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Gale lay in his tent next to a toppled stack of books. If he unfocused his eyes, allowed his mind to carry him home, he could almost picture the view from his tower through the canvas. It was the moonlight, the way it barely poked through the blue-green skin of his tent—it reminded him of evenings alone on his balcony just before a storm rolled in, and how the moonlight barely poked through then.
He tried to hold onto that image and the tranquillity it often brought him, but tonight the colour only reminded him of Noa.
How she poured wine from a bottle that glinted teal in the fire, a glass each for her and Karlach. Astarion nursed his own. But Gale didn’t indulge, too afraid of what might tumble from his mouth in the presence of his new friends, or those he hoped to call friends. The orb, too, clenched inside of him and there was a slight shake in his hands, a heaviness in his chest that felt like a threat.
“Come on, soldier. You’ve asked everyone for their life stories and haven’t said one thing about yourself.”
“That’s not true. Astarion hasn’t said anything.”
“I beg your pardon. I’ve said plenty. What more do you want?”
“Well, for starters, I’ve never known a magistrate so interested in bloodshed.”
“What’s life without a little danger, darling? Besides, you’ve rather impressed me these last weeks. Goblins and bugbears, those poor dwellers in the crypt. There’s plenty of blood on your hands.” He lowered his voice as he spoke, like the very idea of violence excited him.
Noa scoffed into the fire. “Not a thought that comforts me. Mark my words on this, night-walker. I’ve been around a long time—life’s easier with a sheathed sword.”
Gale smiled but Astarion flicked his wrist. “Spoken like a true, boring adventurer. I, for one, can’t wait to see what other massacres lie ahead of us. Gods know there’ll be plenty before our next sunset.”
Noa rolled her eyes. “Gale, how about you? How’re you faring under all these…oh, let’s call them adventures?”
“Well, it’s certainly a leap from the comfort of my tower. I’m far more used to a crackling hearth, a good book, and an equally soothing glass of Blackstaff wine.” The thought needed only to be spoken and he was back at home, all but felt the veins of mature pages in his hands before he let the moment pass. He raised a finger. “But, adventure never strays far from a talented wizard, as I’m sure someone of your demonstrable capabilities can attest.”
He wasn’t sure why but Noa laughed then, and the sound lifted some pressure from his heart.
Gale blinked at the tent. He breathed slowly and with some difficulty, torn between chasing away what he’d rather remember. But her image haunted him like a childhood mistake and it wasn’t long before the faintest thrum of lilac tangled in the moonlight, the orb stirred to life.
“Coming from the great Gale of Waterdeep, I appreciate that. It’s not every day a golden boy finds you impressive.”
“Ha, oh well, hardly a ‘golden boy,’ though my natural abilities did catch unequivocal attention from the most spectacular beings. That said, it does put a bit of pep in one’s step to know their name travelled across Faerûn, eh?”
Astarion audibly scoffed but Gale relished in the idea. He ignored the ignorance, forgave it even. It was the very same he’d dealt with all his life from those who could only watch as he mastered the Weave, destined for greatness—that of which he had in Mystra’s reverent embrace. His eyes fell to the snapping firewood. As quickly as it’d come, the thought soured.
“It has,” Noa said plainly.
“All good things, I hope.”
She brought the goblet to her mouth and held it there without drinking. “I’ve heard your story.” Her eyes flicked to his and they watched each other for an eternal second. A queer look accompanied her words, silent recognition piercing as a blade. “I’m really glad we ran into you, Gale of Waterdeep.”
Nothing existed but her face across the flames. He could only stare; he didn’t know what to say.
The need was in his hands before it was in his cock. He folded them behind his head and tried to focus on the dull ache of his knotted fingers. He blinked, inhaled through his mouth, but there she stood above the flames in a long stretch before bed. She reached to the stars and it was all he could do to avoid her silhouette as she bid him goodnight.
But alone now he snuck a boyish glance at the memory of her breasts. The orb burned through his tunic and onto the canvas above him, an aurora borealis in that Waterdeep sky, and he watched the colours billow until an intrusive thought of her naked made his ears simmer.
Energy crackled around his briefs, warmth pulsing between his legs with every unstoppable thought of her face, her eyes—one rich and dark as earth and the other obsidian as a mountainside. He thought of the freckles that spilled across her nose and wondered how many adorned places he couldn’t see.
Stop it, he thought. By the gods, stop it. But she didn’t leave and he wouldn’t let her.
When Astarion and Karlach eventually retired, he was alone. Flames lapped at the darkness and he curled his hands into fists to stop the shaking. Through the spots in his vision, a lantern burned from Noa’s tent and he watched her gently unwind her braid in the sliver of gold that shone through. When she lifted her shirt he looked away so quickly the whole world spun.
The orb radiated from chest to cheek with pain, a hellish prick of needles coursing through his hands. He breathed deeply, pleaded with his mind to free itself from these calamitous desires, but everything was black against the light of her face.
He didn’t want to will her away any longer—he wanted to touch gold.
His face burned, and with great shame he unlaced his trousers. The simple caress of fingertips made him shiver, his shaft already hard and leaking by the time he freed himself. He pinched his eyes shut and reconsidered the whole sordid indulgence but she immediately stood before him, smiled at him, and with the first timid stroke he nearly whispered her name.
Together they soared past the skies above him, their naked bodies entwined within the Weave. She outshone the stars, overthrew those swirling constellations he often dreamed of, and he could only float in awe of her. She bit her lip the longer he stared, a simple gesture that made him grin as he imagined a dahlia flush in her cheeks. It was enough to coax a faster rhythm.
Back in his tent the orb singed his chest but he ignored the fire to press his tongue into her mouth. It shamed him and even in his mind he hesitated, but she moaned and wound her arms around his neck until he relaxed. He tentatively twisted up and down and she inched closer to bite his lip. He trembled at the brazenness of it, but envisioned her leg around his hip, her fingers in his hair, and when she moaned again he started to pump faster.
With that same shy look in her eyes she squeezed the length of his cock. His head tipped back and she pressed a kiss to his neck so warm he swore he felt it. He stroked faster, grabbing her breast with one hand, cradling her head with the other, but it wasn’t enough. With a moan he multiplied, arms born from arms to have enough hands for every inch of her. Countless fingers caressed her back and gripped her thighs, touched her tongue and brushed the hair from her face, and in that paradise of starved simulacra all her moans rang out like music. Whether his hands throbbed from the orb or his grip on the bedroll, he didn’t know—all he knew was somewhere in those stars Noa belonged to him.
Wildflowers billowed in the camp’s lazy breeze and he felt it through the canvas, the way it quickly became her breath against his shoulder. His eyes watered from the choking pain in his chest but he’d let nothing take her, each stroke a blacksmith’s bellow that kept her image alive.
She rocked into him, slow and natural as a boat on water. The orb sizzled like a branding but he held her gaze, stroking until his back lifted off the bedroll. He tried to speak, to beg her not to go, not now, not when the world was so close to making sense again, but no sound came. Still she smiled and brought her lips to his ear, close enough to feel her breath, close enough to feel the tip of her tongue when she at long last whispered, “Gale.”
His eyes shot open. The Weave flowed from his pupils and drowned the world in lilac, droplets spilling down his fingers. He sat up and clutched his heart. Copper dribbled from his mouth and he coughed at the taste, a pounding in his head like a great aching heartbeat. He looked around, tried to catch his breath, but only coughed again.
He was blind. There was nothing but the Weave, so bright in his eyes it burned white. A terrible shiver ran through him and for a moment he thought the last thing he’d ever see was Noa’s face. He tucked himself back into his trousers and blinked again and again until the monstrous glow dwindled back to lilac, and finally to nothing.
With enough breathing the crickets’ song poked through the thunderclap in his ears and he steadied himself on one hand. Felt the soil beneath his fingers as the world retook shape. Focused on the toppled tomes at his feet as the vice loosened around his temple. He lifted his sticky palm without looking and lightly jerked his wrist, the Weave slipping over his skin like a glove before it disappeared again to take the mess with it.
But when that hushed breeze no more than a whisper rolled into his tent, he turned toward it, opening and closing his fist though he didn’t know why. Perhaps as a reminder of how foolish he’d been, that he’d nearly broken the promise he made to himself by doing something this stupid, by putting this many innocent lives in danger. He studied his hand, its shape mostly lost to the dark, and slowly opened his fist again. Perhaps it was something else.
An unwelcome wavelet of guilt trickled down his back and he cinched his tent closed, lying on his bedroll as if he hadn’t just tainted Noa’s trust or nearly blown away half the Sword Coast. All around was black and there was nothing he could do now but wait for the shadows to make sense, to watch the canvas overhead and see if he could return home.
And in time, he did.
He didn’t know how he’d look at her in the morning. How he’d look at himself. But in that quiet moment beneath the Waterdeep moon he remembered the way she looked at him, and sleep came easy.