[ This could work. It’s complex, a tad too involved, certainly — but workable. Surely it won’t take long to find treasures worthy of his goddess. Anything lesser will be returned to it’s rightful place. ]
Ah, good. [ Gale releases Astarion’s hands and pulls back too quick, the chain going taut. He hastily mutters a spell under his breath, the woven link dissipating into the air like stardust. ]
[ dryly — ] A show of trust. Please don’t make me regret it.
[ It would decidedly not be in Astarion's best interests to attempt to dash after they've gotten this far. He reaches for the satchel on the bed behind him, carefully unlacing it and pulling out the journal. Still in fine condition, despite their earlier scuffle. ]
[ An alias might have been wise, and Astarion has given them at the taverns and inns he's stayed at over the past weeks. Still, he doesn't see much point in giving Gale a different name now; assuming he does his research (which seems likely, with the picture Astarion now has of him), he'll find evidence of a Baldurian magistrate who died nearly two hundred years ago and left no bereaved behind. ]
Astarion Ancunín, at your service.
[ With a bow and a flourish of his once-chained wrist as he hops off the bed. Now that he's free to roam, he sets his eyes (and hands) on their room's lovely set dressing, examining a gold incense burner and wick trimmer and then opening the large standing wardrobe by the bed. Mostly costumes with very little fabric to them, unsurprisingly. ]
I'm going to make use of the bath, if it's all the same to you. [ Astarion fingers a silvery negligee, glancing back in Gale's direction. ] Unless, of course, you had other thoughts on how we should spend our first evening together.
[ Astarion Ancunín, a name that means nothing to him, except that Astarion told him two true things, the first night. As such, it’s a glimmer of hope for their partnership, now that they’ve settled into even ground.
Gale’s brows shoot to his hairline at the implication, cheeks dusted with fresh colour. ]
Ah, no — not at all. [ He closes the book gingerly and sets it on the nearby table, looking anywhere but Astarion. This leads to him having a sudden interest in the wine (a passable vintage) and wandering in the direction of the single bookshelf (of course). He only peaks over his shoulder at a safe distance from Astarion. ]
I suppose someone should enjoy this place, seeing as I’ve donated an extortionate sum to a goddess I don’t even worship for the privilege of having it. [ a delighted little gasp, as he surveys the shelf, the wine bottle dangling at his side. ] Oh, they’ve the sequel.
[ There's a small flutter of relief in Astarion's gut that Gale doesn't want to fuck right now, though he doesn't quite know why. He should be offended by the not at all, honestly, though he's fairly certain Gale's refusal is more to do with modesty and the repression so common amongst the elite than total disinterest in Astarion himself.
Astarion watches Gale do his own survey of the room as he unbuttons his coat, begins to undo the laces on his shirt, musing. ]
Who is the goddess you kneel before, speaking of?
[ He tugs his shirt up over his head and bends to work the laces of his boots, next. ] I can't say I've met many whose worship's so well-known that the local brothel proprietress calls them out on it.
[ Bollocks, he’d hoped Astarion had forgotten that exchange. Still better than pressing the bruise beneath his rejection. It’s not that he has no interest in Astarion on a surface level, but Gale has no stomach for casual affairs, and his heart remains in another’s grasp. ]
Yes, well. [ primly, ] I imagine my worship is the least of her interests, as a servant of the Lady of Love. [ in the truest sense of the word, anyway. He pivots from the shelf, book held against his chest, to return to the table. While he hadn’t planned on staying long, he finds himself in need of wine, to answer Astarion’s question. ]
[ filling one glass, then another; ever the gentleman. ] My given name is indeed Gale Dekarios, [ though he doubts Astarion had considered otherwise. ] but I am a wizard of some renown, known across the continent by my title and present position as the Archmage of Waterdeep. [ A tip of his head to catch Astarion’s eye, in acknowledgement of how silly it is to say that in his hometown. ]
Until very recently, I was a Chosen of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra. [ A world of longing, imbued in her name alone. ] A role I held for some time. Almost a decade. [ A beat. ] And, perhaps more relevantly, I was also her lover.
[ He tips his glass, taking a generous swig of the red before refilling it. A Waterdhavian signature, meant for tourists and locals alike — and not meant to be downed so unceremoniously. ]
[ Astarion strips down to his underwear while Gale opens the wine, clothes and boots discarded in untidy heaps on the floor wherever they happen to fall. His ears perk at two things: archmage, most importantly, but also the fact that he refers to his relationship with his goddess in the past tense.
And said relationship was considerably more intimate than any devout one Astarion's ever encountered before.
He does comb his memory for any mention Cazador might have made to other powerful wizards on the Sword Coast, but can't find any that stick. All the better if Cazador doesn't consider Gale an immediate threat, honestly. Baldur's Gate has enough for him to stick his claws in without casting his eye southward, Astarion hopes.
He strides across the room to take his glass, a brow arching delicately as Gale goes for an immediate refill. Clearly he should have just brought a bottle up the other night, if he'd wanted to rob Gale properly. ]
But not anymore. [ Astarion gives him a knowing look over the rim of his glass as he sniffs the wine. ] Is it possible to have an amicable breakup with a deity? I always assumed those were cataclysmic by nature.
[ He takes a sip and makes a face, setting his glass down on the table and waving a hand. ] Awful. You can have mine.
[ Astarion moves silently, tread so light that Gale would miss his approach, if not for the expanse of pale skin entering his view. His eyes snag on Astarion’s fine collarbone before he finds his face again, relieved to find interest, not judgment.
The breakup wasn’t cataclysmic in the wider sense, no. On a personal note, it was ruination itself. Another hefty swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. No one in Astarion’s position has ever asked after how things ended — perhaps because his friendships had faded, when he dedicated himself to his goddess in all things. His mother and Tara have made their own assumptions, informed by their initial disapproval. It isn’t as if one can bring the goddess of magic home to the family, after all.
Astarion’s scrunched face brings him out of his head, a startled laugh on his tongue. ]
Not to your taste, my bloodthirsty companion? [ How foolish of him to ever think this man was a mere elf. ] And here I was, ready to toast to our partnership.
[ He takes a sip of Astarion’s glass now, as if that counts. Then, he half-sits, half-collapses into the chair, kicking out his legs. Catching a thief was a more involved and physical affair than any of his tower-bound exploits in the last six months. ]
It was neither amicable nor cataclysmic, to answer your question. [ Another drag, the warmth of the wine settling in his chest, softening the ache for her. ] I was no longer fit to serve. [ A note of bitterness curdles his mouth. ] Too ambitious, too wanting, though I’d argue that she cultivated those instincts with her own hand. [ Sacrilegious, whispers devotion, but so is laying with the divine. ]
Another has taken my place in the field, if not in her bed, and I have returned home. To my tower, to much gossip — to more courters than I ever enjoyed as a dashing apprentice — and now, you.
[ Only now does he dare appraise Astarion properly, with liquid courage in his veins. ]
It all tastes like vinegar to me. [ Astarion picks up the grapes laid out on the cheese platter, dangles them in something akin to a toast - to partnership, indeed - before plucking one and popping it into his mouth.
Vinegar and ash. He doesn't know why he bothers.
Swallowing another grimace from the taste, Astarion focuses on Gale's words, then the red flush blooming on his cheeks, creeping up his throat. Tempting, particularly after such unsatisfying bites.
Ambition Astarion can understand. He'd quashed his own while he was under Cazador's thumb, but now... Well, now he's made a potential ally of an archmage. ]
I've always found the gods to be so fickle, honestly. We're like fascinating little ants to them.
[ Astarion discards the grapes, then turns his back on Gale to pad over to the tub. He's very aware of how he looks from behind, feeling Gale's eyes on him before he hitches his thumb into the waistband of his underwear, dragging it down over his hips. Astarion would wager a guess that Gale's either not looking or trying very hard not to. ]
And now me. [ Astarion glances over his shoulder with a smirk as he parrots Gale's words and steps out of his underwear, toeing it out of the way.] Do you intend to curb your ambition, Gale Dekarios? You don't strike me as the sort of man who would. [ Astarion steps down into the steaming bath, letting go of a soft sigh as the warmth floods instantly up his legs. ]
[ Astarion’s throwaway explanation gives him pause. An empathetic twinge, at the thought of not having the small comforts of life.
When Astarion turns from him, Gale walks his eyes to his glass for the sake of politeness. Astarion must be at ease in his body, to undress before a stranger (one he already propositioned, granted), or angling for an advantage in their arrangement. Either way, it’s in everyone’s best interests for Gale to act as though he’s fully clothed. Unfortunately, the deep hue of his wine brings Astarion’s eyes to mind (claret or crimson?), so he risks a glance and instantly pays for it with the very air in his lungs.
Although Gale hasn’t been with a man — or anyone, for that matter — since his school days, he never lost appreciation for their form. Against all his higher instincts, Gale follows the notches of Astarion’s spine to his lower back (where you had your hand). Predictably, he gets caught staring at the moment Astarion exposes the curve of his ass — jerking his head up, slack jaw and round eyes on the shamed end of flustered.
Disrobing isn’t an invitation to leer, even if Astarion means to tempt him. Still, Gale looks and looks and looks, at the nape of his neck, along the arc of his shoulders; unable to turn from the sound of his name in Astarion’s mouth. It takes him longer than it should to process the markings swirling on his skin — not tattooed but rather carved, scars made with an intentional hand. Familiar shapes. Lettering. ]
I — [ A touch bewildered, as he recalls the question. ] It’s difficult to want for anything but what I’ve lost. [ Her. An incomplete truth. Gale is adrift. His wants were entwined with Mystra’s for so long. Without her as teacher, muse, purpose, his internal compass whirls without end. He hasn’t considered what he might do, if she never calls him back, and he certainly doesn’t wish to start now.
A perfect time as any for an abrupt change of topic. ]
[ Astarion can just catch the deepening color of Gale's cheeks as he gazes over his shoulder. He is looking, and Astarion can't blame him; but as he takes another step down into the bath, submerging to his hips and considering how to respond once Gale answers his question, Gale startles him with another. ]
I've what?
[ Any pretense at slyness or cunning evaporates at the mention of his scars. He twists at the waist to look at Gale, expression stricken. Astarion reaches with one hand behind him, feeling what he can of the raised flesh as he has countless times before, trying to make out the lettering. ]
Can you - can you read it? Can you tell me what it says?
[ For a moment, Gale fears he’s mistepped. A trip of the light fantastic right atop his partner’s toes, so to speak. It’s not that, though, every line of Astarion’s pointing towards surprise. He didn’t know, or he’s a better actor than Gale gave him credit for. A chill snakes down his spine as he decides on the former.
Infernal lettering in flesh and blood can only bode ill, even without a devil in sight. Had someone bartered with his body and soul? The potential sparks alertness into his veins. ]
I — off the cuff? [ Normally, he’d consult his books for a translation. ] I could try.
[ Gale rises without thinking, drawn to a puzzle on instinct, but stalls after two steps. One hand worries at the other. ]
[ Astarion recognizes he's probably shown too many cards at once in his reaction, but for the moment he doesn't care. He wishes, ridiculously, that he had a mirror - that he could see himself in one again. ]
Please.
[ And then, by way of explanation: ]
Cazador - my master told me it was poetry. [ Astarion lowers his gaze to the water, the steam rising from it, as he drops his hand from its fruitless search. Bitterly, ] Took his time carving it, since my screams were so sweet.
[ Cazador is a monster, but he's no devil. Doesn't deal with them, either. Maybe Gale is mistaken, and will realize when he looks closer, but already Astarion's mind is swirling with questions. ]
[ Everything in Gale stills, on hearing how these scars were formed. For all his sorrow, he has never known true horror — not like what Astarion has endured over the course of hours, days, weeks. This must have taken time, dedicated and precise in its cruelty.
Permission granted, Gale crouches near the sunken tub to peer at Astarion’s scars, raised and angry. The itch to touch and feel out a problem goes untended. Inappropriate, however innocent his intentions are. ]
Your master has a ghastly idea of sweetness. [ He ignores the protective lurch in his skull. All he can offer has already been promised, the praesidium of an archmage known across the realm. ]
It’s Infernal, alright. [ The language of the hells. Mystra wouldn’t wish for him to entangle himself, in such things. ] But the syntax — it’s fragmented. [ faster, words coming together in his mind. ] Strange. Inferiu should be an adjective, but it’s the subject of a sentence here. [ He lifts his hand, as if to trace the shape, but stops himself, hovering. ] I recognise oaths and, ah, the fires below clearly. Once we’re home, I can consult my books for the rest.
[ Once, Gale would have said there’s no problem too great for that course of action. Looking at this macabre tableau, he isn’t so sure. ]
[ Desperate as Astarion is to see what Gale's looking at, he knows from myriad fruitless attempts that he can't, and so he straightens, turns his head back toward the balcony so Gale can get the full picture. Gauzy drapes flutter in the night air, city lights sparkling beyond them. An unfamiliar vista, one Astarion hopes will hold possibility. ]
Ha. [ At Cazador's idea of sweetness. ] You don't know the half of it.
[ Astarion can feel Gale behind him, the anticipation of touch without any followthrough, and it sends a light shiver through him. The information feels like both too much and not enough at once: he struggles to hold onto Gale's words as his mind races, oaths, fires below.
He's scared, he realizes, by the time Gale tells him it's not a poem. His shoulders tense, spine taut as he snaps, ]
What the hells is it, then? [ Astarion catches himself, on a shaky exhale. ] Sorry. I - Two centuries I've lived with this, and no one has had answers.
[ And then he refocuses on what Gale has offered: researching the rest of the words. Astarion can't quite look at him, twisting as if he wants to but stopping before Gale can see the full vulnerability of his features, blinking down at the water with a furrowed brow instead, his voice soft. ]
[ In this warm light, Astarion seems less like a vampire spawn and more like a stray cat. Tension coiled at the base of his spine, teeth bared if someone comes too near. Gale jolts back a smidge, at the proverbial bite, hand jerking to his side (where it belongs). He locks instinctive hypotheses behind his teeth. A spell, a deed, a pact, a ritual. Speculation will only serve to frighten, when certainty is required.
Two hundred years without answers. Gale would go mad. What sort of creature could condemn another to this? Astarion’s elegant profile hardly looks monstrous, trepidation in the shuddering line of his jaw. ]
Yes, I would. [ He doesn’t say of course because it hardly makes sense, does it? To offer something freely to the man who robbed him and led him on a merry chase for days. Then why? Because it’s the only thing to do. Firmer, now — ] I will.
[ Already, he can visualise what tomes he’ll need to consult from his collection. There are others in the city, too, that he’ll ask Tara to fetch. More pressingly, there’s the matter of how he might tease each word apart, when they’re bound in skin.
Though Gale tries for professionalism, his eyes have gone soft, controlled neutrality lost in face of his expressive humanity. ]
I could copy it down now. [ Quickly, ] So you needn’t disrobe for me to review the text. [ His next words come after a pause, chosen with care. ] And then you might see it, too.
[ Astarion knows better than to fully trust the possibility of this, all of it; it's simply too good to be true. He imagines each and every way this could disappoint him in the long run: if Gale is all bluster and empty words, if he decides Astarion is too much effort for little reward. But Astarion has no contingency plan, so for now, he has to hope.
His fingers trail the surface of the water as Gale continues, the tension in his expression easing slightly even as he feels himself on the precipice of something terrifying. ]
I don't mind disrobing, darling. But, yes - please.
[ Glancing back over his shoulder again, serious. ]
[ Gale forces himself to meet Astarion’s gaze, projecting a quiet confidence. ]
You’re fine where you are. [ then, just in case Astarion doesn’t know: ] The writing stops before your lower back, so you can relax a bit more, if you wish. [ Winter in Waterdeep isn’t overly cold, unless a storm overtakes its enclaves, and the room itself is warm, likely enchanted with some form of temperature regulation. Still, being half-submerged could result in a chill, especially for someone cold-blooded.
Gale stands, returning to the bookshelves to pick up one of the empty journals (for decorative use only) and nab a quill (less decorative, with only half its ink remaining). Briefly, his mind wanders at how it’s meant to be used in a place like this.
A polite cough. ] I’ll, ah, just get comfortable.
[ As comfortable as Gale can manage, when Astarion is naked and vulnerable for two distinct, unrelated reasons. He has no intention of joining him in the bath, but he can’t crouch and draw at the same time, so needs must. Draping his cloak over the chair, Gale toes off his pointed shoes and bends to roll the legs of his trousers up to his calves. His shirtsleeves follow suit, neat folds to his elbow. All the while, he avoids Astarion’s eyes for as long as he can, knowing he’ll be looking at him rather intently for an extended period.
He ends up doubling back for the wine, glass and bottle both, before taking his seat at the edge of the bath. A helpless sigh. The water is lovely, loosening the knot in his chest. This much, he can do. ]
You’re in luck, you know. [ slow, testing the waters. No doubt Astarion assumes he’s in for another round of boasting. ] I once spent an entire semester of my academy days copying faded texts after a notable bout of mischief — so I’ve terribly neat handwriting.
[ As Gale moves to get drawing materials, Astarion gives himself a rest from his position, wading across the warm bath to examine the spread of oils and soaps, accompanied by a small wicker basket of purple rose petals. He uncaps the vials to sniff them, making faces at most before he settles on jasmine and cardamom, squeezing a dropper of it into the bath.
By the time he's finished perusing, Gale is dressing himself down. Astarion watches with only slightly veiled interest, gaze sweeping from the dark hairs on his calves to the flex of muscle in his forearms, his uncalloused hands. The blue-green rivers of his veins, just visible under his skin. ]
And I suppose it's lucky for you I'm good at holding still. [ Astarion tosses a handful of the rose petals in Gale's direction, and they drift to rest on top of the water. He wades a little closer to him, then turns to face the balcony again, rolling his neck, continuing slyly: ] How are you with figure studies?
[ Darkly, he expects Astarion is telling the truth, if only due to the state of his skin, flawless beyond the Infernal markings. Something lovely in the air stops him from chasing that line of thought to frightful depths. Whatever soap Astarion has fiddled with, he surmises. Good, that he seems a jot more comfortable than he was when this conversation began.
At the very moment he settles in to work, cheek pulled between his teeth, Astarion surprises him with a follow-up question. Forgetting his modesty, Gale blinks up at him. ]
I wouldn’t say I’ve a natural talent, but I’m studied. [ Some spells — healing and its obverse, in particular — require anatomical knowledge. In theory exams, one could expect to sketch the gesture required for a spell. ]
I’m something of a dilettante. [ He watches a petal drift until it sticks to his skin. Then, with a nod to himself, he returns to writing, brush-strokes delicate. ] You’ll see, at my tower.
[ Decorated with fine paintings and rare sculptures, acquired by his or Morena’s hand. Even after he displayed aptitude for spellcasting, his mother ensured he was tutored in a variety of fine arts. One mustn’t rely on magic, she told him once, when he’d asked why she bothered. Sketchwork, piano, cookery. His thirst for knowledge in all things was a pleasant advantage in this regard, though he always liked the artistry of channelling best. ]
Mm. [ Astarion had only asked to tease, but the honest answer quiets him for a moment, wondering what it would be like to actually see himself for the first time since he was turned. For now, he feels he's been vulnerable enough already; asking earnestly for a portrait will have to wait until they've truly gotten the measure of each other.
Astarion lets Gale sketch for several minutes, but despite only just speaking to his talent for holding still, he feels a touch restless standing in the bath. ]
I'm going to just - [ Astarion wades over to the lip and then submerges enough to float, folding his arms on the edge of the bath and resting his cheek on them. His back is above the water, so it shouldn't be a problem, his lashes low with contentment as his body warms. ] There. Can you still see?
[ There are worse ways to spend an evening, he supposes.
By the time Astarion speaks up, Gale has centred himself on the task at hand. Every lingering glance supports an accurate brushstroke, interrupted by the occasional sip of his wine. Potential translations persist. Inferiu, an infernal (ha) sticking point. Dead? Undead? Lost in thought, he manages to smudge ink atop the apple of his cheek without noticing.
When Astarion shifts, light ripples knock at his legs, calling his eyes up. His breath catches. ]
Yes, the view is — [ No, that’s a terrible way to say it. ] You look very — [ Content. Lovely. ] That’s fine.
[ At least with work to be done, it’s easy to recover from a social blunder by wholeheartedly ignoring it happened at all. He doesn’t dare lift his gaze above Astarion’s shoulders after that, focus narrowed to his scars. Once Gale has captured the whole of it, he spends additional time checking his work. A mistake will cost them time, resource, and stress in the long run. ]
Perfect. [ Almost. Gale licks the pad of his thumb and drags his nail alongside a faintly blurred line, refining the image. ] It’s done.
[ There's a buzz of anxiety under Astarion's skin that's fully at odds with the comfort of their surroundings. He feels on the precipice of something important - and more than likely dangerous, with Gale's completion of the sketch.
Thankfully, as he turns to look at Gale, there's something else to focus on first: a dark smudge of ink on his cheek that he doesn't appear to be aware of. Astarion approaches the vee of Gale's legs slowly, dripping from his shoulders down; the way the tub is sunken into the floor, he's just a hair above Gale's eye level while standing. ]
Hold still. [ Murmured, as he anchors one wet hand on Gale's clothed knee and lifts the other to swipe his thumb over his cheek, rubbing gently until it's more or less free of ink. He is doing his best to not drip on the drawing, rubbing whatever ink is left on his thumb on his own wet stomach. Then, echoing Gale, with a glint to his eyes: ] Perfect.
[ When Gale registers Astarion’s attention has fixed on his face and not the drawing in his lap, he arches his brows in silent question. For a split-second, his eyes flicker lower — before he snaps them back up, catching himself. Obedience, it seems, comes quick to the former Chosen of a goddess, and he stills on request.
A damp hand at his thigh and water-warmed fingers touching his cheek make for an impossible convergence, his mouth parting on an uneven breath. For a wild moment, he thinks Astarion might kiss him. Fresh heat under Astarion’s fingertips, as his pulse rockets. The frisson of intimacy, long-denied.
Gale watches a droplet glide grey down Astarion’s flat stomach, arcing into the divot at his hip. Understanding finally lifts his gaze. ]
Oh. [ Perfect reverbs in his ears. A hand flutters to his cheek, fingers perched where Astarion touched him. ] Thank you.
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
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Ah, good. [ Gale releases Astarion’s hands and pulls back too quick, the chain going taut. He hastily mutters a spell under his breath, the woven link dissipating into the air like stardust. ]
[ dryly — ] A show of trust. Please don’t make me regret it.
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All yours.
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At least you listened to me about the delicate pages. [ He thumbs through a few as he ambles back to the centre of the room, checking for damage. ]
Thank you, Astarion. [ gaze swivelling up sharply, as though something has just occurred to him. ] It is Astarion, isn’t it?
[ It’s just as likely to be an alias, under the circumstances. ]
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Astarion Ancunín, at your service.
[ With a bow and a flourish of his once-chained wrist as he hops off the bed. Now that he's free to roam, he sets his eyes (and hands) on their room's lovely set dressing, examining a gold incense burner and wick trimmer and then opening the large standing wardrobe by the bed. Mostly costumes with very little fabric to them, unsurprisingly. ]
I'm going to make use of the bath, if it's all the same to you. [ Astarion fingers a silvery negligee, glancing back in Gale's direction. ] Unless, of course, you had other thoughts on how we should spend our first evening together.
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Gale’s brows shoot to his hairline at the implication, cheeks dusted with fresh colour. ]
Ah, no — not at all. [ He closes the book gingerly and sets it on the nearby table, looking anywhere but Astarion. This leads to him having a sudden interest in the wine (a passable vintage) and wandering in the direction of the single bookshelf (of course). He only peaks over his shoulder at a safe distance from Astarion. ]
I suppose someone should enjoy this place, seeing as I’ve donated an extortionate sum to a goddess I don’t even worship for the privilege of having it. [ a delighted little gasp, as he surveys the shelf, the wine bottle dangling at his side. ] Oh, they’ve the sequel.
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Astarion watches Gale do his own survey of the room as he unbuttons his coat, begins to undo the laces on his shirt, musing. ]
Who is the goddess you kneel before, speaking of?
[ He tugs his shirt up over his head and bends to work the laces of his boots, next. ] I can't say I've met many whose worship's so well-known that the local brothel proprietress calls them out on it.
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Yes, well. [ primly, ] I imagine my worship is the least of her interests, as a servant of the Lady of Love. [ in the truest sense of the word, anyway. He pivots from the shelf, book held against his chest, to return to the table. While he hadn’t planned on staying long, he finds himself in need of wine, to answer Astarion’s question. ]
[ filling one glass, then another; ever the gentleman. ] My given name is indeed Gale Dekarios, [ though he doubts Astarion had considered otherwise. ] but I am a wizard of some renown, known across the continent by my title and present position as the Archmage of Waterdeep. [ A tip of his head to catch Astarion’s eye, in acknowledgement of how silly it is to say that in his hometown. ]
Until very recently, I was a Chosen of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra. [ A world of longing, imbued in her name alone. ] A role I held for some time. Almost a decade. [ A beat. ] And, perhaps more relevantly, I was also her lover.
[ He tips his glass, taking a generous swig of the red before refilling it. A Waterdhavian signature, meant for tourists and locals alike — and not meant to be downed so unceremoniously. ]
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And said relationship was considerably more intimate than any devout one Astarion's ever encountered before.
He does comb his memory for any mention Cazador might have made to other powerful wizards on the Sword Coast, but can't find any that stick. All the better if Cazador doesn't consider Gale an immediate threat, honestly. Baldur's Gate has enough for him to stick his claws in without casting his eye southward, Astarion hopes.
He strides across the room to take his glass, a brow arching delicately as Gale goes for an immediate refill. Clearly he should have just brought a bottle up the other night, if he'd wanted to rob Gale properly. ]
But not anymore. [ Astarion gives him a knowing look over the rim of his glass as he sniffs the wine. ] Is it possible to have an amicable breakup with a deity? I always assumed those were cataclysmic by nature.
[ He takes a sip and makes a face, setting his glass down on the table and waving a hand. ] Awful. You can have mine.
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The breakup wasn’t cataclysmic in the wider sense, no. On a personal note, it was ruination itself. Another hefty swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. No one in Astarion’s position has ever asked after how things ended — perhaps because his friendships had faded, when he dedicated himself to his goddess in all things. His mother and Tara have made their own assumptions, informed by their initial disapproval. It isn’t as if one can bring the goddess of magic home to the family, after all.
Astarion’s scrunched face brings him out of his head, a startled laugh on his tongue. ]
Not to your taste, my bloodthirsty companion? [ How foolish of him to ever think this man was a mere elf. ] And here I was, ready to toast to our partnership.
[ He takes a sip of Astarion’s glass now, as if that counts. Then, he half-sits, half-collapses into the chair, kicking out his legs. Catching a thief was a more involved and physical affair than any of his tower-bound exploits in the last six months. ]
It was neither amicable nor cataclysmic, to answer your question. [ Another drag, the warmth of the wine settling in his chest, softening the ache for her. ] I was no longer fit to serve. [ A note of bitterness curdles his mouth. ] Too ambitious, too wanting, though I’d argue that she cultivated those instincts with her own hand. [ Sacrilegious, whispers devotion, but so is laying with the divine. ]
Another has taken my place in the field, if not in her bed, and I have returned home. To my tower, to much gossip — to more courters than I ever enjoyed as a dashing apprentice — and now, you.
[ Only now does he dare appraise Astarion properly, with liquid courage in his veins. ]
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Vinegar and ash. He doesn't know why he bothers.
Swallowing another grimace from the taste, Astarion focuses on Gale's words, then the red flush blooming on his cheeks, creeping up his throat. Tempting, particularly after such unsatisfying bites.
Ambition Astarion can understand. He'd quashed his own while he was under Cazador's thumb, but now... Well, now he's made a potential ally of an archmage. ]
I've always found the gods to be so fickle, honestly. We're like fascinating little ants to them.
[ Astarion discards the grapes, then turns his back on Gale to pad over to the tub. He's very aware of how he looks from behind, feeling Gale's eyes on him before he hitches his thumb into the waistband of his underwear, dragging it down over his hips. Astarion would wager a guess that Gale's either not looking or trying very hard not to. ]
And now me. [ Astarion glances over his shoulder with a smirk as he parrots Gale's words and steps out of his underwear, toeing it out of the way.] Do you intend to curb your ambition, Gale Dekarios? You don't strike me as the sort of man who would. [ Astarion steps down into the steaming bath, letting go of a soft sigh as the warmth floods instantly up his legs. ]
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When Astarion turns from him, Gale walks his eyes to his glass for the sake of politeness. Astarion must be at ease in his body, to undress before a stranger (one he already propositioned, granted), or angling for an advantage in their arrangement. Either way, it’s in everyone’s best interests for Gale to act as though he’s fully clothed. Unfortunately, the deep hue of his wine brings Astarion’s eyes to mind (claret or crimson?), so he risks a glance and instantly pays for it with the very air in his lungs.
Although Gale hasn’t been with a man — or anyone, for that matter — since his school days, he never lost appreciation for their form. Against all his higher instincts, Gale follows the notches of Astarion’s spine to his lower back (where you had your hand). Predictably, he gets caught staring at the moment Astarion exposes the curve of his ass — jerking his head up, slack jaw and round eyes on the shamed end of flustered.
Disrobing isn’t an invitation to leer, even if Astarion means to tempt him. Still, Gale looks and looks and looks, at the nape of his neck, along the arc of his shoulders; unable to turn from the sound of his name in Astarion’s mouth. It takes him longer than it should to process the markings swirling on his skin — not tattooed but rather carved, scars made with an intentional hand. Familiar shapes. Lettering. ]
I — [ A touch bewildered, as he recalls the question. ] It’s difficult to want for anything but what I’ve lost. [ Her. An incomplete truth. Gale is adrift. His wants were entwined with Mystra’s for so long. Without her as teacher, muse, purpose, his internal compass whirls without end. He hasn’t considered what he might do, if she never calls him back, and he certainly doesn’t wish to start now.
A perfect time as any for an abrupt change of topic. ]
Is there a reason you’ve infernal on your back?
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I've what?
[ Any pretense at slyness or cunning evaporates at the mention of his scars. He twists at the waist to look at Gale, expression stricken. Astarion reaches with one hand behind him, feeling what he can of the raised flesh as he has countless times before, trying to make out the lettering. ]
Can you - can you read it? Can you tell me what it says?
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Infernal lettering in flesh and blood can only bode ill, even without a devil in sight. Had someone bartered with his body and soul? The potential sparks alertness into his veins. ]
I — off the cuff? [ Normally, he’d consult his books for a translation. ] I could try.
[ Gale rises without thinking, drawn to a puzzle on instinct, but stalls after two steps. One hand worries at the other. ]
May I take a closer look?
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Please.
[ And then, by way of explanation: ]
Cazador - my master told me it was poetry. [ Astarion lowers his gaze to the water, the steam rising from it, as he drops his hand from its fruitless search. Bitterly, ] Took his time carving it, since my screams were so sweet.
[ Cazador is a monster, but he's no devil. Doesn't deal with them, either. Maybe Gale is mistaken, and will realize when he looks closer, but already Astarion's mind is swirling with questions. ]
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Permission granted, Gale crouches near the sunken tub to peer at Astarion’s scars, raised and angry. The itch to touch and feel out a problem goes untended. Inappropriate, however innocent his intentions are. ]
Your master has a ghastly idea of sweetness. [ He ignores the protective lurch in his skull. All he can offer has already been promised, the praesidium of an archmage known across the realm. ]
It’s Infernal, alright. [ The language of the hells. Mystra wouldn’t wish for him to entangle himself, in such things. ] But the syntax — it’s fragmented. [ faster, words coming together in his mind. ] Strange. Inferiu should be an adjective, but it’s the subject of a sentence here. [ He lifts his hand, as if to trace the shape, but stops himself, hovering. ] I recognise oaths and, ah, the fires below clearly. Once we’re home, I can consult my books for the rest.
[ Once, Gale would have said there’s no problem too great for that course of action. Looking at this macabre tableau, he isn’t so sure. ]
[ Steady, ] This is no poem, Astarion.
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Ha. [ At Cazador's idea of sweetness. ] You don't know the half of it.
[ Astarion can feel Gale behind him, the anticipation of touch without any followthrough, and it sends a light shiver through him. The information feels like both too much and not enough at once: he struggles to hold onto Gale's words as his mind races, oaths, fires below.
He's scared, he realizes, by the time Gale tells him it's not a poem. His shoulders tense, spine taut as he snaps, ]
What the hells is it, then? [ Astarion catches himself, on a shaky exhale. ] Sorry. I - Two centuries I've lived with this, and no one has had answers.
[ And then he refocuses on what Gale has offered: researching the rest of the words. Astarion can't quite look at him, twisting as if he wants to but stopping before Gale can see the full vulnerability of his features, blinking down at the water with a furrowed brow instead, his voice soft. ]
You would do that for me?
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Two hundred years without answers. Gale would go mad. What sort of creature could condemn another to this? Astarion’s elegant profile hardly looks monstrous, trepidation in the shuddering line of his jaw. ]
Yes, I would. [ He doesn’t say of course because it hardly makes sense, does it? To offer something freely to the man who robbed him and led him on a merry chase for days. Then why? Because it’s the only thing to do. Firmer, now — ] I will.
[ Already, he can visualise what tomes he’ll need to consult from his collection. There are others in the city, too, that he’ll ask Tara to fetch. More pressingly, there’s the matter of how he might tease each word apart, when they’re bound in skin.
Though Gale tries for professionalism, his eyes have gone soft, controlled neutrality lost in face of his expressive humanity. ]
I could copy it down now. [ Quickly, ] So you needn’t disrobe for me to review the text. [ His next words come after a pause, chosen with care. ] And then you might see it, too.
[ If he wished. ]
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His fingers trail the surface of the water as Gale continues, the tension in his expression easing slightly even as he feels himself on the precipice of something terrifying. ]
I don't mind disrobing, darling. But, yes - please.
[ Glancing back over his shoulder again, serious. ]
Let me know where you need me.
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You’re fine where you are. [ then, just in case Astarion doesn’t know: ] The writing stops before your lower back, so you can relax a bit more, if you wish. [ Winter in Waterdeep isn’t overly cold, unless a storm overtakes its enclaves, and the room itself is warm, likely enchanted with some form of temperature regulation. Still, being half-submerged could result in a chill, especially for someone cold-blooded.
Gale stands, returning to the bookshelves to pick up one of the empty journals (for decorative use only) and nab a quill (less decorative, with only half its ink remaining). Briefly, his mind wanders at how it’s meant to be used in a place like this.
A polite cough. ] I’ll, ah, just get comfortable.
[ As comfortable as Gale can manage, when Astarion is naked and vulnerable for two distinct, unrelated reasons. He has no intention of joining him in the bath, but he can’t crouch and draw at the same time, so needs must. Draping his cloak over the chair, Gale toes off his pointed shoes and bends to roll the legs of his trousers up to his calves. His shirtsleeves follow suit, neat folds to his elbow. All the while, he avoids Astarion’s eyes for as long as he can, knowing he’ll be looking at him rather intently for an extended period.
He ends up doubling back for the wine, glass and bottle both, before taking his seat at the edge of the bath. A helpless sigh. The water is lovely, loosening the knot in his chest. This much, he can do. ]
You’re in luck, you know. [ slow, testing the waters. No doubt Astarion assumes he’s in for another round of boasting. ] I once spent an entire semester of my academy days copying faded texts after a notable bout of mischief — so I’ve terribly neat handwriting.
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By the time he's finished perusing, Gale is dressing himself down. Astarion watches with only slightly veiled interest, gaze sweeping from the dark hairs on his calves to the flex of muscle in his forearms, his uncalloused hands. The blue-green rivers of his veins, just visible under his skin. ]
And I suppose it's lucky for you I'm good at holding still. [ Astarion tosses a handful of the rose petals in Gale's direction, and they drift to rest on top of the water. He wades a little closer to him, then turns to face the balcony again, rolling his neck, continuing slyly: ] How are you with figure studies?
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At the very moment he settles in to work, cheek pulled between his teeth, Astarion surprises him with a follow-up question. Forgetting his modesty, Gale blinks up at him. ]
I wouldn’t say I’ve a natural talent, but I’m studied. [ Some spells — healing and its obverse, in particular — require anatomical knowledge. In theory exams, one could expect to sketch the gesture required for a spell. ]
I’m something of a dilettante. [ He watches a petal drift until it sticks to his skin. Then, with a nod to himself, he returns to writing, brush-strokes delicate. ] You’ll see, at my tower.
[ Decorated with fine paintings and rare sculptures, acquired by his or Morena’s hand. Even after he displayed aptitude for spellcasting, his mother ensured he was tutored in a variety of fine arts. One mustn’t rely on magic, she told him once, when he’d asked why she bothered. Sketchwork, piano, cookery. His thirst for knowledge in all things was a pleasant advantage in this regard, though he always liked the artistry of channelling best. ]
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Astarion lets Gale sketch for several minutes, but despite only just speaking to his talent for holding still, he feels a touch restless standing in the bath. ]
I'm going to just - [ Astarion wades over to the lip and then submerges enough to float, folding his arms on the edge of the bath and resting his cheek on them. His back is above the water, so it shouldn't be a problem, his lashes low with contentment as his body warms. ] There. Can you still see?
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By the time Astarion speaks up, Gale has centred himself on the task at hand. Every lingering glance supports an accurate brushstroke, interrupted by the occasional sip of his wine. Potential translations persist. Inferiu, an infernal (ha) sticking point. Dead? Undead? Lost in thought, he manages to smudge ink atop the apple of his cheek without noticing.
When Astarion shifts, light ripples knock at his legs, calling his eyes up. His breath catches. ]
Yes, the view is — [ No, that’s a terrible way to say it. ] You look very — [ Content. Lovely. ] That’s fine.
[ At least with work to be done, it’s easy to recover from a social blunder by wholeheartedly ignoring it happened at all. He doesn’t dare lift his gaze above Astarion’s shoulders after that, focus narrowed to his scars. Once Gale has captured the whole of it, he spends additional time checking his work. A mistake will cost them time, resource, and stress in the long run. ]
Perfect. [ Almost. Gale licks the pad of his thumb and drags his nail alongside a faintly blurred line, refining the image. ] It’s done.
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Thankfully, as he turns to look at Gale, there's something else to focus on first: a dark smudge of ink on his cheek that he doesn't appear to be aware of. Astarion approaches the vee of Gale's legs slowly, dripping from his shoulders down; the way the tub is sunken into the floor, he's just a hair above Gale's eye level while standing. ]
Hold still. [ Murmured, as he anchors one wet hand on Gale's clothed knee and lifts the other to swipe his thumb over his cheek, rubbing gently until it's more or less free of ink. He is doing his best to not drip on the drawing, rubbing whatever ink is left on his thumb on his own wet stomach. Then, echoing Gale, with a glint to his eyes: ] Perfect.
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A damp hand at his thigh and water-warmed fingers touching his cheek make for an impossible convergence, his mouth parting on an uneven breath. For a wild moment, he thinks Astarion might kiss him. Fresh heat under Astarion’s fingertips, as his pulse rockets. The frisson of intimacy, long-denied.
Gale watches a droplet glide grey down Astarion’s flat stomach, arcing into the divot at his hip. Understanding finally lifts his gaze. ]
Oh. [ Perfect reverbs in his ears. A hand flutters to his cheek, fingers perched where Astarion touched him. ] Thank you.
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