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Lorroakan is a bastard. That’s what it all comes down to, at the end of the day.
Gale thinks that the battle is going well, all things considered. Astarion is at his side, keeping a myrmidion at bay as the others support Dame Aylin in her holy quest to rip the scheming little wizard asunder.
But just as Gale is sure they have the upper hand, Lorroakan points at them and a jolt of magic is fired from his fingers. The blast knocks Astarion back a step as it hits him square between the eyes, and concern tightens in Gale’s stomach. He thinks it’s a miracle that he’s not knocked off his feet, until Astarion straightens up and looks at him.
It all happens so fast, Gale doesn’t fully realize what’s going on. His mind is pulling him from his body, observing from far away as he looks up too and his eyes meet Astarion’s.
The man he loves turned to a stranger in an instant. A sickly glow of magic barely perceptible in his eyes but for the crackling light at the edge of blood-red irises as he steps forward and buries the blade in Gale’s stomach. With a flick of his wrist he twists the blade, lips curling in an inhuman snarl.
From outside his body Gale realizes this must be what Cazador designed the dagger for. Not just to carve into flesh with the delicate tip but to lacerate, with jagged intertwining blades.
He smells his own blood, thick and metallic in the air. He feels his very life beginning to seep from the wound. The world stands still around them, suspended in an instant that Gale thinks might last forever until he blinks and everything rushes into movement and noise and chaos at once.
The dagger is withdrawn with a sickening sound and a tearing that he thinks he should feel more of, but adrenaline and dissociation keep him blessedly, eerily numb. He knows he has only precious few moments to react, to do something to save his own life and break Astarion from Lorroakan’s thrall.
The dagger sinks into him again, deeper this time, twisting even more. Again. Again. From the barest bits of wound care Shadowheart has taught him in their time travelling together he knows it’s better to keep it in, that removing the blade before she’s there to rush healing magic into him could spell disaster, but Gale can’t be sure that will happen with any action he could take.
So he takes the one he’s most certain will help break the spell. He tastes blood, feels it on his tongue and between his teeth and running from his mouth as he apologizes and presses his hand to the side of Astarion’s face.
He’d put his hand on Astarion’s cheek just like that mere hours ago, too. He’d wished him good morning. They’d kissed, tangled up in each other, neither one eager to start the day and get out of bed. Was it really just this morning they’d done that? Would he ever be able to kiss Astarion like that again?
He hopes he will. Around them he hears Karlach’s incandescent scream of rage, can imagine her charging the wizard in her own attempt to break the magic, but the myrmidions are proving to be capable bodyguards. Wyll and Shadowheart are calling his name in tandem, hurrying over at the edge of his vision. If he doesn’t do something soon Astarion could end up hurt, and even with a blade buried in his stomach Gale finds himself caring more for his lover’s safety than his own.
Electricity sparks from his palm with an audible crack. He can tell the instant the charm breaks as Astarion gives a cry of pain and, before Gale can grab his wrist and stop him, pulls away to escape the shock and brings the dagger with him. Without Astarion holding him up Gale finds his legs don’t quite work as they once did, and before he can say anything his knees are buckling and he’s falling to the floor with a cry of pain.
He needs to be okay. He knows he needs to be okay because he looks up and sees a pain and horror that he’s never seen in Astarion’s eyes before as he looks from the blood on his hands to Gale crumpled on the floor. He’s blinking fast, shaking his head, letting Wyll grab him and haul him away with a cry to finish this first, that everything else can wait, that Shadowheart has got this.
Gale certainly hopes that she’s got this, but as she kneels beside him he’s beginning to feel further and further away from himself. He’s cold, colder than he’s ever been in his life, his eyelids impossibly heavy.
“Gale!” he hears Shadowheart call. He tries to respond but finds his mouth isn’t working anymore, he’s coughing up too much blood.
“Hold on, just hold on.” Her hands shake as she rips open his robes, trying to get closer to the wound, trying to make sure none of the fabric is caught up when healing magic stitches him back together. “I-I can’t get you up now, but I’ll stabilize you.”
He doesn’t really know what that means anymore. Doesn’t really know what anything means anymore. He thinks he hears a wordless cry of rage. It sounds like Astarion, and that thought makes his heart ache in his chest. Which is weird, because he thinks that’s about the only thing in him that the blade didn’t pierce.
“We’ll keep you safe,” Shadowheart promises. Gale wants to look at her but can only manage to look up at the ceiling, trying to stay awake even as his eyelids grow heavy. Sun shines through the stained glass dome above them, all swirling rich reds and blues and purples. Fine work, really. A nicer tower than a rube such as Lorroakan ever deserved, but the tower won’t be his for much longer. Gale would be surprised if the man was still alive. Deadly mistake that is, messing with a vampire’s mind and harming what’s his.
Gale drifts off to that satisfaction, closing his eyes and choosing to believe Shadowheart that he’ll wake up again. Too many things they still need to do, too many people to kill.
Once unconsciousness settles around him though, a sweet blanket of painlessness and peace, he finds he quite likes it. It’s quiet here. His concerns feel like nothing, so much so that they’re quickly forgotten. Distant voices break through, but he doesn’t know what they’re talking about.
Karlach, is… Is he-?
Gods, he’s cold. But he’s breathing, I swear.
They sound familiar. Something stirs in his chest, that same pain he felt earlier, but he draws further into himself. The pain is bad, the pain can be avoided. Why wouldn’t he avoid it, if he can?
It’s been three days already.
Halsin and I are doing everything we can. He’s stable, I promise, but healing like this needs time. It was a lot-
I don’t need reminding of the damage.
Gentle pressure on his body. A hand on his forehead, on his chest, in his own. Holding on. Tapping a rhythm he can’t discern with the barest pressure possible against his palm.
Tap-Tap. Tap-Tap. Tap-Tap.
He tries to look at who is there but everything is dark and his body still feels too heavy to move.
You need to eat.
I’m fine.
We can bring you something. A chicken, or a cat, or-
I’m fine, damn you!
… He wouldn’t want you to starve yourself, you know.
I doubt he’ll care much for me now.
Gale tries to keep listening but the voices fade again. He drifts, moving further and further away, certain that a nicer place than this endless dark could be found if only he could escape himself long enough to find it. The hand stays in his, though. A point of contact that grounds him. He wants to pull, wants to fight it, but he doesn’t have the strength.
Tap-Tap. Tap-Tap. Tap-Tap.
So he holds on, tethered to the hand in his, until the murmuring around him crystallizes into words.
Please come back.
It’s nearly been a tenday. They’re starting to talk about you like they’re not certain you’ll wake up. But you have to. You have to wake up, Gale, because I don’t know what I’ll do if you die.
He sounds so sad. He sounds so familiar. There’s a stirring of feeling within Gale, accompanied with a shock of pain that nearly has him retreating to the soothing balm of nothingness and dark until the voice starts up again.
You don’t have to want me anymore. You don’t even have to like me. But you can’t be dead. I’ll be okay, as long as you aren’t dead. I would even pray for it if I thought any of the gods cared enough to listen.
Is he crying? The grip on his hand tightens.
Tap-Tap. Tap-Tap. Tap-Tap.
The pain inside Gale grows, flowing from his core and radiating through his body.
I can’t offer divine intervention, I can’t offer endless power.
But please. Please. Please come back anyway, my darling. My love.
Astarion.
Tap-Tap. Tap-Tap. Tap-Tap.
Astarion?
“Ah-!”
With a wordless cry Gale is slammed back into himself. As his eyes open he becomes immediately aware of how bright the room is, of the noise of the Elfsong underneath them, of a cold hand in his, and of the pain radiating through him.
The agony renders him mute, until another pair of hands is tilting his head back and a potion is being poured down his throat.
It’s bitter, so much so he almost coughs it right back up, but it soothes enough of the pain that he lets himself swallow and relax as healing warmth spreads through him.
“You’ve had that the whole time?” He hears Astarion asks, indignant. Gale would laugh at his tone, if he wasn’t certain laughing is the worst thing he could do right now with the current state his insides.
“He hasn’t been awake to need it,” Halsin replies. “But more have been made, for when the pain returns.”
A large, warm hand is pressed to his chest and Gale feels more magic flowing into him. He blinks up at Halsin, who looks down at him with a gentle smile.
“Welcome back,” he says before withdrawing. “I’ll give you two a moment, but the others should know he’s awake.”
Gale moves his head, body aching from the effort after going unused for so long, gaze settling on Astarion. He’s curled up in a chair, knees pulled up to his chest. The first thing Gale notices is that he looks about as gaunt as he did when they first met. Gone is the subtle flush of a healthy, well-fed vampire.
He’s sallow and sad, but he’s still holding on to Gale’s hand. Gale wonders if he knows that. He’s scared to point it out, scared that it will mean Astarion is going to let go and disappear completely.
“Hello,” he says, because he has nothing else to say.
Astarion only looks at him, holding on like he’s afraid Gale is going to disappear too.
“I’m sorry,” Astarion replies.
Gale opens his mouth, wanting to assure Astarion that he has nothing to apologize for, but Astarion moves with the uncanny speed of the undead. In the blink of an eye he’s standing at Gale’s side, free hand smoothing over his hair, cold lips pressed to his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
And with a squeeze of his hand and another blink of an eye, he’s gone.
As the days pass Gale gradually begins to regain his strength.
Wyll takes to keeping Gale company as he recovers. Gale must admit he’s surprised— Wyll is so energetic, so eager to hit the road and accomplish their next goal. Gale suspects his last conversation with Mizora has made him more pensive. It can’t be easy, trading a father for freedom. Gale truly doesn’t know what he would pick, were he in Wyll’s position and his mother’s life were on the line.
But what’s done is done. At least, Wyll keeps telling them both that.
They’re sitting in companionable silence, Gale half-focused on the book in his lap and Wyll meticulously sharpening his rapier, when Gale closes his book and looks up. A question has been gnawing at him and he knows Wyll will probably be the only one to answer him honestly, without sugarcoating a bit of it.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Pardon?” Wyll pauses and looks up, eyes meeting Gale’s.
“After… this.” He gestures to his stomach, where bandages still cover the wounds that are slowly healing. “I’d like to know. I don’t really recall any of it.”
Wyll’s face twists with sadness, his eyes fixed firmly on Gale’s bandages.
“It was chaos, for a moment,” he says. “Half of us didn’t even know what happened, until-“ he cuts himself off, shakes his head.
“Until?” Gale asks.
“Until Astarion screamed. It was a truly terrible sound. Be glad you don’t remember it.”
He remembers cries of sorrow echoing off cavernous dungeon walls, remembers holding Astarion as he sobbed in the wake of killing his master and freeing himself and coming to terms with how much he’d gained and lost in one fell swoop.
Gale can’t imagine a sound worse than that, but Astarion had made it.
“And after?” Gale asks, chest starting to feel tight the more he thinks about it all.
“There was still a fight to win,” Wyll continues. “We had to focus, with Shadowheart’s attention on you none of us could afford to slip up.”
Wyll sets the rapier down, sitting back in his chair and looking at Gale, hands folded in his lap. In moments like these Gale can’t believe how young Wyll is, can’t imagine how he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and how he still feels the burden of expectation even with his father gone. Gale can empathize, from one man with too many expectations placed on him in boyhood to another, but he doesn’t envy it in the slightest.
“And when the fight was over?”
“Between Astarion and Aylin, by the time all was said and done Lorroakan was barely recognizable. Good riddance, of course, but…” he trails off, looks back up and meets Gale’s gaze.
“That didn’t make it any better to look at. And then there was you to worry about, and when I looked at you…”
Wyll looks away.
“To understate it immensely, your prospects of surviving didn’t look good. Shadowheart had stopped the bleeding, but… there was already so much blood lost. You and I both know I am not a holy man, but in that moment I prayed. I searched for whatever god would listen to me. It felt like we needed a miracle to get you back.”
Gale almost doesn’t want to ask, but he has to know. “And… Astarion?”
“He was not fine, not by any means, but… he seemed to hold it together, at least. Wouldn’t take his eyes off you as we brought you back here. I think he was telling himself you would live, that he had to do whatever it took to make that be true, but…”
His voice trails off. He shakes his head again. Gale waits a moment, lets him gather his thoughts.
“You died here,” Wyll finally says, voice quiet and sad. “Astarion said he heard your heart stop.”
Gale is speechless. He knew he lost a lot of blood, knew that he didn’t wake for several days, but he didn’t know any of that. Guilt rushes through him for putting any of his friends through all of this, for the pain and the panic they must have felt.
Gale reaches out his hand, trying to offer whatever comfort he can to his friend, and Wyll takes it and holds on.
“It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” he says. “Shadowheart and Halsin were both doing everything they could to revive you, by some stroke of luck we had a scroll and used it in time. But by the time you were stable again, Astarion was gone.”
“Gone?” Gale repeats, not expecting to hear that at all.
“I don’t presume to know where he went or what he did,” Wyll says, his tone somber. “But night came and went. When he returned the next morning he heard your heart beating again. And then he sat at your side until you woke up.”
Gale is quiet for a long time after that. He looks to the door of their room when it opens, hope flitting into his heart for only a moment until he sees the others and realizes Astarion is not among them.
“Thank you,” he finally says, when Wyll stands to leave. “For everything.”
Wyll rests a warm hand on his shoulder, gives it a gentle squeeze before joining the others.
Every step of progress toward a full recovery is slow and painful, but it’s progress. Gale never thought he would ever celebrate things like sitting up by himself or eating without assistance but each milestone is another victory, another step to bringing him back up to fighting form.
There’s still a world to save, after all.
At his request and only when the healers finally permit it, he’s able to practice his spellwork again. It’s good to have something to do while he waits for his body to heal, and it wouldn’t do to get rusty now when so much is still at stake.
His friends are generous, almost all of them taking time out of their day to sit with him and talk and help him feel normal again as he recovers. From them he finds out that progress has been made, that they’ve located the Temple of Bhaal and cased the Steel Watch foundry. Plans are being formulated and items on their to-do list are being checked off.
He appreciates them waiting for him to recover before any big moves are made. They’re all anxious, the itch to get out and get one step closer to ending the Absolute for good hangs in the air every time they discuss the timeline of his healing and how long it might be until he can join them again.
Well. Most of them are waiting, anyway.
Astarion seems determined to spend as little time in their rooms as possible. Gale only really sees him when he flits in for a change of clothes or a brief rest. He talks quietly with Halsin or Shadowheart, avoiding the others and their questions before rushing out as quick as he rushed in.
“Halsin thinks he’s cleaning out Cazador’s palace,” Shadowheart says one evening as she checks the progress of his healing. Gale’s wounds are fragile, pink scar tissue now. He’s under strict instructions not to perform any magic more taxing than a cantrip or any activity more laborious than holding a book and turning the page and for the most part he’s done as he’s been told. He itches to cook again, if only to give his hands something more meaningful to do.
“We should be helping him,” Gale replies. He doesn’t like the thought of Astarion alone in that haunted house, reckoning with demons by himself.
“He hurt you. Now he’s punishing himself,” she says with the certainty of someone who has done the exact same thing. “We’ve all tried to talk to him, but he won’t listen.”
“I haven’t talked to him.” Indignation colors his tone, which he feels he’s earned given that Astarion hasn’t come near him since he woke up. “I don’t know what he thinks I’ll say-“
“He knows you’ll forgive him.”
Shadowheart’s fingers delicately trace the edge of the scarring on his stomach. She presses in and he winces, the pain a faint echo of what it had been before but still present. Still tender.
“It wasn’t his fault.” Gale watches her hand. He stares at the wound Shar left that hadn’t bothered her since she’d done as her parents asked and ended their lives.
“That doesn’t matter to him,” she says, dropping her hand to her lap and sitting back. He looks up and her smile is a small, sympathetic thing. “He’ll tell himself that he should have been stronger, he should have fought harder against the magic. And he’ll feel guilty, because if he were in your position he knows he wouldn’t forgive.”
Gale thinks of the years that Astarion spent under the thumb of his master, of the years Shadowheart spent under the thumb of a goddess, robbed of willpower and memory. The time wasted, the lives lost. The pain inflicted for no reason beyond the joy of inflicting it. He thinks of daggers forged to carve wounds as deep and jagged as possible, thinks of spears destined to pierce hearts. Thinks of moon motes seeking those who need them most and palaces left to crumble and rot under the weight of their own evil.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and she shakes her head.
“My peace will come,” she replies. “Once this is over, I’ll have all the time in the world to figure out where I’m meant to be.” She carefully pulls his robe back around him and ties it. “But he knows where he’s meant to be, and he doesn’t think he deserves it anymore.”
That night, Gale hears the familiar sound of Astarion’s boots clicking on the floor. Astarion’s things are still in the bed next to his, the only proof he has most days that Astarion hasn’t left them all for good.
Gale feigns sleep and listens to Astarion move closer, hears the noises of him rifling through his belongings, the rustling of fabric as he changes clothes, the sounds of him scrubbing something from his boots.
Blood, he can assume, if the others are right and he’s spending his days in the Szarr palace.
He hears Astarion slip the boots back on, hears him start to walk away, heart aching with how badly he wants to say something. He nearly does, nearly loses his patience with waiting to speak to the man he loves for the first time in weeks before he hears Astarion stop walking.
His steps move closer. Closer than his own bed, close enough that Gale can hear him take a breath he doesn’t need.
It’s a miracle he doesn’t startle when cool fingers brush a loose bit of hair from his forehead and tuck it behind his ear. They trace his cheek, smooth over his bottom lip.
Astarion leaves as quick as he’d come. Even when he wakes in the morning Gale’s lips tingle with the ghost of his touch, half convinced it was all a dream until he sees a new pile of rumpled, dirty clothes half-hidden under Astarion’s bed.
When Gale is finally well enough to step outside the Elfsong it’s with a breath of relief. The sun is shining, the air—well, it’s not the crisp air of Waterdeep but it’s still a blessing after being inside for so long.
He promised that he was going to simply do some shopping, and technically he does do some shopping. He stops by Sorcerous Sundries, picks up some scrolls and assures Rolan that he’s fine, really he is, and he’s just glad the tower is finally under command of a wizard who deserves it. He stops by another shop for some healing potions, since their stock has run low in the wake of his recovery. And he stops by yet another for some ingredients for the dinner he plans to cook that evening, the beginning of his thanks to his friends for all caring for him.
And if his path back to the tavern happens to take him past the watchtower that led them to the Szarr palace so many weeks ago, well. What a nice coincidence that is.
The palace is as eerily quiet as it was the first time Gale paid it a visit. The front door is locked, but a whispered word unlocks the door with a click and he steps over the threshold. It’s as…organic as he remembers, too. Perhaps even more so. He recognizes the bodies of the servants that had once busied the halls meticulously cleaning every surface they could find, now reduced to corpses in the front hall.
None of their necks are intact. Gale tries not to think about it as he steps over them, glad that he’d skipped lunch as he feels his stomach turn. The floor creaks under every step he takes.
In contrast to the precise perfection the former master of the house prioritized, wherever Gale looks he now sees disarray. Torn curtains, smashed furniture, broken glass and dented silverware. No painting hangs on the wall without a deep gouge running through it, no carpet is free of dark stains—be it blood or wine, Gale isn’t sure he wants to know.
The ballroom is the first place he looks for Astarion, but he finds only the rot of the fight they’d had in here, corpses piled in a corner but otherwise untouched. It’s clear Astarion has no intention of making this a home someday, if anything its only purpose now is a stinking reminder of all the acts ever committed in his former master’s name.
Every room he passes as he moves down the hall is similarly destroyed. Special attention has been paid to the bed in one room, and he remembers Astarion telling them about it.
Guests would be… entertained here. Until Cazador came for them, anyway.
Pillows slashed, curtains ripped down, springs and filling bursting forth from a ruined mattress. The frame has been split, leaving it lolling to one side and unable to be used to entertain a guest ever again.
In the end he finds Astarion in the one room Gale feared most that he would be. In contrast to the rest of the house, the kennels seem to have remained mostly untouched. While there was hardly anything in them to ruin the mattresses have been neatly stacked against one wall, not a single tear in any of them. The coffins are intact. Every instrument of torture remains just as it was the last time they were here and Cazador’s skeletal servant had been ground to dust.
And in the corner of the room sits Astarion, hands shaking, head down.
“Whoever you are,” he says, voice a low growl that Gale has never had directed at him before, “you have three seconds to leave and never return.”
“It’s me,” Gale replies. Astarion’s head shoots up at that, eyes wide. He scrambles up to his feet but doesn’t step away from the corner of the room, makes no move at all to get closer to Gale.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He hisses. “Wh- Why are you out?”
“I suggested some fresh air might be good for me,” Gale replies. He stays in the doorway, clasps his hands behind his back.
Astarion barks a humorless laugh, eyes darting around the room. “This is hardly fresh air.”
“Then perhaps you can accompany me. On my walk back to the tavern.”
Astarion’s mouth opens, then closes. He looks around the room again, looks at Gale, gives him one once-over, then another, but he never lets himself make eye contact.
“I can’t.”
Gale takes one careful step into the room. He stops when Astarion backs up, pressing himself further into the corner.
“Why?” He asks, genuinely curious.
Astarion only looks down and shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you.”
Astarion looks back up. He finally meets Gale’s eyes, but it’s with such fury that Gale takes a step back. Astarion’s face twists at that, sorrow pulling his lips into a deep, terrible frown.
“No,” he replies with a shake of his head. “This is mine now. I should be here.”
“To burn it down, maybe,” Gale says, steeling his courage and stepping forward again. “But not to stay here for a moment longer than you need to.”
“You shouldn’t care,” Astarion says, hands running through his hair. Gale can see blood, old and dark, under his fingernails.
“And yet I do,” Gale says. He takes another step, moving as quietly as he can, which is never very quiet but Astarion seems to deep in his own head to notice Gale moving closer to him.
“You need to leave,” Astarion whispers, barely loud enough for Gale to hear. “You need to leave and you need to defeat the brain and you need to get out of this blasted city.”
“And leave you here?” Gale asks and Astarion nods.
He’s close now. Close enough to reach out and touch, but he doesn’t want to startle Astarion.
“Can you look at me?” he asks.
Astarion is still for so long Gale opens his mouth to repeat the question, but then Astarion lifts his head. Their eyes meet, and Gale feels his heart begin to ache again.
“I know you think I should hate you,” he says. “I’m sure whatever dark place your mind has journeyed to while you shut yourself away here for days on end has convinced you that I’m better off without you.” He holds out a hand, palm up. A silent plea for Astarion to close the distance between them, the distance that has been there since he awoke and Astarion began avoiding him.
“I need you to know nothing is further from the truth.”
Astarion looks down at Gale’s hand. With a low, pained noise he surges forward. He curls in on himself, pressed against Gale’s chest, face buried in the crook of his neck. Gale wraps his arms around him, holding him close. He doesn’t know whose legs give out first but he guides them both to kneel on the floor.
“I am weak,” Astarion laments. “I thought myself above such magic, thought no power could twist my thoughts and use me against my will ever again.”
Gale holds on as Astarion shakes against him.
“It is what I deserve,” he says. “To stay here, alone, where I cannot be used ever again. To-”
His voice chokes up, but he presses on.
“To be away from you. No matter how that might pain me.”
“And did you consider how I might feel about that?” Gale asks. His voice is thick with emotion as he blinks back unshed tears.
“You would be safe,” Astarion says with such desperation that Gale thinks he’s trying to convince them both of that. “You could move on from me. From this.”
He starts to pull back, to pull away. It almost breaks Gale’s heart to let him go, but Astarion only wants to see his face. He reaches up, cupping Gale’s face in his hands, staring with the focus of someone doing their best to commit a face to memory.
“This will always be a part of me,” he whispers. “This. This place, and the things that happened here. The…things I did.”
Gale remains silent.
“So yes,” Astarion continues. “I considered how you might feel. And I determined the heartbreak would be worth it, if it meant you would be free of me.”
Gale takes a deep breath. He looks around the room, this prison where unspeakable things were done. The weight of the room is undeniable, a terrible energy that seeps from between the cracks of every stone.
Fuck this room, Gale thinks. Fuck Cazador. Fuck all of it, and fuck anything who would try to steal their happiness.
He stands and moves to one of the coffins that leans against the wall. Opening it reveals nothing but a cramped space with no cushion or pillow to be seen, and he wonders how many people have been locked inside, scared and desperate and too starved to rip through even the weakest, cheapest wood.
With a grunt of exertion, he throws the coffin to the floor. It splits with a loud crack, top flying off the hinges and clattering against stone floors as Gale raises his foot and stops on the rest of it, watching it splintering to pieces easily under his heel.
He looks to Astarion, who watches him with wide eyes.
“Come on,” Gale says with one more stomp before moving to the pile of mattresses against the opposite wall. “Help me.”
He waits for Astarion to stand, moving toward him slowly. He reaches out, takes a corner of a mattress in hand, looks to Gale like he’s waiting for some signal or approval.
Gale nods, and together they begin to take the room apart.
Mattresses are tossed to the floor, torn asunder. Cages are dismantled, chains are broken, coffins are smashed and sheets are shredded. At some point in the chaos Astarion starts laughing and Gale starts laughing too and they don’t stop until everything that was once whole in the room now lays in pieces on the floor, until tears are streaming down Gale’s eyes and his sides hurt so much he has to lean against a wall and sink to sit on the floor.
The laughter fades, and soon his breathing becomes the loudest thing in the room. It took a lot out of him but it was worth it, even if there’s an ache where his injuries once were. Astarion stands amidst the carnage and looks around with shock and wonder in his eyes until his gaze settles on Gale.
He steps forward slowly, deliberately, and kneels. Gale watches as Astarion reaches down, can see the blood under his fingers up close now as Astarion takes one of Gale’s hands in both of his own, thumb smoothing over the thrum of Gale’s pulse.
Without a word he lifts Gale’s wrist to his mouth. Gale almost thinks Astarion is going to bite him but he only smooths his thumb over Gale’s pulse point again before pressing a soft kiss to the spot.
This day has given him more contact with Astarion than he’s had in weeks, and Gale has missed it more than anything.
“Can we go?” Astarion asks, lips still against Gale’s wrist.
“Please,” Gale replies. “The others are waiting for us.”
Astarion stands, pulling Gale up with him as he goes. Gale winces at the movement and the twinge of pain it causes, but Astarion is a steady presence at his side. He feels Astarion wrap an arm around him, a hand on his waist helping keep him upright as they make their way through the mess and out of the palace.
Sunlight is dimming as they step back out into the streets of the Lower City, golden rays of light streaming between buildings as they make their way back to the Elfsong. Gale fills his lungs with fresh air, hoping that by the time they’re back inside he no longer smells the decay that clung to the air of the palace. If they take longer than expected to get back he doesn’t mind. He’s moving a little slower than normal these days anyway, and he wants to keep this contact with Astarion for as long as possible.
They’re silent on their walk back—a companionable silence more than anything, which Gale is tempted to break but allows to continue until they’ve made their way back to the tavern and up the stairs.
“Will you stay tonight?” he asks, hesitating before opening the door to their rooms, looking to Astarion.
Astarion’s hold drops from his waist. Gale misses the contact immediately, until Astarion reaches up and takes his face in his hands. Gale thinks he could melt into the touch, even with how cold Astarion’s hands usually are.
Astarion leans in and on instinct Gale closes his eyes, tilts his head. His eyes blink open again when he feels the press of lips to his forehead. Not what he was expecting, but hardly unwelcome after thinking he might never be able to kiss Astarion ever again.
“I’ll stay,” Astarion replies and the relief is instantaneous.
He’s true to his word, even if he spends most of the evening away from the others and curled up on his bed. Gale couldn’t care less, because his bed is still next to Astarion’s and Astarion is really there and perhaps this is the first step to things between them moving back to normal. He hopes it is, anyway.
Gale makes dinner and eats with the others, pointedly avoiding discussing how he happened upon their resident vampire and convinced him to come back. It’s not for the others to know, at least not until Astarion wants to tell them.
He’s grateful they don’t mention how quickly he finishes dinner and excuses himself for the evening. The rest of their friends remain chatting down by the fireplace but Gale leaves as soon as he’s able. His hand flit about in anticipation before he’s even close enough to their beds to cast a spell, crafting the Weave into a modified dome of silence that settles over their beds. Between that and the partitions around them they have the closest approximation to privacy that he can give them and the dome parts like a curtain around him as he enters, the gentle hum of magic a comfortable din on the edge of his awareness and the sound of their companions talking with each other fading to nothing the moment the curtain closes and the dome is whole again.
Astarion is sitting in the middle of his bed, legs crossed, and looks up from the book in his lap as Gale approaches. He’s bathed, if the damp curls and clean hands are anything to go by, and changed into more comfortable clothes. He looks cozy, and it makes Gale smile. A bit of coziness is what they deserve after the last few weeks.
“May I join you?” Gale asks. Astarion closes the book and tosses it to the floor, scooting back on his bed and reaching out for Gale in reply. Gale takes his hands, letting himself be guided to settle on his knees between Astarion’s legs.
“I’m sorry,” Astarion murmurs.
“You have nothing to apologize-“
“I do,” he snaps. Gently, but still a snap. He looks up, meets Gale’s eyes.
“You may not see a need to forgive me for…” he looks down to Gale’s stomach, tries to find the words but gives up with a shake of his head.
“But how I’ve acted since you woke… That, at least, you must let me apologize for.”
“Fine,” Gale replies with a sigh. If it’s what he needs to hear, Gale will say it as often as it takes for Astarion to believe it. “You’re forgiven.”
Astarion tilts forward, forehead pressing against Gale’s shoulder. Gale wraps his arms around Astarion, one hand smoothing over his back as the other tangles in his hair. Astarion gives a pleased hum and relaxes in his arms.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers.
“And I’ve missed you,” Gale replies. “It’s been awfully boring here without your sparkling wit.”
Astarion laughs, a choked wet thing, but still genuine. He lifts his head and a moment of anticipation passes between the two of them.
“Will you kiss me?” Gale asks. “I… I’ve missed that a lot, too.”
“Soon,” he replies, and Gale tries to hide the way he deflates in disappointment. Astarion frowns, his brow furrows.
“I just…” His hands move to Gale’s waist, guiding him back, holding tight to his shirt. Gale doesn’t have to enjoy letting go of Astarion but he acquiesces, letting himself be moved until he’s sitting at arm’s length across from Astarion.
“Can I-“ Astarion tries, then stops himself. Takes a breath. Tries again.
“May I see?”
He tugs at Gale’s shirt and Gale immediately understands what he means.
“You don’t have to-“
“I know,” Astarion replies. “But… I’ll see them eventually, won’t I? Better now than later.”
Gale is still unsure but lifts his arms and allows Astarion to pull his shirt up and over his head.
He watches Astarion take in the sight of him. Between the mark of the orb in his chest and the jagged, pink, freshly healed marks that now criss-cross his stomach he’s sure he must look a sight. Good, perhaps, that he and Astarion met when they did because he doesn’t feel very up to attracting anyone to him now.
“They’re not as big as I thought they would be,” Astarion says, voice barely loud enough for Gale to hear. He reaches out, traces where new skin joins with old with careful fingertips.
“Shadowheart said the healing magic did a lot of work to make them smaller,” Gale replies. “They’ll never fade completely, but-“
Astarion surges forward, taking Gale’s face between his hands and cutting him off with a deep, bruising kiss. Gale kisses back just as fiercely—relief flooding through him that Astarion still wants this, still wants him, doesn’t see him now as some untouchable, fragile thing in the wake of all they’ve been through.
He lets Astarion have control of the kiss but still makes him work a bit for it, breaking the kiss to lean back and lay down on the bed, letting Astarion chase his lips for more until he’s settled on his back.
“I thought,” Astarion murmurs between kisses, “I would lose this. Lose you.”
“I’m here,” Gale replies, breathless as Astarion moves to mouth at his neck, right over the spot he loves to bite. “I’m yours, my love.”
Astarion gives a low whine, a sound so needy and mournful that it tugs at Gale’s heart to hear him make such a noise.
“You can bite me,” he whispers. Swallows hard. “Please, Astarion. Please bite me.”
Astarion might need his blood but Gale needs the closeness of it, needs the intimacy. Needs to solidify the trust between them and prove to Astarion that he won’t be hurt, that Gale is still safe in his hands.
Astarion makes that noise again, kisses at his neck, sucks hard enough at a spot high on his neck that he knows he can’t hide, leaving a mark that Gale knows no robe he owns will cover. It sends a rush of heat through Gale, and he bites his lip to hold back an embarrassing noise.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers. Gale runs his fingers through Astarion’s hair, smooths his palm down his neck and over his shoulders. He’d been growing soft at the edges with regular feedings but in the weeks since last they did this he’s sharp again, bones starting to jut from skin in a way that deeply worries Gale.
“You won’t,” Gale replies. “You never do. Please, Astarion. Just a little.”
Astarion kisses at his neck again, sucks at the bruising mark he’s made where Gale knows he itches to bite and lick and feed.
“Please?” he asks again, voice high and breathy with anticipation.
“How can I resist,” Astarion replies, “when you ask so sweetly?”
He bites down, the immediate prick of pain in Gale’s neck fading quickly as Astarion withdraws his fangs in the next second and begins to drink. It’s a feeling he’s used to by now but is still so unlike anything he’s ever felt in his life. Gale closes his eyes, a wave of comfortable numbness slowly washing over him with every mouthful of blood that Astarion takes. Warm arousal building inside him from letting himself be used, be taken, be consumed. Astarion cradles the back of his head tenderly with one hand as he feeds, the other smoothing down his side, over the scars on his stomach.
He normally feeds for much longer, but Gale is not surprised at all with how soon Astarion pulls away. He detaches from the puncture wounds with a gasp and Gale opens his eyes to see Astarion blinking down at him, licking up what drips from the corners of his mouth and unable to hide a wince as he swallows.
“Still not entirely to your taste?” Gale asks with a smile.
“I savor every drop of you that I can get,” Astarion says. He bends down, kissing and licking at the marks on Gale’s neck until his blood begins to coagulate and the wounds stop bleeding.
“They said you haven’t been eating,” Gale says. Astarion groans at that, sitting up and moving to slot himself comfortably between Gale’s legs.
“I don’t want to think about them right now,” he replies, bending down to kiss Gale again. Gale kisses back, lets himself get lost in it until Astarion pulls away, apparently not done with his thought.
“I have you under me,” he continues, hands drifting over Gale’s body, down his sides and to his hips.
“And now I’ve eaten, too.” Astarion grins, fingertips drifting over the laces of Gale’s pants.
“So I’m quite content, really,” he concludes, giving one of the laces a tug, enough to loosen the knot but not untie it completely.
“Touch me,” Gale breathes, body growing tense with the need for more. “I’ve missed you, love. I need you.”
He reaches up, tugs at Astarion’s shirt until Astarion finally pulls it off and throws it aside. Gale takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around Astarion and pull him in, pull him close, until they’re pressed together and he can feel as much of Astarion as possible against him.
He’s solid. He’s real. He’s here.
After so many days fearing he would never have this again, to hold Astarion close now is almost overwhelming, a staggering relief that makes his head spin with happiness. It might spin a little with blood loss too, but Gale prefers to think of that as its own kind of happiness. The happiness of giving some of himself to nourish another, more intense than cooking a meal but at its core the gesture is the same.
He tilts his hips up, grinding up against Astarion, admiring the choked gasp Astarion gives in response.
“Eager, aren’t we?” Astarion asks, a teasing lilt to his voice even as his hands betray his need, working to undo the laces of Gale’s trousers and shove them down.
“Only as eager as you’ve made me,” Gale replies. “All that kissing and touching, biting me and working me up.” He smiles, working a hand between them and dipping his fingers under Astarion’s waistband, teasing him back with a hint of the touch he knows Astarion really wants.
“Touch me,” he continues, palming Astarion over his smallclothes and relishing the moan he receives in response. “I’ll touch you too.”
“Gods above,” Astarion hisses under his breath. He shoves hard at Gale’s pants, working them down just enough to free his cock. He licks his palm and wraps his hand around the length, pulling a gasp from Gale as he’s finally, properly touched after going far too long without it. He’d grown used to it, the intimacy that he and Astarion fell into and the semi-regular state of their sex life. He almost took it for granted, but now he never will.
Astarion holds himself up over Gale, free hand gripping the sheets under them, sacrificing a bit of contact for them to be able to see each other. Gale acquiesces, only because he loves to see the way Astarion’s expression softens at the edges once Gale’s hand dips into his smallclothes he and finally, properly palms at Astarion’s cock in return.
“I wanted,” Astarion says, voice strained from pleasure as Gale continues to move his hand, “to do this proper-“
“Fuck proper,” Gale interrupts, hips twitching, rocking up into Astarion’s hand. “We’ll do proper later.”
“You promise?” Astarion asks, kissing the corner of Gale’s mouth.
“Promise,” Gale groans before turning his head and meeting Astarion’s lips with his own.
They move together, kissing and grinding against each other’s palms. It makes Gale feel young again, reminds him of clumsy first fumbles with first loves. Their needs makes them sloppy and desperate but it’s also endearing, the way Astarion shivers against him and moans into his mouth.
It’s been long enough that it doesn’t take Gale much time at all to reach the edge. He doesn’t even have a chance to warn Astarion, but Astarion doesn’t seem to want a warning anyway. He only gives a low, pleased growl in the back of his throat as Gale writhes under him, bucking up into Astarion’s hand around his cock, until the overstimulation has him stuttering to a stop and reaching down to grab at Astarion’s wrist with his free hand and hold him still.
His other hand remains very much occupied as Astarion continues to grind against his palm. With the cloud of lust in his mind finally parting Gale can appreciate how good Astarion looks above him, face twisted in pleasure, long eyelashes catching on the firelight that peeks through the cracks of the partitions around them, the slightest flush to his cheeks that only manages to rise under his pale skin when he’s right on the edge of a climax.
Astarion opens his eyes and Gale sees hunger and desperation in them. His brow furrows, he gives a low whine.
“You’re real,” he whispers.
“I’m real,” Gale assures him.
“You’re here. Y-You’re okay.”
“I’m here, my love.” He tries to slow down, concerned it might all be a bit too intense, but Astarion gives another whine and shakes his head.
“Just-“ he shivers, cock twitching and leaking in Gale’s hand. “Just talk. Please. I-I’m close-!”
“I’m here,” Gale repeats. He watches the pleasure work through Astarion, feels him tensing and relaxing in equal measure. “I’ve got you, Astarion. I’ve got you.”
He reaches up, holds on to the back of Astarion’s neck and draws him in close. Astarion keeps up the pace of Gale’s hand, thrusting against his palm, burying his face in the crook of Gale’s neck as he cries out Gale’s name.
“I love you,” Gale says. “Cum for me, love. That’s it, show me how good it feels.”
Astarion cries out again, fangs scraping over Gale’s neck. He thinks Astarion is going to bite down again but realizes that in the throes of his climax he might not even have the presence of mind to do that. Astarion shakes apart against him, spilling into Gale’s hand, dropping down and pressing Gale into the bed as soon as the pleasure ebbs and he can hold himself up no longer.
There’s the slightest twinge of pain but Gale makes no move to push Astarion off him.
He withdraws his hand, wipes it off on the edge of the sheets that he can reach. Inelegant, but he doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to disturb this, now that he finally has Astarion pressed so close against him.
They breathe together, coming back to themselves. Astarion moves only to get his pants off and help Gale out of his too, pulling a blanket up over them and settling down against Gale again.
“I love you,” Astarion whispers, pressing a kiss to Gale’s neck as Gale wraps an arm around him.
Gale gives a low, happy hum. “I’m sure I’ll be out for a while,” he murmurs. He can already feel sleep tugging at the edge of his consciousness and realizes he’s utterly exhausted. “You don’t have to stay.”
Astarion’s only response is to settle deeper into the bed, resting his head against Gale’s chest.
They aren’t fixed, but they’re better. Like his recovery it will be slow, but it will be worth the pain and the patience in the end if Astarion remains at his side.
Sleep claims Gale quickly, but not before he realizes that Astarion is listening to his heart, keeping time with gentle taps to the center of his chest.
Tap-Tap. Tap-Tap. Tap-Tap.