Chapter Text
Gale
Hours had passed since the party had dispatched Karniss at the goblin camp. The drow's body now lay somewhere behind them, another casualty in their increasingly desperate journey. Gale was oddly detached from the violence of late—perhaps a side effect of knowing his own end approached with each step toward Moonrise Towers.
Gale watched his step, picking through cracked earth and shadowroot curled like skeletal fingers across their path. His staff provided minimal illumination beyond the radius of their captured moonlantern, which Tav carried ahead.
"Any sign of civilization?" Karlach called from behind, her voice uncharacteristically quiet, swallowed by the profound stillness.
"Only death," Lae'zel responded flatly.
Gale consulted the rudimentary map they'd cobbled together from Halsin's recollections, but the place was so altered. "Moonrise Towers should be northeast, but these blighted trees—" He gestured at the twisted, towering spires of dead wood surrounding them. "It is difficult to find any meaningful landmarks."
What he didn't say was that part of him hoped they'd remain lost a while longer. The Netherse orb pulsed within him—a timer counting down to his inevitable sacrifice. Logic dictated that destroying the Absolute was worth one life, especially his. Yet some stubborn, selfish part of him clung to these final moments.
A soft hiss drew Gale's attention. Astarion had fallen several paces behind, keeping his distance from Tav and the moonlantern. His normally immaculate appearance had deteriorated over the past hours—his skin ashen beyond its usual pallor, lips drawn tight against his teeth.
"Are you quite all right?" Gale asked, slowing his pace to walk alongside him.
"Perfectly splendid," Astarion snapped, though the brittle edge to his voice betrayed him. "Nothing like a jaunt through a necrotic wasteland to lift one's spirits."
Gale studied him more carefully. While the others seemed merely uncomfortable in these surroundings, Astarion looked ill—if such a thing were possible for the undead. Astarion winced whenever the moonlantern's light swung too close, and his elegant fingers trembled slightly at his sides.
"The moonlantern," Gale mused, lowering his voice to avoid being overheard. "It affects you differently, doesn't it?"
Astarion's crimson eyes flicked toward him, suspicious and defensive. "Your observational skills are breathtaking, wizard."
"Is it causing you pain?" Gale persisted, scientific curiosity momentarily eclipsing his own preoccupations.
"It's... unpleasant," Astarion finally admitted. "Like being pulled in two directions at once. The shadowcurse wants to claim me, but the moonlight—" He gestured vaguely. "It repels the darkness, yes, but it's hardly friendly to the undead."
Gale nodded thoughtfully. "A peculiar paradox. The very thing protecting you also harms you."
Something in Astarion's expression shuttered. "Story of my existence, really."
Gale studied Astarion's face, noting the tension that tightened his jaw and the rigidity in his normally fluid posture. Something about him had always caught his attention, even from their first nights at camp in the wilderness. His quick, cutting wit paired with undeniable charm formed an intriguing combination—and Gale had never been able to resist interesting people.
He opened his mouth to offer some comfort, then stopped himself. What was the point? In days—perhaps hours—he would be nothing but scattered atoms across the Weave, a necessary sacrifice to prevent catastrophe. Building connections now seemed unnecessarily cruel, both to himself and to others.
Still, basic compassion wasn't attachment. He would offer the same practical care to Shadowheart or Wyll or any of them.
"The interplay between necrotic energy and moonlight is fascinating," Gale said, falling back on academic detachment. "There's a treatise in the Candlekeep archives about convergent magical fields and their effects on various extraplanar entities. One might hypothesize that your condition creates a unique vulnerability—"
"Spare me the lecture," Astarion cut in, his voice lacking its usual playful edge. "Unless your scholarly insights include something useful, like how to make this blasted cold stop seeping into my bones."
Ah. Of course. Astarion wasn't interested in theoretical discussions about his suffering. Gale couldn't blame him—academia often served as his shield against uncomfortable realities, but it rarely helped anyone else.
"Gosh, sorry," Gale said, genuinely contrite. "I don't have any practical solution for you at the moment. The moonlantern is our only protection here, despite its... side effects."
Astarion gave him a sidelong glance, then looked away. "Yes, well. Carry on, then."
Gale hesitated. He could almost hear Mystra's voice, chiding him for his instinct to want to have the solution for everything—a habit that had led him to disaster before. What could he offer Astarion anyway? Empty platitudes? False promises?
"Let me know if it worsens," Gale finally said, feeling the inadequacy of his words. "Perhaps I can at least provide a theory worth testing."
Astarion didn't respond, and Gale took it as his cue to fall back into step with the others. He clearly preferred to suffer alone, and Gale had his own thoughts to contend with. Better to leave Astarion to his solitude than pretend he had anything meaningful to offer.
The hours stretched on as they wound through the blighted landscape. Gale's feet ached, his lower back throbbing from hours of trudging through uneven terrain. Astarion had fallen further back, moving with increasing stiffness.
"There," Tav called suddenly, pointing ahead. "Some kind of campsite."
Through the gloom, Gale spotted it—a rough circle of enchanted torches piercing the twilight with steady, cold flames. The arrangement was deliberate, clearly meant as a ward against the encroaching shadows.
Shadowheart moved cautiously toward the perimeter. "Someone's been here recently."
As they drew closer, Gale saw the bodies—at least four of them, sprawled in various positions of final terror. Their faces were frozen in expressions of horror, skin blackened and withered like husks left to dry.
"It appears the torches weren't enough," Gale murmured, examining the nearest one without touching it. "Though they seem to still be functioning."
"Better than nothing," Karlach said, already moving to drag one of the corpses away from the campsite. "Let's clear this place and rest while we can."
Lae'zel snorted but helped remove the bodies, unceremoniously hauling them beyond the ring of magical light. Wyll attempted to start a proper fire at the center of the torch circle, but even with kindling gathered from their supplies, the flames refused to catch.
"Allow me," Gale said, kneeling beside the fire pit. He summoned a small flame to his palm and directed it toward the carefully arranged wood. For a moment it caught, dancing hopefully—then sputtered out with an unnatural hiss. "Fascinating. The shadowcurse seems to be extinguishing natural fire."
Tav sighed heavily. "We'll have to make do with the torches then. Let's set up the tents—I'll put mine in the center with the moonlantern to maximize protection."
The party moved with the familiar rhythm of people who had made and broken camp together countless times. Gale chose a spot near where Astarion was half-heartedly preparing his tent. The vampire's hands trembled visibly as he worked with the canvas, his movements uncoordinated.
Without making a show of it, Gale positioned his own tent adjacent to Astarion's. Close enough to keep an eye on him, but not so close as to be obvious about his concern. He'd noticed how the vampire had grown increasingly withdrawn as the day wore on, his usual barbed comments giving way to prolonged silences.
Gale unpacked his rations—hardtack, dried fruit, and cured meat—with a wistful sigh. Without fire, they'd have no hot meal tonight.
"I don't suppose anyone packed a magical self-heating kettle?" he asked, attempting to lighten the mood. "I could certainly use some tea about now."
His attempt at humor fell flat. Everyone looked too weary, too cold to manage more than halfhearted smiles. Karlach broke her hardtack between strong hands and chewed unenthusiastically. Wyll and Tav spoke in low voices, while Lae'zel kept her eyes on the darkness beyond the torches, eating between vigilant glances.
Gale's gaze drifted to Astarion, who sat slightly apart from their circle. The vampire wasn't eating—of course not—but Gale wondered what he would do for sustenance. The shadowlands seemed devoid of wildlife; they hadn't seen a single living creature since entering this blighted place.
He considered asking but thought better of it. Astarion looked miserable enough already, huddled into himself with his shoulders hunched against what appeared to be cold. The vampire spawn had never struck Gale as someone who appreciated probing questions about his condition.
So instead, Gale ate in silence.
After, he retreated to his tent, carefully arranging his spellbook and components before settling into his bedroll. The persistent twilight made it difficult to gauge time, but his body's exhaustion told him it was late indeed.
He was drifting between wakefulness and sleep when a muffled curse pulled him back to consciousness. Then came another sound—the distinctive whoosh of magical fire attempting to ignite, followed by a frustrated hiss.
Gale sat up, listening. The sound came again—whoosh, followed by more cursing.
Curiosity piqued, he pulled on his boots and outer robe, then slipped from his tent. The enchanted torches cast their cold, unwavering light across the camp, revealing a hunched figure by the failed fire pit.
Astarion knelt there, one hand extended toward the kindling. His fingers shook violently as he attempted to form the gesture for a fire bolt cantrip. Another whoosh as a spark of magical flame shot from his fingertips, only to sputter and die shortly after it reached the wood.
"Bloody useless—" Astarion's teeth chattered as he spoke, his entire body wracked with tremors.
Gale moved closer, alarmed by his condition. Astarion's normally perfect hair was disheveled, his face drawn and paler than Gale had ever seen it. His body convulsed with shivers so intense they seemed to prevent him from maintaining the gestures required for spellcasting.
"Astarion?" Gale called softly, not wanting to startle him.
Wyll and Tav glanced over at the commotion, but seemed to decide it wasn't worth investigating. They resumed their quiet patrol around the perimeter, occasionally checking the darkness beyond the torch ring.
"What are you doing?" Gale approached until he was an arm's length away.
Astarion's head snapped up, eyes flaring with irritation. "What does it look like I'm doing? Attempting to get warm." His teeth chattered audibly between words, undermining his attempt at haughtiness.
Gale knelt beside him, deeply concerned now. "This isn't normal, even for these lands. The others are cold, yes, but not like this."
"Brilliant observation," Astarion said, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. "Perhaps it has something to do with being undead in a place that feeds on death."
Gale reached out, stopping short of actually touching Astarion. "May I?"
After a moment's hesitation, Astarion gave a jerky nod. Gale rested his hand on his and was shocked by how cold it felt—colder than the ambient air, colder than uneven undead flesh should be.
"I can't even trance," Astarion admitted, voice strained. "Too cold to focus. Ironic, isn't it? A vampire freezing to death?"
Gale's eyes widened as he noticed something alarming—delicate crystals of frost forming on Astarion's eyelashes. Not metaphorical frost. Actual, physical ice.
"Gods above," he muttered, his thoughts scrambling for a solution. Fire magic didn't work here, but perhaps... "Wait. I have an idea."
He focused on the bedroll Astarion had dragged out for his failed fire-making attempt. With a familiar gesture, Gale cast Prestidigitation, focusing specifically on generating warmth without light or flame. The spell took, and the fabric began to radiate gentle heat.
"Look," he said, reaching for the now-warm bedroll. "Prestidigitation works—at least the warming aspect."
Astarion touched the heated fabric with trembling fingers, exhaling sharply at the contact. "That... helps."
"The effect is temporary," Gale explained. "But I could cast it repeatedly. We should get inside your tent, away from the moonlantern—it seems to be exacerbating your condition."
"No," Astarion said immediately, drawing back. "Not my tent."
Gale should have anticipated this. Astarion guarded his personal space zealously, never allowing anyone near his quarters.
"Mine then," Gale offered. "The spell will work better in an enclosed space to trap a little heat anyway."
Astarion hesitated, pride visibly warring with practicality as another violent shiver wracked his frame.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, though it wasn't clear if he meant the situation or his own reluctance. Finally, he nodded. "Fine. Your tent. But only because I refuse to be claimed by something as pedestrian as cold."
"Of course," Gale agreed, helping gather the warmed bedroll. "Purely practical."
They moved quietly toward Gale's tent, Astarion stumbling slightly as they walked. His usual grace had abandoned him entirely, replaced by the jerky movements of someone trying to control uncooperative limbs.
Gale held the tent flap open, and after one last moment of visible internal debate, Astarion ducked inside.