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At the age of ten, Gale Dekarios conjured a tressym when his parents refused to give him a kitten, forever bonding the two of them.
Also at the age of ten, Gale Dekarios conjured an imaginary friend. Every magic lesson without fail, she’d show up behind his shoulder, the ends of her hair crackling with magic.
He didn’t know how she came to be in his mind, but one day one of her hands was resting on his shoulder as he sat in front of his mentor Elminster, the girl guiding him through the motions to tap into the Weave, occasionally peppering her guidance with a sassy remark or two.
At night, she would perch on the edge of his bed, her gaze fixed upward as though the ceiling were the night sky itself.
Whenever Gale tossed and turned after a nightmare, he knew she was behind it all — the distant rumble of thunder, the gentle patter of rain against the windowpane, and the soft rustle of wind through the leaves outside — each element carefully crafted to soothe him into peaceful slumber.
He knew she was imaginary. To everyone else, she remained unseen, unfelt — a figment of his imagination. Only he could catch her small smiles, or notice the subtle click of her fingers as she attempted to beckon the Weave.
On the day she’d first appeared, he cornered her in the back of the kitchen — if you could even corner your own imaginary friend.
"Who are you?" He demanded, fixing her with a gaze filled with all the authority a ten-year-old could muster.
"I don’t know, who are you?" She retorted. She was annoying, that much was certain already. Gale sized her up, attempting to appear intimidating, despite the pounding of his heart under his ribs.
"Are you a wizard?" He asked, a curious expression lifting one of his brows as it fell upon the robes draped over her shoulders. She glanced down at the fabric, pinching it between her fingers before letting it fall back into place.
“I guess so,” She replied with a shrug. “Do you like wizards?” Gale’s face softened. He took a step back.
“I’m learning to become one,” he replied truthfully.
"That makes two of us, then," she chuckled softly. As Gale observed her, he realised she was just as clueless about the situation as he was.
“Are you here to help me with my magic?” The way her eyes sparkled at the mention of magic was an image Gale knew he’d never forget.
"I love magic," she said with conviction. It seemed to be the only thing she was sure of about herself. Gale couldn't help but smile at her then. She looked like a lost puppy — albeit an annoying lost puppy — but if he truly had created her, then he was happy about it.
"Then let's play together," he said with a grin.
Gale couldn’t remember a time he’d ever been without her.
•••
At eleven years old, heart pounding with excitement, he darted behind a tree trunk in an attempt to hide. Tav's small cloud crackled with lightning, casting fleeting shadows that danced across the lawn as it chased after him. The wind whipped through the air, tousling his hair and sending leaves swirling as she pursued him with gleeful determination.
Buried under the weight of his schoolwork by twelve years old, Gale would cast aside his quill in frustration often. Sensing his distress, she would always conjure a gentle rainstorm, helping him focus and relax.
By the age of thirteen, Gale had learned not to converse with her in public. The odd glances, eye rolls, and murmurs of "There he goes...talking to the air again..." had become too much to bear. Yet, she seemed unfazed by it all.
They spoke in his room at night, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. Her form appeared so real, her features illuminated by the moonbeams. Yet, he never dared to reach out and touch her. Her presence was so tangible that even after she vanished by morning, the crumpled bed sheets retained the impression of her smaller frame.
•••
"Come on, how old are you?" Gale chided one night, shortly after his fourteenth birthday, right around the Blackstaff portal incident. She seemed to age at the same rate as him, but she regarded him with a quizzical expression, wisps of crackling lightning magic dancing at her fingertips as she paced his room. She ran said fingers through her hair, lost in thought.
"I thought we exclusively talked about magic?" She challenged him.
"I'm simply curious," he insisted, his tone earnest.
"You created me, Gale. How old do you imagine I could be?"
"I didn't consciously create you," protested, though even he wasn't certain of the truth. "You simply appeared one day, behind me. That's the extent of my knowledge."
"If that's the extent of your knowledge, that’s all I know too," she replied bluntly, striding over to settle herself on the edge of his bed. "Now, let's refocus on Elminster's teachings..."
•••
His imaginary friend seemed to radiate with magic, each spell they practised casting together shedding a light on her innate talent. Evocation came to her effortlessly, like a bolt of lightning — aptly so, he often thought — springing forth from a mere flick of her wrist. They would laugh together as they sparred over who had mastered the spells more adeptly. He yearned to unravel the mysteries of her existence, wanted to know everything about her, but she remained an enigma, never knowing her own story.
Despite his longing, the fear of what he might discover, or perhaps the fear of finding nothing at all, always stayed his hand from reaching out to touch her, leaving him to wonder if she was truly real.
•••
When he was fifteen, they were in his room at Blackstaff, poring over a spellbook with an intensity that matched the crackling energy in the air. His recent successes in mastering advanced spells had earned him recognition among his fellow students, and whispers of his potential had even reached the ears of the esteemed faculty.
"This is just the beginning," he declared to her, his imaginary friend who, as customary, sat on the edge of his bed, her presence as tangible as ever. "Soon all of them will know what I’m — what we're capable of."
Before she could respond, the door to his room burst open, startling them both. A fellow student, eyes wide with excitement, rushed in, brandishing a letter bearing the sigil of Mystra, the goddess of magic herself.
"Gale, you won't believe it!" the student exclaimed, barely able to contain his excitement. He walked straight past her, going to his side to share the news.
"You've been chosen to receive a special audience with Lady Mystra herself! They say she's taken a personal interest in your progress."
Gale's heart raced with disbelief. Mystra's attention was an honour beyond measure. In his excitement, he turned to gauge her reaction. She wore a sad smile.
"You earned it," she said softly. But Gale, unable to dwell on her melancholy expression for too long, quickly averted his gaze before his prolonged scrutiny could arouse suspicion, redirecting his attention back to his fellow student.
•••
By the time Gale reached sixteen, her appearances dwindled significantly, scarcely manifesting during daylight hours anymore. Yet, after his Illusions class one afternoon, she materialised once more, quietly trailing behind him as he made his way to his next lesson. Sometimes she was just there — waiting — on the other side of walls or descended from ceilings with a crackle of energy, falling into step beside him with hands tucked into her robe pockets.
They moved down the corridors with a slow pace, enveloped in a heavy silence. She arched an eyebrow, sensing his unease.
"What's up with you?" she quipped, her tendency to probe him a characteristic that sometimes grated on Gale's nerves. She left him more confounded with every sentence she spoke.
"I don’t understand you," he confessed, avoiding her gaze. Her unreal, fake, imaginary gaze.
She chuckled softly as she crossed her arms. "I don't think anyone is meant to fully understand the workings of their own mind."
"I didn't conjure you. I'm certain of it," Gale insisted, feeling as though he were conversing with himself — quite literally.
"Then how am I here?" she questioned. She never usually asked things about her existence. For so long, she had simply accepted her presence alongside him, rarely delving into the subject beyond discussions of magic.
Gale came to an abrupt halt, his stomach twisting itself in knots. Alone in the hallway, he felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch her — to know what she felt like, to know if she even could be felt.
She observed him hesitantly as he extended his hand towards her arm. But as he drew closer, she took a sudden step back, her hands raised defensively as if he held a weapon poised to strike.
"That's not a good idea," she warned roughly, her tone more sentient than he had ever heard before. Gale's frustration surged within him at her sudden resistance.
"Why not? If I was the one who created you, why can't I touch you?" His voice carried a bitter edge as he stared at her, his frustration boiling over. He looked her up and down, before launching himself toward her again.
She backed away, evading his advances with a swift swerve. "You just can't," she replied, her voice betraying a hint of emotion, her eyes glassy and her hair losing its usual spark.
Gale had started trembling, consumed by a confusion and anger he never knew he harboured. Each step she took back felt like a dagger twisting in his gut, until she placed her hand on one of the classroom doors.
"I'm sorry," she said, her tone final, causing Gale's heart to leap into his throat. With the ease of someone possessing a key, she opened the door and stepped through, clicking it shut behind her. She didn't glance back at him, disappearing into whatever void awaited her when she wasn't by his side.
Rushing to the door, tears welled in Gale's eyes. He pounded on the wood, his fists clenched in frustration, his shouts echoing in the empty hallway.
The door creaked open. "Can I help you, Mr. Dekarios?" It wasn't his friend — it was just his Evocation professor, looking at him as if he were deranged.
Perhaps he was.
Gale hurried down the corridor in silence, wrapping his arms around himself as he paced back to his room. Collapsing onto his bed, he was alone—
Entirely alone.
•••
His best friend was gone.
She didn't return. Not once. Not even when he pleaded for her to. Not even when he squeezed his eyes shut at night, desperately hoping she'd be there when he opened them—
He tried everything .
Delved into every conjuration book the academy library had to offer, experimented with every potion he could get his hands on that seemed remotely related to familiars, even seeking counsel from Elminster himself about the possibility of her being of an unknown race in Faerûn.
He painted stills of her, determined to preserve her memory, to never forget. But the images he created were fragmented, incomplete—a hand weaving a storm, shabby robes, a tousled mop of hair. Almost four years without her only left him with more questions than answers.
But nothing worked. Slowly, reluctantly, he began to accept the painful truth: she was truly gone, and he was completely, utterly alone.
•••
When Gale was well into his adult years and had become one of Mystra’s Chosen, his search for a tome containing a scrap of the Weave carried with it a faint thread of hope — that perhaps, during his search, he might also stumble upon information somehow to reunite with his friend.
But when his efforts backfired, leaving him with an ever-hungry, angry black orb nestled in his chest, he thought her return would be inevitable. He imagined her stumbling upon him in his self-imposed exile, surrounded by the clutter of hundreds of magical items drained of their properties and books strewn about in a desperate quest for answers to his ailment.
Despite the passage of time, memories of his friend still littered his mind, along with all the things she’d taught him. Every storm that raged outside served as a poignant reminder of her presence and the comfort she had once provided. He couldn't help but wonder if they were her doing, a gesture of kindness from beyond, for old time’s sake.
How could his mind conjure someone like her? How could a mere thought give rise to such a brilliant young sorcerer and friend for lonely nights?
Once, he had dismissed imaginary friends as a sign of mental weakness. But after she'd left, he realised she was nothing short of a testament to goodness, always something he could count on.
Now, debilitated only in his thirties, he pondered what she would make of him. She would probably call his journey from being a Chosen of Mystra to his current state a tragic descent. He let out a deep sigh.
"What do I do?" he whispered into the night air of his balcony, his voice barely audible, an almost silent plea for her return. Surely, she would know what to do. He clung to the hope that she would reappear, but deep, deep down, he knew she was gone for good.
•••
As Gale blinked his eyes open, he was met with confinement pressing in around him. His head throbbed with agony, and darkness threatened to engulf his vision.
Fragmented memories started flooding his mind.
The screams—
The Nautiloid—
Panic seized him as he fought against the confines of the pod, desperation lending strength to his efforts. But as he continued to struggle, his energy waned, and everything faded to black, the last vestiges of consciousness slipping away.
•••
When he came to again, his eyes caught sight of a figure moving about the chamber.
No. No, it couldn’t be…
Disbelief washed over him as he recognised the silhouette — there was his friend, his imaginary friend from childhood, whom he hadn't seen in over a decade, seemingly all grown up.
No, it couldn’t be her. Surely his mind just struggled to make sense of the disjointed fragments of his memory.
Surely he was just imagining it.
He squeezed his eyes, hoping to dispel the illusion, but when he opened them again, she was still there, her presence as vivid as ever. She moved with purpose, seemingly free of any constraints, unlike him still trapped within his pod.
Was this a hallucination induced by the parasite they had implanted in his mind? Could it be a manifestation of some stage of ceremorphosis?
Despite his doubts, Gale couldn't help but plead, his cries muffled. "Please, if you're truly still out there, help me. Please, I need you now more than ever. Please—"
But she was gone, leaving Gale alone once again.
•••
“Who are you?” a familiar voice called from beyond the portal.
There it was again, that stubborn thread of hope bubbling up inside him upon hearing her. His mind was playing games with him, ceremorphosis turning stranger’s voices into ones that would comfort him.
“Just your average traveller stuck between realms. Pull me out and we’ll get properly introduced,” he called from within.
Firm hands grabbed his arm and pulled. He finally leapt out of the portal he’d been stuck inside of with his knees doing a loud crunch when he landed on the ground, hands and feet in the dirt.
He stood up slowly, dusting his trousers and robe free of as much earth as he could in an attempt to look composed. “Oof, hello. I’m Gale of Waterdeep,” he began introducing himself. “Apologies, I’m usually better at this—”
The breath caught in his throat as his eyes settled on her form, not believing who was in front of him.
Gale was thrown back into his ten-year-old self. His friend stood before him, magic emanating from her very being, the same robes he’d watched her grow up in, hair a tousled mess crackling with tiny sparks just as it always had. It was her — she had to be— but he had to know—
“At introductions?” she asked, and oh, wasn't that question just like the many snarky comments he had grown up hearing—
Without answering, he stepped forward to poke her left arm once. She scoffed as he retracted his finger. A faint blush wound its way onto his cheeks.
Behind her, two others observed their exchange, which at the very least reassured Gale that he wasn't the only one seeing her, even if it meant he now had an awkward audience witnessing his confusion.
“Sorry,” he muttered, swallowing uncomfortably. “I’m usually better at magic, to give a proper answer to your question. Say, but I know you, don’t I? In a manner of speaking,” he tried to think of something to say to avoid sounding awkward. “You were on the nautiloid as well.”
"I was, indeed. You seem to have eyes! Now, perhaps a handshake would be more civilised than poking?" she quipped, her tone laced with amusement. It was enough to make him want to cry. He took her hand in his, almost flinching at the sensation of the electric undercurrent in her skin against his own.
As their hands remained pressed together, he realised he might have lingered too long when her brows furrowed in question. “Do I know you?” she let out, overcome by a sense of Deja vu that she obviously hadn’t been expecting.
Gale came back to himself immediately. “That depends — I can only assume you too were on the receiving end of a rather unwelcome insertion in the ocular region?” Her eyes widened as if he had just read her mind.
“The insertee we speak of, this parasite — are you aware that after a period of excruciating gestation it will turn us into mind flayers? It is a process known as ceremorphosis, and let me assure you: it is to be avoided,” he held up a finger to underscore his point.
"You're certainly not sugarcoating it," she remarked with a touch of melancholy.
“No point in doing so, is there? — Would any of you happen to be a cleric, by chance? A doctor? Surgeon? Uncannily adroit with a knitting needle?” he despaired.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, we’re most certainly going to need a healer, and soon, too. How about we lend each other a helping hand once more and look for one together?”
She considered his proposal for a moment before nodding. "Fine, sounds like a plan."
After over a decade, his friend was back .
Gale knew then, as he stepped in line behind them and listened to the group’s banter and her witty prose—
She’d always been real.
He just hadn’t met her yet.
•••
During the first few days of camping together, hardly a word passed between anyone.
Each member of the group emerged from the crash too exhausted to do anything but breathe. Emotions swirled, mingling hope with denial, while relief danced hand-in-hand with horror, too overwhelming to fully comprehend.
Gale found himself stealing glances at her, a rush of warmth flooding his chest at the sight of his friend—
But he quickly quelled such sentiments, reminding himself that they were now nothing more than strangers, thrown together by circumstance.
He observed the subtle changes in her appearance, noting the maturation of her face and the emergence of new freckles since they had been sixteen. She caught him once, and that single exchange was enough to send him to bed.
He dreamed of being ten years old again, of serene storms and gentle lightning, with a girl standing vigil at the edge of his bed, ensuring his sleep remained undisturbed.
•••
On the third night, with their group now expanded to seven, they huddled around a campfire, their eyes locked on the dancing flames as if it held all the answers.
From what Gale had read about ceremorphosis, they were due to change any minute now. The inevitability of their fate hung heavy in the air.
Despite their affliction, none of them had changed yet — and that was as much of a relief as it was terrifying.
They began to share snippets of information about themselves, their eyes avoiding direct contact as if wary of what they might reveal.
Names were exchanged— and after over a decade Gale finally learned that her name was Tav. She hailed from Baldur’s Gate and possessed the remarkable ability to manipulate storms through the power of words, a talent she had honed since the tender age of four.
A storm sorcerer, Gale mused silently, not a wizard then, the innate magic that seemed to radiate from her being making more sense now.
The others introduced themselves with equally peculiar names—Shadowheart, the Blade — and he couldn't help but feel a twinge of amusement at his own comparatively mundane moniker. They hailed from Waterdeep, K'liir, though most shared Tav's origins in Baldur's Gate. And they all wanted to rid themselves of the tadpoles that threatened to consume them from within.
•••
He wasn't used to socialising this much, not since his seclusion in the tower. Yet, as he donned the persona of Gale of Waterdeep — the charismatic and articulate version of himself from days past, he kept up the pretence that he still remembered how to charm an audience.
He rather liked arguing with Tav, engaging in spirited debates with her over the origins of magic — blood or books. In her presence, his guard melted away effortlessly. It was the first time in a long while that he truly felt like he was speaking as himself, as Gale Dekarios, not Gale of Waterdeep.
And he sought to learn more about her, eager to explore her reactions now that she was free from the constraints of his imagination.
Though he may have been a bit rusty in the art of conversation, he knew magic, knew her — and with the time he had left he intended to find out all that he could.
•••
As the shimmering image of Mystra was cradled within his palm, he felt a pang of loss wash over him. This figure embodied everything he had cherished the past years — being her Chosen, his bond with the Weave — now dwindled to a distant memory.
"What are you doing?" his favourite voice asked, and he turned back to watch her gaze drifting to the image of Mystra in his hand.
Gale hesitated before letting the image in his palm disappear. “Oh! You startled me. I was… miles away.”
Tav moved closer, both compassion and question in her eyes as she took him in. “Why were you conjuring an image of the goddess?”
"Just pondering what I lost," he admitted, his gaze returning to the spectral figure before him. "Remembering what it felt like to wield magic as her Chosen, to be connected to something greater than myself."
"You fear losing even more of it," she observed quietly.
Gale nodded, a wistful smile on his face. "More than words can convey," he confessed. "Magic is… my life,” And what bound us together, he wanted to add, but refrained. “I’ve been in touch with the Weave for as long as I can remember. And now, with the tadpoles, more than I fear my own self and soul, I fear losing my command of the art."
Tav reached out, her hand resting on his shoulder in solace. The static charge from her touch prickled his skin. It made him feel alive.
And in the moments that followed, what they shared within the Weave afterwards, he could almost believe she remembered as much as he did.
•••
After defending the druid grove from the Absolute’s invaders, they held a more than well-deserved celebration at camp with the tieflings and druids that had joined them. The alcohol flowed freely, and the air was filled with laughter and cheer.
Gale couldn’t help but watch with a twinge of jealousy as Tav made her rounds, engaging in conversation—and perhaps flirting—with their companions. He noticed the glances Astarion and Lae’zel sent her way, he wasn’t oblivious.
He watched her as he nursed his first drink, then his second, until finally deciding to abandon all restraint and seizing the entire bottle of wine. Tav had caught him staring once or twice.
It felt oddly fitting, then, when she sought him out last, as if she were reserving "the best" for the end. It filled him with a comforting warmth.
“—’Smart’ does her a disservice. She’s a fine wizard in her own right, though somewhat held back by her lack of opposable thumbs. You remind me of her somewhat — always have, now that I reflect on it. Just imagine the astonishment on her face if she discovered you were real all along, and we simply hadn't crossed paths yet," Gale pondered, a lopsided smile gracing his features as he drifted away.
Tav’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open slightly as she struggled to process his words.
Had he truly said something so terrible? Gale couldn’t help but wonder if his level of intoxication had influenced his choice of words, but he had always thought of Tara as a positive figure to be likened to.
He figured he had no choice but to continue speaking. “I wish she were here for me to make a formal introduction, but I would never ask her to undertake such a journey. She is safer at home.”
She remained silent, her eyes still wide with disbelief.
Gale cursed inwardly. He wished he could retract his words, whatever it was that had upset her, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue more than he had intended.
He took a deep breath. "What I meant to articulate was that Tara is someone I deeply cherish, someone who's been a guiding light in my life." Pausing, he locked eyes with her. "But she's not here, and you are. And, truth be told, I'm profoundly grateful for your presence." His heart pounded with anticipation of Tav's response.
She was still staring. Her hair looked charged with so much static that it appeared poised to crackle into lightning at any moment.
Clearing his throat nervously, Gale managed a weak smile. “Well, this seems as good a time as any for me to stop babbling on. I fear I’ve indulged in far too much wine for my words to hold much weight, so perhaps it's best to save this conversation for a better time. Please, go indulge in the frivolities — they’re good for the heart.”
He wouldn't recall any of it come morning, but what he especially didn't know then was that he'd single-handedly turned Tav's world upside down.
•••
Gale almost didn’t hear the crunch of weight upon the small leaves on the grass where he sat, in the field under the night sky he had woven.
For weeks, they had traversed the shadow-cursed lands, the relentless darkness snuffing out any fleeting joy their group had initially found. On top of that, Gale had been burdened with the task of harnessing the orb nested within his chest as a weapon against the Absolute, contemplating it incessantly.
Now, with Moonrise Towers looming on the horizon, bringing him closer to the Absolute and his own demise, Gale knew he had to seize his chance.
Tav settled down in the grass next to him. "So, what's the special occasion that merits transforming the entire sky?"
He sighed. “This may be my last night alive. I wanted it to be under a canopy of beauty and wonder…” he trailed off, his eyes slowly meeting hers, “and with company to match.”
She gave him a small smile at that.
“I thought this place might bring me peace. I thought it might make the weight of what I have to do a little lighter… but I am not so sure,” he continued.
Tav edged closer, shadows of sorrow etching into her features. "Are you really that eager to throw your life away in hopes of gaining Mystra's forgiveness? Seems a bit reckless, doesn't it?"
"Mortality is a fate we all share, but earning Mystra's forgiveness is not equally as assured," Gale countered. "I don’t see it as a reckless abandonment of life. I am terrified – I will not claim otherwise. But to meet my end in the pursuit of a noble cause would at least lend some purpose to my demise. Can’t you see that?”
Frowning, Tav ran a hand through her hair in frustration, causing sparks to scatter into the air. "So, after all we've been through, you're simply choosing to lay down your life for Her. Even though I had stood by your side long before she had. But I guess that counts for nothing in the presence of a Goddess, does it?"
"Innocent lives could be spared with my sacrifi— Wait. What did you just say?" Gale paused abruptly, his tone shifting as he practically begged for a repetition of her words. He didn't dare hope.
"Every time I closed my eyes, I found myself by your side, back when we were children," Tav confessed.
His eyes widened. "You— you remember? You were there?"
"There were times when I couldn't help but wonder if I was just stuck in an endless loop of unbelievably consistent lucid dreams back then. But then, when I pulled you out of that portal, there you were, flesh and blood, just as real as I remembered."
“Where did you go?” Gale asked plaintively, still not quite believing what he was hearing.
“Where I’ve always gone,” Tav answered, and he knew she had no other way to explain it.
Gale swallowed hard, then surged forward, pulling Tav as close to him as he could, afraid she’d disappear again. Despite her laughter, her cheeks were moist when his forehead brushed against them.
"I thought I had imagined you," she said amidst a mix of laughter and tears, leaving Gale unsure of which was which. Gale simply held onto her tighter, burying his face against her cheek and the curve of her neck.
After a moment, she drew back to meet his gaze. "I just got you back. After all this effort, I'm not about to lose you again, wizard,” she gave him a watery smile. “There has to be another way."
He bent down and kissed her, slow and deliberate, not caring that it might be weird. It was a kiss that had been waited on for far too long.
As he withdrew and pressed his forehead against hers, she smiled up at him, and he felt as though he had ignited with the brilliance of a thousand suns.
“Please tell me that wasn’t a parting kiss,” Tav whispered softly.
“Not if I have any say in the matter,” Gale responded before he captured her lips again. The urgency within him surged, and he expressed it through fervent kisses and trails of affection along Tav's lips and neck, leaving gentle marks in his wake.
“I love you,” he sighed against her skin.
“I love you, too,” she said before she started chuckling softly.
“What’s the matter?”
"I just can't help but think," she started giggling now, "there's something incredibly fitting and amusing about a storm sorcerer falling for someone named Gale."
Gale found himself chuckling as well. "I suppose fate does have a sense of humour," he remarked, his voice filled with affection.
"Just so you know, our earlier conversation is far from finished. But right now, I'd much rather cherish this moment," she murmured softly.
In that rare moment, Gale found solace in silence, choosing to let the matter rest. For in his heart, he knew: he was in love with her, and she was everything. She was his past, his present, and his future.
And they would face it all, hand in hand.