The Velvet Veil @thedarksilkpen - Tumblr Blog

Office Hours, Chapter 7

'The Road'

Pairing: Gale x female reader (non-Tav) WC: 8,755 Summary: Finally, the two of you are off for the Spine of The World. You stop by Luskan to meet up with an old ally of Gale's, and the seriousness of the journey begins to settle in. Tags: sex from behind, teacher/student, kissing in dangerous situations, companion cameo NSFW

As always, edited by the illustrious @emfirebender. I love you oodles of noodles.

Reminder that you can read this same chapter over on ao3 as well, including all of my other stuff!

--

“Every journey begins the same way: with a door, and the decision to step through it.” — Field Notes on Pilgrimage, Uncatalogued Leaf

The gates of Waterdeep fall behind you and rattle closed with a dull finality, stone swallowing the last warmth of the city and leaving you with the air of the road. It's sharp with wet earth, plant matter, and the brine that always seems to linger around the outskirts of the city. A donkey plods between you and Gale patiently, packs creaking as it settles into the rhythm of work and you match its pace without thinking, as if moving slower might make the journey seem less arduous.

Ahead, the High Road stretches North in an expanse that feels daunting, now that you've finally started out. You know that Gale has the route well mapped in both his notebook and his head, and getting lost isn't a fear that you have, at the very least. Instead, your worries are centered around the others that could potentially share the road with you.

Rumors of small goblin bands are the talk of Waterdeep, and the guards at the door were stern when they told you to be careful and not travel with your belongings visible. Gale had seemed unconcerned and that was enough to assuage most of your fears, but the potential still remains and simmers in your gut.

"The traveling is often harder than the planning," Gale says after the two of you have walked a few miles in relative silence, "but the journey itself is the reward." You hum your agreement halfheartedly, shifting your staff to your other hand and using it as a walking stick as the road begins to dip down at an angle.

"The 'journey' would be better if we had teleported." You keep your tone light, but you're already worried about the amount of walking that the two of you will have to do. When you think realistically, you know that Gale and yourself, as two relatively pampered wizards who have grown up secluded in libraries, are likely to face more difficulties traveling than the average pilgrim.

"I do agree, but I have some… history… with botched teleportations. This is safer." Gale laughs and shakes his head, the memory of whatever happened playing across his face before he turns back to you. "I wouldn't want to lose another assistant to an accident. Not one of such a serendipitous nature, at least."

"Professor," you chide, joining him with a soft giggle.

"Ah, you'll be enjoying it in no time. Especially when we camp out under the stars." You catch a wistful smile playing at the corners of his lips as he reminisces. "The last time I went on a trek like this was a few years ago, with a ragtag group of heroes. The food I was limited to cooking with was not something to miss, but sometimes I do pine for the company. The ease of it all."

"Ease? Surely it couldn't have been easy. You didn't even have a donkey." You're decently familiar with the story of the Gate and how your Professor was involved, but you've never heard the details behind it, nor have you ever heard him speak about his former traveling companions.

"Not the travel, no," he laughs, "but the comradery on the road is something to be admired. It's easy to fall into step with others when you're sharing the same burdens, be it travel or… otherwise." You note the pause in his words and don't pressure him on it, allowing him to speak at his own leisure. Clearly something about the experience still weighs on him, as his tone is darker when he continues, "Sometimes it pulls you further apart."

You take a step to the side and switch hands on your staff again, reaching out to take Gale's hand gently in your own. The two of you lock-step in tandem down the road in comfortable silence and reassurance, a gentle squeeze the only thing that needs to be passed between you. Behind you, led by a rope, the donkey huffs and traipses on, his hooves clopping softly on the worn cobbles of the road.

—

Crickets and fireflies have long since started announcing their presence by the time you and Gale stop to make camp for the night. You lean against the donkey and catch your breath, patting its flank with warm appreciation. It huffs air through its nose at you, ruffling your hair slightly. You've never really been around larger farm animals or work mules, but the weight of your packs on its back gives you a newly-discovered gratitude for them.

"Professor," you call out, stroking your hand through the donkey's short, black mane, "did the stable keeper tell you his name?" Gale stands from where he was digging through a satchel, momentary confusion written across his face before he looks from you to the donkey you're patting.

"Clover!" The donkey's ears twitch at the sound of his name. "And he's not ours, we're merely borrowing his services." Gale comes over and pats the donkey on his hindquarters before opening one of the packs hanging from the saddle-like stretch of leather over his back. "I was also able to procure one of the few self-erecting tents that the Academy has to offer!"

With a flourish, he tugs a bundled expanse of fabric free of the saddlebag and gives it one sharp shake. It unfurls in his hands with a heavy, satisfying weight; it's thick canvas, ruggedly stitched, and dyed a deep blue that drinks in the light. Silver embroidery runs through it in precise lines that catch when you tilt your head, less decorative than deliberate, as if the needlework is part of the spell. A golden tassel hangs from one corner, swaying gently with the breeze as he holds the whole thing out for you to inspect.

You lean over Clover’s warm and sturdy shoulder to get a closer look, fingers still absently smoothing the donkey’s coarse fur, and for all the careful, beautiful craftsmanship it still reads as… cloth. Ordinary. A traveling sheet to make a small pad out of, and certainly nothing that should become shelter with a single breath. You raise an eyebrow at Gale, frowning with a mix of confusion and disbelief.

When you lean back again, Gale gathers the fabric into his arms as though it weighs more than it has any right to, then heaves it outward with a grunt of effort. The bundle sails through the air and for one suspended heartbeat it looks like it might simply tumble into the grass until the magic seems to catch on the corner of it. The canvas snaps open with a clean, decisive whump, and the shape of it morphs into a tent large enough to fit the two of you comfortably. The tassel has become a golden flag at the peak, whipping in the wind like a battle standard, and the silver stitching along the seams glimmers faintly as the last of the spell settles into place.

"Magic never ceases to amaze, hm?" Gale turns back to you with that bright, boyish grin that always makes him look younger than he is, like he’s pleased with himself and a little offended you ever doubted him. "I only wish I had one of these the last time I traveled."

"What did you have?"

"Canvas and poles. We didn't even have a pack mule, just a strong tiefling." Gale gestures towards Clover in the same instant that he stamps a hoof and you giggle. "Yes, yes, Clover. You are much appreciated."

"He's not just a pack mule," you croon, hugging Clover around his neck and ruffling the short hair on top of his head, "he's a friend!" Gale laughs and motions for you to bring the rest of the supplies over. When you unload the saddlebags from Clover's back he snorts in appreciation, wandering over to a nearby tree and beginning to graze. A mage hand floats past you towards Clover, delicately tying his lead around the tree trunk.

Night soon settles in earnest over your small camp as you and Gale sit around a low burning fire, empty bowls beside you both. He had made a small pot of stew for an evening meal and it was filling enough, along with the hardtack that Taliesin had slipped into your bag before you left. You lean back on your hands, rolling your neck from side to side to stretch and gazing up at the stars. They're vibrant this far from the city lights and the moon, only a quarter crescent, makes them seem even brighter.

"You see that one there?" Gale interrupts your thoughts, pointing towards the North West. "The Shard of Selûne. Only visible during the Autumn months. Spectacular isn't it?" You nod, pulling your notebook out of your breast pocket and flipping to an empty page. He watches you for a moment as you quickly sketch the Shard before pointing to another, due North. "The Crown of The North. We know it by another name…" he drifts off, waiting for your answer.

"The Cold Crown?" you offer, tapping your pen against the page and willing the words to come to you. When he shakes his head you bite your lip in frustration.

"You know this, apprentice. It will come." Gale leans back on his hands as well, mirroring your pose and crossing his feet at the ankle. "The way for all to know true North during travels… The Brow Star, Algairtha, the-"

"Mystra's Star Circle!" you exclaim, slapping the open page of your notebook in excitement before bending over and drawing the shape in its relative position to the Shard. When you look up he's smiling at you, genuine affection in his eyes, and a blush starts to spread across your cheeks. "I've never been able to see it this clearly before."

"I expect you'll see it from the peaks of the Spine before we're through." The possibility excites you and you sit up onto your knees, peering below the circle of stars where the trees obscure the horizon.

"I wish we could see Auroth the Ice Snake from here, but I think it's behind the tree line for now."

Gale turns and looks in that direction before standing up, dusting the dirt from himself before offering a hand to you. "So let's get some altitude, you can see it in it's full glory before we reach the snowline of the North and you freeze standing out there alone all night."

You take his hand and let him pull you up, the movement easy enough to make you feel briefly weightless even before the spell touches you. It still surprises you, the ease with which he's able to move your body, almost like your weight is a detail that his mind chooses not to register. His palm is warm from the fire, calloused in places that don’t quite match the softness of his academic life, and when you stand close enough you can smell smoke caught in his hair and the clean linen beneath it.

Then Gale steps back, shoulders settling into that familiar posture of focus— the one he wears when he’s about to do something elegant and expects the world to obey. He murmurs an incantation that's too soft for you to catch the words of, fingers tracing a small shape in the air. The Weave answers him at once and you feel it before you see it, the same way that you felt with the disc by the Chionthar.

Your stomach flips as your boots lighten, the ground seeming to tug at you before letting go and releasing you into the air. The ascent isn’t violent, it’s almost gentle, as if the air itself has decided to hold you, caressing you as it draws you higher into itself. Gale is in front of you and as soon as your head passes the trees you scrabble for his sleeve, fear clawing into your throat for a brief moment.

He catches you without comment, arm sliding around your waist with calm certainty, anchoring you like it’s nothing at all. “Breathe,” he commands gently, close to your ear, and his voice seems to unlock your lungs. You force in a deep breath, struggling slightly against the wind in your face. Gradually the tightness in your chest loosens and you can breathe normally.

Up here, in the grasp of the cold air, your cloak flutters violently, tangling with Gale's with a snapping sound that reminds you of boat sails. Below, the fire is nothing but a small orange coin in the grass and the tent is a spot of blue. Clover lifts his head and brays once, offended and indignant, as if levitation is a personal insult to him. You can't hear the sound from your height, but you smile at the intent behind it.

Finally the levitation spell finishes its ascent and Gale tugs you closer, holding onto your waist in an attempt to ground you. The stars ahead and above are thick and sharp, bright enough to make you feel as though you're staring into something deep and endless. It's a vast expanse of void, twinkling stars the only decoration on an otherwise dark tapestry.

Mystra's Star Circle is clear now from this viewpoint, each point crisp as ink. The Shard of Selûne hangs like a sliver of broken glass. You tilt your head back and the sight makes your throat tighten with a sudden, almost childish thrill. The expanse of the sky is so much, so vacuous and open... So much bigger than you are. You fumble your notebook open, holding it tightly against yourself to shield it from the wind and scribble as quickly as you can, eyes flicking between the page and the stars.

Gale watches you with a soft curve to his mouth, amusement warming his eyes. Then his gaze shifts North, past the stars and down toward the dark line of land where the Spine rises like a behemoth in the dark. His arm at your waist tightens a fraction as he tenses before turning away from the view of the mountains. “There,” he murmurs, lifting a finger to trace the faint curve you couldn’t see from the ground. Auroth the Ice Snake arcs along the horizon in pale glitter, a ribbon of cold fire coiling just beyond the tree line. The sight makes your breath catch.

“We won’t stay up long,” Gale says, voice light and warm. He glances at your notebook, at the frantic marks you’re making, and his expression softens into something tender. “You’ll have plenty of time to admire it when we’re higher in the mountains.” His hand shifts at your waist, a small, grounding pressure as it curves along the dip in your spine. “For now, I’d rather get you down before your fingers freeze, and keep you close while I still can.”

"'Get me down,' Professor? And here I was wading in such a romantic view." You tuck your notebook away back in your breast pocket and put your hand on his chest gently, tapping lightly with your finger as you murmur, "I've never been kissed while flying before… but I sure would like to be."

"That can be arranged, my lady." Gale leans in, tucking you close to his chest as his lips meet yours, warm even in the cold air. The first touch is measured, careful, as if he’s testing whether the wind will steal the desire for it from you, as if he’s mindful of how exposed you are up here with nothing but starlight to witness you. Then your mouth parts on a breath and his restraint fractures in the smallest and most satisfying way. He kisses you again, deeper, the edge of hunger threaded through the tenderness. The night presses in around you. The cold bites at your cheeks and the bridge of your nose, but his mouth is warmth and his hands are comfort.

One of Gale's hands stays firm at your waist, keeping you anchored against him as though the wind might slip you out of his arms. The other slides up to your jaw to tilt your face where he wants it, guiding you like he guides spells, like he guides students, like he’s decided you are something worth shaping to his mold.

You taste the smoke still clinging to him from the fire below, the faint sweetness of whatever tea he had coaxed into your bowl earlier, and the distinct, sharp tang of the Weave that always seems to live just under his skin. Your fingers curl into the front of his robe and pull in a not so gentle way, and he answers with a sound that would be a laugh if it weren’t so low and roughened with want. His kiss turns possessive, the way a man becomes when he’s been holding himself together all day, and you’ve just given him permission to stop pretending. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the exact shape of your mouth. When he finally breaks away, it’s only by a fraction, foreheads nearly touching, his breath fanning over your mouth in soft, steady puffs.

“Better?” he murmurs, voice quiet, warm with satisfaction.

You could tease him. You could say something clever.

Instead, you lift your chin and kiss him again, because the stars are too bright and the air is too thin and the world below is too far away for modesty to survive. Gale makes a small, helpless sound into your mouth and tightens his arm around you. He steals another kiss, then another, unhurried and thorough, and you feel the way he reins himself back in at the last possible moment, always returning to control, always returning to care. It’s almost sweet, the discipline of it. Almost... Because you can’t help wondering how much of him is tenderness, and how much is simply hunger wearing a gentleman’s hands.

He breaks the kiss slowly, reluctant to let the moment end, and then his hand at your waist firms with purpose. The stars tilt again as Gale guides you down, the ground rising to meet your boots with a gentle inevitability that makes your stomach flip. Clover brays again as if to scold you for leaving him behind and you laugh quietly, breath fogging white in the air. Gale’s fingers brush your cheek once before he presses another warm kiss to your forehead and turns away, ducking into the tent and allowing the flap to fall closed after him.

It's not a dismissal, but it gives you a sudden and striking view of a potential domestic life after all of this.

—

The days blur after that, stitched together with the same small rituals— Clover’s stubborn pace, the creak of saddle bag straps, the taste of road dust and stale canteen water. Through it all, Gale walks beside you with a patience that feels practiced, like he’s done this often enough to know exactly when your feet will start to ache and just how much silence you can stand before it turns sharp. You learn the rhythm of long-distance travel by the shapes of his decisions: when to stop, when to push, when to eat something warm before your hands shake.

At night the tent becomes its own little world, stark blue canvas breathing with the wind while the fire throws weak light against Gale’s profile, and you find yourself watching him when you should be sleeping, trying to map his face the way you mapped the stars. The letters from Lenore in your notebook stay tucked and flat, a secret that you keep pressed close to your body, and you tell yourself you’ll bring them up when the road is quieter, when the timing is right.

You'd give anything to keep this bubble of contentment that you've made for yourself.

By the time the air starts to taste faintly of salt, you’ve begun to understand why people speak of Luskan with a certain wariness, its reputation preceding even the sight of it. The road gets busier, but no kinder. The two of you go from sharing the road with the empty wind to passing one person, then three, then five a day. You pass wagons with tarred wheels holding men who don’t meet your eyes and see travelers who keep their hands close to their belts and their faces turned away. Aside from the persistent gulls, there are far fewer wildlife. The wind changes as you near the coast, carrying with it brine and fish rot and smoke from a thousand small fires. The soundscape shifts, too.

Over the sound of the nearby ocean swells you can hear men shouting, bells ringing, and the chatter of crowds. The distant groan of wood and rope echoes from the marina just across from The South Road and as you get closer to the city you're able to pick out sails with emblems that you recognize. Clover seems to sense the change in the air, ears flicking back as if the world ahead makes him uneasy.

Gale doesn't say anything, simply tightens the lead in his hand and keeps walking, gaze fixed forward with that same contained focus. You wonder what he’s already arranged that he hasn’t bothered to tell you. He's mentioned having a roof to stay under in Luskan, and a friend who may or may not have supplies and knowledge. You open your mouth to ask him a few times, always thinking better of it and continuing on in somewhat comfortable silence. You don't want to break his concentration.

The South Gates rise out of the encroaching darkness ahead of you, the sun just dipping below the massive stone arch and outlining them beautifully against the sky. The South Gate sits at the edge of the road like a mouth you’re expected to step into politely, guards posted with an air of boredom that doesn’t quite reach their eyes. Beyond, you spot glimpses of motion and shadow and the suggestion of masts and rigging, the whole place smelling of salt and old violence.

You look overhead at the stately arch of the South Gate as you pass under it, guards nodding at the two of you without bothering to check your bags. The sun finally disappears over the horizon and the dark takes hold. Gale leads you and Clover through the streets with confidence, his clear knowledge of the city a surprise. He finally stops where it looks like nothing at all of importance could possibly exist—besides stacked crates and a narrow side street that disappears into fog—and you feel it, sudden and unmistakable, the shift from travel to intention in his demeanor. This isn’t a spontaneous stop. This is an appointment.

Gale clears his throat and hands you Clover's reigns, opening his mouth to speak before a stately voice cuts him off.

"I saw you practically miles down the road, you know. Not exactly inconspicuous." A man dressed in black leathers spills out from the darkened mouth of an alleyway as if he’s been poured from it, pale against the soot-stained stone. He runs a hand through shock-white hair and fixes Gale with a sharp gaze. “I’ve been waiting for days,” he adds, and then pouts like it’s a joke only he’s enjoying.

"Well it's not my fault that you got here before the appointed meeting,” Gale replies at once, irritation already curling around the words. You can’t help looking back and forth between them. There’s a familiarity here, a rapport that comes too easily to be new, but the air is tense.

"Just long enough to establish some contacts, darling," the man responds, a certain sharpness to the pet name that makes it land with a cut. Gale huffs out an exasperated sigh and shakes his head before gesturing towards you.

"Ah, yes, introductions. This is my new apprentice," he starts, hesitating only slightly before saying your name, "and she's been extremely capable." The man finally looks at you, your eyes meeting, and you startle a little when you realize his eyes are red. "This is Astarion, a friend of mine from... the road."

Astarion’s gaze lingers, quick and assessing. Your hands. Your notebook. The way you hold Clover’s reins. Then his mouth curves. "Better than the last, I hope… But don't be so modest, Gale. You can boast, can't you?" Astarion motions to Gale and then puts a hand to his chest with a dramatic flourish. "Your Professor here helped me when I defended the city of Baldur's Gate from the Absolute. Surely you know about that?" You stifle a smile when you catch Gale rolling his eyes over Astarion's shoulder.

"It's been mentioned, yes. I don't recall your name from it, but it's a pleasure to meet you." He only looks slightly offended but shakes the hand that you offer anyway, his grip cool but strong. Astarion tuts when he turns back to Gale, tone testy.

"You could have mentioned my name, at least." He recovers quickly, motioning down the alleyway and beginning to walk, expecting you to follow. "Despite your disrespect, I carried out your request to a tee."

"Could I, perhaps, finally be let in on what that request was?" you grumble, frustration at being confused finally bubbling over. Luskan smells like salt and old smoke and something faintly rotten beneath it all, and the alleyway only concentrates it. You gather your robes in one fist and step over a puddle the color of bruised wine that threatens to creep over your boot.

"Keeping people in the dark again, hm?" Astarion mutters ahead of you, "How very you."

"One borne of necessity, I assure you," Gale answers, clipped.

“That’s what you said last time,” Astarion throws back without missing a step.

He stops at a tall wooden door tucked between leaning buildings, iron bands crusted with rust and sea salt, a slit of lamplight leaking from the seam. He folds his arms and frowns at Gale with theatrical disapproval before finally addressing you, as if you’re the reasonable party here. “I’ve secured an inn for the two of you for the evening,” he says. “Private room. Hot water if you don’t ask too many questions. More rations for the road.” His eyebrow lifts as he turns to Gale. “And nearly half the total price in gold. Your message was charmingly brief, for once. Care to elaborate, now that we're here in the shadows?”

Gale visibly relents, jaw flexing once. He lowers his voice as someone slips past at the far end of the alley, too quiet to be drunk and too uninterested to be completely innocent. “One night under a roof,” he says, measured. “Food. And enough gold to bribe my way into Mithril Hall.” His eyes flick to yours, meaningfully, the unspoken portion of the sentence pressing itself between you. Do not ask here. Not where he can hear. This is not for him. You nod, accepting that it’s more than enough for now.

Astarion watches Gale a moment longer, eyes half-lidded with that infuriating, knowing calm that Gale displays as well, and then clicks his tongue softly. “Mithril Hall,” he repeats, tasting the words. “That’s quite a long way to drag a donkey and a bright little apprentice for ‘capstone field research.’ It can't be just for the two bowls of stew I ordered, either.” The humor in his voice is light, almost lazy, but the look he gives you is anything but.

"Aren't you eating?" you ask, startling a little when both men laugh.

"Oh no, darling, I'll dine later. Besides, I've already sampled Gale's taste in assistants." The words click into place after a beat— not the meaning, but the implication. Your gaze drops and catches the white points of his teeth when he clicks them together twice, and your stomach gives a small, cold lurch.

Vampire.

“He’s fine,” Gale says smoothly, as if he’s correcting you in class. His hand pats your shoulder, a grounding pressure to settle you before you can show too much reaction. “He’s… housebroken. Astarion won't touch you without permission.”

Astarion sighs and rolls his eyes in exasperation. "You don't have to be cruel about it," he pouts.

"Right. Well, then." Gale clears his throat and motions to the door. His shoulders settle into a neutral line, the kind he uses when he wants to look unbothered and fails only in the slight stiffness of his jaw. “We appreciate your help,” he says, as close to gratitude as he gets when it costs him his pride. Astarion waves a hand as if dismissing the idea of gratitude entirely.

“Please,” he replies, voice bright and cheery again, “you’re paying for it.” Then he taps the door with two knuckles in a neat rhythm. It opens on a warm spill of lamplight and noise, the smell of stew and sweat and wet wool rolling out like a blanket. Gale moves first, slipping inside with control and scanning focus, already searching corners out of habit. The lamplight catches the brown line of his hair and then the noise swallows him whole.

You shift Clover’s reins in your grip and step forward after him but Astarion’s hand flicks out with unnatural speed, catching your sleeve just above the wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop you. He doesn’t look at the crowd that Gale disappeared into but keeps his gaze on you, red eyes bright in the alley’s shadow, his mouth curved in the faintest approximation of humor. Up close, the amusement looks practiced. The seriousness underneath it does not.

“Listen,” he says quietly, voice low enough that it won’t carry past the doorway, “I’m not going to tell you to run. You won’t. You’ll convince yourself you have reasons, and he’ll help you find them.” His fingers loosen but don’t let go. A pause. Then, sharper, and more earnest he says, “So I’ll tell you something useful instead.”

"I-" His thumb taps once against your wrist to silence you, right where your pulse gives you away.

“He’s very good at making fear feel like devotion... Very good at making obedience feel like relief. If he tells you that something is necessary, believe him and then ask yourself why.”

Your breath catches. Through the open door of the inn you can see Gale peering around the crowd, trying to find the two of you. You start to say something, but Astarion continues before you can.

“He teaches with compliments. Sometimes that’s all the leash he needs. He's brilliant, but don't confuse brilliance for mercy." He releases your sleeve as if nothing happened, shaking the moment free with ease. Then his eyes slide past you toward the doorway, and his expression softens for a heartbeat. “He doesn’t mean to be cruel,” Astarion says, almost offhand. “He just thinks he’s entitled to the outcome.” He takes Clover's reins from you gently.

"Why should I listen to you?"

"You'll understand. Go on in, find your teacher… I'll rejoin the two of you soon. I need a moment." His eyes slip from yours to Clover and he smiles again, a genuine one. "Clover and I will find the stables and some oats." You watch as he turns away and leads Clover to the small alley beside the inn and you hear an iron gate unlatching, presumably for the stable yard.

Inside, the inn is cramped and busy in the way you've heard Luskan to be: bodies pressed close, laughter too loud, conversations clipped short whenever someone new passes. You find Gale in a corner booth and slide in beside him, leaning your shoulder on his head as a sudden wave of weariness hits your body. Sitting down in a proper seat makes you realize just how much stamina the road has taken from you. Your bones suddenly yearn for the soft bed you know is just upstairs.

"It'll pass once you get some food, I promise," Gale says quietly, his hand warm where it slides along your thigh comfortingly. "Where did Astarion get off to?" You open your mouth to answer and then spot him across the room, stifling a yawn as you point. Astarion slips through the crowd like he belongs, and the room parts for him like liquid. The inn-keep barely looks up when Astarion murmurs something low and coins clink softly. A key appears and the inn-keep nods, pointing toward the stairs and purchased privacy.

A moment later Astarion slides into the booth across from you and Gale, propping his chin up on one bored fist. The silence between the three of you stretches until Astarion finally breaks it, "I've got you two some bowls of stew on the way. And bread,” he says, eyes flicking to Gale with a faint curl of amusement. “If I remember your road cooking as well as I think I do, you'll be wanting some meat on your bones." He smiles, teeth white and strikingly sharp.

As if by magic, the stew arrives as soon as it's mentioned and the smells immediately makes your mouth water. The steam clings to your cheeks and you breathe it in, savoring what could be your last hot meal for a while. Astarion silently watches you with lazy interest, giving you and Gale the peace to eat comfortably. The stew is thick and peppery, the kind of food that sits heavy and warm in your stomach, and you feel your shoulders loosen a fraction as heat returns to your fingers. Outside the booth, the inn surges with laughter and footsteps and the scrape of chairs, and you find yourself watching the ordinary lives around you with a kind of distant envy.

Gale eats slower than you, his posture still too composed for an inn, but you can see the fatigue in him if you look closely enough. Astarion, by contrast, barely touches the table. He reclines, one boot hooked over the opposite knee and arm slung over the back of the booth, scanning the room with the air of someone who has lived long enough to find most danger repetitive. It's only now, when his head is turned away, that you notice a pair of pale circular scars on his neck.

“Soooo,” Astarion says at last, dragging the word out as if it pains him to participate in small talk, "Are we feeling civilized again, or are you still pretending this is all terribly romantic field work?” He tips his head toward Gale with a smile that’s too bright to be kind. “And Professor, you did write first. I’m still recovering from the shock.”

“It was efficient,” Gale answers, smooth and clipped, evading the bait. “You like efficiency.”

“I like results,” Astarion corrects, smiling wider. “Efficiency is what people say when they don't want further questions.” His gaze slides to you again, quick and ever-assessing. “And you,” he adds lightly, “are you enjoying your capstone adventure? Or have you discovered that ‘research’ is just a prettier word for ‘walking until you ache?'”

You swallow another bite, buying time as you turn over your words. “I’m enjoying it,” you say slowly, considering your words carefully. Gale had told you not to give too much away. “It’s… different than a library. Colder. Dirtier than I expected."

Astarion’s laugh is soft and sharp, like glass tapped with a fingernail. “Oh, good. A sense of humor. That will help in the North.” He leans forward, chin propped on one fist, and his eyes flicker with something something resembling compassion. “Mithril Hall, then. You really are serious.”

“It’s necessary,” Gale replies, his thigh pressing against yours under the table, a plea for your silence.

Astarion’s brows lift in delicate, exaggerated surprise. “Necessary,” he echoes. “That’s one of your favorites.” His smile returns just as easily, quick and wicked. “Well. I’ve done what you asked. Roof, food, and enough coin to grease the right palms.” Then he looks at both of you again in turn, the amusement turning gentler. "Do try not to die before we see each other again. The North doesn’t care how smart you both are.”

Gale nods, reaching across the table and shaking Astarion's hand with a firm grip. "Thank you again, Astarion. You'll hear from us when I'm able to get a message back so that you know how we fared," he offers, but Astarion is already shaking his head.

"I'll be moving on tomorrow evening. If you need to reach out again, you can leave a message with our dear Jenevelle. Work will take me in that area, and I expect I'll stop in for a visit." Gale is already nodding, a smile spreading across his face.

"In that case, we may just stop by. She's still in the East?"

Astarion nods and stands, stretching as he does before leaning back down and muttering, "Stay safe, hm? You and I didn't go through what we did for you to perish in the cold." He drops the room key onto the table with a gentle clink, raps his knuckles on the table once, and then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd before you can blink.

—

The bedroom is warm from the fires burning downstairs and the heat is slightly suffocating after the open dining room. You open a window immediately, taking a deep breath of the salty air. Gale comes to stand behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle and resting his chin on your shoulder gently.

"It's been ages since I was here," he says softly, "but the more things change, the more they stay the same." The silence stretches between you, comfortable and soft. You finally break it with the question that's been burning at you since Astarion slid out of the shadows.

"Are you sure we can we trust him?"

"With our lives." Gale's answer is quick and earnest enough to calm your misgivings and you sigh, leaning your head back against his shoulder and closing your eyes. His arms tighten around you briefly before he bends and presses a kiss to your temple.

"He seems the type to want in on whatever we find up there." Your body moves with Gale's quiet laughter before he turns away, unbuttoning the clasps on his robes as he talks.

"He is the type, absolutely. But he's also reliable, and can keep secrets. Perhaps with the exception of Jenevelle, since I mentioned we'd be stopping in."

"Another friend from the road?" you ask, turning and raising an eyebrow at him. Gale nods, motioning to remove your clothes.

"Get ready for bed, you need the rest." He waits until you roll your eyes, beginning to undo your own robes with quiet obedience. "Yes, another friend from the road. A great one. She's been through a lot, and still has the heart to help others." He pauses to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it unceremoniously on top of his robes before tugging at his belt. "She's the best of us, our little group."

"How little exactly?" You shrug out of your clothing and toss it onto the small pile of fabric Gale's created. When he nods approvingly you step forward, wrapping your arms around him and resting your chin on his chest.

"Six, for the most part." Gale's hand threads through your hair and you sigh comfortably, grateful for the quiet and private moment. "We had some others come and go but… Six." He stops, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and squeezing you briefly in his arms. "Another time, I'll tell you all of it. Just not now."

"Is it too hard?" you ask softly, allowing him to pull you towards the bed. He nods wordlessly and you let the matter drop, tugging the blankets down on the bed and sliding in. Gale slips in behind you, pulling the heavy comforter over your bodies and blocking out the cold air from the window. The planes of his chest press against you and you wriggle closer, humming contentedly when he wraps an arm around your middle.

"Thank you," he whispers into your hair. "For understanding. For not asking more about it."

"Always." You twist slightly, enough that you can lean back and kiss the underside of his jaw, his beard tickling your lips softly. His other arm comes to tuck around you, pulling you closer so that you're flush against him as his nose gently nudges your head to the other side. Gale hums softly with desire as he kisses a low line from your shoulder up to your ear, teeth scraping against your pulse point.

It's leisurely, almost lazy, but it sends a warm thrum of desire through you just the same.

When you part your lips with a sigh and move your head to give him access to the sensitive skin of your neck he shifts, one leg slipping between yours. The friction is minimal, just the soft cotton of your smallclothes and the fine linen of his against your skin, but it's enough to make you ache for more. His hands trace your sides, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your stomach and hips. He rolls his hips once, a slow, deliberate movement that has you pressing back against him. He's already half-hard, and you can feel him growing firmer with every passing second.

Gale hums in the back of his throat and continues to press soft kisses to your neck. "Is this alright? If I take you like this?" His voice is a low murmur, vibrating against your skin. You nod, but he still pulls back just enough to see your face, a questioning look in his eyes.

"Yes," you say, your own voice breathy. "It's perfect."

He kisses you properly then, a languid slide of tongue and teeth as he rocks against you again. His hands wander, tracing your curves with a reverence that still makes your chest feel tight. It's in the way he touches you, the way he moves, the quiet intensity in his eyes. You reach back to thread your fingers through his hair, the silken strands slipping through your grasp as he rocks against you with a slow, deep rhythm that leaves you breathless and wanting.

"Tell me," he murmurs against your lips, "what you want." He's hard and hot against you, a delicious friction that has you arching against him. His hand drifts down, toying with the waistband of your smallclothes, a question waiting for an answer.

You push back against him, a desperate plea for more. "Just you," you manage to gasp out. "Just want to feel you, Professor." He breaks the kiss with a groan at his title, moving to trace the curve of your neck with his lips. You move slowly, giving him more access to you as his hand pushes the fabric away to trace the curve of your hip, your thigh, the sensitive skin behind your knee.

Finally he moves your panties aside and pushes into you, slow and deep, and you gasp at the sudden, overwhelming sensation. He stills, letting you adjust, and you can feel the fine tremor of self control in the arms that hold you.

"You always feel so safe with me, don't you?" he whispers, lips brushing against the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps erupting down your arms. "Gods, you feel... perfect." He punctuates the word with a deep, rolling thrust that has you seeing stars. He moves with an unhurried grace, each movement deliberate and measured. He's in no rush, and the slow, torturous pace has you writhing against him, desperate for more.

"Gale," you breathe out, fingers twisting in the comforter on the bed as you rock back against him, the sound muted from under the thick cotton.

Your Professor reaches down and takes your wrist, guiding your hand between your legs. "Touch yourself for me, dearest." You obey instantly, fingers finding the sensitive bud of nerves as he sets a slow, languid pace. "That's it. Just like that."

Your other hand finds purchase on his forearm, nails digging into the skin as the pleasure builds, a slow, steady wave that threatens to pull you under. His name falls from your lips, a breathy litany as your fingers circle faster, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

You feel him everywhere— in the warmth of his panting breaths against your neck, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back, the weight of his arm around your waist, the delicious stretch as he fills you completely. It's an intoxicating cocktail of sensation, a profound intimacy that goes beyond the physical. His praise is a low, steady murmur in your ear, words of encouragement and adoration that wash over you, each one fanning the flames of your escalating tension.

"You're taking me so well," he groans, his thrusts becoming a little harder, a little faster. "Gods, the way you're squeezing me..." His fingers flex against your hip, a sure sign of his own unraveling composure. He's usually so controlled, so measured, but with you, he lets go, and the raw, unrestrained passion that he reveals in these moments is your greatest reward.

The pressure builds, a tightening coil in the pit of your stomach. Your breath hitches, your body tensing as you teeter on the precipice. Gale senses it, his movements becoming more deliberate, each thrust a calculated push toward the edge.

"Let go for me," he urges, his voice a low, husky command that shatters the last of your restraint. "I've got you. You're safe."

That's all it takes. With a sharp cry you shatter, pleasure washing over you in a relentless wave. Your body convulses, your back arching as you ride the crest of your orgasm, your fingers still working furiously against your clit as you clench around him, milking him for all he's worth.

He follows you over the edge with a guttural groan, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep inside of you, his release a hot flood that fills you completely. For a moment you're both still, your ragged breaths the only sound in the quiet room, bodies entwined in the tangle of sheets.

Slowly, carefully, he withdraws, and you mourn the loss of him instantly, a sudden emptiness that has you shivering despite the warmth you created together under the blanket. But then he's pulling you into his arms, arranging the blankets around you both with a gentleness that belies the intensity of your lovemaking. You nestle against him, your head pillowed on his chest, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart a soothing rhythm against your ear.

"Alright?" he asks, his fingers stroking lazy patterns on your back.

You nod, a contented sigh escaping your lips. "Mm. More than." It's an effort to say anything more, the weariness suddenly hitting your bones in the aftermath of your climax.

He chuckles, the sound a low rumble under your ear. "Good. Because I have no intention of letting you go anytime soon."

You press a soft kiss to the warm skin of his chest, tasting the salt of his sweat. "Don't," you murmur, your voice thick with sleep. "Don't ever let me go."

"Never," he promises, his arms tightening around you.

—

The next morning the two of you are off before the sun fully rises, saddlebags loaded on Clover and laden with extra supplies. The inn-keep was kind enough to wrap three loaves of stale bread in some cloth for you and included an extra canteen of water. The gesture didn't go unnoticed, and you made sure to leave an additional silver behind for him.

You leave through the North Gate this time and the area is noticeably better manned and tended to. Lanterns still burn along the inner wall, their light a dull gold against the grey of the morning, and the guards here look less like bored dock-thugs and more like men who expect trouble to come from the road.

A pair of wagons are being checked for contraband with brisk efficiency, a merchant muttering under his breath while a guard runs a spear haft along the seams of his crates. Someone sweeps the cobbles near the gatehouse, pushing yesterday’s grit into neat little lines. They nod sharply to you as you pass through the Gate, rattling it closed behind you.

The air is colder on this side, cleaner too, though the sea-salt still clings to everything like a film. Clover’s breath puffs white as he plods, packs shifting and creaking in familiar rhythm, and you keep your eyes forward as the city’s last warmth fades behind you. Beyond the gate the road opens up into a stretch of packed earth and frost-stiff grass, fields giving way to scrub and then to the beginnings of true wilderness. You glance back once, catching the silhouette of Luskan’s walls against the paling sky, and the sight makes your stomach tighten in a way you can’t quite name. Last night’s laughter and lamplight feel unreal already, a brief pocket of warmth that you already miss.

Ahead, the land starts to lift almost imperceptibly, the horizon sharpening into darker lines as the day brightens. The wind has teeth out here, sliding under your collar and down the back of your neck, and you pull your cloak tighter while Gale readjusts his robes, turning the collar up against his throat. He’s quieter now than he was in the inn, the intimacy of the night packed away with the blankets and bowls.

There’s a focus to him that makes you match his pace without thinking, and when you finally lift your gaze north you can see the beginnings of the mountains of it in the far distance. Not the full Spine yet, not the jagged teeth you’ll come to know too well, but a darker smudge against the early sky that looks like the world’s edge. Gale follows your gaze and his mouth softens into something that could be anticipation or worry.

“Keep close. The weather turns fast up there."

The next time you look up from your feet the mountains are practically looming over you in the distance, peaks seeming to touch the sky. The sight steals the air from your lungs in a way the road never did, and for a moment you just stand there, mouth slightly open, letting the scale of it settle into you. From here, the Spine looks like its name, jagged splinters of mountains forming the vertebrae of the world.

It's a jagged line of dark teeth against the sky, ridges catching the light while the valleys between them stay bruised with shadow. The wind changes too, as if it’s been poured down from those heights. Colder. Drier. Sharper, and carrying the faint mineral smell of stone and snow even from this far away.

Clover plods on without a care, stubborn and steady, but you can feel the way his pace slows a fraction as the land begins to rise. The road turns from packed earth to something rougher, scattered with gravel and patches of frost that crunch beneath your boots. Eventually Gale pulls up short, stopping you as he searches through one of the packs on Clover's back. You turn to watch him instead of the mountains for a moment and catch something in his expression that spread worry through your center. It's not fear, not resolution, not even discomfort.

It's more like recognition, as if he’s looking at an old chapter he swore he’d never reread.

You shake it off and return your gaze to the mountain line, looming ever closer with every hour that passes. Beside you, Clover takes the stationary moment to bend down, chewing on some of the stubborn grass that manages to grow through the cracks in the gravel.

“You’re staring,” he mutters after a moment, voice mild, and when you glance at him you find his eyes already on you. There’s warmth there, faint and familiar, but it’s threaded with a focus that makes your spine straighten without you meaning to. “They’re impressive,” he adds, and the understatement is almost funny until you realize it isn’t meant to be. He turns his gaze back to the peaks, following their line Northward. “We’ll make good time today. Before the weather decides we shouldn’t.”

He readjusts the packs and turns, motioning for you to follow once more.

Then the horizon darkens suddenly, as if the Spine drew breath.

“The mountains do not welcome. They only wait.” — On Northern Roads and Final Things, Anonymous

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