[ As he told Astarion, Gale is an old hand at waiting. There’s no time for him to catch Astarion by the elbow and see how he’s faring, however much he’d like to — and that’s fine. It makes him all the more relieved to have left things on a note of appreciation, not one of uncertainty.

The first day after, Gale thinks he’s gotten away with the marks at his throat, until Lae’zel “compliments” his spell-casting against a bulette, suggesting that he indulge his carnal desires more often, if it improves his performance in the field so. Later, when Shadowheart falls into step beside him on their walk to the arcane tower, she asks him how it felt to kneel at another altar, and he nearly stumbles into a chasm. (Before he notices a flicker of unease in her eyes: They’re the only two people of faith in the party, he surmises, and if his most unshakable, undying devotion should falter... He assures her his prayers to Mystra have remained as they were before, a constant, a comfort. For his efforts, he receives a dry: Your goddess is a different sort of mistress than mine. Although she offers to heal the marks, he declines.)

Each night, when Astarion slinks off as he prepares the dinner, Gale watches him leave. With their divergent duties, there’s no time to talk, let alone offer his neck, to Astarion. He tells himself that’s good, that it allows his companion time to review the encounter on his own terms, but Gale longs to dip into those curls again and unspool Astarion’s tangled thoughts with a deft hand. He concluded back then that the dismissal wasn’t to do with him, but a thread of insecurity threatens to make it so. Besides, he can’t help but worry about the nature and quality of food hunted in the Underdark.

At the spring, Gale folds his clothes neatly on the rocky outcropping (beside his modest collection of soaps) and swiftly finds some relief. The hunger pangs have started anew, faster than they ever have before. A sign that the orb is gaining power as he loses it, marching inexorably toward his end. He dares to ask Mystra why in his nightly prayers and receives no answer.

Best not to think of that now, with heat surrounding him — and a familiar voice behind him. His back straightens, muscles tensing as the water runs rivulets down his spine. Unable to stop himself, he looks over his shoulder at Astarion. Oh, that’s a new ache, fond and wanting. A desire to have Astarion near again that lifts the set of his eyes and curve of his brows. ]

Not yours, I hope. [ His gaze flickers over Astarion’s person, checking for injuries. If he happens to notice just how lithe Astarion is, well — between the heat of the water and the sudden realisation of what he’s done, colour rises up his chest to settle high on his cheeks. He turns away again, busying himself with an attempt to tie his hair back, for want of anything else to do with his hands. ] Please — this spring is big enough for the two of us, and you’ll appreciate its warmth even more than I, though not by much.

[ He succeeds in tying his waves in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, any missing strands plastered to his skin by the steam. He hazards another glance over his arm, trying not to look hopeful at the sight of Astarion so near. His earring glints blue in the strange light, still secure above the twin scars of Astarion’s true bite. ]

I take it the duergar were not open to diplomacy. To be expected, with their taste for conquering. And having seen what carnage they inflicted on the Myconids, I can’t say I’m disappointed.

[ Gale doesn’t savour violence the way that some of their group do, but he can appreciate its necessity, in matters such as these. ]