[ A couple of days after Astarion's conversation with Tilanus (in which he, in the privacy of their rooms, has seemed more agitated than usual), the vampire comes through the adjoining bathroom, a pinch in his brow.
He debates a text, debates a letter, debates a call. None quite seem sufficient.
Without any preamble (and without any regard for whatever Gale was previously doing): ] Tilanus. You've spoken with him.
Per our discussion on the network, I have something to report as to the nature of death in this place.
The fact of the matter is that it is not, in fact, death. It is something very close to it, practically indistinguishable by those who experienced it, but not death. It's entirely unfamiliar to me, I'm afraid. I wish I knew more, but this seemed significant enough to pass along.
[ Gale’s door to their adjoining bathroom remains open most of the day, and so Astarion has implicit permission, of a kind, to join him. Even now, with his head ducked and pen scratching, bent over his vanity-turned-desk. ]
— Ah. [ That explains his mood, of late. It appears he was right to assume Tilanus’ recollections went over even more poorly with his friend than himself (and Gale remains uncomfortable, with their unbalanced memories). He straightens in his chair, leaning back to better regard Astarion from his low angle. ] Yes, we met at the faire, and he reached out when he learned of Orin’s actions.
[ From Astarion, he assumes, since no other knows of it. That doesn’t particularly bother him, when Tilanus seems fixated on her and therefore likely to enquire after her… activities. ]
I do not recall him any more than you did Elodie, I’m afraid.
My, that is significant. Difficult to say whether it should alarm or comfort our fellow residents, to be held on the precipice of the end, within death's cool grasp...
[ Predictably, Gale considers his own demise, which may or may not come quickly. Not at Moonrise, but perhaps at the Gate. Or after, for if he refuses his goddess, will her blessing continue to protect him from annihilation? An unlikely scenario. ]
You've my thanks for sharing your findings. We may not yet know what to make of them, but they could prove vital.
At least Elodie had the courtesy to treat me as a stranger, [ Astarion hisses, already beginning to pace a course through Gale's room. As he goes, he pulls his phone from his doublet pocket, scrolling through its contents before he finds the message he's looking for.
In a melodramatic (and frankly uncharitable) tone: ] "There was much that we shared. Much that I know well you would not tell a stranger you had just met." The gall— to speak of knowing me—
[ He bares his teeth in displeasure, still on course to bore a divot into the floor of Gale's quarters. ]
Whatever version of me he knows must be a dolt, else he would know better than to address me so familiarly. Or perhaps I was under some enchantment—
[ The fact is that he doesn't actually know what it is that Tilanus knows about him, but he doesn't want to ask and find out, either. ]
[ When Tara paces the floor so relentlessly, he’s meant to attempt to lift her. She may hiss at him in displeasure, but the effort is required. Wisely, he thinks things are somewhat different for Astarion, in that any physical contact would be rebuffed in his agitated state (and an unfamiliar tract for them, first-aid notwithstanding), but the principle of reaching out — emotionally — could prove applicable.
Gale scoots his chair sideways, leaning an elbow over the wooden back. His brows arch as Astarion speaks. ]
With presumptions of closeness? [ The question starts dry, only he can’t maintain the tone ] Certainly. [ A beat. He swallows hard. ] He spoke of the orb, unbidden.
[ Gale’s greatest, most private shame. Tilanus enquired from a place of care and yet it burned him just the same, foreign hands pressing against his deepest wound. He wonders if Tilanus’ vague allusions with Astarion are a lesson learned from Gale’s unease, or telling of greater intimacy. Much that we shared does tempt the imagination so. His knuckles sweep under his eyes, trying and failing to knead the tiredness from his skin. ]
And of deep care. Of earned friendship. [ Gale looses a small noise of frustration, despite his efforts at neutrality. He mislikes this — feeling on the backfoot, exposed and unintelligent — all of it. Whatever is Gale meant to do, when he remembers none of the adventures Tilanus speaks of, and what little he’s learned of this man contradicts his current trajectory. A party without Karlach, a journey alongside Minthara, a strange closeness (antagonistic though it may be) with Orin the Red, daughter of Bhaal. ]
[ and he will. he's explored enough of the house to find it with relative ease. wine is his choice, and he'll be able to be found at a table large enough for two, with a bottle of red. he hasn't opened it yet, though there are two glasses waiting for gale's arrival. ]
Frankly, I worry that it may be the latter, as it seems that experiencing such a shadow state comes with its share of aftereffects, the nature of which I am still researching.
And of course. I expect it will benefit us all to share from our respective troves, rather than keeping a dragon's hoard.
[ With each new word that leaves Gale's mouth, the corners of Astarion's turn further and further downward, as upset with the (perceived) invasion of Gale's privacy as with his own. ]
Unsettling, [ he repeats, as he briefly stops his pacing to plant his hands on his hips. ] It's insulting. You know, I told him — twice! — that we were strangers, and each time he acknowledged the fact, and yet the conversation always rattled back onto the subject of how we once knew each other, of how he would protect us. Us! As though he were our beloved keeper!
[ And his pacing begins again, though this time, his hands come up to the level of his chest, his palms parallel as he gestures through his frustration. ]
He speaks of earned friendship and yet acts as though the earning has been done already. He says he wishes for us to be on an equal playing field, then persistently mentions how dear we are to him, further reminding us that we know nothing of him at all.
[ He'd stomp his foot if it wouldn't belittle the degree to which he's been irritated by the entire affair — and he'd throw himself onto the bed if it weren't Gale's, so he simply stops for a second time, his fingers curling into fists. But this second pause seems to be enough to get him to relent — not in terms of changing his mind but in terms of calming down for Gale's sake. He realizes, after all, that he's basically made the same complaint twice already.
Actually, suddenly, abjectly: ]
We— we know each other, don't we? A few lost days aside, I—
[ He falters, unusually flustered and unmoored by his own errant train of thought. ]
[ Our beloved keeper, a telling turn of phrase for them both. It isn’t the first time someone has professed to know what’s best for them — indeed, what they deserve. His expression cracks, then, as Astarion loops back around to the crux of this upset. They are known without having consented to the knowing, unable to recall it because the memories have been altered, excised or may never occur. It’s either a violation of the mind akin to the tadpole and a vampire lord’s compulsion, or, preferably, the encroachment of one world into another (which still leaves them at a precarious disadvantage).
All the intricacies of the situation, and his own pain within it, tumble from his mind, supplanted by Astarion’s disorientation. Gale rises to his feet, fingers still wrapped around the chair and tap, tap, tapping. Stuck, momentarily, unused to being a confidant or offering solace after a year of isolation. ]
We do. [ An immediate answer, serious and sure. He crosses to face Astarion, one hand hovering outward before his fingers curl into his palm. ]
[ gesturing through the aborted attempt at comfort, ] You know me better than anyone in Waterdeep, Astarion.
[ Except for Tara. Strange to hear from one who gives the appearance of sociability, perhaps, but no less true. The nature of their companionship, linked in mind and close in quarters, has ensured it. Gale was set apart from others long before his folly, singled out by Mystra’s glittering hand. Their party had been — is singular, for him. ]
You all do. [ emphatically, one hand chopping through the air. ] That, I could not forget.
A compelling theory. Your first fellow is much more youthful behind the eyes, indeed, though I fear the old-fashioned wizard’s hat does neither gentleman any favours. Oft dusty and a mite enchanted, in my experience.
[ When Gale gets to his feet, for a single, terrifying moment, Astarion fears the worst. That he's been coddled, duped — that there's been a stranger in the adjoining room this entire time. It's writ clear upon his features, in the wide set of his eyes, the way the line of his jaw goes taut.
Then — relief. There's a flare of his nostrils as he breathes out, lets go of the worry he'd been holding onto, his expression remaining unusually open just a moment longer (because he sees the way Gale's hand hovers in the air, because something else entirely seizes his chest in that brief moment) before it changes again, taking on something like self-effacement as he allows himself a tsk and a slight stomp of his foot. Even his shoulders slump, leaving him looking small but at least less rudderless than he had been mere moments before. ]
Nor I, you. Any of you.
[ He speaks the words more easily than he typically does similarly honest sentiments, like the syllables are being pried out of a vise. He draws in a breath to say something more, then seems to change his mind, a shadow of Gale's gesture, extended and then curbed. ]
I've had rather enough of him, [ is what he settles on, his tone plaintive as his eyes bore a hole into the middle distance, his apparent lack of focus serving as an indicator of the mental strain used in jumping from one train of thought to another. ] The next time he calls me friend, I'll put stones in my pockets and walk into the lake.
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