[ His thoughts are brambles, thorny and tangled. He might cut through them, on another night: One spent with a solid weight in his lap and clever fingers in his hair, guiding his focus. It is so much harder to think, unaided, after having the privilege of companionship. The thought of giving it up, of being the reason for the quaver in Astarion’s voice — Gale thinks he might be sick.
The air, fresh or otherwise, helps. A cold draft brings clarity, though he can’t help but think Astarion should be dressed warmer, in this dank place.
Only when Astarion asks, does he speak again, tone even by force of will alone. ]
At Mystra’s behest, Elminster has stalled the orb’s consumption — of magic, of me — instead compacting its wretched energy so I might, should the need arise, unleash it. [ A clinical explanation. Some details will have filtered through the party, but not all. And without the context of his lifelong devotion, the strength of the relationship in which he bases this decision, it seems ridiculous.
His features crack open, voice suddenly raw, ]
I have known Mystra for as long as I have magic. [ For Gale, she is all magic and all creation. He steps closer, within reach of Astarion’s turned back. ] She appeared to me first when I was only a boy, [ sneaking spellbooks into his pack without his mother’s knowledge. ] and I came to know her as a friend and a teacher for years before she took me as her lover and Chosen both. I have to believe that she would not discard me lightly. [ That it had been hard to cast him out in the first place, that it pained her to see him suffer even though he knows a god can’t feel such human aches. In his desperation to reach her, he imbues her with qualities she may not possess. Folly after folly. (The alternative is that Gale Dekarios was a fool from the start, ambitious and heartsick to his pathetic end.) ]
I’ve been bleeding time since I succumbed to the blight, Astarion. [ rushed, ] I spent every waking hour before the crash searching for a cure, begging for forgiveness. I don’t want to die. [ His hand anchors on Astarion’s shoulder, like he wants to force him to look, to listen, but he does no more than touch. ] I want — [ So many unsayable things. A long life, Waterdeep, you. His face contorts. It doesn’t matter what he wants, only what he knows to be true. He shakes his head to refocus, blinking until he can speak without stuttering. ]
If Mystra believes that I will have to unleash it, for her sake and that of the realm, what choice do I have? [ His gaze lifts skyward, to the flimsy shield that stands between them and all-consuming shadow, and he closes his eyes. ] If there is an alternative, I cannot see it.
no subject
The air, fresh or otherwise, helps. A cold draft brings clarity, though he can’t help but think Astarion should be dressed warmer, in this dank place.
Only when Astarion asks, does he speak again, tone even by force of will alone. ]
At Mystra’s behest, Elminster has stalled the orb’s consumption — of magic, of me — instead compacting its wretched energy so I might, should the need arise, unleash it. [ A clinical explanation. Some details will have filtered through the party, but not all. And without the context of his lifelong devotion, the strength of the relationship in which he bases this decision, it seems ridiculous.
His features crack open, voice suddenly raw, ]
I have known Mystra for as long as I have magic. [ For Gale, she is all magic and all creation. He steps closer, within reach of Astarion’s turned back. ] She appeared to me first when I was only a boy, [ sneaking spellbooks into his pack without his mother’s knowledge. ] and I came to know her as a friend and a teacher for years before she took me as her lover and Chosen both. I have to believe that she would not discard me lightly. [ That it had been hard to cast him out in the first place, that it pained her to see him suffer even though he knows a god can’t feel such human aches. In his desperation to reach her, he imbues her with qualities she may not possess. Folly after folly. (The alternative is that Gale Dekarios was a fool from the start, ambitious and heartsick to his pathetic end.) ]
I’ve been bleeding time since I succumbed to the blight, Astarion. [ rushed, ] I spent every waking hour before the crash searching for a cure, begging for forgiveness. I don’t want to die. [ His hand anchors on Astarion’s shoulder, like he wants to force him to look, to listen, but he does no more than touch. ] I want — [ So many unsayable things. A long life, Waterdeep, you. His face contorts. It doesn’t matter what he wants, only what he knows to be true. He shakes his head to refocus, blinking until he can speak without stuttering. ]
If Mystra believes that I will have to unleash it, for her sake and that of the realm, what choice do I have? [ His gaze lifts skyward, to the flimsy shield that stands between them and all-consuming shadow, and he closes his eyes. ] If there is an alternative, I cannot see it.