Actions

Work Header

At Last

Summary:

"Your face is red," Astarion said softly, strangely uncritical.

"That's what happens when you cry," Gale informed him patiently, oddly placid as well.

"Why?"

"Well, there are multiple factors that can cause such a reaction, and it varies person to person-"

"Why were you crying?" Astarion interrupted, his voice low. "What's that going to solve?"

---

The orb is stabilized and Gale gets to have a big ugly cry as a treat. Please heed the tags and proceed with caution- there is some non-graphic rumination on Gale's mission from Mystra/Elminster.

Notes:

This is set at the tail-end of Act 1 just before entering the Shadow Cursed Lands. Gale strikes me as a very sentimental, emotional person, and the way he needs to reign in his distress to keep the orb calm breaks my heart (his reaction after he receives a second artifact). I imagine that once he's no longer at risk of going boom, there's a good chance that everything he's been holding back would come crashing down sooner or later.

I have also been having a rough time of it, so using my favorite wizard as an outlet has been immensely helpful. Thank you, sad wizard.

Oh, and please note that anything favorable towards Mystra is coming from Gale, not me! I do not like her!!!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

It had been so long.

Mystra's charm, as administered by Elminster, had done the trick and the orb slept. Not peacefully, of course- such a malignant entity could never slumber in a way that was comfortable for its host- but where it once sliced trenches through his veins, now it simply settled into the divots, latched to him like Tara had when she was a kitten, all needle-pointed claws as she scaled his side.

It was an embrace, in a way. Too sharp to be comfortable, but Gale had been a stranger to gentle touch for so long that the orb's persistent squeeze over his heart may as well have been his mother's arms.

Gods, how he missed her.

And now here he was, perfectly alone in the most beautiful landscape his eyes had ever been treated to. Soaring crags jutted through low-hanging clouds, and in the glittering moonlight, they were shadowy nebulas nestled in a sea of cottony stars. Near-constant wind lapped at his neck, granting him a refreshing coolness that his thick robes so often robbed him of, sensible though they were in such a location. And though the mountain air was foreign, the moisture in it was reminiscent of home.

Home.

His throat was tight, he realized, gazing out at the abyss before him, the mighty weight of his world-ending responsibility pressing him to his knees. How heavy could one's heart be before it simply fell through them? He could see it now, the blackened thing, sinking sinking sinking through stone and water and abyss and fire, only to be caught and reeled back to the heavens, featherlight with forgiveness.

There would be no return to Waterdeep.

Suddenly his heart was back where it belonged, deep within his chest, and it slammed against his ribs. Surely before it was over, he would find the courage to send word to his mother. To Tara. And if not, maybe one of his companions would be willing to forward his goodbyes. His apologies. He was so sorry, after all. After all he did.

After all he failed to do.

The wind shifted, and a gust caressed his face, brushing back stray locks of hair as a lover would as icy trails made themselves known on his cheeks.

Shit.

Panic seized him and he clapped a hand to his chest, clutching the mass of fabric over the orb as if such a pitiful gesture could soothe that which roiled beneath his flesh.

Yet nothing happened.

No ringing in his ears.

No burning in his lungs.

No numbness in his fingertips.

The charm.

It had been so long.

Gale was a fast learner. One of the few things he was good at. Schooling his wild emotions, however, was a skill he never quite perfected. Though terror and grief and rage and guilt and all manners of unpleasantness overtook him the moment the orb burrowed itself into his body, it rapidly became clear that his own volatility directly translated to the wicked mass of magic. In defiance of his very nature, he shut down as best he could to survive.

It was hard.

As a child, he was always careful to finish his books at home. It was sad when they ended, his fictional journey having come to a close, and saying goodbye was never easy, even if the ending was uplifting. Other children did not share the same sentiment, finding a little boy crying over a story a source of entertainment rather than sympathy. The only safe place to cry then, was home.

Morena never shamed nor fussed over him for it. "It's just what happens when we get overwhelmed, little love," she had gently explained oh so many years ago after eight-year-old Gale whipped himself into a frenzy over how sensitive he was. It wasn't fair, he had complained, that he felt so, so strongly while other children were rubbery and resilient and entirely unaffected by that which made him weep. "I love that you feel so deeply. It's part of who you are, Gale. Your big heart."

"Never lose that."

They spilled over freely now, fat tears racing into his beard, collecting on his chin, staining the skirt of his robes no matter how much he choked and swallowed. He had been so lucky to have a mother of such fine quality, there to assure him time and time again that his emotions were nothing to be afraid of. That the qualities that made him feel so weak and helpless were just a part of who he was, and it was a part worthy of love.

If only he could believe her.

A pitiful whine caught in his throat, and Gale curled inwards, wrapping himself in the loneliest hug this side of the Sword Coast. How he wished the stars above would reach down and carry him away, how he longed for her all-encompassing embrace. There was never any real, physical touch, but to have his soul cupped in her hands of stardust would be nothing short of bliss. Hells, he would even accept a word. A whisper. A glance.

But Mystra was a goddess. Above such trifling, mortal displays as feeling. That which Morena so loved was something his goddess found... distasteful. A lack of control. Unbecoming of someone in the esteemed position of Chosen. There was no reality where she would come to him, not before he paid his due.

A bitter taste grew on his tongue, though he did not understand why. Disappointment, perhaps, that even after everything, he still could not be perfect for her. That without the orb ripping through him, he was once again entirely at the mercy of his fragile heart.

He would never speak it aloud, but he had always worried he never deserved to be Chosen. Too ambitious, too volatile, too attached. A tiny man who believed he could be the sole point of affection in the vastness that was Mystra's universe if he only could prove himself worthy. It was enough to be a prodigy, wasn't enough to be selected, wasn't enough to have earned her ethereal affection...

In their waning correspondence, Morena tried to comfort him. His time as Mystra's Chosen created a divide between them, slow-growing and impossibly deep, a canyon carved by divine favor and misguided motherly love. Morena watched his attempts at betterment, his desperate efforts to shape himself into an image worthy of his goddess, and she reached across the ever-widening distance between them again and again. Assured him that he was already worthy. That he did not need to give up who he was. His heart.

At times, even when their brief interactions ended in tearful verbal spars, he found himself close to believing.

The orb, however, put a stop to it all.

At times he wondered if it was sentient, the vengeful thing. When he came to after its agonizing coupling with his chest, when the tidal waves of terror and regret crashed over his head, it was the orb that sent him sprawling with crackling bolts of violet Weave. Burning, stinging, lashing. Nothing could make it stop. No prayers, no potions, no spells. He wouldn't dare risk calling for a cleric to heal him, not when the fresh wound rotted his fingertips and oozed blood turned pitch.

The solution came to him soon enough. Not to quieting the orb, no, that was largely Tara's doing, but instead to keeping the orb from any undue agitation.

Numbness.

The artifacts he consumed were, as he had previously explained to his companions, an offering. Tribute. A lullaby to soothe the beast into quiet contentment.

Keeping it calm afterwards was entirely up to his own pitiful constitution.

With a huff, Gale sat back and pulled his knees to his chest, folding in a way that his weary body would not be fond of come morning, but the need to disappear into himself was far greater than any complaint his overextended muscles could make. He had over a year's worth of tears to spill, and so many reasons to let them fall, and his body shook with the force of their expulsion. It should have been cathartic. He wanted it to be.

But such relief was not what he deserved.

It could never be simple, could it? After hundreds of days spent in a deliberate, uncannily calm stupor, one where he stripped away all but the most basic aspects of his personality, his emotions, Gale was finally able to feel freely. All of that time bottling up his pain, his grief, his regret, and recently his joy, his affection, his hope, and yet the release of it all left him with what?

Nothing.

The pit that was him.

A better man would have taken the gift for what it was. Rejoiced in his newfound freedom, the reclamation of his personhood from the blight in his chest. Instead Gale, the lesser creature that he was, found himself wanting. He would have taken a lifetime of numbness, of keeping himself under painstaking lock and key if it meant he would have that lifetime.

But pluck as he might at the cogs on a clock, there would be no turning back time. Chronomancy of such a scale was unreachable to him even at his greatest heights, and no amount of desperation could coax the Weave into performing such a feat. And, a terrible voice in his head insisted, Mystra would never permit such a thing if he could manage it.

Now those precious seconds ticked away as he wept, drowning in the puddle of threadbare purple fabric and self-pity that was Gale of Waterdeep.

The world dropped away mere feet in front of him, and through teary eyes, the distant horizon resembled the endless expanse of the Sea of Swords. How fortunate he was, to have been brought up in Waterdeep. To have dug his teeny toes into soft white sand for his first steps and known the taste of seawater on his tongue long before wine and whiskey. Before magic, before Mystra, he imagined himself a sailor, chasing after the sun after it dipped below the water, salt-sweet winds carrying him away to adventures just like the ones he'd read about.

He missed the sea.

Some nights, when it was exceedingly difficult to keep himself in check, he would perch on the roof of his tower with nothing other than a bottle of whiskey and his spellbook for company. The drink would keep him warm, and his spellbook had become a journal in his impotence. He would scrawl constellations, both real and imagined, upon its pages and once the alcohol had settled comfortably into the hollows of his mind, he could see his smaller self sailing away, chasing their conjured stars.

Hours later he would awaken, hungover and sore, and resume his research.

He could see him now, no inebriation required. Bright-eyed and eager, posing heroically with a booted foot planted atop the seat of the broken rowboat he had found in a hidden alcove along the coastline, sunbleached and entirely unuseable. He floated atop the silky ocean of clouds, soaking in the sights of sea and stars before Morena inevitably discovered he had snuck out.

Through his tears, he found himself smiling.

He could hear her frantic scolding even from thirty years and countless miles away.

Maybe he would still hear her from Elysium.

With that thought, his smile evaporated once more. To ruminate on his own foolishness was an exercise in futility, but what else was he to do? For the first time since he had obtained the orb, Gale had the luxury of indulging in woe. Grief. He was sinking again, down down down, collapsing in on himself like a dying star.

As if he'd ever shone so bright.

"Ugh, do you mind? You're scaring away my dinner."

Once, Astarion had called him a rabbit. "That racing heart of yours is so loud, wizard," he said in that low, sultry purr he put on when he wanted... something. His behavior vexed Gale at the best of times, especially when he circled him in slow, deliberate strides. "Had I not known better, I would have thought a bunny had taken up residence in our camp." His breath was cool as it spilled over his shoulder, tickled his ear. "What's the matter? Are you afraid of me?"

The answer, of course, had been no. Gale could not afford to be afraid of Astarion any more than he could afford to be afraid of the orb or the Absolute or the tadpole squirming behind his eye. He had opinions about him, of course he did, but they were measured. Astarion was a bit of an asshole. Astarion was as genuine as a pyrite coin. Astarion was probably stealing his books.

Now, though, he wasn't so sure. Now he was raw, vulnerable, entirely unable to claw back his composure now matter how desperately he swiped at his eyes and took shaky gulps of air. Now, when he turned to acknowledge the ethereal figure behind him, arms crossed and hips canted in astonishingly picturesque annoyance, he felt small, prey-like, and his voice caught in his throat. All he could manage was a mouthed, "I'm sorry."

Maybe he was afraid, like a rabbit caught in a fox's glare, ready for the strike. There was no way he could curl tighter, but he squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his chin to his knees, shielding himself against whatever barbs Astarion would inevitably hurl his way. Perhaps his fangs lent a bit of extra sharpness to his words...

Were he not in the middle of hiding from Astarion himself, he might have shared the observation with him. It was rather gratifying, getting such an uptight fellow to sniff in amusement, and it would have broken the tension nicely.

As it was, however, he could only brace himself for the onslaught to come.

"Why are you doing that?"

With a sniffle, Gale peered up at Astarion through damp lashes. "Crying?" he asked, voice thick. His throat ached from the effort to keep quiet, and he swallowed hard.

"You don't seem the type." Then Astarion puffed up his chest, posturing like a rooster and pushing his voice up into his nose. "Oh great Wizard of Waterdeep. It's rather unbecoming of such a stoic scholar, don't you think?"

"I suppose it is," Gale agreed, shifting his eyes back to the horizon. His little self leaned over the edge of his boat, swirling his hands through clouds, stirring up little vortexes of vapor.

The real Gale picked at a fraying thread on his leggings.

"And quite disruptive."

"Indeed. My apologies."

There was a rustle and when Gale glanced over again, Astarion was seated beside him, inspecting his fingernails. "I suppose I'll forgive you," he sighed, fixing those ruby eyes on him, so red that they glowed in the silvery moonlight. "But only because that Society of Excellence-"

"Brilliance."

"Society of Brilliance," Astarion hissed, "fruitcake made for an excellent breakfast."

"Well, thank goodness for that."

Silence fell between them then, interrupted only by the occasional sniffle from Gale. Soon however, it was punctuated by a soft chattering, a chill racing down his spine as he came down from the haze of distress. What a novel thing to experience after so long, the unpleasantness strangely grounding as the night air finally seeped through his robes.

Astarion huffed and a moment later, a warm blanket was draped over his shoulders. Gale's blanket, if the feel of the fabric and the faint scent of lavender was to be believed.

Oh, Astarion was definitely sneaking into his tent to steal his books.

Raw as he was, Gale was powerless to stop the quiver in his bottom lip as he drew the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "Thank you." What he had done to earn such kindness, he was unsure. Perhaps Astarion wanted something.

That made more sense.

"It's cold, darling. We can't have you succumbing to hypothermia before we reach Baldur's Gate. You still owe me. Big time."

There it was. But still...

"Baldur's Gate? But-"

Astarion rolled his eyes. "Tsk, you forget so soon? I seem to recall at least three little artifacts delivered to your ever-so-needy self by yours truly."

"Oh." He wasn't wrong. When the reality of Gale's condition came to light, disclosed far too soon for comfort and far too late to feel in any way honest about it, Astarion had protested the loudest. Called him a "Netherese jack-in-the-box." Said he ought to be a blip on the horizon.

A fair statement, really.

It was a shock then, when Astarion was the first to present him with an artifact. Nicked from the harpies they had fought half a tenday before, he'd dropped the tarnished ring unceremoniously into Gale's lap one night while he was tending to the campfire, unsubtly hunched with pain. "Think nothing of it," Astarion had said, already walking away. "I simply have no desire to be vaporized."

So Gale tried not to, he really did. But when Astarion presented him with another artifact, an amulet enchanted with a rudimentary cantrip, he couldn't help himself.

What kind of man would he be, to face such generosity without a shred of gratitude? It was hardly the first time Gale found himself in a one-sided relationship after all, and he was perfectly content for his blossoming appreciation to be unrequited.

By the third artifact, Gale was certain he would do anything for Astarion.

Of course, by ignoring those initial instructions, Gale had set himself up for failure. And it was such a simple request:

Think nothing of it.

In his heart of hearts, Gale knew he had no ulterior motives. Astarion stumbling across him in prayer was entirely happenstance, and his invitation to channel the Weave together was a spontaneous idea. And Astarion did so well, his deft hands and sharp mind following Gale's instructions to the letter, his perfectly poised expression falling into a look of openness and wonder, and for a moment it felt... blissful.

Their lips brushed in Astarion's mind, and Gale's heart rushed with excitement unbidden, realization unfurling in the moonlight like a lunar bloom-

Astarion recoiling in horror hurt as much as Gale allowed it to.

Maybe a bit more.

The orb kept him up through the night.

"I'm afraid you'll have to stay in one piece until you repay me," Astarion said with a slow shake of his head. "It's only fair. Unless..."

Gale lifted his head enough to face Astarion. He looked... different. His eyes widened when Gale met them, his entire expression more open than Gale had ever seen. Softer too. If he hadn't known better, he would have mistaken it for concern. Affection, even.

"Your face is red," Astarion said softly, strangely uncritical.

"That's what happens when you cry," Gale informed him patiently, oddly placid as well.

"Why?"

"Well, there are multiple factors that can cause such a reaction, and it varies person to person-"

"Why were you crying?" Astarion interrupted, his voice low. "What's that going to solve?"

Gale frowned. Even with all of his difficulties reading tone, and especially with reading Astarion, Gale could not detect a hint of mockery. Of malice.

"Nothing, I suppose," he answered honestly.

"Then why do it?" Astarion's fingers were twitching, and Gale hoped it wasn't because he was frustrated. Astarion's bite-sized questions demanded answers beyond the scope of his own flawed emotional intelligence.

Oh well. He would try his best, inadequate though it often was.

"Catharsis," he began, in spite of the fact that such relief was still eluding him. "A means of physically releasing an overwhelming emotion." Gale sat up a bit, the chance to lecture a bit surprisingly comforting. "It's partly involuntary, of course. I didn't come out here with the intent to... though I did hope for a bit of private contemplation." Astarion seemed unaffected by his pointed glance, focused on inspecting his nails once more. "Is that sufficient?"

Astarion hummed. "Like I said, you just don't seem the type." With a click of his tongue, he cocked his head. "In spite of those big puppy eyes of yours."

To that, Gale chuckled bitterly. "Truthfully, I am. I just couldn't afford to be."

"Oh?"

"The orb. It is attuned to me in ways beyond arcane hunger. Should I feel anything too strongly, be it joy, pain, sorrow, it will- would grow agitated. Pain is a powerful deterrent, as I am sure you know-"

"Indeed."

Gale winced, the realization hitting him a moment later. Idiot. "Apologies. I'm sure it cannot compare-"

"Nor should it," Astarion said softly, twitching fingers plucking dry blades of grass. "Keep going."

Gale nodded, picking at the fraying thread on his leggings once more. "I- I quickly learned to keep a lid on my emotions, so to speak. For over a year I did not permit myself anything more than a whisper of feeling, difficult though it was." Difficult indeed, and how terrible it was to lose that which Morena loved so much about him. She lost him in so many ways, and would lose him in more still.

Oh Gods...

"And with all of this happening," Gale waved a hand above his head as if it could somehow encapsulate the chaos of the past few tendays, "it has been exceedingly difficult to maintain. Now with Msytra's blessing, I can finally feel again." His voice was quivering as if to spitefully illustrate his point. "I admit it's... overwhelming, being able to once more. I await punishment that no longer cares to take interest. Would that I could still hold it all back, if only to maintain a scrap of dignity."

Astarion said nothing.

Of course he said nothing.

An escaped vampire's spawn was the last person to ask for pity from, even if he hadn't meant to. Stupid of him to share any of this. Stupid stupid stupid.

His eyes stung.

"I don't think I know how to. Cry, that is. I think I forgot."

Gale's gaze snapped up. Astarion wasn't looking at him, fixed on the horizon, his snowy lashes glowing in the moonlight. He looked... lost.

Then he turned and met Gale's watery eyes, knife-sharp and crimson. "I'm glad you can now."

And something in him shattered.

Curled in his blanket, Gale wept. Wept for his lost future, for his abandoned family, for the imaginary boy floating out on the clouds, a rolled paper telescope in his little hands. He wept for Astarion, who no longer could. Who eased his rotting core time and time again for reasons that were always stated but never clear. Who had suffered in ways Gale could never even begin to comprehend and yet still chose to come and comfort him.

He wept for Karlach and the wicked machine that had replaced her heart, robbing her of the tender touches she so desperately deserved. For Shadowheart and her stolen memories, for Lae'zel and her ruined faith, for Wyll and his lost youth. He knew them so briefly, yet he would give anything to help them. Save them.

If only he could.

He wept for the relationship between himself and the vampire at his side, so precious and fragile and confusing he would not dare draw attention to it, lest it shatter to pieces in his clumsy, blighted hands. And it would.

He ruined everything.

"I want to go home," he uttered miserably, the aching desire spilling forth before he could choke it back. "I want to live."

I want to be good.

"You will," answered Astarion in a whisper.

Then, quietly, "Do not put your hands on me."

A slender hand gently gripped his shoulder, Astarion's arm wrapping behind his back.

"I won't," Gale sniffled, leaning into him. "Thank you."

"Hush. Thank me when you’re back in Waterdeep." Cool fingers dragged through his hair, brushing tear-dampened strands away from his eyes. "...And when Cazador is dead. You owe me that much, I think. For all of those pretty trinkets you ruined."

Gale's lips parted to protest, but language had abandoned him. He would slay Cazador in a heartbeat, he would. A monster so foul his reputation reached Waterdeep, known to himself, to his colleagues. At the time, such rumors were nothing more than gossip, the idle conversation of people acclimated to comfort, the horrors so unreachable they might as well have been fiction.

The thought of Astarion trapped in the lair of such a beast for centuries made his heart ache in ways he never knew possible. Like he was dying.

But Moonrise lay ahead, between them and the city. There was no way Gale would ever reach Baldur's Gate and Astarion knew- of course he knew. It was a promise he could not in good conscience make.

To defy his goddess's will again would be tantamount to-

Well.

It had been so long since Gale had cried, and even longer since he had cried like this. Entirely undone, puffy-eyed and snotty, held gently in the arms of another. His head was a mess- to form a coherent thought would be impossible- and he latched onto what he did know.

Astarion was holding him. Gently. He was solid behind him, around him, and he desperately wanted more.

It was cold, but not terribly so. Not with the blanket Astarion brought him.

Gale was crying. Astarion said he was glad that he could.

There wasn't any hair left in Gale's face yet Astarion kept combing it back, the continued touch a gift. "You're warm," he muttered at one point, and he pressed softly into Gale's side, but otherwise said nothing. It was... comfortable.

Gale never wanted him to leave.

Eventually Gale's tears ceased, but Astarion did not let go of him. A faraway look had settled on his face, and the stroking fingers in his hair seemed more for Astarion's benefit than Gale's.

That was alright. More than alright.

Carefully, Gale shifted, opening the blanket on Astarion's side, and a painfully familiar look overcame Astarion's face, the same he wore when they channeled the Weave together.

But this time Astarion did not recoil. This time he sighed and took the end of the blanket from Gale, huddling close. His arm snaked around Gale's back once more as he knelt slightly behind him, gentle fingers stroking just above his elbow while his other hand returned to his hair, smoothing it again and again.

Somehow, Gale was good.

For perhaps the first time in his miserable adult life, he was good.

His hands remained safely tucked in his lap, knees unfurled before they started to ache too badly, and when Astarion tugged him a bit closer, he went easily. How good it felt, to be held like this. To allow Astarion to touch him however he liked, exploratory fingers stroking his beard, ghosting over his neck, smoothing his robes.

He thought of Karlach's ragged teddy bear and wondered if he was fulfilling the same purpose. What comfort he brought by simply existing. What pain he might soothe in spite of his tattered edges.

Once more his eyes fell upon the horizon, to his imagined little self and all of his innocence and wonder, and with a sigh he went boneless in Astarion's willing arms.

In another lifetime, would they have been friends? Gale had precious few as an adult, and even fewer as a child, but the vision came to him easily. A young elf with silver curls piled high atop his head joined little Gale in the boat, the two of them bent over a book, shoulder-to-shoulder. Gale scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand as he turned the final page of their book, and the little elf jabbed him in the cheek with a finger.

They erupted into giggles.

Gale found himself smiling.

"We ought to get back to camp," Astarion murmured, chin falling to Gale's shoulder, wandering hands stilling over his chest. "I can already hear you whining about your joints."

"I suppose we should," Gale agreed, even as his head lolled to the side, temple to Astarion's cheek. "But... if it is alright with you, could we stay? Just a bit longer?"

After a thoughtful hum, Astarion nodded. "Just a bit. I'll not have you falling asleep on me."

"Thank you."

Notes:

And now Astarion has a new Gale-shaped teddy bear. Good for him!

Thank you for reading! Did not have this beta'd or anything because I will scare myself out of posting if I sit on something for too long. I do have more bloodweave cooking (cat café au hehehehe) and I hope to have that ready to post soon!

Thank you for reading!!!