Chapter Text
After two tendays on the island, Gale has finally settled into his new routine.
He wakes at half past six, having learnt that both the warmer climate on Ioma and the late-rising tourists necessitate an early breakfast and thus early departure from the hotel. He showers methodically, humming a song to himself that lasts exactly as long as he needs to complete his ablutions. He chooses a t-shirt (purple) and walking trousers (sturdy, useful pockets), tying up his hiking boots and making his way to the breakfast room, which is empty, just as he’d planned.
The cuisine on Ioma is rather different from Waterdeep, given its Orcish history, but the resorts and hotels like the one Gale currently resides in provide fare for all species. He’d promised himself to try and embrace it, but after picking at the fish on his plate, admittedly not his favourite first thing in the morning, he relents and finds some porridge with honey and cinnamon. He packs a lunch for himself despite the withering look from the kitchen staff (because Gale is well-aware that lunch costs extra and because Gale keeps doing it anyway) before making a hasty escape.
With his bag of equipment and samples on his back, he strides to the hotel’s designated portal wall in the lobby, illuminating his own runes with a practised sweep of his hand and stepping through them.
The sudden silence that greets him at the top of Mount Ioma is welcome, dampening the constant thoughts that cycle through his brain, the what ifs of the many roads not taken threatening to drown him where he stands.
Breathing in a lungful of chilly air, Gale sits down on a flat rock next to the portal runes, eyes following the horizon where the sea meets the sky, all the way around the titular mountain which dominates the centre of Ioma. Other Nethlander islands can be seen out on the sea, some so tiny that one would struggle to land even a boat, let alone a ship, on their paltry coastlines. The morning presses a haze down over the ocean, as if Gale is admiring it through smudged glasses, or with film over his eyes. He wonders if it’s the year of isolation post-orb fiasco that has made him feel this removed from everything, or if he would’ve always felt this numb after Mystra anyway.
He pushes his wind-whipped hair back from his face. There are goosebumps on his arms, but he knows they will flatten soon, as the sun climbs higher in the sky and as his magic responds to the Iomic crystal vein running below the mountain. “Right, then,” he says to himself, slapping his hands on his knees but not yet standing up. His voice cracks, unused, and he realises he hasn’t spoken to anyone except himself for more than two days now; at least back home in Waterdeep, there’d always been Tara. Promising himself to call his beloved tressym this evening, he acknowledges the realisation and files it away for later examination. “These crystals won’t research themselves, will they?”
There’s no answer.
He’ll work all morning, and if he doesn’t get completely absorbed in his efforts, he’ll remember to eat his lunch in good time. In the afternoon, he’ll continue his research until his bad knee starts aching, at which point he’ll return to the hotel for an evening swim, dinner, and bed.
It’s a routine that’s beginning to feel well-worn, and Gale hasn’t yet decided if that’s a good thing.
*
Astarion blinks as he steps out of the long-distance portal. His luggage lands gently at his feet a couple of moments later, but he doesn’t notice it.
While the internet provided Astarion with pictures of what new places could look like, he didn’t realise there was such a thrill to be had in seeing those places for himself. His red eyes flit about as he quickly takes in his surroundings, his predatory nature and Cazador’s looming shadow reminding him to be alert at all times. Yet, as he registers the white-painted houses, the cobbled streets, the groups of tourists chatting animatedly, his brain finally stops screaming danger at him, and he straightens up out of the instinctive crouch he’d dropped into.
“You’re blocking the portal,” a burly tiefling grunts, and Astarion steps aside, his usual witty repartee momentarily absent from the tip of his tongue. The tiefling pulls a small child along by the hand, who stares up at Astarion with wild eyes, purple beads decorating their horns.
As Astarion lifts his suitcases and walks down the main road through Ioma Town, he begins to hear a little mantra repeating itself in his mind. Cazador is dead. He isn’t here. You’re free. He keeps the words simple for now, following the signposts to the Respite Resort and Spa. It was the first hotel that had been suggested by the poor halfling at the travel agent in Baldur’s Gate, when Astarion burst into the office three hours ago and demanded to be sent as far away from here as possible, with great haste.
Cazador is dead.
A pair of dwarves pass an ice cream cone to one another, lost in each other’s eyes.
He isn’t here.
Two dragonborn children sprint past Astarion, nudging each other as they go, their high pitched giggling ringing out along the street.
You’re free.
The sun beats down upon him from above, more painful than it had been in Baldur’s Gate but not burning him to a crisp. For now, he thinks glumly, glancing down at the silver ring on his finger, the only thing protecting him from instant incineration. Cazador had been hoarding these rings, seven exactly, ensuring his spawn would never sunwalk unless he commanded it. Astarion and his siblings had found them while tearing Cazador’s palace apart, in the scant minutes between the monster hunters putting a stake through his master’s heart and those same Gur remembering that Cazador had spawn.
Astarion forbids himself from thinking about whether or not he’ll be able to return to Baldur’s Gate, if the Gur will still be pursuing him tendays or even months from now. Does he need to fear them? Should he be thankful to the people whose ancestors killed Astarion two centuries ago, because Cazador is now dead? He pushes away the frantic thoughts of the masterless eternity beyond him and focuses on just two things: getting settled into his room at the hotel, and securing his next meal.
*
Gale steps back through the portal to the hotel with a rucksack stuffed full of crystals and research notes, the former meticulously chipped from the vein and the latter scrawled in a near-illegible hand. After dinner, he’ll examine the crystals in the makeshift laboratory he’s set up in his hotel room, with Mage Hand cast to type his findings up on his laptop.
He hasn’t quite worked out how to get the spell to understand autocorrect, but that’s a magical dilemma for another day.
The sun is nearing the end of its slow descent over the sea as Gale changes into his cerulean swimming trunks, wrapping a white dressing gown around himself before he makes his way down to the pool. He’ll spend the first five lengths warming up before rotating through breast stroke, front crawl, and backstroke until he’s exhausted, as he used to do back in Waterdeep. Mystra always used to–
He pauses by a sun lounger, hands pausing on the knot of his robe. “Mystra doesn’t, anymore. That’s why you’re here, remember?” he reminds himself, with a little sarcasm to soften the blow. He takes a deep breath before he unties the robe and places it on the lounger. He likes swimming at this time of evening, when no one else is in the pool. No one will point at his chest and incorrectly praise him for having a nice tattoo.
The pool sits just before the hotel’s terrace, the sandy beach and Sea of Swords just beyond that. As Gale looks up towards the mostly-empty tables, for it’s still early in the summer, he spots a pale, white-haired man sitting with the stem of a glass of red wine pinched between his fingertips. Gale can’t quite make out his features from this side of the pool, but he feels an uneasiness creep over him, a tug in the Weave around his fingertips.
He steps forward and dives into the pool.
By the end of his warm up he’s forgotten all about the pain in his knee and the stranger on the terrace, instead allowing his musings to return to his work. He knows he’s close to a breakthrough on the true nature of the Iomic crystal’s psionic properties. If only he could reach out to some of his old colleagues at the Academy, he could run his theories past them, but his accounts had been locked down the second he was told he’d been placed on indefinite gardening leave.
If he was in a lighter mood, he might joke that gardening leave and rock digging perhaps weren’t all that different. But a sadness dogs him still, even a year after he’d attempted to uncover the secrets of the Netherese orb, shattering it and destroying the magic within in the process. He’d lost the opportunity to become the most renowned wizard of his generation by ruining the orb. He’d been reprimanded by the Archmage for dealing in unstable Weave and therefore lost his job at the University. He’d fallen out of Mystra’s favour, losing his Goddess and his lover in one fell swoop.
It’s been a year, and of all these repercussions, Gale still isn’t sure which one has cut him deepest.
He breaks the surface of the water at the end of the pool, instinctively gasping for air. Without thinking, Gale heaves himself up to sit on the side, sending splashes of water splattering to the warm stone around the edge of the pool. Most hotel guests are currently enjoying dinner with their loved ones, but Gale has the distinct feeling he’s being watched. Slicking his hair back from his face, he gathers his bearings again, looking to the terrace with a jolt of surprise.
The white haired man is still staring at him.
From this end of the pool, he’s close enough to notice the dark suit trousers, legs crossed at the knee, and the expensive looking shirt with the cuffs rolled to the elbows. His shoes are well shined, and Gale can’t help but notice how out of place he looks at the hotel, even dressed for dinner as he is. As Gale’s wandering eyes travel upwards, the stranger notices with a smirk, the dark eyes trained on him. “Can I help you?” Gale asks, a little annoyance bleeding into his tone.
“I’m just enjoying the view,” the stranger purrs, for his voice is rich and lilting, sensual enough to have Gale repressing a shiver. Gale turns his head to look out towards the sunset behind him, a blur of oranges and reds chased towards the edge of the ocean by a pale pink hue; as he does so, the stranger laughs, almost musical. “Both views, then,” he adds, and Gale fights an unwarranted blush.
“Do you often spy on people while they’re trying to exercise?”
“Oh no, this isn’t spying,” the stranger is quick to reassure him. He puts both feet on the floor, leaning forward in his chair, gesturing with his free hand. “You see, if I were spying, you would never have seen me.” He laughs darkly, theatrical. “You could say I’m at one with the shadows.”
Gale appraises him warily. His magic is pooling in his chest, his fingertips, as if it’s trying to reach towards this man - a high elf, now he can see the tips of his ears peeking through the mess of his curls. He spies a ruby ring on the man’s finger and wonders if it’s a magical artefact that’s causing this reaction; he can’t see it well enough to tell.
“You’re not doing much to reassure me you aren’t some kind of pervert.”
He’s rewarded with that laugh again, but this time Gale can’t tell if the elf is laughing with him or at him. Instead, he sips at his dark wine. “My name’s Astarion,” he says in greeting.
“Gale.” It’s offered uneasily, but Gale was always brought up to be polite. “Doctor Gale Dekarios.”
“Charmed.” Astarion continues to eye him up over the rim of his glass. “Do continue, Gale. Don’t let me stop you from your exercise.” He says it breathily, and if Gale didn’t know better, he would assume it was some kind of seduction technique. Not that he’s ever really seduced anyone. Mystra just kind of–
Sensing where that thought is going, Gale dives back under the surface of the water. By the time he finishes his workout, Astarion has disappeared, his empty wine glass abandoned.