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Arcane Hunger

Pre-Relationship Gale x Male Tav (Lucius Skorn) Takes place in early Act 1. Magical items stopped working for Gale a while ago, and the symptoms have kept coming. The Ilmatari cleric Lucius wakes in the middle of the night to find Gale in the woods, pained and tormented by the Orb in his chest. With nothing else left to treat it, Lucius comes up with an idea to sate it. Rated T Read on AO3 See: Kitchen Territory for another Gale/Lucius slow burn one shot

This was a life lived on the precipice of peril.

Four centuries as the hunter and the hunted. From the delicate youth of a fawn to the wolf whose maw it was made for, to a broken dog leashed by its masters and starved — Lucius learned well not to sleep through anything. In rest is vulnerability, and every small sound in the night is the potential for a great threat.

This was the first lesson his father taught him the second he’d heard that tell-tale jingle of a belt buckle. A lesson he carried as a thief, then a leader, and then a slave.

If the foliage rustles, there’s an enemy nearby. A threat to the coalition, an incoming attack — many times in the night during the Lockjaws’ camp, Lucius had caught all sorts of aspiring predators intent on ending their reign.

Floorboards creaking, rusty doors squeaking, the faint pitter patter of feet upon the ground — Lucius never took any risks. Most of the time, it had been nothing. Others, there was the impending dagger incoming, followed by a corpse that was not his own on the floor.

The alert are victorious. The survivors are the winners.

Lucius will not be flayed.

His head snaps up, hands instinctively reaching for their daggers as he whirls to his knees with vigilance. Try him, someone fucking try him, is all he can think, but as he blinks the sleep out of his eyes, he finds there’s no one there.

Once again, he has woken to nothing.

Lucius doesn’t rest his daggers just yet, still staying frozen in position in case anyone did dare enter his tent. One moment, two moments and three, his heart beats and echoes in his ears in time with the wind, but nothing comes.

Of course nothing comes.

He sheathes his daggers and rubs his face. How long has it been since he had a full night’s rest? Years? Decades? Centuries? Had he ever had a full, undisturbed rest? He can’t help but recall the one night Father Lorgan woke him in the middle of the night, and Lucius had very nearly assailed him before recognition flooded. Even in the two years of peace at the Open Hand Temple, he hadn’t been able to find rest.

Being in the forest with tadpoles in their heads isn’t making it any easier.

He’s about to convince himself to lay back down and sleep when he hears a noise again. His ears flick back, and he holds perfectly still. An animal? A voice? Has someone gotten up in the middle of the night?

He peeks his head out of his tent. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. The half-moon illuminates the tents with a gentle caress of blue, and the wind rustles the leaves with a soft layer of noise to fill the silence. There’s the chitter of distant nighttime animals and the occasional buzz of little bugs that have their own homes nearby. By all means, it’s a lovely night, and as far as he can tell, no one has gotten up. Gentle snores emit from the tents, and even the camp animals sleep soundly.

Great. No source. Lucius sighs, retrieving his cloak and daggers, and decides to slip out and search around for himself. There’s no rest until he knows what it is.

And whatever it is, it feels… off.

He slips into the woods quietly, the muscle memory of a rogue taking over and carrying him with swift stealthy steps. Like a wraith, he slips through the foliage silently, unencumbered by the weight of any armor, free to stalk and to listen. Hundreds upon hundreds of times he and his gang had found themselves in forests, climbing the trees, hiding within the plants, staging the perfect ambush against those who pass by. Merchants, rival guilds, the Zhent, nobles – anyone they decided to make their victim that day. Not even daylight could stop these beasts of blood — but that was a lifetime ago. Yet still, that shadow does not leave the cleric.

Step by step, halt, listen. The wind whistles. The leaves rustle. Nothing new. Step, step, ascend, investigate, stop — and there, he hears it: labored breathing, like something, or someone is injured.

Something cold shoots through his veins. Adrenaline or fear? The sound is too humanoid to be an animal, which is far, far worse than what Lucius wanted to hear.

If they need help, they need it fast.

But if they need help, whatever put them here could still be lurking.

One quiet step after another. He has a dagger out, ready for any wrong move to try him. Step by step, he follows that hollow sound, feeling something in the pit of his gut turn when it starts to sound familiar. He’s close now — it’s most certainly humanoid, and they’re in pain, no doubt. But how? And who? And why —

He rounds a tree, and feels his blood turn to ice at the sight of a wizard’s signature purple sleepwear.

“Gale!”

Caution be damned! All thoughts of it melt away in alarm at finding Gale drenched in sweat, propped up against a tree trunk with a hand pressed tightly against his glowing chest. His head is thrown back, expression twisted and eyes screwed tight in agony, and he doesn’t seem to respond to Lucius in the slightest.

Is this fear?

“Gale, hey, Gale!” Lucius shakes his shoulder, only for Gale’s brows to scrunch further. “Gale, look at me. Hey, are you alright? Please look at me.”

Gale lets out a pained breath, peeking an eye open. They look unfocused, as if they can barely see Lucius in the slightest. It takes a few breaths before his lips quirk to a strained smirk and he gets his voice to work. “Hi.”

“The fuck you mean hi — Gale —” Lucius searches him for any injuries, his hands held out with a spell at the ready. There didn’t seem to be any visible wounds, and nothing quite off with Gale aside from the dirt and grass stains that now adorned the rich purple of his clothes. Well, aside from…

His eyes trail up, and beneath Gale’s hand at his sternum, he can see the markings of the Netherese Orb glow up his neck and to the corner of his eye. The purple hue intensifies rhythmically, as if beating in tune with Gale's quickening heart. Lucius’ hairs stand on end.

“What’s happening to you? Why are you out here?”

Gale tries to laugh. It dies in his throat. “I was just… trying to get some air…”

“You look like you’re dying, Gale.”

“Well I certainly hope that’s not the case,” He says, struggling to get the words out. He digs the palm of his heel harder into his chest. “I’m… too close to camp.”

“Don’t tell me you were trying to go find some place to die.”

“No, no,” He takes a deep breath. “I-I just needed air.”

How long had he been out here? How long has the Orb been tearing him apart like this beyond what Lucius could tell? Had he been hiding the severity since the artefacts stopped working? Lucius raises his hands, a curing spell upon his fingertips, but there’s no place to put them. What would he do? What can he do?

Gale’s eyes are squeezed shut again, riding another wave of pain while Lucius sits on his haunches uselessly. He didn’t hear him get up. He should’ve checked on him. He should’ve thought of something. Lucius bites down the terror and buries it in its grave in his chest to speak.

“Tell me how I can help you.”

“Lucius…”

“There’s – There’s got to be something I can do,” Lucius says, leaning in closer. “Anything!”

Gale cranes his head, opening his eyes to look at Lucius as best as he can. He can barely focus. “I just need to ride this out. The Orb won’t feed anymore. I can’t… It’s fine, Lucius.”

“This is very much not fine! You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Gale.”

“I’ve had these episodes before, this is… nothing I can’t handle.”

“Sure, sure…”

Maybe he can’t help him. But he can at the very least keep him from suffering alone in the woods.

Resolute, Lucius makes up his mind. The prepared spell drops, and he slides one hand behind Gale’s back to prop him up. He slides his cloak off and wraps it around the wizard.

“What are you —”

“You see, here’s your first mistake, Gale,” Lucius says, hugging Gale close to him. With ease, he secures his other hand under Gale’s knees and hoists him up. “You’re telling a cleric of Ilmater to let you suffer alone. I think you should know by now that I’m not letting that happen.”

Gale tenses as he’s suddenly lifted, curling in closer to Lucius and shutting his eyes. “Please put me down.”

“And just let you rot in the woods? Come on, Gale.”

“There isn’t anything —”

“To the Hells with that. Maybe I can’t stop the Orb…” Lucius makes certain he has a good hold on Gale before heading back towards the camp. “But the very least I can do is keep you company.”

Gale is both lighter and heavier than he expects. Lighter, in that it was significantly easier to lift him than he imagined it would be. Heavier, in that the man is real, warm, solid, and in his arms. The darling wizard that’s had Lucius spinning dizzy for some time now was now cradled close to him. Gale likely isn’t able to fight back against him, for which Lucius feels a crumb of guilt over. He hates to whisk someone away when they don’t want it — but with how Gale collapses into himself, not taking his hand off his chest for a second and screws his eyes tight, he can’t help but feel he has no choice but to watch over him, or at the very least keep him where he can see him. Where he’s not exposed to the elements and gods forbid whatever else might be out there.

He treads the outskirts of the camp, circling away from where the others are sleeping in order to get to his own tent a little ways off. He’s long since learned that not many of the others are quite… fond of Lucius, which means his tent has the least amount of traffic in the camp. An advantage in this case, seeing that Gale needs to be away from the others in such a vulnerable state like this.

He hunches into the entrance, crouching low until he’s able to safely lay Gale down on his bedroll without tussling him, resting his head gently on his pillow. Gale peers up at him through squinted eyes, trying to follow him as Lucius closes up his tent and begins to rummage through the baskets and satchels he had around.

“Lucius…”

“Not a word, Gale,” Lucius says, pulling out a small crate from under his makeshift desk. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of protests and excuses and other words to try and discourage me from helping you, but they will be on deaf ears, my friend.”

Gale stays silent for a moment. When Lucius looks back at him, he has his head turned away.

“I just have to ride it out in waves,” Gale says weakly. At the very least he seems to have caught his breath a little. “Whatever it is you’re going to do, I’d rather save you the time. I’ve tried to feed it already. It doesn’t work.”

“Mm, I’m sure you have. I don’t doubt it. But if you’re just going with rings and trinkets, I just don’t think it’s strong enough.”

“Lucius —”

“Here, but first,” Lucius pulls out a rag, giving it a quick sniff to make sure it’s clean and dusts it off. With the quick incantation of a water spell, the rag soaks, dripping onto the floor. “Whoops, shit —”

He folds it neatly, wringing out the excess, and gently wipes down Gale’s face. Gale closes his eyes, but allows Lucius to move him when he brings his other hand to turn his head, bringing the cool, soft rag across his cheek, his nose, his chin and his temple. The process is automatic, for which Lucius is grateful for. In the Open Hand Temple, they’d sometimes take in the sick who needed help, and as one of the adorned who worked with the medicines, Lucius was often tasked with caring for them. The feverish, the elderly, all those who needed someone to care for them but were utterly alone. That’s what the Ilmatari are for. To help bear those burdens for those who couldn’t carry it. They take their places on the rack and bear it for them, for no one should suffer if they don’t have to.

He refreshes the rag and refolds it, laying it horizontally across Gale’s forehead. He’s done it a hundred times before, sometimes for faces that he often forgot, and for the faces who only had the Temple to go to. And though muscle memory shields Lucius from any strong feelings, he finds himself resting his hand over the rag, lost in observing Gale’s features up close. There’s no denying he’s a beautiful man, no matter how many times Lucius tries to convince himself otherwise. Soft brows, hooded eyelids, long lashes, laugh lines, a well kept beard, and those dark veins at Gale’s left eye that connected to his Netherese scar — he has to catch himself lest he linger for too long watching over him tenderly. It’s not appropriate.

“There we are,” He says, clearing his throat and patting the rag on his forehead before moving to the other side of the tent. “That should help you cool down. Let me see if there was any tea I salvaged. A good cup of tea ought to do you some good. Tea usually helps. Tea’s good.”

He can hear Gale huff with amusement. That’s good. He’s coming back to himself somewhat. He rummages through his inventory, trying not to bang all the pots and pans he’s found around in their travels, and finally manages to find some flowers he knows in his heart to have medicinal properties.

“I don’t have sugar on me. And I ate the last of my honey yesterday, so you’re going to have a bitter brew,” Lucius says out loud while he tries to arrange the shittiest set up of a teapot to boil without a stove or proper bonfire to boil at. He sets a wide copper pan missing its handle upside down on his table, a miniature brazier frame atop of it, and the dinked up teapot he’d salvaged on top. Water incantation fills it, and he flicks his fingers to try and light the brazier.

“Are… Are you starting a fire inside your tent?”

“Hm? Oh, no, not at all.”

“It very much looks like a homemade stove there.”

“Yes, but it’s not fire,” He pokes a finger onto the piece of charcoal laid in the metal frame. “Incende. Sacred flame cantrip — I was never good at the fire one.”

“Still technically fire.”

The made up stove lights up. “It’s sacred flame. Radiant. It’s different.”

“You’re using it to ignite something. It’s fire now.”

“But it’s holy fire.”

“Fire regardless.”

“I’m not going to burn this down, I’ve done this before,” Lucius says with a laugh, settling back onto his haunches to open the box he’d pulled out. “And even if I do, I have a water spell on hand. I’m glad I took the time to learn it. Never needed to use it so often than when I got stuck out here.”

“Oh, I hear that,” Gale huffs, wincing again as the Orb seems to coil him with pain. When he speaks again, it’s with significant strain. “I’ve gone through a handful of spells in my day I took for granted. Up until the moment I needed them.”

“That’s always how it goes, isn’t it.”

He crab-walks towards Gale, dragging the box with him. Gale cranes his head up, the rag covering his brows to create the illusion of an angry look on his face. “What are you doing?”

“You know, when you first told me about your whole uh, condition thing,” Lucius says, sticking his hand into the box and clattering all the various objects inside. “I actually went through the effort of hoarding all sorts of magical items that I could find.”

Gale’s expression softens. “Oh! That’s… very appreciated.”

“I mean I got a lot, Gale.” Lucius holds Gale’s gaze as he knocks the box over, spilling all of the items on the floor. A shortbow, daggers with various runic inscriptions, a dozen rings, a handful of necklaces that have tangled into each other, several maces, an axe, some crumpled scrolls, two pairs of gloves, a helmet that belonged to a halfling once upon a time, and other trinkets covered by the mess of items. Gale watches as all of the objects pour out and onto the floor, staring at it wordlessly, then back up at Lucius, then back to the pile.

“When did you… H-How did you… Where did…”

“This might sound hard to believe,” Lucius says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I used to be a… pickpocket, back in the day. There were just too many useful magical stuff we were finding and not very much I was able to spare, and it was scaring me. So, whenever we got to some higher crowds, I… went ahead and relieved some of them of their excess weight.”

Gale stares at the pile. “That is a lot of stuff.”

“I wasn’t about to let you starve.”

There’s a moment of silence while the two of them watched each other. Lucius can feel the distance between them — they were still strangers to each other for the most part, even if Lucius had suddenly found himself with an inexplicable infatuation for the wizard. He has no doubt he’s put Gale in an awkward position, having whisked him away bridal style into his tent while his ailment ate away at him, leaving him at his most vulnerable. He won’t pretend to understand Gale’s life story, or how this condition has treated him, or what he’s normally used to under those circumstances. He just knows that he can do what he can to ensure he can lift that burden in any way, and he wants Gale to know that he’s willing to do so.

And from that look on his face, perhaps Gale wasn’t expecting that Lucius would at all.

He tries not to feel anything about that. He hasn’t given many reasons for the camp to like him much, and that’s fine. But he’s willing to go through the effort for them. He’s not sure anyone has fully realized it just yet.

Gale’s expression drops to one more solemn, and Lucius feels his heart sink with it. “I don’t even know if this will work.”

“Will you at least try? I know you said it’s not sating the hunger anymore, but… maybe the doses were too small. Maybe you need a big go all at once. It’s… like a neverending maw, isn’t it? One ring a week can’t keep you going forever.”

Gale presses his lips together. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep some of it? It just… it all looks so valuable, Lucius, I —”

“Quit looking for excuses and let me help you damn it!” Lucius snaps, louder than he expects. It shuts Gale right up, sure, but the last thing he wanted to do was raise his voice at this man. He rubs his face, dropping into a proper seat on the floor. “Look… I told you. I set this stuff aside for you specifically. I hid this from everyone else for a reason. You think Astarion and Shadowheart wouldn’t go crazy for some of this stuff? I left it out of the inventory logs. What I gave you to help before came from this pile. Except the first one, of course, as you kind of caught me off guard — but still.”

Lucius doesn’t want to make assumptions about this man. He would think it’d be a little easier for a man of his caliber to understand and accept gifts. He pressed the urgency for having something to sate him, but now he wants to back off? Why can’t he just let him? And why can’t Lucius just let it go?

Why is it filling him with such a deep, profound sadness that Gale is hesitating?

Gale sits up, slow in his movements and carefully pulling his hand off his chest, as if doing it too fast would cause something to spill violently, the other taking the rag off his head. Up into a criss cross, he slouches dejectedly, staring at the vaguely glowing pile of goods.

“I appreciate it, Lucius, please don’t mistaken me,” Gale says softly, rubbing a hand down his face. “It’s just… I don’t know. It hurts sometimes. Not just… physically. I’m a wizard, Lucius, I command control over the Weave. I dedicate my life to studying it. It was more than just my everything. My very being, intertwined with me, at my fingertips. Even Mystra herself, the mother of magic, had caressed me once with such divine power — and now I’m…”

The Orb glows under his shirt, and he grinds his teeth as it gnaws on him from the inside out. Lucius can almost feel it. That dark, radiating magnetic power — subtle enough that Lucius could ignore it if he didn’t know what he was looking for, but strong enough that if he does, he can feel the pull of it towards Gale’s chest. It seethes and it burns and claws and chews. He can see how it’s left bruises over his skin.

“I know I brought this on myself. It’s the consequences of my own actions, my own hubris, but it doesn’t make the burden any lighter. The Orb… all it does is consume. It takes, and it takes from me. Magic is my lifeblood, and now I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life destroying it, lest it kill me and bring catastrophe to everything and everyone else unfortunate enough to be nearby.”

He takes a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. Trying to keep control. Lucius lets the silence balance, lest he knock something over with words.

“These are all very nice things, Lucius. I just… I hate that this is what it’s made of me. To consume and destroy the Weave. Magic that is my world. So many powerful and valuable items intertwined with it in this world that I’ve destroyed because I took something too far. I can’t help but feel that I am robbing you of so much utility for something I can no longer sate…”

Lucius casts his gaze back to the pile. Sure, there were some things in there he could find use for. He had already plucked some things out of the box a couple times when he realized he could make use of some of the rings and such in there, but… for the most part, Lucius felt no attachment to them. He knew when he lifted these items that they were going to be destroyed, and it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

He decides to be a little brave and moves to sit beside Gale, close enough that their arms touch, catching his gaze. Gale makes considerable effort to focus on him, and though he’s more conscious now, it’s clear it’s taking every ounce of energy he’s got into this conversation.

“Gale, I literally let a highly suspicious vampire feed on my literal blood on the regular to sate him.”

Gale can’t help but honk a laugh at that, shaking his head.

“Look at me, Gale, I’m serious! It sounds funny, mostly because it is, but this is where I’m coming from. You think someone who’s letting in a spawn walk around the camp — and let us not forget, I am a cleric here — that I’m going to just call you, a chronically ill wizard, a burden?”

“Now, to be fair, I am quite literally a walking bomb —”

“Everyone here has some weird shit going on!” Lucius says. “Sure, not everyone’s about to blow up, but you think you’re the only one with baggage? The only one here who isn’t worth saving? A vampire spawn. A Sharran cleric. Noah being Noah. Infernal engine lady. A githyanki warrior — well, her deal is more a culture shock than anything but I won’t digress, ‘cause listen, I thought at least Wyll was the normal one here, and then it turns out he’s a fucking warlock!”

On the tip of his tongue, the precipice of his mind, Lucius imagines for one wild moment that he spills his own story to Gale. That he admits the kind of person that he was — still is, even. That he’s only been a cleric for two years, that he spent decades in prison prior to that, several more decades as a slave before that, and centuries being the absolute worst, rotten filth in Faerûn with the Lockjaw Gang. The blood of hundreds, mostly innocent, stains his hands always and forever. He still remembers the feeling of his hand around a dagger, blades plunged into flesh just for the thrill of it. How he’d first begun robbing for money and stability to live, and then became so good at it he just did it because it was fun. A horrific, terrifying menace, Lord Skorn, so awful that there had once been rumors that he was a Bhaalist —

But he doesn’t say any of it. And he knows Gale won’t ask. As far as anyone knew, he used to be a rogue, served time for being one, and found Ilmater when he came out. It’s good enough. No one needs to know. His scars and his tattoos speak for themselves.

“Besides,” Lucius continues, bumping his shoulder. “You’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t accept this. I got all of this for you, Gale. If you let it go to waste, I will be mad. Is that good enough for you?”

Gale looks at him, taking a moment longer than normal to process his words before scoffing, shaking his head. “Fine. So be it. I suppose you’re right. All this effort just to go to waste…”

“Exactly. Now, come on. I can’t stand to see you like this. You have to at least try.”

Gale takes a deep breath, staring down at the pile of magical items. Lucius plucks the rag out of his hands and scoots to give him some space. It takes the wizard a moment to find his bearings, and he watches his expression change as he drops his hands on top of the pile. Hunger. A ravenous, desperate, wild look, one Lucius had only seen on the most spurned of men who’d never been spared a moment of kindness or earned enough gold to live. The look of a starved wolf, manic over the bones of a long since picked at carcass, desperate to find even a modicum of flesh still left on the kill. The look Lucius had seen in his own eyes, his own reflection as a child when winter came, and neither he or his father were able to secure enough food before getting stuck in the snow. The look in his eyes the day he decided to cut his father’s own throat out —

Here comes the glow. Each of the items light up in a vivid violet, illuminating the tent with its brightness as they begin to pull like magnets towards Gale’s hands. Lucius had watched him consume these kinds of items before, but never this many. Never more than one at most. It was always fascinating to watch the ring or pair of gloves or mace disintegrate into Gale’s hands and feed into his chest, but this, oh, this was different. This, Lucius feels, shows him a better glimpse on the extent of the hunger, the raw, visceral, chaotic magic that plagues the wizard. It has never glowed this bright before, rattled and tangled and crumpled in on itself on its way to Gale’s hands, leaving fettering trails of flaky purple dust and an electric sting to the air. The magic funnels through and around Gale, siphoning into the center of his chest with a vacuum of sound. Sitting this close, he can almost feel the pull of the Orb, and finds himself leaning back out of sheer instinct as the items disintegrate.

He doesn’t want to call it beautiful, because it feels like a cruel thing to say to such a sight. It’s a horrible thing, this Orb and its hunger. What it does to Gale. But it’s an awe inspiring sight. The magic paints the tent in a violet hue, and he can almost taste it in the air, potent and raw as it breaks and breaks and breaks towards Gale. One by one, each item loses its form and becomes nothing. The tangled necklaces become one, and then become none. The rings lose their shape and become dust. Weapons that have likely slain many forgotten faces in the past are rendered useless. Fodder. Consumed.

Perhaps Lucius had simply always found beauty in destruction.

Perhaps that’s what made Lucius an unforgivable man.

Eventually, the pile is rendered to nothing. Just a light trail of pink smoke to ever hint that anything existed at all. Gale still swells with magic, his hands pressed tightly over his sternum as if to cram all of it into the Orb and keep it there. His expression is screwed tight with pain, and Lucius wishes he could alleviate it, wishes he could reach out and smooth out those creases with his thumb and hold him close.

(How much longer can he pretend that these kinds of thoughts are platonic? How many times can he tell himself that it’s simply because he is Ilmatari that he feels things like this? It is his duty to bear these burdens, yes, but such feelings of care never did come naturally to Lucius. It has always been an active effort to bring himself to care about anything or anyone. Why it comes so easily when with Gale… well, how can he keep pretending there isn’t merit to these thoughts?)

The Orb releases him, and Gale slumps, the tension loose from his body after the effort it took. It startles Lucius so much that he immediately has his hands to catch him before he can fully understand what was going on. Did it hurt? Did he faint? Did it work?

“Gale, hey hey, are you okay?”

Gale trembles in his hold, and after a moment, he turns, suddenly burying himself into Lucius’ chest. Lucius freezes, unsure what to do or where to move. Gale is warm. He’s a comfortable weight, and he fits so nicely in his arms. He fell into his arms — he is seeking him out.

But he’s shaking.

Lucius rests his hands on Gale’s back tentatively, feeling Gale cling onto Lucius’ shirt. Lucius prays that it’s relief that Gale feels, that he’s simply overwhelmed with it and overjoyed with it, but he knows in the pit of his gut that it’s probably not true.

He asks anyways, in case the gods decided to grant them mercy.

“Did it work?”

His voice is a whisper.

Gale takes a sharp breath. He’s crying.

“No.”

Lucius closes his eyes, feeling his chest twist at the confirmation. He was sure. He was so, so sure this would work…

He wraps his arms around Gale tight, pulling him in close, and Gale throws his arms around Lucius just as tight in turn, clinging onto him. His cries are quiet, composed mostly of sharp breaths. A despair Lucius can only imagine. The pit of his gut churns with frustration at how helpless he is to the situation. Lucius rocks gently in the embrace, resting his chin atop Gale’s head and staying silent, letting him take all the time he needs to gather himself. Or to fall apart. If Gale needed to shatter, Lucius would be here to piece him together if he had to.

Either way, Gale won’t be alone. He’ll be here. He’ll hold onto him.

He doesn’t know how long they stay here like this, but eventually, Gale does manage to settle his breaths and find the strength to pull away. He doesn’t look up at Lucius, though he can see how disheveled his hair has become and the puffiness in his eyes from the emotion. Lucius wordlessly hands him the wet rag, and Gale accepts it, wiping his face.

Silence hangs between him. Lucius wonders if that distance between them has grown any shorter than when he last felt it earlier, or if it’s become a chasm now with the raw wound on his pride.

Gale unfolds the rag, draping the entirety of it against his face, covering him completely as he keeps it pressed against his eyes. After a moment longer, Gale clears his throat, intending on gathering his bearings as quickly as possible.

“... You should check on your fire hazard.”

“My wh—”

Ah. The shitty teapot on his shitty made up stove.

“Martyred Father…”

Lucius springs up in a hurry, nearly tripping over the box he discarded and extinguishes the heat with a cantrip. The water has since boiled, some of it evaporated with the time that’s passed. He retrieves one of his chipped mugs, placing the flowers and herbs into it before pouring the hot water in. In a perfect world, he’d have some cinnamon, perhaps some cream. Some sugars and some honey. A nice, new mug with different painted decals, one that wasn’t chipped. And he’d have a real stove, a real bed, running water and a fire in a fireplace. He’d make all of this look nicer, taste nicer, feel nicer, and they’d be comfortable.

But instead, it’s their salvaged resources out in the wilds, a sewed up tent, parasites in their skulls and a ticking time bomb in a man that’s slowly convincing Lucius that there may just be some merit in the stories people tell about falling in love.

He hopes that making the tea is giving Gale enough time to recover, enough distance to patch himself up from the vulnerability he’s just exposed to Lucius. He knows keenly what this moment was, and he knows that it’ll be raw for a while. He won’t poke it. He won’t push him further than he has to. This is sacred, and this is important. He will hold it in the cup of his hands gently and take care of the trust Gale has given him in this moment, and he will simply do what he can to help him without wounding him.

Sure enough, by the time Lucius returns with the mug, Gale has laid back down, the rag folded now over his eyes and brow, and his hands clasped together over his belly. His breathing was more even, and he was more collected than he left him.

“It’ll take a few minutes for all the flowers and stuff to seep in the water,” Lucius says, mostly to announce his presence as he sits back down beside Gale. “Water’s still clear. Needs a sec before it gets that nice amber color. Wish I had sugar.”

“You’ve been sweet enough to me already,” Gale says quietly, though not moving from his position. “That’ll be enough to get me through the tea.”

Lucius huffs with amusement. His gaze can’t help but travel to the markings on Gale’s chest. The Orb doesn’t feel nearly as unstable as it did earlier, but it was still glowing, still etching into the wizard’s skin.

He decides to ask the delicate question. “How are you feeling?”

Gale takes one long, slow deep breath. “Admittedly, better. The pain is… somewhat duller, but still…” He shrugs. “... still pain. That amount of magic should’ve held me off for at least a month. Now it just…”

He scowls. Lucius can already imagine the types of things he’s readying up to say. Apologetic and avoiding the subject of how he actually feels.

So Lucius answers. “It’s still hungry.”

Gale sighs. “Yes. Very much so.”

Lucius sets the mug aside, rubbing his hands together in thought. The fact that there was relief gained was good. It meant he could treat it somewhat, but getting a hold of that many magical items again just for a temporary amount of relief was going to be difficult to maintain. Gale says it comes in waves, so it won’t always be this bad, but it also means that he’s in constant pain.

The thought twists something in his gut. There were a few moments recently during various combative encounters that Gale wasn’t able to focus on his spells completely. His missteps cost Lucius and Wyll a great deal of trouble with the goblins, and were it not for Shadowheart, they’d have seen a greater deal of blood on their end. He feels guilty for not noticing it before. Every moment he’s had with Gale where he seemed off was recontextualized now, and by the Rack it ached to think about.

There had to be something he could do. Anything. A steady stream of magic to at least take the edge off, and at least provide him some relief so he’s not panting in the woods at the dead of night.

Lucius looks down at his hands. An idea brews in his mind.

“The magic helped a little though, didn’t it?” Lucius asks. “You’re at least not falling apart at the seams anymore.”

“It’s definitely helped me feel… present,” Gale says. “I… still feel like it’s going to start eating me alive at any second if I move the wrong way.”

“Do you mind if I try something else?”

Gale turns his head a little, carefully raising a hand to peek out from the rag. “Don’t tell me you have another box full of stolen items.”

“Haha, not magical ones,” Lucius says, scooting over to sit closer to Gale. He holds up a hand, feeling divinity flow through his fingertips. “I… have a theory I’d like to try. I think at this point anything is worth a shot, right?”

Gale squints at him, his gaze flickering between him and his glowing hand. There’s a quirk of his lips. “Are you putting me down?”

“Yes, actually, that was exactly what I was about to do, you caught me,” He waves his hand around. “No, Gale. You need to consume magic, don’t you?”

“The Weave, yes…”

“Well… I don’t really control the Weave like you do. Actually, I’m not sure if what I control counts as the Weave — but what I do know is this,” Lucius brings his hand closer to Gale, still tentative, and holding it so Gale can push it away no problem if he doesn't want any part. “The magic I wield is given to me by my god. Ilmater, the One Who Endures — He preaches that we must take on the burdens of others so they do not have to suffer. What’s a more noble cause for Ilmater to intervene in than to call for His power to alleviate this ailment of yours?”

Gale scrunches his brows in thought, his eyes flickering away as he tries to run the theory over in his mind. “... I can’t say I’ve tried feeding off of the magic of holy items or the equivalent thereof - though, that is mostly because I’ve not come across any of them in my tower, nor a cleric to boot. In theory, I don’t think the Orb will respond to it — you and I wield very different magics. I, of the Art, and you, of the Power — but again, I haven’t tested it. It’s… Hmm, it could be an alternative source…” His gaze flicks back to Lucius. “But… won’t it exhaust you? I don’t know how much it will need to take. It’s one thing for me to take your material things, but an entirely different thing to take from you directly.”

“Oh holy Martyred Father — Gale what did I just say? Cleric. Of. Ilmater. I let a fucking vampire take from me. Stop stopping me, damn you.”

“I’m just —”

“Stop it. Seriously!” Lucius huffs. “If you don’t want to try it because the magics don’t mix or for some other hypothetical reason that puts you on edge, that’s perfectly fine. But if you’re refusing it because you think I’m going to lose something from it or whatever, please don’t. I’m telling you right now I want to help you, and through the power vested in me by the God of Endurance, I assure you I could absolutely fucking handle it.”

Gale lets out a puff of air, looking up in thought. The Orb still glows, painfully so, and Lucius can see him running through all sorts of ideas in his head.

Finally, the wizard seems to settle, leveling his gaze back to Lucius. “... Fine. I have to admit, I am rather curious what sorts of effects divine magic will have on me.”

“There we go, there’s the nerd in you.”

“You caught me. I am always a sucker for testing theories.”

“If it doesn’t work or has a worse effect, we can stop and save the trouble, if that makes you feel better.”

“That sounds good to me.” Gale sits up, pointing a daunting finger at Lucius. “But you have to promise me that if at any point during this you experience a significant amount of pain, you must stop.”

“If it stings a little, I can bear through it man —”

“You must promise me that, Lucius Skorn. If it feels like this Orb is a threat to your life and safety, you will stop.”

Lucius tilts his head a few times in thought. “Alright. Fine.”

“Promise?”

“I swear it on my Lord.”

“Thank you.” Gale settles back down, staring straight at the tent’s ceiling ahead. “Your God is watching you, so I do hope you keep to your word.”

“Har har.”

A buzz of excitement flows through him. If this works, then they’ve found a solution to hold them off enough until they can find another alternative. Just kneeling before Gale, preparing to use the powers given to him feels holy in and of itself. Though Lucius’ connection with Ilmater has been somewhat hazy these days, his magic still flows strong, and he swears it feels even stronger as he summons divinity through his veins here.

Lucius rests his hand over the Orb in Gale’s chest, light to the touch before fully committing. In his mind, he calls out to Ilmater, seeking a pathway to that holy power, hoping to tap into the very vein of it and channel it in one go. “Ilmater, the Tortured God, the God of Endurance, holy Martyred Father on the Rack — grant me your power to bear this burden. Give me the strength to carry it on my shoulders, offer me your divinity to alleviate my friend. Allow me, Ilmater, to take his place on the rack.”

Gale closes his eyes, and Lucius follows. There’s a moment of fear that flickers through him. What if Ilmater doesn’t respond? What if he calls out for his power and nothing happens? What if he just made a fool of himself here, and has nothing to show for?

Cruel, cruel thoughts. Purge them, cleric, and open yourself. Self doubt will get you nowhere. Bear this burden, Lucius.

The power runs through him like a shock of cold water dumped on him all at once. It crashes through his heart and travels through his veins, overflowing through his fingertips in a flurry. The Orb glows viciously, and he feels the magnetism of it pull his hand closer against Gale’s chest, pressing against him with far too much pressure. He can barely move the hand — he plants his free one on the bedroll beside Gale to keep balanced, and feels Gale immediately snap to clutch it tightly. Gale writhes with the power that flows, the glow reaching to the veins of his eye as divinity spills from Lucius’ hand into him.

Lucius has to grit his teeth to stay rooted and keep control over the sudden power coursing through him. “Is it working?!”

Gale can barely respond. His other hand has gripped Lucius’ wrist as it funnels the power, and he’s kicked his knees up to dig his heels into the bedroll, his breath caught in his throat. It makes Lucius run cold with fear, but when he begins to pull the magic away from him, Gale only pulls his arm in.

“I’m okay,” He hisses through grit teeth. “It’s… It’s doing something. Don’t stop.”

Lucius nods, and lets the magic continue to flow. The Orb has begun to shift in hue, the violets and blues changing to that of the golden oranges and yellows that Lucius funnels into him. Gale’s grip is tight against him, clawing through his sleeves and digging into his skin hard enough to leave bruises. Lucius grinds his teeth as he tries to keep his balance. He’d witnessed the hunger itself only once before when Gale had him place his hand over his heart and project the memory of the Orb through their tadpoles. But being on the other end of it, feeling an incorporeal force latch onto him and try to tear him away, all teeth and jaws and a bottomless pit of a stomach, oh, it does scare him. Every time the Orb pulls and licks at skin that his holy magic didn’t cover, it fills him with an overwhelming visceral fear, a force so strong that Lucius wonders if it’s even his at all.

The Orb pulses. Waves of magnetism shake both of the men, throttling them and pulling them into its center, knocking Lucius off balance and nearly collapsing on Gale. He remembers being told that the Orb will erupt. That just a fraction of this power is enough to level a city the size of Waterdeep. He aggravates it now with his magic, feeding it something other than the Weave, this hungry thing. It pulls and pulls, and Lucius can’t move his arm. He might be damning them. He might just kill them both, kill everyone in this camp. He might just ruin everything, ruin everyone, ruin it all.

But the divine magic is a fount he can’t stop, a waterfall that pours and pours into a maw that takes and takes. Could he possibly hope to feed it all? To satisfy it enough? How does one feed that which never stops hungering?

(How do you feed yourself, when you yearn and ache and writhe with hunger that you can’t seem to kick? When you travel the world after seeing bars and chains for years, and look for something, anything that can feed you? Can a soul ever be nourished? Can a curse ever be cured? Could the starving ever be full?)

Gale pants, throwing his head back. His breaths are uneven, and the magic seems to render him speechless. How far do they go? Is Gale present enough to figure out when they should stop? Is Lucius sane enough to let go even if it becomes too much? The force of it takes the strength out of Lucius, and he finds himself hunched over Gale, bracing his weight on his forearm on the ground and his head dropped onto Gale’s shoulder while the magic pours. Gale’s back arches, pressing further into the magic, hand still tightly wrapped around Lucius’ wrist. Like magnets they cling to each other, every ounce of their beings and the powers that claim them tangle them together, choking the breaths out of them.

It’s almost addicting, the way it feels. Like two pieces that fit together perfectly, however destructive. But Lucius always did find beauty in destruction, didn’t he?

Just when he thinks it’s becoming too much, he starts to feel the force weaken, as if the Orb was starting to release its jaws off of Lucius. Gale no longer writhes as violently, resting back onto the bedroll flat, his grip on loosening. Even the fountain of power gifted to Lucius begins to pull back, as if it too had begun to sense that it was ending. The golden glow of the Orb against Gale’s skin starts to shimmer and dim, no longer violent and uncontrolled. A burden slowly relieved, slowly lifted.

Though the power begins to dissipate from them, Lucius still feels his hand stuck to his chest. The last bit of holy power drains from him, and he starts to feel the world spin around him. His mouth is dry, and he’s starting to wonder when the last time he breathed was. His knees slide out, leaving him practically laying on his side with his hand still stuck, his elbow bent high in the air as the last ribbons of gold flutter through. It seems like Gale’s not in pain anymore. That’s good. That’s very good. He’s not sure what he would do if after all of this, there was still nothing to be gained.

Everything flickers. Lucius blinks hard. It becomes difficult to tell whether he’s stopped channeling the magic or not.

A bit of humor washes over him. It feels funnily similar to nights that Astarion drinks a little too much from him.

Gale's hands wrap around his wrist, gentler now, and in one swift motion, he plucks Lucius’ hand off of his chest, severing the connection completely. Golden flakes of dust flutter away from his fingertips as the magic stops, and the Orb finally quiets. The relief wipes Lucius out instantly, all the tension in his body uncoiling and dropping next to Gale, not a thought spared to how he’s buried in the crook of his neck and laying atop his arm, hand flopping back onto his chest. The silence almost hurts his ears, making the sounds of both of their heavy breaths all the louder than it has any right being.

Neither of them make any effort to move, no doubt fully drained by everything the impromptu ritual put them through. It’s only when both of their breaths start to even out that Lucius cracks his voice to speak.

“Did it… work?”

Gale lets out a long, shaky breath. “It’s… To give you a short answer and save us both the time, yes. I think it did.”

Lucius closes his eyes, a swell of relief and pride washing over him. With it, he feels a warmth — whether that is from the absolute incurable affection he bears for the wizard, or the fulfillment of his holy duty to bear the wizard’s burden, he cannot tell. “God, I’m so fucking glad to hear that.”

“I… have never felt anything like that…” Gale says, his voice tired. “I didn’t think it was going to work, but… it was enough to satisfy it, I think. Between the… magical stuff you gave me and this… Gods, my eyes are heavy.”

“Same…” Lucius makes a move to shift away from him, but can’t seem to make it far. “We should… get you back to your tent so you can sleep this off.”

“A sound plan.”

Neither of them move. The last cognitive thought in Lucius’ mind is remembering the mug of tea he’d made, and he forgets the rest of everything else.

--

This was a life lived on the precipice of peril.

Four centuries as the hunter and the hunted. From the delicate youth of a fawn to the wolf whose maw it was made for, to a broken dog leashed by its masters and starved — Lucius learned well not to sleep through anything.

In rest is vulnerability.

In rest, there is the potential to lose everything.

This was one of the first lessons Lucius learned and carried with him for centuries.

Don’t sleep in the unfamiliar. Keep one eye open. Leap to action at any and every sound, never be caught off guard, always have a blade in hand, never sleep in, always be ready, always be sharp —

And yet…

Lucius sleeps in.

It’s a rest he hasn’t gotten in years. Perhaps never. Between his childhood, the life in the Lockjaws, running for his life in the Underdark or in prison, he’s never slept in. Never found himself comfortable. Never found himself so lost like he is now atop this warm pillow, floating soundly, dozing delightfully.

Peace.

Is this what it’s like?

He should be awake. Instincts scream at him to wake up and get up and assess the environment and see what he’s got, get ready for the day, check on the others, get breakfast started — but they float away, carried by the river of exhaustion, ferried away to be someone else’s problems. Down, down, down…

He shifts, and sunlight dares impede his darkened vision with dapples of light. He buries himself further into the pillow, hoping to chase away the dance of consciousness. Not yet, he thinks. Not yet, not yet. Not when he’s so cozy. Not when for the first time in his life, he’s been able to just cuddle up and rest. Not when this purple pillow is doing everything to —

Lucius’ eyes snap wide open. He doesn’t own any purple pillows.

Reality dawns on him as he slowly, slowly raises his head. One moment, two moments and three, his heart pounds and echoes in his ears faster than a pulse beneath him, and horror begins to take root in the pit of his chest. His hair sticks out from every which way, clinging to his mouth as he peels away from what is very much not a pillow, and is very much a highly specific wizard from Waterdeep sleeping peacefully on his bedroll.

Gale never did make it out of his tent.

The horror continues to pile on. Their legs had tangled themselves together, Lucius’ hand stayed on his chest, and Gale had an arm thrown around his side, a comfortable position their sleeping forms must have found themselves in during the night.

They slept together.

Innocently, yes, sure, but they slept together.

This is too close. Too intimate. It wasn’t like that, surely — it was an accident. He didn’t mean to. He shouldn’t be here. Shit, shit, this shouldn’t have happened.

His face runs hot, and he’s frozen, fear rooting him in place with a quickened breath. He can’t tear his eyes away from the sight just beneath him. Gale’s hair had become a mess, splayed out over the bedroll in such a way that tugs at Lucius’ gut with affection. His face, which had been so contorted in pain not so long ago now rests peacefully, absent of that horrible despair and twisted curse, almost appearing younger with his features at rest. His brows don’t furrow and fold, his eyes closed gently and resting the skin — Lucius follows the trail of those darkened veins down his neck and to his chest. The skin was bruised all around where the Orb marks him, and Lucius gets the horrible, horrible thought that he wishes he could kiss it better.

That ache pulls at his gut, at his heart and even his throat, this longing to kiss Gale, to follow the trail up his neck and to his cheek and kiss him awake. The ache that they could wake up like this without a problem, without it being weird, without it being some kind of situationship that Lucius would often find himself in. He aches, he aches, he aches —

Gale starts to stir. All of the alarms in Lucius’ head ring and blare, his pulse pounding in his ears. Move, move Lucius! Move, damn you! Do something, quick! How many seconds are passing? Think, damn you! Get up!

Those beautiful brown eyes — knock that off! — flutter open, blinking the sleep away and come into focus. The hand still around Lucius moves and then halts suddenly, his eyes locking with Lucius. He can practically see the cogs in his head turning with thought, booting up and bringing him to full cognition.

It’s over.

With all the grace of a startled cat, Lucius scrambles off of Gale, pushing himself up and away with haste. Gale backs away just as fast, though seemingly more in response to Lucius than anything else. Lucius’ back crashes into something, a quick burst of pain blooming and hisses, pulling his knees into his chest to rub at the spot. Damn it all.

“Are you quite alright?”

“No — Yes! Yep, I’m… fine…” Lucius fumbles, cursing his cheeks for still feeling hot with embarrassment. He feels as though he’s been caught in the act of something terrible, and all he wants to do is shrink away. “Um. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Gale replies easily, a look of amusement to his features. Lucius tries not to focus on the color that paints the wizard’s cheeks, or the intense curiosity in his eyes that Gale rakes him with. “It appears I did not… make it back to my tent…”

“Mm…”

They stare at each other for another awkward moment longer, and then suddenly, everything about the situation just felt ridiculous. Gale’s hair is a wreck, Lucius has drool dried on his cheek, their clothes were wrinkled and pulled to the wrong corners, and they’d all but cuddled with each other in the night. All at once, the tension snaps, and the both of them burst out laughing, Lucius loud like a barking dog, and Gale with a squawk like a bird.

Lucius runs a hand down his face, pinching his nose and wiping his cheek. “I think I drooled on you.”

“That can’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me out here.”

“Gods. I hate it here.”

Gale chuckles, stretching his arms out with a yawn. “For what it’s worth, Lucius, that was the most rested sleep I’ve had in a while.”

“Man...”

It’s a shame to miss the warmth he had just moments ago. He tries not to linger on it. He tries not to think about it too hard.

There are several choice words that dance at the tip of the cleric’s tongue, but he does well to swallow them all down before he chokes.

“Well, that’s good at least,” Lucius finally lands on saying. “I uh. I hope all of that stuff helped?”

“That it did, my friend. I feel… revitalized today,” Gale says, a grin spreading across his face and a sigh of relief. “I think this is something I may have to write down. It raises so many questions about the nature of this Netherese magic inside of me. It has only ever fed on the Weave before, and theoretically, it should only feed on the Weave. That’s what it’s made of. Divine magic, the Power, is very much not Weave magic, and yet…”

Lucius can’t help but spare a look to his hand that casted the spell, startling somewhat when some of his veins seem to have retained a dim, golden glow. “The power of Ilmater, my friend. I told you so.”

“Well, it looks like I’ve got a mighty amount of thanks to give to the Broken God. Remind me to pass an offering to His shrine if we ever do make it to one of His temples.”

Lucius gives him a two-fingered salute. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Gale gives an amused huff, his attention shifting back down to his chest. He presses a hand to it tentatively, and the Orb glows dimly in return. “It’s… very strange, honestly. How all of that felt. The Orb rejected it at the beginning, as if it didn’t quite know what to do with it. By the time I felt it begin to consume… Ack, it’s so strange. I lack the vocabulary to define what it all felt like.”

Lucius rubs his chin in thought, crab-walking closer to Gale to seat himself criss cross. “Just say it badly. Don’t need to dress it all up. You can give it pretty words later.”

“Hah. Suppose I can.” Gale hums, idly chewing at his fingertips as he tries to find a phrasing he’s happy with. “Ah, I got it. I would imagine it as a proper diet. One should have enough balance in what you eat. Meats, vegetables, a healthy amount of grain and just a little bit of sweets — all the proteins and nutrients to sustain yourself, yes?”

Lucius nods along. “My greatest lament is our sad little diet out here.”

“Ha, as is mine. Now, the Orb requires proper sustenance. The Weave, in this case. You’ve given me a fraction of what it needs — but with the food analogy, you’ve given a starving man the quarter cut of a steak, but nothing more. It satisfies the hunger enough not to pang the stomach, yet still isn’t quite enough.” He gestures meticulously throughout his explanation, miming as if he’s cut the steak and served it, pointing to his own belly as he speaks. A very visualized man, Lucius thinks. “Now, nutritional sustenance will get you far. But not everyone eats well. In this case, I’ve been given an alternative. It’s like… hmm, I don’t want to say being on a vegetarian diet when one needs meat — it’s more like one has filled up on bread and butter as much as they could until they couldn’t eat another bite. You’re full, yes, but you’ve missed out on all the nutrients.”

“Are you calling my god’s power a serving of bread?”

“No no no, don’t take it too literal!”

Lucius barks a laugh. “Go on.”

Gale huffs. “What I mean to say is that the hunger is satisfied. I have filled up on enough to keep me going. I think after a while, if we were to, in theory, keep this up, it will eventually take a toll on me, but not eating is always worse than eating filler foods. It’s better to eat something than to starve.”

Lucius smiles, finding himself more than happy to hear the dissertation. “That’s good! That’s really good, actually.”

“Oh, most certainly! I must admit, I was starting to get… well, I was… starting to feel a little hopeless about the whole situation, but now…” Gale looks up at him, a glint in his eyes of awe and appreciation, a gaze that makes Lucius almost shrink back at the fondness within them. “I cannot possibly thank you for this gift you’ve given me, Lucius.”

Lucius waves a hand, rising to his feet. “It’s my duty, Gale. This is a fight we’re all in together. All I want to do is find a way to take care of all of you while we figure this hell out.”

Gale nods, rising as well. “Your efforts are noted and appreciated, good leader,” He says with a bow. “But now, I do have to ask you. Are you alright? You started to look weak after the whole thing, and considering how we’ve woken up this morning, you cannot deny that it took a lot out of you as well.”

“Well… I can’t say it’s every day that I call upon my god to grant me an intense amount of magic to feed my magically hungry friend…”

“True.” Gale raises that accusatory finger once more. “But you promised me that you would stop if it became too much.”

“I promised I’d stop if I was in pain.”

“And if it was going to compromise your safety.”

“My safety wasn’t that compromised.”

“See, there’s the trick of your words. It was compromised. Maybe at a miniscule level, but the promise was broken there.”

“In my defense! I was doing fine up until the very end. Which is when I… kind of lost it.”

“That’s what I didn’t want to happen Lucius —”

“Ah ah!” Lucius raises a finger at him now. “It was fine. I’m willing to do this again, but this time, I know what to expect. The hardest part was just handling how much raw magic Ilmater granted us. Once it ran out, it all… Well, I know when to let go now. Alright?”

Gale frowns at him, crossing his arms. Lucius purses his lips, and crosses his arms as well, staring at him.

“You promise?”

“Swear on my Lord.”

“Your Lord is watching.”

“I sure fucking hope He is. I’m His greatest little boy.”

Gale chuckles at that, shaking his head. “Very well. Thank you again, Lucius. It means more than you know. I don’t even know where I’d begin to repay you.”

You could kiss me, Lucius wishes he could say as a tease and feel nothing about it at all.

He claps a hand on his shoulder instead. “Just keep chucking spells, and we’re good. I don’t need that much but your company, your prowess, and a helping hand in our sorry little kitchen.”

Gale lifts his head with a little pride at that. “Then you will have me there to the best of my abilities.”

Lucius smiles fondly at him. Wherever did this crush start, he wonders? How did this infection spread and fester within his chest without him noticing? It’ll bring him down to ruin and rot if he’s not careful. He’ll collapse and wither and die if he can’t get a stop to this disease.

This churning in his chest… his heart does not normally stir, and when it did, it ended in blood. What about Mauve? What about Virena? Lessons they were to keep his heart anchored to this cage of bone.

But Gale smiles at him with a glint in his eye, and Lucius still feels the echo of his warmth upon his body. Where did it start? Could it be that shared moment of magic? When Gale confessed the horrors of the Orb? Or could it have been the very second Lucius pulled him from that stone?

The tremor in his hands makes itself known, and he has to bite down to keep from trembling. Curses to the body for reacting so dramatically, as if a human man could do anything to bring Lucius to true ruin. As if… As if…

Gale’s about to turn to leave. “I think I should get going. Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome, after everything you’ve already done for me here.”

“No no!” The words tumble out of Lucius’ mouth before he can stop them. He swallows hard when Gale regards him with curious eyes, and Lucius has to follow up with something pertinent. He turns Gale, taking a look at the poor abused skin surrounding the Orb marred to his flesh. “I’m not letting you go like this.”

Gale drops his gaze down to his collarbone. “Ah. Yes, this was…”

“Very bad.” Lucius finishes. He calls upon his holy power once more, and the magic flows easily through him. Moreso, even, as if channeling raw power previously had made it easier for the spell to take root. He places his hand on Gale’s chest, letting the soothing magic flow through him in his incantation. Slowly, the violets and blues of bruised skin soften to reds and yellows, and soon, to none, golden magic caressing the sites of injury and tracing the Orb’s pattern on his skin. The Orb shimmers as Gale takes a breath, for a moment taking on a golden hue before settling back to its darkened, slumbered state.

“Oh!” Gale says, touching his chest as Lucius drops his hand. “Oh, that final piece of relief — I’d been so used to this I nearly forgot what it’s like to be without that pain…”

A pang of sadness hits Lucius. “My friend, please do not hesitate to come to me for healing.”

“You’ve given me more than I could possibly ask for.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do if you asked for it, Gale.”

Those words tumble out again, unfiltered, and Lucius schools his expression into something casual. The severity and weight of his words can’t reach Gale like this. Not like this. Gale’s cheeks color, and Lucius pointedly ignores it.

“You are far too kind to me, Lucius. I will treasure this.”

There’s a moment where both of them linger. Goodbyes are in place. They’re to meet again anyways when they convene at the fire pit and set out for adventure. They’re to get back to the road and back to business within the hour or two. They’ll see each other again, but still, they pause. Hesitant. As if something else should be filling this moment.

Lingering looks. Awkward hands. Perhaps Lucius should reach out. Perhaps Lucius should say something more. Perhaps Gale wants to say something else. It’s on the tip of his tongue, and the air is heavy, it’s thick and hazy and Lucius is drawn to it.

But the moment ends. No spark ignites the thick air, and Gale bows his head to the cleric.

“I’ll get started on breakfast,” he says.

“I’ll meet you there,” Lucius replies.

And Gale leaves.

Lucius waits until he’s certain Gale has gone long out after before dropping to the ground and letting out a long groan. He’ll never get over this, he’s certain. Not with the way his heart pounds against his chest. Why does it stir so much? Why does it make him fumble? Where did he go wrong? Where did he possibly go wrong?

He has to get ready. He has to clean up, fix his makeup, and behave like a proper, genuine, functioning person. He has to pretend this never happened, and remember who he is. He is Lucius Skorn, and he does not get crushes. He is Ilmatari. This is his solemn duty. This is his charge.

As he moves to get to his sponges and rags, his foot kicks something, splashing liquid all over the place. He stares at the ground, watching that chipped mug from the night before roll around on the ground uselessly, spilling its soggy flowers.

He forgot about the tea.

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