteacher nor enraged sentry pursuing you to account for such conduct.” He tutted disapprovingly at the hypothetical.
“It would seem that the clouds of melancholy have cast their shadow upon your countenance. An ill-suited match for one so spirited, to be sure.” He was smiling politely, but there was some degree of prompting in his eyes. “You seem burdened. Perhaps you seek aid in lightening that which weighs on you so?”
“A fairly mundane event to warrant your presence, to what do they owe the pleasure?” She asked, dodging the question clumsily.
“Any appointment can engender wonderment, provided the necessary aspects. But I did not depart the discussions to speak of the dealings of commerce.” Talia sighed heavily, an errant spark falling from her crossed arms, which she extinguished with her foot. The words gathered on the tip of her tongue, pushing their way from her mind to her lips.
“I’ve found myself… unbalanced.” She settled on the wording after a pause. When he offered no interruption, she forged on. “Not intentionally, mind you.” She said slowly, the words thick like sap in her mouth. She looked out from the balcony instead of at the wizard, determined to preemptively defend herself despite the void of judgment.
“Unadvisable, I'm aware.” She announced to the silence, certain she could guess at his thoughts. What chaos might an ‘unbalanced’ Wild Mage bring? What steps could be taken to negate their impacts?
Instead, and much to her surprise, he simply chuckled knowingly. “Oh, to be in the throes of youth, to have a heart be so fresh that it may still break so thoroughly.”
Talia shifted to glance at him, and considered refuting the accusation. But she guessed such claims would fall on near deaf ears; instead, she diverted. Smiling furtively at the elderly man. “How old do you think I am, exactly?” She kept her voice light.
“Whatever your age, it is vastly dwarfed by mine, rendering you practically a babe.” He said, waggling a finger at her before falling into a contemplative silence. He looked out across the city, stretching out from the balcony, streets winding together like an intricately woven rug. Waiting.
“I’d give anything for a moment of peace from it.” She grumbled, her words doused in self-pity.
“Ah, yes, I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.” He mused, largely to himself.
Given the manner in which it was spoken, the line was likely of some play or song that she ought to be familiar with. He would no doubt be disappointed in her inattention.
“I know it is for the better.” She began firmly, while something like reproach passed through the man’s eyes. “But it has been quite a heartache for nothing.” She sighed heavily, pushing aside her wounded pride in favor of frankness.
“The poets and playwrights may disagree,” He offered gently, and with cautious warmth.
Talia blew air from her mouth irritably.
“Yeah, well, they only have to write it, so you’ll have to forgive my lack of enthusiasm.”
The old man was slow to answer. He looked a thousand miles from where they stood. His hand reached his beard as he gave it a thoughtful stroke and sighed.
“He is a good man—Gale.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and wondered why she'd even bothered withholding his name, Elminster continued unhindered. “He possesses the noblest of hearts, dogged in his devotion. All to be expected of a paragon of wizardry.”
“Conversely, he suffers the pull of that same heart. It’s intensity such that he can persuade himself of anything if it serves to preserve what he desires.” He looked at her squarely as she fought the urge to look elsewhere. “All this to say, this is a turbulent time for him, and he hasn’t the desire to listen to the ramblings of an old man. Much like someone else…” He shot her a deliberate look.
“Perhaps you would find some solace in reconciliation?” She nodded helplessly, hopeful that would be all he asked of her. But his eyes took her in fully, piercing and ladened with purpose. Before producing a large pipe from his pocket, he fiddled with it a moment and raised it to his lips but did not appear to inhale. Instead, he raised his hands in mock exclamation.
“But what could a doddering old fool know of love?” He looked at her with a slight smile, presuming her resistance. She bit her tongue, aware he’d lain a proverbial trap for her. Questions and complaints in equal measure crowded her mind as the man watched her patiently. Did he know of her question? Did he know of how it had consumed her, how it had mixed with her objections, as they simmered in her blood and lurked in her magic?
“I don’t understand how there could even be a genuine bond?” She blurted, as her ears burned. “How could it even be deemed a relationship, let alone one of parity?”
As the questions hung in the air, Elminister looked, for the first time, his true age. Talia just stopped herself from offering an arm to steady himself on. He breathed deeply and looked at her with an unfathomable expression.
“The sway of a Goddess is not to be underestimated.” He looked away in silence, as she awaited more.
“But they’re not even people.” The wizard looked at her strangely, whirling the pipe between his fingers and taking a breath in. Smoke curled delicately around his face as he puffed.
“Most were mortals once.” He murmured, “And they know, all too well, what drives mortal hearts.”
Talia stood silently as the words washed over her. It seemed that would be all the unsatisfactory counsel she’d receive on this matter.
“You didn't attend today just to speak to me on his behalf, right?” She asked, finally.
“Heavens no, perish the thought.” He placed a hand on his chest in surprise. “The feasts offered at these events are truly sublime.”
She gave him a conciliatory smile and once-over. “Can constructs eat food?”
“Ah, well spotted,” The wizard regarded her with a small measure of pride.
“It appears my summoning magic is not what it once was.” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully.
“Were I to be forthcoming, I would be compelled to mention it has caused something of a stir.” He looked over his shoulder warily. As Talia realized the voices within had grown louder and angrier.
“The Guild did not take kindly to my lack of appearance, well, physical appearance. There were some manner of declarations inferring the disingenuous representation of the wizard community. The Guild has declined to ratify the documents if no one of sufficient note is here to preside over the dealings.” He gave her a wink. “They do not know the splendid company they keep,”
Talia glanced inside; the two rows had converged upon each other, with raised voices and reddening faces. She shifted back towards the wizard, who drew the pipe to his lips, inhaling deeply, and avoiding her gaze. With a soft cough, a thick curling cloud of smoke issued from his mouth, his features obscured like a lighthouse in a fog. It expanded with supernatural speed and density until not even his grand beard could be seen behind the great curling clouds that smelled of tobacco and a well-loved leather chair.
“As such,” She heard from somewhere within the expanding fog. “I suspect he will be making an appearance. You know of whom I speak…”
She’d swung an arm to clear the air, indignation on her face and outrage in her throat. Her hand parted the cloud neatly. She stepped forward into the warmly illuminated air, to launch a thousand protestations—at nothing.
As the cloud dissipated, there was no sign of the arcane construct. Only the softly swirling smells of rosewater and old scrolls remained, as the last wisps illuminated by the partially ajar door swirled through the air. From inside, there was the uproarious sound of greetings, marking the cycle of handshakes and headnods beginning anew. She could not identify the words of the newcomer, but the cadence was clear enough.
She drew in a slow, irritated breath.
“Oh, very funny.” She muttered at the open air as she hugged the nearest wall, careful to keep out of the doorway light.
She inched inside the open door, all but grafting herself onto the wall. She threaded through the crowd that seemed to be condensing towards the south right corner; she could guess why. She ducked her head low as she squeezed between tunics and robes, her own cloak being trodden on by many boots.
She moved silently, careful not to push or tug or arouse any unneeded attention. The crowd grew thinner as she reached the outskirts, but the door was within sight.
“Talia!” His voice was unmistakable.
She stopped in her tracks, careful to keep the tension from her shoulders, but squeezed her eyes closed and attempted to will the situation away. She collected herself and spun to face him with a polite smile.
“Oh, hello there! I wasn’t aware you’d be in attendance.” She said brightly, It sounded friendly enough, not bad as far as first words went. It almost sounded genuine, once she’d excised the hollowness from it.
The mundanity of the encounter contrasted sharply with how her stomach twisted as she re-familiarized herself with his face. He looked just as she’d remembered, a touch older perhaps, but it suited him. His hair had grown out slightly, the ends touching the middle of his ears. He wore a dark purple garb composed of velvets and silks. He looked like someone proud, important, and powerful. It was clear that his pairing with Mystra complemented him handsomely. Something small she’d not known she still carried, shattered. Though a small part of her—a part she was attempting to strangle with both hands—was thrilled to simply look upon him again.
Meanwhile, he had looked briefly taken aback at her pleasantries before returning to an expression more neutrally polite, like someone addressing a shopkeeper or emissary. A flicker of discomfort just tucked away behind his eyes.
“Good evening.” He began stiffly, altogether ignoring her greeting as he shifted awkwardly on his feet. “I wasn’t certain that I’d see you here…” He paused, as if he’d expected some kind of outburst from her. When she offered nothing, he continued.
“You look well.” He let his eyes wander away from her, clearing his throat. A not-so-subtle prompting of her response.
“Oh yes, thank you.” She nodded her head in acknowledgement, uncertain if there was more he’d expected—now woefully out of practice with Waterdavian niceties.
“Quite the event you’ve put on here.” He congratulated. “I’ve heard nothing but good things. Well, aside from that little… disagreement, but rest assured it was swiftly handled. The tension's been drained into five dozen tankards. In a place like this, the most powerful magic is calling for a round of drinks.” He added a little smugly, before gesturing to the crowd. Who were indeed far merrier.
“I am in your debt, it would seem.”
“Nonsense.” He waved his hand dismissively but eyed her nervously. “You owe me nothing.” Talia’s mouth felt quite dry, and another stab of discomfort twisted her insides. Gale adjusted his collar, glanced around them furtively, and leaned nearer.
“I asked after you,” He murmured quietly.
"Oh… that was kind of you," Talia responded vacantly, picking at her nails. In the hopes that it would confer her resistance to discussing the matter further.
“Though it seems I had always just missed you.” She did not look up, but he sounded disappointed. Perhaps in her response, perhaps her behavior, either way, her stomach sank guiltily. “Somewhat ironic, I sought you while I myself have never been so sought after.” He said with a nervous laugh. “A near-endless number of invitations seem to appear at my door, not that I have time to attend them all. Even this was a favor to an old friend.” He said vaguely as she nodded with polite interest. “Elminster.” He clarified and watched her reaction closely.
She again nodded as they regarded each other warily, while somewhere behind them another chorus of a drinking song began.
“Right, well.” He seemed to be prompting himself. He straightened, rolled his shoulders back, and his chest puffed slightly as if delivering a speech in front of an audience. Talia made no effort to hide her brief, puzzled amusement at the procedure of posturing.
“I’d like to humbly offer my apologies for my behavior at our last meeting. My actions were not becoming of Mystra’s Chosen. Things between us got quite heated, and I would despair at having our interactions be stained by such malice.” He eyed her, seemingly assessing her level of cooperativeness with this performance. Seeing nothing but civil neutrality, he forged on.
“It seems needless for us to remain at odds. I hope you can find it in your magnanimity to accept my humble plea for forgiveness… ” He trailed off, unusually succinct. He looked like he had considerably more to say, but instead stood silently awaiting her reply.
She clung to vindication like a half-drowned man to driftwood. She’d been right to evade this, right to ensure she remained elusive and forgettable, because now here they were. She wished only that he had let her be. Being confronted with his presence had only set her back. And now he begged her forgiveness while once again providing an apology he did not mean. Though this time she was expected to accept an apology she did not want. He should have known better, known that this performance was agonizing.
“You are, of course, forgiven.” She offered. Her response intentionally blunted, barring her own tongue from uncouth wanderings. He seemed unsettled by the ease of his exoneration, looking down and fidgeting with an embroidered flower on his sleeve.
“I know you’re here to make amends; we needn’t discuss it further.” She added lightly, seeking to ease his discomfort and her hurt. She felt the swell of magic pressing painfully against her fingertips, seeking some form of catharsis and failing that, an outlet. Once again, he opened and closed his mouth as if to say something more. The room felt oppressively loud and warm, and her head buzzed with the noise. He seemed expectant, and her magic was equally as demanding.
“You will have to forgive me in turn.” She said through subtly gritted teeth. “I was not aware of the… nature of your arrangement.” She held back a grimace as Elminster’s dissatisfying explanation floated through her mind.
“Oh, that.” He chuckled, “Nor was I, until informed otherwise.” He smiled as if to endear her to the notion while Talia fought off another wave of both magic and nausea. She silently battled herself; something about the tangibleness of his presence undermined her goal of incuriousness. She paused and pursed her lips as words knocked against her teeth, intent to escape.
"Well, it seems to… suit you.” The words hurt to say, she waved her hand blithely as if to clear the air of them.
“I imagine relations with a Goddess is bound to be good for one’s complexion.” He said with awkward levity.
Talia’s appetite for discussion dissolved, and like the snapping of a snare trap, and she withdrew whatever nervous tendrils of curiosity she'd dispatched.
"I really must be getting back; drunkenness will only bond them together for so long.” She smiled, practiced, and polite. He looked uncertain but appeared to think better of further questioning.
“It was good to see you.” He smiled, the first genuine one of the batch, and with a soft warmth that forced Talia to withhold a hiss of pain as her fingers sparked into the skin of her palm. She nodded graciously and fled with as much speed as dignity would allow. The rest of the night blurred past, a mangled mess of egos and drunken antics. When she finally reached her room that night, she lay her head upon her pillow, and she dreamt of him.
Genuine question for the fan artists out there, how are y'all pumping out pieces at a reasonable pace? This WIP has taken me months and its not even colored.
SO I was thinking about how strongly Tara dislikes Gale's in-game hair and beard and it made me wonder if it was originally a result of him locking himself away from everyone but then sort of became intentional later. Also brace yourselves for some character analysis which seems to be unpopular in fan works but is interesting to me:
Gale knows he's handsome.
There always seemed to be a bit of a mismatch between how people depict Gale's confidence in fanworks and how he presents himself in-game to me?
One of his very first interactions at camp he does, admittedly cheekily, play off his Mirror Image as fastidious grooming habits, and dismisses the spell with a sly little "Handsome devil, isn't he?" It's playful and could be read as a bluff, but it does exist and doesn't feel particularly misplaced. This is a man that fucked God. I think that is great assurance that you must on some level be looking pretty good on the regular.
He also thinks he's charming, which he is! He has a line somewhere about having a dazzling smile. He calls Karlach "rough around the edges" but that he supposed he could be "smooth enough for the both of them." He is entirely confident that he can befriend Minthara and is the only one to even think to attempt it.
He is not a shy lover, either, once you are in private. Some of his lines are straight up scandalous. He may be a bit shy and bluster when you're the one to bring it up, but later on he is shameless. The "For now, I'll keep my mouth shut. Unless you have use for it, of course" line made my jaw drop. ALSO when you ask Gale if you were his first aside from Mystra, he says no, you are not. But you are the first AFTER Mystra. In fact, Loroakkan insults Gale by implying it was NOT by magical merit that he gained her favor, and all that merit did was insure he lost it.
Gale's insecurity is about his sense of self worth, and how the metric he judges his own worthiness is by what he can do, not who he is.
I think the reason it bothers me to see this TYPE of insecurity attributed to Gale is that he is our token "bookish nerd" character, and it feels too easy to just assign the one "nerd" character the traits "inexperienced virgin who wishes he looked more like the leading man but actually the lead romance thinks he is sweet despite all his shortcomings." Especially when there's almost nothing in game to draw this conclusion from. And I dunno, maybe some people think that formula is still satisfying as a story but I think its boring. This dude is an absolute dweeb who is also handsome as all hell which is one of the many reasons you are able to pay attention to his forty-five minute long speech about the history of gnolls. He does that and then shoots Astarion down in the same breath. Let autistic people be hot. That's allowed.
I don't entirely disagree but I feel compelled to point out that the double scene is not a vanity scene. He is checking for symptoms of the illithid infection, and he's being facetious for the player's benefit.
Summary: This chapter has everything, Gale in Elysium, Jealous Gale and breakups.
Great place to the fic if you live for drama and don't care much for slow burn starts.
""You truly are the loveliest peach ever plucked from Sune's celestial garden, and twice as sweet."
He suppressed an audible scoff, but only just. Uninspired drivel. He could do better in his sleep. He glanced furtively at Talia, gauging her response. She nodded politely before glancing away, likely from boredom he suspected, or hoped. With the turn of her head, she caught sight of him. He pressed his shoulders back and strode forth, driven more by indignation than confidence. She shifted at the table, startling her dining partner."
AO3 if you prefer.
Chapter 9: To die upon the hand I love so well
✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆✧🟆
The gold-lacquered chambers of Mystra’s home shimmered under the unending sunshine. Soaring marble columns guarded every entrance, and trees reached high enough that their branches seemed to house the clouds. Grand golden gates separated the palatial gardens from the lush forest that surrounded the estate. Stone turrets floated high above the château, gently twisting in the air, with no stairway to reach them. Wide reflecting pools and fountains were plentiful, their waters teeming with beautiful naiads and nymphs. They tittered and giggled as he approached, but would disappear with a splash if he drew near. Pixies and other fae seemed to linger on the outskirts of the palace, their strange faces peering towards the windows as they flitted from tree to tree. Although none dared to cross the stone threshold that marked the palace. Not another soul seemed to tread this sacred ground. The structure itself could easily house thousands, and yet he seemed the lone occupant.
Which suited him fine… for the most part. His arrival had been heralded by gilded halls and echoing silence. His every footfall audible as he wandered the grand white foyer, light gleaming off its polished floors. A quietly enduring part of him had expected his Goddess’s presence. But he’d managed to quell the flood of disappointment and chided himself for such expectations. Goddesses did not preoccupy their time with welcoming parties, and he’d been the fool for even entertaining the thought. His summoning was not intended to be congenial, and there remained much to do.
Time seemed to be stretched especially thin on the astral plane. Gale had read several theses regarding the subject, most depicting how pure Weave tended to warp and alter one’s perception. Initially, in his own notation, Gale had deemed the impact hyperbolic, noting that a day passed as expected. Further investigation had revealed his experienced day had, in fact, been mere minutes from his own arrival on the plane. Reality had hurdled past him in a hurry to arrive on time, the force of it hitting him with enough strength to leave him quite befuddled. Time felt absent and ever present all at once, like the hours and minutes folded in on themselves to form a handy leaflet one could leisurely page through. A simple walk to an adjoining room could feel like an age had passed, whereas an hour felt like no time at all.
Gale had tried to parse the days, to make some sense of the strange flow. First, he’d attempted to map them onto some kind of calendar. But quickly the numbering grew jumbled and unfamiliar, and lingering on it long would cause his eyes to water. Occasionally, he was plagued by old memories that would surface with startling clarity, or dusty glimpses of what could have been a future, though he never retained much. It soon proved impractical to align any passage of time in the astral plane with time on the mortal plane. He often wondered if the divine nature of those who occupied the plane spared them the disjointed feeling, or if their divinity itself was the source of such disturbances.
One benefit of the altered flow was the feeling that he had all the time in the world to research, read, and think. It often seemed like he’d spent weeks alone with only his musings. On one of his earliest days —assuming they were indeed days—he’d wandered the tall, opulent building, uncertain of where to place his belongings. He’d strolled from grand room to grand room, marveling at intricate carvings depicting the most famous and infamous acts of wizardry. He’d stumbled upon a particularly wicked portrayal of Daurgothoth the ‘Creeping Doom’ which adorned one wall; the depiction alone enough to send shivers up Gale’s spine.
He’d finally settled on a comparably modest room that was more library than lodging. As he’d settled in, he’d reminded himself frequently and harshly of the expectations placed upon him. He was uncertain how long he’d gone without speaking to anyone but himself, but soothed the ache for companionship and conversation with memories of his more lonesome schooling days. His nose buried solidly within the tomes he'd self-assigned as supplementary reading, awoken from his trances only by Tara's insistence at a meal or at least sleep. But alas, even Tara could not disrupt his research at present, and he'd had a good chuckle imagining Mystra chiding him for meals uneaten or rests untaken. At times, he considered wandering beyond the bounds of the palace, and though the thought appealed to him greatly, he did not, lest he be absent when She might have need of him. So he stayed, anxiously awaiting Her call.
Eventually, the wondrous day came, a pulsing portal of deep purple materialized within his room. The strands of Weave that surrounded it far beyond anything he’d felt on the mortal plane. It pulled at every speck of magic within him, both sources singing in an inaudible chorus. It yearned to return to its source, to Her. Without a single step taken, he was gently pulled through.
Her features held a distinct impermanence, as if recalling them from a dream. He knew without question She was unfathomably beautiful, but could never articulate what made Her so. Her description always danced on the tip of his tongue, but remained unrealized all the same. Magics far beyond what could be captured in any tome or mortal mind seemed to permeate the very air in Her presence. His head pounded, and his limbs ached with the effort to stay upright amid the swirling arcane winds.
He spent much of his time beforehand meticulously choosing what queries to pose, as determining what She found tiresome was a fraught process. She’d not hesitate to withdraw when they broached topics She found distasteful or dull. Human mundanities didn’t interest Her, so sitting down to dine with him had been out of the question. In an amusing quirk of divinity, it was clear She’d forgotten the frequency at which mortals ate until Gale had gently mentioned a greater need for sustenance. He marveled at how the many intricacies of mortal life that seemed to govern his every moment barely registered to the divine. All a god could need was provided with little effort; if a deficiency was found, its remedy was promptly summoned. Everything in Elysium was tailored to her tastes.
As such, he strove to ensure not a second of Her attention was wasted; to even grace this plane felt like he’d tossed out a fisherman’s net and snagged a comet. Her omnipotence so complete that no question would go unanswered. Swirling conjecture that most mages only dreamt of could be realized amongst the stars of the astral sea. While he had only plucked at the strings of the Weave, she strummed every cord, lovingly crafting them from will alone. Few beings had ever seen such pure magic, and fewer still had seen it wielded so expertly.
For all his talent, he would never command anything as perfectly as She sculpted The Weave. Nonetheless, it fed in him a need, a desperation, to perform magic with the effortless perfection She did. To perfect the craft, to honor it with his effort and dedication. His time alone, if not spent feverishly researching, was dedicated to the replication of Her every motion. Every caress of the Weave, every sweep of Her fingers that called a spell from the ether, he would attempt. For hours and days on end he would try, only to feel the stiffness and limitations of his mortal hands, which he cursed daily. He knew all too well that despite his best efforts, a show of true ineptitude could be the key to his banishment home.
Not to say he did not yearn for home. He did, often. He missed his esteemed city greatly; his study, his books… Tara…. He missed the water rushing over the cobbled streets after heavy rain, the tea cake seller near the Dock Ward, and the scented baths at the Temple of Beauty, the little luxuries that home offered. They would await his return.
However, when he thought of home, he inevitably thought of Talia. His thoughts drifted to her far more than he’d intended. He’d set aside a journal especially for her and had filled it with observations. Mostly oddities and things he thought would amuse and charm her. He’d noted for her the strange plants and odd artifacts that speckled the property, sure they would delight even her discerning tastes. He could envision the wrinkle of her nose at the sparkling hallways, or her musical laugh at the antics of the nymphs. On his loneliest days, such thoughts brought him a modicum of comfort.
He lingered on their other exchanges, too. Waffling somewhere between unnecessarily flushed and perturbed. Indeed, while he coveted their closeness, her capricious nature was not for the faint of heart. Their last discussion in particular ate at him and he had pondered it frequently. In the moment, he had been so euphoric at the prospect of Elysium that he felt he’d not represented the opportunity well, nor sought out the hesitance behind her words. It seemed she did not understand what Mystra’s influence could yield. How it could mold him, hone him into a man worthy of the attention and favor She granted him. Already, he’d learned more than enough to surpass his contemporaries, a laudable achievement but not enough to tantalize Talia. Although he was doubtful his Goddess would appreciate her teachings put to such means. But had he not been made Chosen for a reason? Was his judgment not worthy of trust?
He would assuage them both. Talia could be reasoned with, of that he was certain. If she could put aside her pride, she too could garner Mystra’s favor. She was as willful, if needlessly resistant to ritual and tradition. But she wielded the Weave deftly and saw the brilliance that lay at the heart of it, and Mystra was shrewd. Should she put that creativity to work, she would no doubt be a force to be reckoned with. His daydreaming would flutter further still, imagining that were she to serve Mystra, she too could find herself here alongside him. He would show her wonders far beyond what could be put to paper. If only she would let him.
⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺
A full month came and went before Talia breezed back into Waterdeep, certain the wizard had already wandered home. After all, he spoke of ‘weeks’ and would too often bemoan any long departures from his beloved city. Tara met her at the door, a mage hand on the knob and summer sunshine in her mottled fur.
“He remains away.” The Tressym had announced firmly, her eyes suspicious and expectant, shifting to block the door as if Talia would move to dash inside. The cat seemed moodier than typical, which was quite the metric to surpass.
“Has he mentioned…?”
Tara scoffed, “As if he’d deign to send his oldest friend word on his comings and goings. I think not.” The cat seethed, her tail lashing back and forth before pausing mid-air, in a furred question mark.
“Has…he sent word to you?”
Talia shook her head, and Tara audibly tsked, though she gave the woman a once-over, her gaze softening almost imperceptively.
“He never was the most punctual student,” She admitted, the fondness plain in her voice. “But he always came home, in the end.” The Tressym glanced at her meaningfully before trotting back into the dimness of the tower. Talia did not linger long after; the usually vibrant city dulled without his colorful commentary on every brick or loose stone.
“ –and here was the site of the rather infamous battle between the archmage Thongalar the Mighty and Shile Rauretilar, a famously unpleasant fellow–
She could practically hear his voice as she returned to her door, but discarded her brewing disappointment at the threshold.
She returned to her typical work, dungeons and ruins were enough to hold her attention as the months wore on. Though she kept an eye out for any word from him or Tara. At first, she’d had rationales by the bushel. His priorities in correspondence would lie with Tara and his mother, perhaps a colleague relevant to whatever work he was performing. He was busy, he was far, he’d sunk himself into yet another project, there were a dozen reasons he’d not returned, and yet still she stewed. Needlessly, she knew. In time, he would return.
Though time seemed the very problem. As it went on, her own reasoning came apart at the seams with even the slightest scrutiny. Perhaps it was simply impossible to send word from Elysium, but even a moment’s thought or research rendered that theory nullified. A second-year wizard learned that the ‘Sending’ spell could be sent through different planes. Astral Projection would have suited just fine, particularly if he was in one of his theatrical moods. Hells, a ‘Contact Other Plane’ spell would have worked if things were particularly dire. She’d even briefly considered sending one, if she could pin down specifically where he was. Many possibilities and many solutions, none pursued.
Instead, she drifted. Choosing jobs at the furthest reaches of the realm, while she shoved the wizard to the furthest reaches of her mind. She knew he had the capacity for thoughtlessness, that he could get monomaniacally invested in his work. But to worry his Tressym and his mother so needlessly? It seemed uncharacteristically cruel.
Around the fifth month, the nagging of a particularly insistent client returned her to Waterdeep. She’d brought herself to his door, far more hopeful this time. However, she was greeted only by Tara, surly as ever. Once again, their exchange was brief as she spoke of a cleric of Mystra who’d provided a fresh bouquet to his mother near her birthday, accompanied by a note with his swooping handwriting on it, ‘From your beloved son, Gale of Waterdeep’. The only acknowledgment they’d received that he still drew breath. A token, and by Tara’s pronouncement, insufficient. She imagined him dismissing thoughts of home with the flick of a wrist, unworthy of his attention in Mystra’s presence.
She’d held a vaguely peaceable view of Mystra for many years; she willingly acknowledged her role in the maintenance and balance of The Weave, and she was also not foolish enough to discount the impact the goddess had played in her own past. However, Talia had never quite shaken her resentment of the notion that magic could never truly be divorced from the goddess. Her respect for The Weave was absolute, but facing the goddess’s influence directly had ignited buried resentments that roared to life with the reckless abandon of something long suppressed. She wrestled with herself to prevent letting such amorphous ideas metastasize into full gut-churning distress. At other times in her life, it would have been a laughable concept to place oneself alongside a goddess for comparison. Talia knew all these things to be unalienably true, yet a dissatisfaction had settled within her, much to her dismay. Wrangling these inefficiencies faded to the background as the fifth month crested.
While she could maintain some degree of blissful ignorance, her magic could not. It no longer flowed through her blood as much as it boiled and bubbled, her casting disrupted. Its heat licked the inside of her skin, wrapped her bones in its tendrils, adhered to her ligaments, and claimed her movements as a muscle might. Even her most reliable cantrips turned violent in her hands. A prestidigitation burned holes in her socks, a finding spell turned her door invisible for the better part of a week, ice bolts turned acidic, and flames burned candles to stubs in minutes. Even minor spells required the utmost concentration, lest they spiral out to more dire outcomes. The more focus required the more the spells seemed to surge from her hands, guided by their own outrage. She grew resentful of her lack of control, her irritation with herself now comparable to her irritation with him.
It was not sustainable, but old habits died with glittering splendor. She soothed herself as best she could, scolding and distracting herself until her blood quieted. No promises had been made, so no promises went unkept. Besides, she was no help to herself or anyone else, shooting off spells like a mad mage. She knew where such wildness led, and was in no mood for a reminder. Bit by bit, little by little, outrage turned to bitterness, which turned to banal acrid acceptance. The sharpness in her chest blunted, and the heat cooled to a tolerable degree, the whole debacle shrinking to a far more manageable bother.
As the sixth month arrived and winter proper fell on Waterdeep, she made preparations to return. She’d wandered wide, but curiosity had gotten the better of her once again. She wondered how Tara fared in that drafty tower. Wondered if he’d truly abandoned the place he claimed to love for his goddess. Wondered what could be done to stop wondering about him at all. The snow fell into small piles as she stood on his doorstep again, no projection to meet her. She patted the piles flat with her foot as she shifted her weight and knocked swiftly at his door.
This time she was far less surprised to find the swish of a tail and the glower of the tower guard at that door. The cat’s expression shifted from optimistic to curdled, like week-old milk. The tressym dressed her down for her unprompted visit. Complaining loudly of the state of the tower and the untended duties typically reserved for those with thumbs. The cat strutted about, her fur on end to match her indignation as she protested. She eventually invited her in, but only once Talia promised to remedy her woes.
They chatted amicably as Talia unsealed containers and located the good meat samples in the back of the enchanted pantry. She spoke of her exploits to head-shaking disapproval, though elected to omit her magical dysregulation. Tara, meanwhile, muttered irritably about a group of magical mice who’d taken up residency in the library, detailing how one had set her tail aflame, and in an impressive show of restraint, Talia had withheld a giggle. The discussion remained light, neither wanting to acknowledge the ever-growing absence. Soon the topics grew tiresome, and it seemed clear that neither intended to broach the subject. Talia bid the Tressym a goodbye and headed back into the snow, the stifling walls of the tower becoming intolerable.
In the following days, Talia toured the city, a hollow feeling still echoing in the streets. The city held a nearly infinite array of distractions, but none took hold of her. Though she could not force herself to leave the city just yet. She chided herself for becoming so undone; she knew far better and felt all the more foolish for it. She knew the type of man Gale was, how fanatical his belief in The Weave and its many trappings were. Though she personally loathed the hierarchical nature imposed on magic and its users, wizards seemed to flourish under such restrictions. She’d been silly to presume that Gale did not hold that structure in such high regard. She’d let herself drift too close to the issue; her fluctuating magic had made that much clear.
Most days, she scurried from store to landmark, though she conspicuously avoided the House of Wonder, not keen on being under the goddess’s eye. Every evening, the sun quickly tucked itself behind the snowy peaks of rooftops, a heavy darkness falling as quickly and quietly as the snow. The city’s noise seemed muffled below the whiteness, regardless of how slushy and dirty the snow underfoot became. Four days since her arrival, and no more ready to leave. She’d visited a bakery and an alchemist, though left both with nothing.
It wasn’t until later that she felt a prickle of sweat gather at her neck. She slowed her pace, choosing her path more deliberately. Her heart beat an erratic rhythm as she veered away from the crowds and skirted the busier street in favor of alleys, intent on guiding her pursuer away. She paused, tucked herself into a corner, and waited for the sound of trailing footsteps. In her hand, a spark sizzled and spat with anticipation. She jumped as a glob of snow tumbled from the roof accompanied by the noisy scrabbling of nails on shingles.
She let the Tressym find her footing before she called to her.
“I promise I’m usually far more alert,” She shook her hand free of the lightning that had gathered there.
The cat’s face appeared over the eave of the roof, her ears twitching. She looked down disappointedly, ruffled her wings, and leapt from the roof. Gliding gracefully down and alighting on a precariously stacked group of boxes.
“I should hope so. It has been days.” Tara shook out her fur and sat, looking inquisitive.
“There’s no need to fret, I’ll be out of your hair—or fur, soon enough.” Talia shouldered her bag uncomfortably and smiled, the residual tension fading.
“And you intend to wander about aimlessly until that time?” The prim cat sniffed.
“Of course not, I was just getting my bearings.” She lied. “Besides, I don’t plan on returning. I think I’ve gotten my fill of this city.” Talia added irritably.
“Is that so?” They stood in pensive silence.
“Would you at least return to the tower? Instead of sauntering about the snow like a lost kitten. I happen to know where Mr.- Gale hides his best teas.” Tara asked promptingly, her whiskers quivering as she glanced at the snow settling in her fur.
“No. No, thank you.” Talia answered quickly. The cat huffed, clearly affronted, and Talia could feel an oncoming lecture. But instead, Tara hopped off the boxes and trotted towards her, and raised her head. Tilting it to indicate a spot behind her ears. After some hesitation, Talia reached down gently and gave her a soft scratch.
“It does not suit you,” The cat said solemnly as Talia ran her nails through the soft fur.
“Languishing about.” Her tone that of a worried grandparent. “Our Lady is a demanding mistress, but rest assured, he is safe. Simply fatuously focused. I’ve no doubt he’ll return. Any day now.” Her words were firm, but Talia could sense a measure of uncertainty beneath the façade.
“In the meantime, enough of this faffing about. Seek out your companions in the city, I know you have quite a few. Gods know Gale has whinged about it a time or two.” Talia’s eyebrows shot up, and she smiled, genuinely this time.
“Talks about me, huh?” She regretted the question as soon as it was asked, as Tara’s eyes bore into her.
“Not much.” The Tressym’s tail twitched, and Talia laughed, scratching behind the other ear.
“Anyway, he's ruined enough friendships with such dereliction,” Tara added with a long-suffering sigh. “It is all fine and well for an older lady to wait around, but I will not watch you wilt away without impetus.”
“I’m not wilting.” Talia protested, digging her boot toe into the filthy snow bank.
“Oh, of course not.” The Tressym shot back. They stared at each other, both unwilling to crumble. The snow beneath Talia’s boot had melted slightly by the time she sighed in resignation.
“I suppose I could stir up some trouble. Strictly for old times' sake, of course.” Talia tapped her chin miming Gale’s thoughtful pose. Tara rolled her eyes but seemed pleased enough.
“I am glad to see you’re not so stubborn as to disagree.” Tara shot back, her tail once again thrashing.
⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺ ⟺
“Tara? TARA!”
His voice cut through the silence of the darkened tower. The light of the portal faded from the stony walls of his home, though he was still abuzz with both residual magic and the anticipation of his return. Mystra had spared precious few words about his departure, but what had been clear was that he’d done well. His tireless hours and dogged determination bearing the fruit of approval. Among wizards, such direct praise from their Goddess was almost unheard of, reserved for only the truly exceptional, and yet he’d garnered it. He’d stepped through the portal home with his head held high and heart bursting.
The lonesome chill of the tower hit him as soon as his boot hit stone. The walls looked more worn than he remembered, the tapestries a dingier hue. Had it always been so drafty? The walls so short and the furniture so threadbare? The place felt foreign somehow, and yet. The scent of books and alchemical elements still floated through the air; his outer robe still hung on the hook. It remained his home no matter how desolate it seemed. He drew his robes closer to himself and called out for Tara again.
He heard the scamper of paws on the floor.
“MR. Dekarios—!” He did not wait for the rest of her sentiment and scooped her into his arms. She gave a small mew of surprise at the sudden elevation, while Gale stroked her back, relishing in the softness of her fur and flutter of her wings. She wriggled in his arms and maneuvered until her front paws rested on his chest. With a gentle push, she was out of reach, scowling at him from a nearby bookshelf. He smiled at her warmly.
“You should have seen it, Tara! Picture, if you will, an infinite tapestry woven with threads of wonder and discovery, every second right on the cusp of innovation. Soaring towers and breathtaking vistas of lush wilderness!” He mimed each aspect of Elysium, his hands mirroring the enthusiasm in his words. He paused only when he realized the immediate need for air. Taking in a much-needed deep breath, he calmed his hands.
“Of course, you must excuse my discourtesy, my dear, dear friend. It has been a spell since I was among peers.” He winked with joviality. “My, the tower is quiet, has it always been so? Funny the things you notice while away from home.” He looked about excitedly.
“I really must-” Tara began again. Gale spun to her as if newly reminded of her presence.
“But enough about me and my misadventures. How has my beloved confidant spent her time? I am hopeful you noticed my absence at the very least…” He finally slowed enough to note the brewing storm in Tara’s eyes.
“Tara! Don’t say that you’ve objections to my behavior already; I’ve only just returned.” He gave her a smile, which Tara discarded. Finally, he restrained himself enough for Tara to speak fully.
“Mr. Dekarios, my heart bursts to see you, but… surely you can imagine your mother’s and my disappointment at your abandonment of communication. A six-month wait is far too long for a mother to hear from her cherished son, and perhaps consider how your oldest friend may worry over you without so much as a whisper of your well-being. That’s to say nothing of—…”
“Six months? No…certainly not…” Gale shook his head in disbelief. He’d known it had been a misstep, giving up attempts to track the passage of time. But this… He’d half expected to step out, and a day had gone by. He wondered why Mystra had not mentioned the length of his departure, before reminding himself that six months was a uselessly small amount of time to an ageless immortal. He took an uncertain step towards Tara, trying to decide how best to beg her forgiveness.
“I… earnestly did not know, and I am unceasingly sorry for any distress I’ve caused you. And of course, mother,” He reached out, stumbling to a chair and sinking into it. He felt drained, remorse weighing him down while guilt chewed through him. “That is such a long time for you to go without company Tara. I cannot express my grief at causing you such pain.” Tara flitted to his knee.
“Come now, there’s no need for such prostrations. I had the occasional visit, and thank goodness for that or you may have driven this old Tressym to drink. “ Gale raised his head curiously.
“Were there many that came to see me?” He asked, intrigued.
Tara flattened her ears and sat up stiffly.
“There was the odd invitation… your peer in planar studies… and… er… oh yes… Talia stopped in a time… or two.”
At Talia’s name, Gale’s face had shifted from remorseful to horrified. Talia. She’d been by, looking for him. While he’d been…elsewhere. For months. Without so much as a word. He could only imagine what she must have thought. His mind swam with new concerns, while Tara looked deeply regretful of her mention.
“I’ll have to draft a letter immediately, or perhaps request her location from the Professor. Gods, she may never speak to me again.” He whirred through possible solutions, only just noticing the further hesitation on the Tressym’s face.
“Tara…how recent was her last visit?”
The Tressym shook her head, fervently. “As you’ve said, you’ve only just returned. I see no reason–” Gale clapped his hands decisively and stood, displacing Tara.
“Excellent! So, I am to understand she is near; that is splendid news. Splendid indeed.” He shook out his robe and made for the doorway. “I’ll be gone but a moment. A quick trip to her door to extend my deepest apologies, and back.”
Tara responded slowly, choosing her words carefully and forcing a pause in his preparations.
“She is… preoccupied tonight.”
“Oh?” He hesitated, hand on the door. Tara sighed, reluctant but resigned to the fact he was not about to cede on this matter. “With what?”
“If memory serves, she mentioned a dinner engagement. Near the pier.”
“Ah. I suspect I know the place. I once recommended it to her.” Gale said cheerily, while Tara nodded and looked uncertain. They both waited, the silence stretching thin. Tara’s eyes shown in the dim light, both inquisitive and concerned.
“I'm sure she wouldn't object to a visit from yours truly, and—” Gale noted helpfully.
Tara shook out her wings, which looked rumpled and distressed.
“I suspect she would have more than AN objection.” Tara cut across his retort cleanly. “It would do nothing to improve the situation to have you disrupt her evening. You may be anxious to see her, but you’ve no idea of her wishes.”
Gale winced before recovering swiftly.
“All the more reason, the longer I dally, the longer she goes without explanation.” He raked a hand through his hair nervously.
“Mr. Dekarios… Gale. I know you mean well, but this will not mend what has been broken.”
“Broken?” Gale shook his head, “Nothing’s been broken, Tara, I assure you.” He shifted nearer to the door, anxious to be going. “But we both know Talia to be…fickle. Were I to simply abandon this opportunity… It could very well be my last. I could not face her knowing I deliberately delayed when an apology was due, imagine what she must think of me? I’ll need only a moment of her time to explain that the time away was not squandered or surrendered lightly.”
Tara seemed no further convinced, but he could not afford to waste anymore time. Before she could respond, he was through the door and out into the snow.
The wind whipped his hair into his face as he raced through the snow-laden streets of Waterdeep, his feet barely hitting pavement between misty steps. His eyes watered from the icy air, his breath streamed behind him in great clouds of white. He’d not dressed for the weather, the light outer robes of his attire entirely outmatched by Waterdeep’s harshest season.
The wind grabbed at the edges of his cloak, which flapped noisily as he hurried. He had not realized how all-encompassing the silence in Elysium had been. Every sound heard was crafted with intentionality, from the gurgle of a fountain to the click of shoes on marble. But noise here seemed perpetual. The chatter of people in the street, the slush of wet snow, even the howl of the wind felt strangely harsh to his ears. Perhaps he’d become more accustomed to Elysium than he believed.
The annotated notebook weighed heavily in his pocket as he neared. Each step felt slowed, regardless of his increased pace, though his thoughts trailed behind his stride. He shivered in the brisk air and pondered the small matter of what he would say. It wasn’t as though he was at a loss. Indeed, he had many sentiments to share, though most would be unwise to say aloud, and more still would be some mangled admission of something. They had grown closer, hadn’t they? Had she not dwelled on him as he had her? Although six months was sure to put a damper on any… ongoing pursuit. Regardless of how bothersome he found it personally, she was entirely within her rights, and virtually every social grace, to pursue a romantic companion in his absence. He was a reasonable man; he knew that disappearing for months did not send a clear ‘I’d prefer you didn’t have dinner with one of your many admirers’ message. A tightness in his chest bit at him, far harsher than the cold. Though he brushed them aside, such thoughts could come later; 'twas better to stay the course in uncertain waters.
He slid to a stop outside the offending location. A small, magically run restaurant, staffed almost entirely by unseen servants. The novelty alone made it a popular stop for many. The building stood beside a group of bubbles of brightness. Each dome, a golden, magical barrier that housed both warmth and privacy. They shone brightly in the evening darkness as snow settled atop. Clandestine couples eyed him with passive interest, and the icy ground crunched underfoot as he stalked among the tables. He spotted Talia first, her telltale curls pulled away from her shoulders, framing her face.
She had not dressed for the weather, but her exposed skin had taken on a warm pink color that shifted and shimmered with an iridescent sheen. A uniquely beautiful and practical result of her magically infused existence. He gritted his teeth and surveyed her companion. The garb was familiar, as was the abundance of satin. The typical regalia of a cleric of Sune, he realized with some dread. As was mandatory for followers of the goddess of love and beauty, she was breathtakingly beautiful. Profound dark eyes and long bronze hair, braided carefully with a delicate rose on each end. Though, even in the darkening evening light, Talia outshone her still. Something in Gale's stomach burned, acrid.
The woman brushed a wayward curl from Talia’s cheek as she leaned towards her, both in hushed discussion. Their shoulders brushed gently, far too close for recent acquaintances, he decided stubbornly. Though close enough to pour the words into Talia’s ears, and pleasant enough to make her smile. Gale felt nauseated by the whole scene. He stepped within earshot and heard the woman coo.
"You truly are the loveliest peach ever plucked from Sune's celestial garden, and twice as sweet."
He suppressed an audible scoff, but only just. Uninspired drivel. He could do better in his sleep. He glanced furtively at Talia, gauging her response. She nodded politely before glancing away, likely from boredom he suspected, or hoped. With the turn of her head, she caught sight of him. He pressed his shoulders back and strode forth, driven more by indignation than confidence. She shifted at the table, startling her dining partner.
He sifted through her eyes. Excitement, relief, and elation even. He opened his mouth to greet her, only to watch those same eyes darken and cloud with anger, then something colder. She straightened in her seat as Gale recalled exactly how long six months truly was. A million imagined scenarios swam through his mind. Most involved her throwing herself into his arms at the sight of him, but not a one involved her dining with someone else. He could salvage this; he must.
"Good evening, I hope I'm not interrupting anything important." He flashed a smile at the cleric, who inclined her head curiously while Talia gave a quiet, choked scoff. She glanced down at her dress and brushed a wrinkle aside before gesturing at him with an easy smile.
“Cybille, this is Gale of Waterdeep,” Gale searched her cheerful tone for strain but found none.
He bowed deeply, addressing the cleric directly now. "Lovely to make your acquaintance. Chosen of Mystra, and freshly returned from a journey into the outer planes.”
“Oh. OH! Um, hello.” The woman reached out a delicate hand and glanced at her dining companion.
“Am I to presume my reputation precedes me?” Gale smiled as he took her hand and placed a peck upon it, though his eye remained on Talia, who looked on inscrutably.
The cleric smiled politely and introduced herself more formally, which Gale was utterly unable to hear as his heartbeat's deafening rhythm had reached his ears.
“If you are in search of nourishment, I must insist you try the Pâté en croûte as your appetizer. It is truly exceptional. I’ve mentioned as much to Talia." He gestured to their table, adorned with only wine glasses and a bottle.
Talia gave a thin-lipped but polite smile and inclined her head.
“Next time.” She stood and nodded to her companion. “I’ve had a very pleasant night, Cybille. But I think it would be in the best interest of everyone if we perhaps ended it here.” He was shocked at the even keel of Talia’s voice. Perhaps he was in luck, and she was feeling exceptionally reasonable this evening.
“I see no reason why you would have to—” He began, more compelled by an upbringing of courtesy than actual objection.
“Indeed, Talia! Why not have the gentleman join us?” The woman cut in, looking suspiciously excited.
”I’m afraid The Chosen is far too busy for the likes of us. Worlds on his shoulders and all that,” Talia responded coolly.
“How fortunate that I’ve set aside time just for you, then.” Gale waved off the comment cheerily and turned back to the cleric.
“She jests. May I borrow your acquaintance for but a moment? We’ve something to discuss that is long overdue, I’m afraid.” He emphasized the word, while Talia frowned.
“—Another day. Though it has been a splendid treat to see you again. Chosen.” He looked at her questioningly, undeniably irritated, but calmed himself quickly. He would not be goaded.
“As gracious a host as always, but I am afraid I must insist…”
“No. I must insist. Cybille, if you please.” Talia folded her napkin and placed it on the table. The woman remained seated and glanced between the two of them, intrigued by whatever she saw there. The table seemed to shiver under Talia’s hand as she gripped the edge.
“Talia… please.” He dulled his courteous edges and softened his voice. She looked surprised the pretense had been dismissed, and turned to him fully, a current of Weave in the air.
“I don’t know what you could possibly expect me to say.” She said plainly. “Are you expecting me to ignore your absence and pretend it is fine for you to simply appear out of nowhere?.” She said, the smile finally disappearing behind the storm clouds.
“Is it not expected of wizards to appear from nowhere? Comes with the territory, does it not?” He chuckled nervously, desperately missing the safety of the facade. She stared at him in genuine disbelief.
“Forgive me, perhaps now is not the time to be so replete with ribaldry.” He backpeddled. “I expect no absolution, I assure you. I only wished to apologize, though I desired to do so more—privately.” He eyed the woman between, who eyed him back with an odd smile.
“No need. Apology accepted.” Talia moved to place the table between them, as another wave of Weave emanated from her.
“Talia, give the man a chance to speak.” Cybille chirped, though Gale was beginning to doubt her advocacy. “I say, never interrupt a lover’s plea.” She added with mock sagacity. Talia’s eyes bore into the woman, and as she opened her mouth to respond, every piece of glass on the table exploded.
The cleric shrieked, her arms raised to protect her face. The bottle and the glasses came apart like dandelion seeds, their defined curves dissolving into shimmering pieces. Gale moved quickly, a gust of wind issuing from his hands. He intercepted their path and caught the shards deftly, scattering them westward, across the pier. They landed against the wood with a faint chime and sat in a glittering arc on the ground—the dark wine, previously housed, splashed across the table like a blood red lake.
There was silence as the trio stared at the arch of broken glass. Though the pieces did not linger long, and soon began to shudder and vibrate sliding across the worn deck quickly as if yanked by a string. They watched as two pieces joined themselves together, fusing to form a hinge, and began to flap. The other pieces followed suit, and soon, the air was filled with jagged glass butterflies. The light from Talia’s skin reflected in each swoop of their wings, bathing them in a soft pink glow.
Talia watched them despondently, her eyes flickering to each of her creations. Gingerly, she reached out a hand and coaxed one to perch. For a moment, she looked like a vision. A shimmering woman, her lovely curls reflecting the soft blush of her magic, with her fingers outstretched to her equally dangerous and beautiful familiars. But with a beat of its broken wings, a tiny blossom of red sprouted on her finger. The bug grew stiff and lifeless, falling to the ground with a crash; the rest of the glittering constructs soon followed. They tumbled from the sky, fractured, and moved no more.
“Cybille...” Talia began, her voice soft. The woman was up in a flash.
“Do not move. Do not breathe! I don’t want—” She gestured at the ground around them. “Whatever that was, to happen again.” She inched away from Talia, step by step, and took shelter behind Gale.
“I do not know what unholy magics you deal in.” The woman was shaking, whether from anger or fear, it was unclear. “But I want nothing to do with it. You could have killed me. Over nothing!” She gestured towards Gale angrily. “He arrives and with a wave of your hand the whole dinner explodes. Gods!” She looked to Gale.
“I now see you’ve been dispatched to deal with her.” She rounded back on Talia, who looked wretched. “You may cloak yourself in beauty, but my Goddess knows what chaos lurks beneath.” She signed herself protectively and glanced beseechingly at the sky. With a flip of her hair and not another word, the woman was gone.
Talia nudged a nearby glass shard with her toe and sighed. Gale felt the eyes of the other diners on them. They tilted from their seats to spectate, attempting to glean what they could from within their closed domes. Driven by either morbid curiosity or concern.
“If I’d had any inkling that you…” Gale began.
“Would explode?” She finished his sentence curtly. “You’d have listened?” She stooped down to pick up another glass piece, purposefully ignoring the gazes around them.
She sighed, glass shard in hand. Its many razored edges refracting the dome’s light.
“This was never my intention, you must understand—” She raised a hand to stop him.
“I don’t believe it was your intention. I’m sure you have your reasons, and I’m sure they’re plentiful.” She turned over the glinting piece in her hand. “Why are you here?”
“For you.” He said shortly. “Before you could disappear over the horizon.” She chuckled humorlessly.
“Right.” She threw the piece to the ground and raised her gaze to his. “And it could not wait until tomorrow?” Gale’s cheeks heated momentarily, Tara’s warning ringing in his ears.
“You’d have awaited me, then?” Gale replied pointedly, the answer already on her face. She looked away again.
“Surely you don’t begrudge me the chance to make things right?” Gale moved to shield her from prying eyes, the murmurs behind them growing louder. “Rest assured, this is but one apology amid much contrition.” She hummed a doubtful acknowledgement.
“I’ve accepted your apology. Is that not sufficient?”
He shook his head vehemently. “We both know you have not. Even now, you withdraw.” She closed her eyes for a moment before reopening them and regarding him coldly.
“What use is an apology you do not mean?”
He moved nearer, slightly indignant and rather resentful of the implication. “Do not mean? My behavior is not beyond reproach, I know that.” She watched him move, sparing a glance at the restaurant goers who craned their necks in hope of a view of the mess.
“Both mother and Tara are accustomed to the dedication and time a talent such as mine requires. This is hardly the first time I’ve committed myself to my studies so thoroughly.”
Her eyebrows raised quizzingly. “And such things are to be expected of any who associate with a wizard of your caliber? Is what you are inferring.”
“That is not what I suggested.” He said sourly. “But this achievement was the greatest of my lifetime. I mean that quite literally. It represents my purpose, my duty, my responsibility as Chosen.”
“Your responsibility,” She scoffed, and he bristled but ignored the snideness.
“What is expected of me.” He corrected “Though I will concede that talent and renown do not come cheaply, sacrifices must be made in their pursuit.” He drew nearer still, though she did not retreat as before. “Let us not forget I’ve made exceptions for you in the past.”
“I never asked that of you.” She crossed her arms and frowned as sweat gathered on his neck in the dome’s suffocating warmth.
“And yet.” He paused, thinking. “I do not mention it to provoke you, only to highlight the… equivalence. You may not believe it so, but I have bent my ways to you. It has placed me in a difficult position with Mystra, quite a precarious one.” He continued. “She guides my hand, and I’ve—been disregarding her advice.” He chose his words with great care, though Talia’s eyes searched his face with sharp attention.
“How so?” She said flatly.
“Is it not obvious?” He frowned, frustrated. “Your heedlessness is hardly commendable where She is concerned. That’s to say nothing of your philosophies.”
“My philosophies?” She repeated slowly, clearly aggrieved. “You knew who I was, of my nature. I will not be scolded because it no longer suits you.” She kept her gaze steady and piercing.
“There is no scolding here.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I am explaining my predicament, in the hopes you would see reason.”
“In the hopes it would appease me.” She corrected.
“Is that not a worthwhile goal?” Talia scowled at him. His collar grew damp, the fabric of his robes sticking to his arms. Gale pulled at the collar of his robes, the temperature an unavoidable impediment now.
“Unbelievable.” She snorted, still frowning, her frustration palpable.
“Enlighten me. What would you have me do?” He cursed the insistence in his voice.
“You’re the Chosen, you figure it out.” The halo about her seemed to grow to a brighter pink, causing him to squint.
“I believe you fully capable of explaining without deriding my life’s work,” Gale responded sharply, his patience waning. “You are attempting to provoke me—unsuccessfully, I might add. So I will ask again, what would you have me do?”
“Provide no excuses, to start.” She quipped. “Be plain in your priorities and the fact that they lie elsewhere. By all means pour yourself into your faith but do not be surprised when others do not follow.”
“I’ve not asked that you do.” He snorted. “And I am well acquainted with the lonely road a path such as this requires. A path I presumed you knew well.” He added bitingly.
She folded her arms in response, a hard line settling between her knitted brow.
“I refuse to walk any path that requires washing your hands of choice.” Her voice raised, and then quieted again as the eyes that had returned to their meals wandered towards them again.
”My choices are my own.” He leaned nearer as if she’d mispoken. “Even the foolish ones.” She scowled.
“Do you believe that?” He drew in a breath sharply, the acidity of the question catching him off guard. He paused, gathering himself.
“I know better than you the price of choice, let me assure you. You’ve no idea what is demanded of me, what I’ve sacrificed for my devotion. That faith you speak so casually of, you’ve no understanding of the cost.”
“You speak of cost but consider only what it costs you and then wield it to justify any action.” She snapped. “While you assign yourself apathy and call it devotion.”
“And when, precisely, have I shown you indifference?” Gale hissed. “Really. I cannot believe you, of all people, are lecturing me on accountability. Gods.” He whispered angrily. “Never in all my days have I met someone so entitled. You who have been chosen from birth. Gifted directly. Yet you condemn those who require a doctrine to gain what you have innately, only to then claim the greatest distress from the divine?”
It was her turn to stare at him agog. She gestured wildly at the scene around them.
“Entitled?! You look at this and call me entitled? For all you learned in Elysium, you’ve come back twice as empty-headed.” She shot back hotly. “I don’t want to hear another word from you about responsibilities when you ignore mine.”
“What do you know of responsibility?” A flash of Weave stretched between them. “You do as you please, beholden to none. You come and go as you wish and have nothing but disdain for those of us who must uphold the order of things. Frankly, I am fortunate that Mystra was willing to overlook how I’ve allowed you to derail my research in pursuit of keeping up with your delinquency. I’m sorry, but there would have to be more cause to abandon my life’s work and access to unprecedented power than just your feelings on the matter. What cause has She given you to produce this much contempt for the very being who grants you your magic?”
Gale was getting properly angry now, as was Talia, it seemed. The air that surrounded her wavered like the horizon on a scorching day, though she herself stayed deathly still.
“No one GRANTS me my magic; innate or not, my talents are a product of years of practice and the beat of magic that composes my every fiber; she holds no dominion over me. But thank the gods she was there to raise you from the mire of mundanity.”
The frigidness of the night seemed to melt away as Talia’s shimmering pink aura turned a blistering red. Arcs of flame snapped at the open air like a small sun. Behind them, the shattered glass began to heat, becoming molten. Undaunted, he stepped forward, never to intimidate—if such a thing were possible, but to ensure that he would be heard. She stepped forward to meet him, their defiance matched.
“She was correct about you then. You do see yourself as separate from the architecture, while you condemn those who require a doctrine to gain what you have. Exceptional as you may be, you are not the exception... In any regard. Perhaps we are not as aligned as I had thought. I would never be so short-sighted.” Talia’s eyes ignited as the boards beneath her feet began to singe.
“You do not get to speak to me that way.” Talia matched his low volume, the weight of her words, unmistakable. “I don’t let anyone speak to me the way I let you endlessly scold and condescend to me. I am present when it matters, which is more than any god can say.”
The heat was bordering on intolerable now; his eyes felt like they were boiling in their sockets. Talia had not been spared her own magical fury; the skin of her shoulders looked raw and painful, a hint of blistering upon the skin.
“Step back, Gale.” It was spoken with such authority that he considered following the command on instinct. The intensity of her eyes molten, he could feel the waves of the Weave break upon her. The pressure as if they stood beneath an ocean. It was almost too much, almost.
“No.” He matched her tone of dominance, drawing himself up to his full height and setting his shoulders. "Spitting sparks like a log on fire may win you disagreements with most, but I have held audience with divinity. Some paltry ashes will not deter me, Talia.”
She faltered, the air cooling almost instantly, the pressure becoming surmountable. A range of conflicted emotions ran rampant across her face, none lingering for long. His head pounded, his feelings a mangled knot of outrage mixing lethally with disappointment and a small measure of awe at her display.
“Are you—?” She began, as her eyes roamed him, likely in search of injury.
“I’m fine.” He snapped defiantly. “I’ve no desire to become a spectacle, but you forced my hand. Perhaps your instinct to avoid this confrontation was sound. Perhaps solitude suits you.”
She froze, the cooled expression returning to her face. She straightened and met his gaze again, her tone level.
“Excuse me?”
“You shy from my attempts at appeasement as readily as you shy from me.” He held the reins of his voice steady, fiery though the wording was. “I see now I was more the fool, to not listen the first time.”
They stared at each other silently, the bare skin of her shoulder blistered and glistening. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, his eyes meeting hers in a clash of coldness and fire. She breathed deeply once and spoke.
“You… are not who I thought you were.”
It wasn't said with any particular malice; it was, instead, cruelly matter-of-fact. Gale wondered if she'd stabbed him, and twisted in the seconds after. He looked down, expecting a protruding weapon. But there was no dagger, and no blood welled; instead, anger flowed, the words that followed came with more ease than anything sentimental ever had.
“It appears I’ve misjudged the situation.” He said quietly. She looked at him sharply, perhaps anticipating further jabs.
“I’ve allowed you far closer than it seems you wish to be.” He said, louder this time.
“I believe the preservation of our friendship is not worth the wounds it inflicts. I think it best our paths diverge. Lest we poison the more favorable memories of this bond.” Her face fractured, and for a moment, he considered begging her apology again. Neither spoke; the silence hung heavy and cold upon the tangled mess they'd crafted.
They bid no goodbye as they parted. The brightness of his return overshadowed by the darkness of their division. The walk to his tower felt particularly lonesome. The cold from the weather had fully seeped into his bones, or that was what he preferred to believe. She couldn’t understand; by suggesting anything less than total devotion, she’d suggested heresy. Abandonment of everything he’d come to rely upon. As he neared home, he felt a familiar tug, turning to see a small shrine to Mystra. Beneath the exterior of her likeness surged a relentless current of the purest Weave: a summoning channel, the kind commanded by Mystra herself. Baring the weight of both responsibility and a heavy heart, he took a step towards the beckoning energy.
Just a thought. I was reading East of Eden recently and thought this quote captured Gale Dekarios’s core wound perfectly.
And in our time, when a man dies—if he has had wealth and influence and power and all the vestments that arouse envy, and after the living take stock of the dead man's property and his eminence and works and monuments—the question is still there: Was his life good or was it evil?—which is another way of putting Croesus's question. Envies are gone, and the measuring stick is: "Was he loved or was he hated? Is his death felt as a loss or does a kind of joy come of it?
[…]
In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I just choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to our world.
Gale’s pursuit of power, forbidden knowledge, the Netherese orb, even becoming Mystra’s Chosen are not driven by purely hubris. They are driven by the hope that if he is extraordinary enough, he will finally be loved in the way he longs for. Power becomes a language he uses to say, “Am I enough now?” Every “mistake” he makes is an attempt to close the distance between himself and affection.
I consider Gale to be genuinely good-hearted. But he wants to matter. He wants his goodness to be seen and chosen. Mystra’s love being conditional, distant, divine turns that desire into something brittle and dangerous.
Gale is terrified not just of death, but of meaningless death, of being brilliant, talented, devoted, and still disposable. That’s why I think sacrifice feels tempting to him: dying usefully feels better than living unloved.
I believe that much of Gale’s moral failure (The orb or even compliance during evil runs) stems from not necessarily evil choices but lonely ones.
the number 1 rule of fanfic is have fun and be yourself. the number 2 rule is the average healthy adult male can lose roughly 2 liters of blood before dying.
Here for Gale fanfics @gottawritesomething - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
