Day 3 Susser - @galemustdie (he is dead here, i swear.)
Hanahaki disease (Japanese: 花吐き病, Hanahaki-byō; flower-vomiting disease) is a fictional disease characterized by the growth of flowers in the body as a result of unrequited love.
The disease manifests as a physical reaction to unrequited love, most often resulting in the growth of flowers within the lungs, heart, or throat of the afflicted character. The primary symptom is coughing or vomiting up flower petals, which progresses into full blooms as the condition worsens. If untreated, the disease is usually portrayed as fatal, with death resulting from suffocation.
Fandom: Baldur's Gate
Relationships: The Dark Urge/Gale, Gale/Tav
Words: 9,499 | Rating: Mature
Tags: Major Character Death!!, grief & healing, moments of levity, sexual references, angst with a hopeful ending
Summary:
40 years after the defeat of the Netherbrain, Gale and Tav have continued their heroics in Waterdeep. Until one day, there's only one way left to win, and Gale is lost forever. Tav struggles to cope with the death of her husband...but Gale's words from beyond the grave help her heal in his absence.
It ate at him.
The Karsite Weave burning through his flesh and bone.
The light, the blinding light.
It consumed him.
The tome laid forlorn on the desk.
He should have taken more caution.
Read Consumed on AO3.
Day one of @galemustdie: Orb Torture.
It is time.
Obivous disclaimer that I really like the wizard and I just find him fascinating and I love to see how far I can push and pull his character. Please don't hate me thank yew.
Just wanted to say my new fic "Breaking Bhaal" just released.
The premise is simple: Riley (my durge) and Orin stumble upon a drug lab run by Wulbrin White and Jessie Pinkjaluk and take it over with the hopes that they'll be able to turn a drug empire into a slaughter.
It's a fairly silly fic and I may have just murdered Gale to maybe fit him into "Gale must die!" week since I saw a lot of my moots are also doing it.
If I had a nickel for every time I've written Astarion driving a Cybertruck, I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot but it's weird that it's happened twice.
The battlefield is chaos. Steel clashes against gnashing teeth, blood darkens the earth, and the cries of the wounded mingle with the snarls of gnolls. Your violin feels like an anchor, its familiar weight heavy with desperation. Every note you play, every spell you cast, feels like a threadbare patch holding the group together.
Crown of Madness warps snarls into confusion, while Shatter sends gnolls reeling with a sickening crack as the discordant chord rips through them, shattering their bones. Karlach and Lae’zel fight like furious storms, carving through the horde with brutal efficiency. In front of you, Wyll and Shadowheart are holding the line while Astarion picks off the archers.
But you’re faltering. Every step is agony, your armor stained with blood—yours and not yours. Gale isn’t faring any better. His robes hang in tatters, scorch marks from misfired spells streaking his sides. His magic flickers like a candle in the wind, threatening to gutter out entirely. Even so, he’s holding the line with Scorching Ray, the blasts of flame flashing from his fingertips with unerring precision.
Each ray arcs through the air, brilliant streaks of fire that split the shadows like a maestro commanding an orchestra. The flames dance, cutting through the chaos, as if Gale himself is weaving a song of destruction—each note an act of defiance against the enemy, each burst a perfect strike.
You watch in awe, even as the chaos swills around you. Where you move with the Weave like a symphony of music, Gale conducts the symphony—each gesture deliberate, each movement an extension of his will. His control over the arcane is nothing short of magnificent, his exhausted form somehow still able to direct such raw power with effortless elegance. His concentration is a thing of beauty in the midst of the battle, the chaos around him seemingly irrelevant to his precision.
But even the most skilled conductor can falter. You see it in his eyes—a brief moment of hesitation as his magic sputters, flickering in the wind like a flame caught in a rain storm. His body betrays him, bloodied and battered, yet he pushes forward, a silent vow to protect those around him, to keep fighting until his last breath.
You’ve never been more in awe of him.
You’re so in love with him, everything, even little details about him, it hurts, like a pebble stuck in your boot. You can’t shake it out. Even the way he weaves the Weave, those deft fingers, his practised tongue chanting his incantations, guiding the magic along in a way you could never even with your music, even that sight makes you tremble. But it’s not because of the magic, no no, he could be a madman dancing in an alleyway and conducting nothing but thin air and you’d love him still.
You’re hopelessly lost. Gale is everything to you, even if he never realizes it.
And so you resolve yourself and prepare Healing Word, sending its gentle caress to him, your silent but sure assurance to him. You have his back.
But then the winds shift and you feel it: the Flind’s eyes locking onto you with predatory clarity. The world seems to shrink as it charges, barrelling right through your allies’ attacks to hinder it, its massive flail raised high. It knows. It sees you—the glue keeping your allies united—and it’s coming to break you.
There is no time to react. You’ve just cast your spell and you struggle to back away, you’re invoking Blade Ward to try and mitigate the impending wound but the Flind, it’s too quick.
“Ves, look out!” Gale’s voice cuts through the chaos.
Before you can react, he’s there. Gale steps between you and death, his hands crackling with power as he casts Thunderwave. The blast knocks the Flind back, but not before the flail swings through the arc of his spell and slams into him despite his Mage Armor spell.
The sound is sickening. Gale’s body crumples under the blow, and he’s flung aside, landing with a lifeless thud.
“Gale! No!” The scream tears from your throat as you drop your violin and sprint to him. Blood pools beneath his still form, staining the ground. His chest doesn’t rise. His hand lies limp.
Your hands tremble as you hover over him, panic clawing at you. “Te Curo!” you cry, desperation cracking your voice. Cure Wounds fizzles out. You try again, pouring every ounce of your magic into the incantation, but the Weave refuses to answer. And you know exactly why.
“No… no, please…” Your vision blurs with tears as you choke out, “Gale, not l-like this!”
A flicker of light catches your eye. You whirl around to see a translucent figure materialize beside you, its form eerily calm. It looks like Gale, but colder, more detached.
“Well met,” it says, its tone clinical. “I am a magical projection of Gale of Waterdeep, and if you see this manifestation, that means I have prematurely perished. But worry not, I have designed this projection for this exact eventuality. Are you Ves? He was hoping you wouldn’t be the one to have to do this, but here we are. He’s made a subtle adjustment to the protocol for your benefit.”
“What?” you stammer, your voice shaking. “What are you talking about? He’s—he’s—”
“Dead,” the projection states bluntly. “But his condition is reversible. Act quickly, bard. Retrieve the pouch from his robes near his heart.”
“Pouch?” Your fingers fumble over Gale’s bloodied form, searching as dread coils in your stomach. A foul, necrotic stench begins to rise—not rot, but decayed magic. The projection is already explaining the process but your mind is in free-fall.
“What pouch?!” you cry, fumbling over Gale’s bloodied form. Your shaking hands search, desperate.
“It is wrapped in scarlet, yellow, and purple threads,” the projection continues. “Find the purple seam and unravel it in a counter-clockwise fashion. Touch no other threads.”
Your fingers finally close around the pouch just below Gale’s still heart, near an ominous tattoo on his chest, its threads rough beneath your touch.
You try to focus as the chaos around you swirls. Your fingers hover uncertainly over the threads.
Shadowheart drops to her knees beside you, her voice sharp. “The purple seam, you donkey! Focus! Just the purple!”
Shaking, you manage to catch the seam and begin to undo the thread, unravelling it with a single, fluid motion. Inside the pouch lies a folded letter and a small, delicate flute.
“Open the letter,” the projection continues. “It contains the instructions for the next step.”
You unfold the letter, your eyes darting over the words. The note in each corner... Start at the bottom right corner clockwise... “D, E, A, D,” you read aloud. “The notes for the flute…”
“Yes,” it confirms. “Play those notes in that order. A lava mephit will appear. Do not be alarmed; it will assist you. It will pose a question in Ignan. Then speak the phrase: K’ha’ssji’trach’ash.”
“Wait, what?!” you blurt, the unfamiliar sounds tangling on your tongue as you try to mouth it.
“K’ha’ssji’trach’ash, And pay attention to the “‘trach” part. Trrrraa. Trrrraa. Back of the throat.” the projection repeats and clarifies, its tone unyielding. “The creature will acknowledge you. Allow it to breathe on the letter but be mindful, it’s breath will burn you if you are not careful. It will transform it into a Scroll of True Resurrection. Use the scroll to bring Gale back.”
“Now repeat back my instructions,” the projection demands, its form already flickering.
“Y-You can’t be serious.”
“Oh I’m afraid Gale was very serious, bard. He knew you’d struggle, so I must be thorough with you. The instructions, if you would.”
“Oh this o-oaf of a wizard, why oh why do I even lo- ...F-Fine! D-dead. No wait! D, E, A, D,” you stammer, the panic clawing at you as you recall what you can. “Play those notes with the flute… and then the phrase is… K’ha’...ssji’trach...’ash. And then use the s-scroll on you. On Gale...”
“Good,” it says simply with a smirk. “Do not fail him, bard. He knows you can do it.”
Before you can protest, the projection flickers and vanishes, leaving you staring at the flute and letter in your trembling hands.
“Wait! Don’t go! I—I don’t—” Your voice cracks, your panic spiralling. “W-What now?” you gasp, your voice shaking.
Shadowheart steadies you with a firm hand. “The notes, Ves! D, E, A, D. Start with them.”
With trembling hands, you raise the flute to your lips. The first note is shaky, the second wavers, but you force yourself through it. D. E. A. D.
The air crackles, and a puff of smoke bursts before you. A lava mephit appears, its glowing eyes narrowing as they lock onto you. It speaks in Ignan, the words making no sense.
“Now the phrase,” Shadowheart urges, her voice sharp.
“K’ha’ss…” You falter, your tongue tripping over the familiar sounds. You swear, this language is something you’ve spoken before, perhaps before you lost your memories, but as it stands your mind and tongue are struggling with the unusual pronunciation. “K’ha’ssji…”
“K’ha’ - ssji’ - trach’- ash,” Wyll supplies, his voice cutting through the din as he rushes past, blade dripping with blood as he intercepts another nearby gnoll with his blade. “Take a breath, calm yourself and try again. Focus on Gale, we’ll take care of the gnolls. You’ve got this Ves. Gale is counting on you!”
You take a deep breath and force the words out. “K’ha’ssji’trach’ash!”
The mephit tilts its head, then nods. It extends a clawed hand, and you thrust the letter at it. The creature exhales a stream of molten breath over the parchment, which glows before transforming into a radiant scroll.
“That’s it!” Shadowheart exclaims. “Now use it! Quickly!”
Your hands tremble as you unfurl the scroll, the ancient words scorching your throat as you speak them aloud.
“Vita, Mortis, Careo!”
The air grows heavy with power, the battlefield momentarily hushed in the stillness.
The scroll dissolves in a burst of light, and Gale’s body glows and all his wounds are healed. Then, with a shuddering gasp, his chest rises, and his eyes flutter open.
“Gale!” Relief crashes over you like a wave, and you collapse beside him, tears streaming down your face.
He blinks, dazed. “What… happened?”
“You fucking idiot,” you choke out, half laughing, half sobbing. “You died! To protect me!”
“Your knight in magic armor, at your service.” His lips quirk into a faint smile, though worry laces his expression. “But I’m back now, aren’t I? All thanks to you. You did well, bard.”
Before you can respond, a roar erupts behind you. You glance back to see Karlach and Astarion standing over the lifeless Flind, blood splattered across their weapons and faces. Lae’zel surveys the battlefield, her blade gleaming and her expression one of fierce satisfaction as the last gnolls crumble beneath her might.
But your gaze returns to Gale. You grip his hand tightly, holding on as if the world might pull him away again. He’s alive—and that’s all that matters.
Your gaze is fixed on Gale. He’s no longer pale, but his breaths are shallow, and the blood staining his face and clothes feels like a cruel mockery of the relief you should be feeling. But he’s alive and well. You grip his hand tightly, your fingers aching as if letting go might allow the gods to steal him away.
The chaos of the battlefield fades to a dull roar in your mind. You’re battered, bleeding, and your body screams for rest, but none of that matters. He’s back and that’s enough... right?
He hardly knows me.
I'm just the daft bard that irritates him.
And he died for me...
B-Because of me...
I let it happen...
I... I can't...
And then it all crashes down at once. The fear, the grief, the desperation you’ve been holding at bay throughout the fight hits you like a wave, drowning you. Your heart races, your throat tightens, and your chest feels like it might cave in.
“I… I need a moment,” you hear yourself say, your voice trembling. You stumble to your feet, legs unsteady beneath you, and turn away before anyone can stop you.
“V-Ves!” Gale’s voice calls out, hoarse and fatigued. You freeze for the briefest moment, your chest aching at the sound of his concern, but you can’t bring yourself to look back. You can’t let him see you break.
You push forward, your vision blurring as the battlefield melts into shadows. Your breaths come in shallow gasps, and you don’t stop until you find the crumbled remains of a wagon. There, hidden from the carnage, your legs give out, and you collapse to the ground.
The sobs rip free of you, violent and uncontrollable, as the dam you’ve built around your emotions shatters. You bury your face in your hands, choking on the weight of everything you’ve fought so hard to keep inside.
Somewhere behind you, you faintly hear the others react.
“Cowardice,” Lae’zel mutters under her breath, though there’s no bite to her tone as the others chime in.
“Let him go,” Shadowheart snaps, her sharp voice silencing the others. “He’s carried enough today. Let him fall apart if he needs to.”
You don’t hear Gale’s answer, but you imagine his frustration—the guilt, the helplessness. You can almost feel his eyes on your back, as if even now he’s trying to reach for you despite his fatigue.
You don’t hear Shadowheart’s approach until she’s already beside you. Her presence is quiet but commanding, like the stillness before a storm. She kneels without a word, firstly invoking Cure Wounds on you to stem the bleeding and then her arms wrapping around you in a firm, grounding embrace.
You don’t fight it. You lean into her, burying your face against her shoulder as your body shakes with sobs. Her silence becomes your anchor, her steady strength the only thing keeping you from being swept away entirely.
“Ves!” Wyll’s voice rings out, distant and concerned, but Shadowheart waves him off without even looking.
“He needs this,” you hear her say. “”Make sure the cave is clear and the Zhents dealt with, we need to set up camp soon. I need to patch this idiot up before we do anything else.”
You don’t know how much time passes before the tears stop, leaving you gasping for breath. Shadowheart holds you until you pull back, her arms loosening but her presence still firm. Her calm gaze meets yours, and you find something solid to hold onto in her unyielding eyes.
“Lady of Sorrows preserve us, he’s alive, Ves... Stop covering me in your filthy Selunite tears.” she says softly, her voice teasing but steady. “You saved him. He’s as healthy as can be.”
You nod weakly; your throat raw. “I just… I thought I lost him. I didn’t even get to tell him...”
Her hand comes to rest on your shoulder, and for once, there’s no sharpness to her expression. Instead, there’s something softer—something almost kind. “You didn’t, and you will. Somehow.” she replies simply. And somehow, the truth in her words pierces through the fog of your despair.
When you finally return to the group, all eyes are on you, but you only see him. Gale’s eyes meet yours immediately, dark and heavy with guilt. His face holds nothing but worry.
“Ves…” His voice is hoarse, faltering. He tries to sit up straighter despite Shadowheart’s firm hand keeping him down. His lips part again, trembling slightly. “Did this… frighten you?”
You freeze, his question cutting through the din of your emotions like a blade. You want to scream, to tell him how reckless he was, how selfishly heroic it was to take that blow meant for you. You want to sob again at the memory of him lifeless before you.
Instead, you say nothing.
You kneel beside him, the battlefield still echoing faintly in your ears. His hand twitches toward yours, but you ignore it, busying yourself by pulling out a water flask from your pack. You uncork it, your movements stiff, and press it gently but firmly to his lips.
“Drink,” you say, your voice tight and controlled. He obeys without argument, though his gaze never leaves yours.
As he downs the flask, Shadowheart is already tending to your wounds, her hands deftly wrapping fresh bandages around your chest. Her face is a mask of focus, but when she glances at you, there’s an unspoken understanding in her eyes—a rare softness.
Nearby, Karlach stands with her back partially turned, breathing hard, her axe still slick with the blood of the Flind. She paces restlessly, her armor stained from the brutal fight. Her usual fiery spirit seems dimmed, her shoulders tense. Finally, she stops and looks at you, her voice rough.
“I got the bastard,” she says, her jaw tight. Her fiery eyes dart to Gale, then back to you. “I swear to you, Ves, the fucker suffered. I made damn sure of that.”
There’s anger in her voice, but it’s not directed at you—or even at Gale. It’s the helpless rage of someone who couldn’t stop the blow in time. “I should’ve been faster,” she mutters, fists clenching. “If I’d just been a second quicker…”
You shake your head, but the words won’t come. The tightness in your throat refuses to ease.
The fault was mine, not yours Karlach.
Lae’zel crosses her arms, observing the scene with a grim expression. “Regret is a waste of time,” she says bluntly, though there’s no bite to her tone. “What matters is that he lives.” She looks at Gale briefly, then at you. “And that we’re ready for the next fight.”
Wyll shakes his head as he returns from the cave mouth, arms crossed. “It’s a miracle we’re all still standing. Rest, Ves; You both deserve it.”
Astarion, standing off to the side, tilts his head. “It was dramatic, darling. I’ll give him that. But don’t be too hard on Gale—heroic sacrifices are exhausting to watch, let alone make.” His words are flippant, but there’s a flicker of something genuine beneath the sarcasm.
But none of it matters. You can’t focus on their voices, their opinions. Your anger and grief churn within you, twisting into something sharper. He took the blow meant for you. He died for you.
The memory burns behind your eyes—his lifeless body crumpled on the ground, the world spinning out of control as you screamed his name. The overwhelming panic as you brought him back, feeling like you’d almost been too late.
And now he’s here, alive. You clutch onto that thought desperately, like a lifeline.
He’s alive.
You sit back, still watching him, the emotions threatening to drown you again. You’re angry—furious, even—that he risked himself so carelessly. You’re sad—so unbearably sad—that you couldn’t save him before it came to this. But above all else, you’re relieved.
He’s alive.
Your chest heaves with a shaky breath as the thought echoes in your mind.
I didn’t fail him.
Karlach steps closer, her voice softer now. “Hey,” she says, crouching down beside you. Her hand hovers over you shoulder, too hot to touch but the overwhelming heat grounds you. “You saved him, Ves. You brought him back. That’s what matters.”
You glance at her, her earnest expression tugging at the edges of your fragile control.
Gale shifts slightly as Shadowheart finishes treating your wounds, his brow furrowing. “Ves…” he starts again, his voice softer this time.
You glance back at him, and for a moment, your hardened expression falters. He looks so vulnerable, so fragile despite being fully healed by the scroll. The anger, the sadness—they’re still there, but they’re buried beneath the overwhelming relief.
He’s alive.
“I’m fine,” you manage to say, though your voice cracks slightly. It’s a lie, and he knows it. But for now, it’s all you can give him.
And when his hand finally finds yours, you let it stay.
