Chapter Text
It-
It was over.
Cazador's dead blood was cold and slick coating on his arms, the heavy splatters of it across his bare chest dripping down, down, down to mingle with the growing puddle at his knees. The monster lay there, covered in dozens of vicious punctures, his jaw limp and awkward as it dangled from his skull by muscle that would never twitch again. All of him was unceremoniously mutilated, contorted in an unmoving heap, undead meat finally made dead once more.
Blood crept in drops from the end of the needle that had torn a contract into his back, a wicked promise finally broken.
Drip
Drip
Drip
In a way, Astarion resented the tadpole. Unlike his siblings, who must have felt the moment Cazador perished in the way their minds unlatched from his overwhelming grasp, Astarion was shielded. There was no breaking of chains, no snapping of threads, no sense of finality. Of freedom. The tadpole stole that from him...
But from the hollow looks in their eyes, perhaps there was nothing to be stolen at all.
His companions stood at the edge of his vision, blurred by lingering pink-hued tears, and as he used Cazador's staff to aid himself to his feet, he made sure to dig the end of it into the useless corpse's leg, punching through a little. The wound did not ooze, but there was a twisted satisfaction even in that.
How many times had Astarion failed to bleed by Cazador's hand? Too starved, too weak, too empty-
"Gale, wait."
Wyll's voice, though soft, filled the cavernous space like a low peal of thunder. His hand, encased in a gleaming gauntlet, curled over Gale's shoulder, holding him in place.
And Gale...
Gale, all wide, wet eyes, was staring at him as an outstretched hand fell limply to his side, his feet frozen in a half step. He was hurt, they all were, and he shook like a dry leaf in a storm.
And all he did was stare at Astarion.
He didn't want to bring Gale here. Not after Orin. Gale had seen enough suffering, enough pain, enough fear. Though physically unharmed, Astarion knew the hollow lifelessness that crept onto Gale's face when he thought himself unseen, caught minute twitches and sudden skipped heartbeats.
Gale did not need more nightmares, and neither did Astarion. The Szarr palace was the last place Astarion would ever want Gale to be, to endanger him like the countless others he had led to slaughter, the final obstacle between himself and the fragile, tender thing blooming between them.
Yet the fool insisted on coming. Said he couldn't bear the thought of Astarion facing Cazador alone in spite of the fact that their party was, frankly, bloated with allies and friends.
Astarion regretted it almost immediately. Shame and fury swirled in his gut as his allies, his friends, his Gale, got the tiniest taste of what his reality had been for nearly two centuries. Worry gripped his unbeating heart in an icy fist as chaos erupted in the ballroom. Astarion could hardly focus on the battle, his eyes always darting to Gale, a lethal tempest of crackling Weave that could be felled so easily by a single swipe of a werewolf's claws.
Astarion wouldn't let that happen, even if time and time again Gale refused to return to the Elfsong as they pressed further into the palace. Obstinate thing.
And yet, if it hadn't been for Gale foolishly Misty Stepping into the middle of the fray, braving pestilent ghouls, snarling werewolves, and rattling skeletons to free Astarion from Cazador's telekinetic grip, Astarion wouldn't have shot that final arrow that sent him fleeing into his coffin. If it hadn't been for Gale promising to aid the spawn, his face among those terrified and awaiting their cruelest of fates, the blind faith in Astarion's character as he did not even bother to look Astarion's way as he made such a bold declaration, Astarion wouldn't have considered forsaking the Ascension...
If Gale hadn't promised him a future in the mournful way he refused Astarion's request to use the tadpoles to carve up Cazador's back, those gorgeous eyes of his glistening with warring hope and betrayal, Astarion would have been lost for good.
More than anything, Astarion wished Wyll would let him go, would allow those metal-clad fingers to uncurl from the crumpled shoulder of Gale's battle-stained armor so his sweet wizard could collapse at his side and wrap his soft arms around him. He wanted to bury his face in the crook of Gale's neck, to hide away from the world, to breathe in his sweat and fear and heat because finally, finally, Cazador couldn't hurt him.
But he knew it was for the best. His arm burned where Gale had pulled him free, the memory of his living touch scorching like blinding, radiant light. If Gale held him now, it would be like diving into the blazing ruins of Waukeen's Rest, his gentle, vital warmth rendered an inferno, the maille of his armor a weave of tiny blades.
After so long of wanting his touch, Astarion knew that it would all be ruined if it happened now.
And Gale seemed to know it too. Because although it clearly pained him to remain in place, he did not fight Wyll's hold. Instead he clenched his fists at his side, he bit his wobbling bottom lip, and he swallowed hard. Resolute in his abstinence.
Underneath all of the bluster, the ego, the idiotic pursuit of godhood, Gale was a good man. Good enough that it pushed Astarion to continue to walk whatever this foolish, terrifying path of righteousness was.
But Astarion knew what he wanted. And he wanted it to be good. To be worth all of the wait. The confusion. The suffering. He wanted Gale to know how much, and how long, he had wanted nothing more than to be in one another's arms.
But there was still work to be done, and Astarion knew that for as much as he wanted this, he wasn't ready.
Not yet.
His siblings asked what would happen next.
Astarion could only watch as the first taste of freedom crossed their tongues. It was not his question to answer.
A strange sight they were, a parade of spawn winding their way deeper underground, the receding torchlight morphing into flickering orange stars far, far below.
Gale lagged behind as they ascended the staircase to leave, and Astarion slowed his pace so they could walk wordlessly, together. Shadowheart had managed to properly allocate her energy this time, so Gale was not limping away from yet another fight, but the world seemed to weigh heavy on his shoulders.
Astarion understood. Gravity was stronger in the Szarr palace, even with its ruler doomed to rot in a spattered heap behind them.
The soft puffs of his breath were a comfort, as was the steadying beat of his heart. Astarion hated how it sounded when he was afraid, a pounding drum that threatened to burst from Gale's chest.
Astarion could not hold him yet, but he could walk at his side.
Only when they reached the teleportation rune did Gale fall out of step with him, swirls of purple weave encircling his hands, at home in his eyes, as he warped them back to their sanctuary in the Elfsong.
The somber mood quickly faded. Karlach whipped a bath sponge at Wyll's head, Shadowheart attempted to tend to Lae'zel's injuries only to get so flustered that she could hardly manage to cast a simple Cure Wounds. Jaheira and Boo were caught in a deep conversation, Minsc nodding along encouragingly every once in a while. Halsin tended to Yenna and the animals, offering the girl a few herbs for her next batch of soup and the critters a few snacks from his pack.
And Gale...
He had disappeared to their corner immediately after arriving, and Astarion found him fussing over Astarion's things, tucking fresh sheets under his mattress and carefully arranging his ratty blanket overtop. His brow was creased with worry and he gnawed on the knuckle of his index finger, reaching over to the far side of Astarion's bed to smooth out a crease before crossing the little space to lay a selection of books by Astarion's pillow. He adjusted them once, twice.
It was only when Astarion cleared his throat that Gale noticed him.
"Oh! Oh my. You startled me." Gale's smile was weak, the worry apparent in his eyes no matter how hard he tried to mask it. It was endearing, his attempt at a brave face. "I thought I'd tidy our arrangements a bit, seeing as you are probably exhausted and in need of a good rest."
Astarion, still caked in gore, found himself grinning. "Ah yes, fresh sheets are exactly what I need right now. Thank you, darling."
The tease must have gone directly over Gale's head, because he simply nodded. "It is a small gesture, but I'm glad to help. Do you- do you need anything?"
"A bath, probably. Though I doubt that will happen any time soon."
As if on cue, there was a loud splash from the other side of the room, followed by an impossibly loud shout of laughter from Karlach.
"Oh, well, I do believe all of that racket is for your sake, but I'd be happy to set out some little indulgences from my personal supply," Gale offered earnestly, and oh how Astarion wanted to close the distance between them and crush their lips together. He already felt better now that they were back, safe, the atmosphere in their massive shared room giddy with post-battle adrenaline...
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
What was another burn, really, in a menagerie of scars?
He took one step forward. Then another.
Gale's eyes widened, and he shuffled back. Away.
Astarion closed the distance with another step.
Gale bumped into his bed frame.
Astarion raised a hand to cup his cheek and Gale turned away, his eyes squeezed shut. "Astarion... I... I think we shouldn't. For now." And when he looked at Astarion again, his eyes darted between meeting Astarion's gaze and the hand still hovering by his cheek, wet and glistening and so vulnerable Astarion's teeth ached.
Where Astarion expected the rejection to sting, a tender warmth bloomed in his chest instead. He stepped back, basking in its soft glow as it filled the space between them like an embrace. "For now?" he asked, cocking his head to the side, hoping beyond hope that Gale would understand the question underneath.
Clever thing, of course he did. "For now. As much as I would like to. And I do. Gods, Astarion, how I do." Gale's lips trembled as he spoke, but his voice was firm as anything, and he placed a battle-bruised hand over the orb. "But there is one final matter to be taken care of, and I should not want to risk it, for fear of never seeing this through."
Astarion frowned and Gale's resolution cracked at the sight of it, but his wizard steeled himself and spoke firmly. "You need not worry, Astarion. You... you chose this existence, for as painful and bloody and terrifying as it is, in the face of great temptation. I would be a fool not to see the truth in it all."
"You would be, Gale Dekarios," Astarion agreed solemnly. "The greatest fool the world would ever see."
Gale smiled then, small and soft, and when Astarion once again imagined how good it would feel to press his lips to that adorable face, he allowed himself to luxuriate in the fantasy. "I have often been told I need to practice more humility. This seems an excellent opportunity."
Keeping his promise with regards to the bath, Gale soon shuffled off to Wyll and Karlach with a basket full of little luxuries. The water had been sprinkled with dried citrus peels, an array of terribly fine soaps sat in a tempting pile on a nearby stool, and Astarion lounged in the near-scalding water as a lord might. All he needed was a little silver bell, and he knew exactly who would scuttle over, ever-so-eager to please.
Most of the others had gone downstairs to celebrate. It was a great thing they did today, supposedly. A brave thing for the betterment of Baldur's Gate.
Astarion simply did what he had to.
What he always had to.
Wyll and Gale remained upstairs for the time being, and it was so human, the way they overestimated their ability to speak softly. They murmured just beyond the privacy screen separating himself from the rest of the room, perched on Wyll's bed like teens at a sleepover.
Astarion could just barely see them through a fold in the screen, huddled close, a worn purple blanket draped over Gale's lap, and their sides nearly pressing together. Their hushed conversation pooled between them in little whispers. Not all intelligible, but enough that Astarion's sensitive elven hearing could pick out a few choice phrases.
They were talking about Mystra.
"She asked so much of me..." came Gale's voice, wobbly and uncertain in its breathiness, a man so accustomed to yammering away that it seemed proper whispering was impossible for him.
Wyll, better adjusted to politeness and secrecy, was much harder to hear, but his mismatched eyes were soft and he wrapped a scarred, calloused hand around Gale's.
Gale nodded. "... by her. Only then..."
How would it feel, when he finally held Gale's hand? They were beautiful things, covered in teeny scars from misfired spells, dotted with faint freckles, and dusted with a coating of coarse hair. Would they feel dainty in spite of their rugged appearance? It would suit them, given how precise he was with his somatics, embodying the art of magic...
Or would they be firm, strong, and calloused? Surely his right hand, the one that regularly gripped his quarterstaff and used it as a walking aid when his creaky knees were giving him trouble, was tougher than the left. Astarion narrowed his eyes, peering at his fingers. Perhaps there was a callous on his middle finger, where his quill so often rested while he scrawled new incantations into his spellbook, the scratch of it akin to a lullaby in the late evening hours.
He did know they would be warm, because everything about Gale was warm. Alive. He had known that from the beginning, back when he'd been scalded by Gale's hands pawing at him in half-asleep panic, back when his sweet flesh had been on his tongue, when his foul blood burned his throat.
Astarion lifted his arm from the tub and slowly turned his wrist, the invisible shape of Gale's hand cooled to a gentle glow. Twice marked now.
Gale slumped over with a sigh and Wyll patted him on the back with a few soft thumps. Astarion was familiar with the feel of Gale's sleep shirt, one that he refused to abandon even after all this time, even when surrounded by far better options now that they were in the city. The velvet was close to ruined after being abused so badly by the wilderness, but Gale's affection for the garment was unrelenting.
It was sweet how Gale refused to change in that way.
It was a comfort how he refused to change in others, now.
If Gale truly intended to keep his promise and return the crown, what then? Would it ruin what they had? That precious unnamed thing between them, the glowing cocoon of comfort and safety that enveloped Astarion's heart at the thought of him? Would Mystra reach down with her cold, unfeeling hands and sap away all of Gale's warmth as she plucked the orb from his chest, and in the same motion, tug his leash anew?
Wyll's worried look inspired little confidence.
A part of him wanted to leap from the tub at the thought, stride over buck naked and indignant, and demand to know Gale's intentions. To have them spoken loud and true, so that they could never be denied again.
After all of this, after blood and terror and doubt, would that wretched goddess ruin everything?
And yet... Gale's pitiful eyes briefly flicked over to the divider, unaware that Astarion could see beyond it. His gaze moved down then, to the blanket in his lap and the faintest of smiles tugged at his whiskered lips. "There is little I'd..."
Gale smoothed his hands over the blanket, bunching the fabric in his hands.
"For so long I wondered..."
Wyll listened quietly, but he too seemed intrigued by the blanket, running a finger over a small portion, glittering with silver embroidery.
"... would do anything..."
Gale's smile grew wider, fonder, lifting the swath of purple fabric as if to give Wyll a better look. Astarion's eyes widened in recognition, and at once his trepidation, his fear for Gale's faithfulness melted away.
"... in the end."
It was no blanket, but Gale's old robe. And Gale was sitting in his assumed privacy with Wyll, slowly running his fingertips over the countless repairs and embellishments Astarion had left behind. Though he was now muttering too quietly for Astarion to hear, all that mattered to Astarion was the tender way Gale regarded his handiwork, the reverence in the way he traced the shape of each embroidered star, moon, and patch of filigree- tears patched, stains covered, Gale's warm hands cradling fabric that had passed between their hands again and again.
Precious touches they had been exchanging through those ratty robes for tendays on end.
Wyll nodded and wrapped his arms around Gale, which Gale readily melted into. Astarion was tempted by a surge of jealousy, but even as Gale returned the embrace, he kept the robe clenched tight in his fist.
Gale deserved to be held, and Astarion's turn would come soon enough.
"That's a good man," Wyll said warmly, giving Gale one more parting pat on the back before he hopped from the bed and stretched with a rippling crack of his back.
Gale winced sympathetically.
"Now come! They must be missing us down there, and I know the both of us could do with a good meal."
"Should we? I don't-" Gale looked to the divider once more. "I think I'll wait a bit longer. If that's alright."
"Don't stay on my account! I'd rather like some quiet," Astarion called, thankful for the privacy screen. The grin creeping across his face must have looked downright ludicrous.
"Are you certain? I don't mind at all. In spite of all of that excitement, so much viscera does little to stir my appetite," Gale protested as he remained in his seat. He parted his lips as if to say more, but the words seemed to catch at his teeth.
Wyll shrugged, but unlike Astarion, he had nothing to hide the gentle smile on his face. Their Wyllyam was always one to wear his heart on his sleeve, though.
Sweet as it was that Gale wanted to stay, privacy, true privacy, was a precious commodity these days, and Astarion sorely needed some. "I insist, darling." He paused, just long enough to take in the flash of satisfaction that crossed Gale's face at the pet name. "I'll be perfectly alright, and if I'm not, I'll be sure to let that big, fretting brain of yours know first and foremost."
That seemed to soothe Gale enough for him to concede on the matter. "Very well. I'll keep an ear out or- well, a mere tickle of the tadpole and I'll be right back."
Astarion couldn't help but snort, irresistible affection unfurling in his chest. This ludicrous man... "Tickle of the tadpole, then," Astarion agreed.
With the room to himself now, Astarion was grateful for the dull roar downstairs. Clearly his friends weren't getting rowdy enough if he could not pick out Karlach's barking laughter through it all, but it was only a matter of time now that Wyll and Gale had joined them. Frankly, it was impressive that the Elfsong hadn't evicted them yet, or at least refused to serve them alcohol, what with the chaos his favorite idiots tended to stir up.
Up here, with nobody around- because Withers simply did not count as company, and the others tended to fuck off during the day- the only sound came from the droplets of water dropping off of his arm that dangled lazily over the edge of the tub.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Cazador was dead.
A smirk tugged at the corner of Astarion's lips. How little that wretch thought of him, even as he fell to his knees, wounded and helpless in the face of Astarion's wrath. He may have called Gale a fool earlier, but Cazador was the greatest of them all, believing a lie that Astarion had long since unlearned:
Astarion was not alone. He basked in the proof of it. His lovely bath, made up by his friends, that enveloped him in luxurious, soothing heat. The shout of booming laughter, Halsin probably, that broke over the din below and brought a wry smile to his lips.
The softest buzz at the back of his mind, not prying or prodding, but listening. At the ready.
His knight in magic armor.
But for as satisfying as that revelation was, Astarion's quiet moment of solitude also, for the first time that day, allowed his exhaustion to sink in. He was bone-weary. His throat ached. He longed to trance.
His mind wandered to his bed, freshly made by Gale, the sweet, sweet thing. How comfortably they had settled into it, exchanging kindnesses just for each other. Kindnesses that went beyond that which they offered to their friends, of which there were still many.
He thought of how Gale turned away from a kiss. One that would have been sour and burning and ruinsome.
Astarion worried for Gale, of course he did. In spite of Gale's protests, there was no denying that he was the most vulnerable in their party. Such was the nature of wizards...
And yet Gale kept finding ways to protect him. Save him.
Gale's tadpole continued to buzz at the back of his mind, and Astarion was tempted to reach through just to tease him. They really did not take advantage of the worms enough, and were Astarion even slightly more energetic, the temptation to pull a little prank on his wizard would have been too great to overcome.
As it was, however, Astarion was content to sun in his gentle presence. The unobtrusive way Gale stood guard, the way his feelings trickled through the connection, soft and fuzzy and warm, and oh, if Astarion's heart did not feel the same...
Astarion? Is everything alright? I thought I felt something... Gale's voice came through the connection, clear as a bell, the worry bouncing around Astarion's skull.
With a roll of his eyes, Astarion sighed. Perfectly alright, darling.
Ah. Good. Good. Just... if you need anything...
Instead of responding, Astarion simply allowed the crackling hearth of his affection to flow through their connection. The buzz of Gale's nerves quieted, and he faded to the back of Astarion's mind once more, leaving a little spot of glowing fondness in his wake.
Time would only tell what would become of them, Astarion supposed. Cazador was dead, but before Gale could finish his dreadful business with Mystra, there was the small matter of the elder brain. Bringing it down while keeping his Gale intact was a tall order, yes, but they had to do it. Just as he had to kill Cazador. What other choice was there?
Astarion was unsure if it was an unprecedented hope or sheer foolishness that filled his head and heart, but he knew the world was terribly fortunate that its greatest threat now stood between himself and his future with Gale.
Because he would have it.
Of that, Astarion was certain.