Chapter Text
Astarion takes Gale’s tower in the divorce. Well, that’s what Astarion tells everyone when he starts to send letters with a return address in Waterdeep, at least. It never fails to draw a laugh out of his friends. It’s just enough to allow him to forget that Gale is dead and there wasn’t a divorce, obviously, unless you count Gale’s body and soul divorcing. (That’s another hit joke amongst them.)
The story goes like this: at the end of the world, Gale blew himself up. The next day, his stupid tressym showed up to berate Astarion as if he could’ve changed that stubborn idiot’s mind. “Gale was fond of you,” she’d said, “too fond.” But she bequeathed him Gale’s tower nonetheless.
For months, Astarion tried to stay away. He and Gale were not especially close (though the others often sprang to opposition when he mentioned this), and it felt wrong to be taking something so personal from someone he hardly knew. But as Astarion spent those months camping and hunting and trying to rid himself of Tara — who was one incessant cat, by the way — he came to a conclusion. Gale did not have anyone else to give his tower to. His mother had her own home, Elminster surely had a place to himself, and it wasn’t as if Tara could live there by herself, not without Gale.
Wyll and Karlach were in Avernus; even though Gale could not have possibly known about the former, he must have suspected that Wyll would hesitate to hang up his blade. Shadowheart had her parents now, and though they could’ve moved into the tower, they were awfully fond of Baldur’s Gate. Lae’zel would certainly never lower herself to stay in Faerûn forever—and so, that left Astarion. Astarion, who had just recently been put out of house and home after Cazador Szzar’s estate was seized by Duke Ravengard. Again, Gale couldn’t have known that would happen, but somehow the clever bastard had anticipated it and had Tara make preparations.
Once he comes to this conclusion, he finds it harder to stay away. It barely takes another month before Astarion is knocking on the tower’s door, shrouded in night as always.
“It’s about time,” says Tara, and lets him in.
The whole place is so Gale that Astarion can’t stand it at first. It smells of parchment and honey, with a bitter undertone of Weave that no sweeping seems to remove. In his first week, Astarion finds too many things to count. Several would-be magical trinkets that had been drained of substance. A diary detailing the progress of Gale’s malady. Pretty hair adornments that Astarion is hard-pressed to imagine Gale wearing.
He can’t sleep in the master bedroom—isn’t it odd that Astarion, so well-versed in misery and destruction, is somehow wrought with grief? He should be stronger than this. Gale meant close to nothing to him. He means nothing now.
(This is not quite true. There were moments, then hours, then days where Astarion came to be overly soft on the wizard. At first he was an easy mark. Then he was a nuisance. And then, the more the two of them were paired off, the clearer the similarities between them, he became something close to a friend.)
So Astarion ends up with Gale’s tower, in the end.
Three weeks, two days, and eight hours after Astarion moves in, there is a knock on the door. He’s draining a duck of its blood in the kitchen, squeezing the thing as one would a ripe orange, but before he can wipe his hands a second knock sounds out.
Astarion growls and stalks towards the door. His hand finds the doorknob, fingers clenching around it and painting the golden surface red, and pulls.
Elminster Aumar stands before him. His shoulders are pinned straight back, accentuating the lovely orange robe he’s wearing. Astarion peers at the fabric. It looks expensive; tiny golden embroideries of dragons and swordsmen adorn the cloth.
“Ahem,” says Elminster.
Astarion looks up at him. The wizard’s mouth is set in a thin line of displeasure. “Can I help you?” asks Astarion, insincere.
“You must be Astarion Ancunin. I’m—”
“Elminster Aumar,” purrs Astarion. He reaches forward and grabs the man’s hand, coating it in a thick layer of duck blood as he shakes it. “It’s an honor.”
Elminster’s disdain is clear as day. The shadowed awning keeps the sun from fragmenting Astarion into nothingness, but it also adds a darkness to Elminster’s face that betrays his impatience and irritation.
“I would say the same,” replies Elminster, dry as sand. He flicks his hand and the blood disappears. “Unfortunately, my arrival seems to act as an omen of bad news for you, Mr. Ancunin. I’m here on business.”
“Why else would you be here?” Astarion smiles. “For pleasure?”
“Astarion, dear,” says Tara, appearing beside him and headbutting his calf none-too-gently, “please refrain from flirting with Mr. Aumar and allow him in, if you would.”
Astarion’s smile widens. He steps aside with a flourish.
Elminster steps into the tower and his shoulders sag; the painful line of his body seems to crumple with grief. “Come,” he says, voice catching, “we have much to discuss.”
The tower’s stairs are enchanted with a Haste spell, another one of Gale’s clever little anticipatory tricks. If it weren’t, the journey upward would be arduous. The stairs start to the right of the tower’s door, spiraling up past the kitchen in an unbroken rhythm. Each floor emerges from the steps at intervals of several dozen. The kitchen is soon below them, unseen through the wooden floors of the next rooms as they travel upwards. Elminster stops in the drawing room. It has clearly lost its original purpose; the room is ringed with bookshelves of various woods, all stuffed to the brim with tomes. Astarion would call it the library if almost every floor didn’t look exactly the same.
They settle on either side of a tea table. Astarion sets himself in one of the plush, red armchairs as Elminster takes the matching one. Tara perches on the remaining space of the window nook.
“Pardon the darkness,” murmurs Astarion, leaning across the table to light a candle. “Ignis.” The fire jerks from the tips of his fingers and attaches itself to the wick.
Elminster raises an eyebrow. “You are a high elf, are you not? Is that the only magic you can do?”
Astarion bristles. “I can do plenty more, I assure you, but you’re hardly here for a magic show.”
“Ah, my apologies,” Elminster says quickly, “cruelty was not my intention. I was merely curious. But I digress. I am here to relay a message.”
“Well, the post works just as well, darling,” says Astarion.
He can’t explain why he feels so—so cold towards Elminster, only that it must have to do with Gale. Everything has to do with Gale these days; Astarion cannot escape him. He remembers that back before the Shadowlands, Gale had introduced Elminster as a friend. “A friend,” Astarion said, “doesn’t generally tell someone to kill themselves.” Gale had glanced at him, a small smile playing at his lips, and replied, “I guess you’re an expert at being my friend now?”
“This is a message from my Goddess,” Elminster gazes at him imperiously. “It would do you well to listen.”
“Your Goddess never listened to me when I prayed to her all those years ago. Why should I listen now?” Astarion crosses his arms and glares at the man.
“It’s a matter concerning Gale.”
“Is it,” he says slowly, “because – and I’m not sure if you know this – Gale is dead. There are no matters about a dead man to discuss.”
It brings him smug satisfaction to see Elminster flinch at the reminder. Yes, he thinks, yes, Gale of Waterdeep is dead. And you’re partly to blame.
(This is also not quite true. Gale is dead because of his hubris and his unending obsession with winning back Mystra’s favor. But those two things can be summarized into a single sentence, anyways. Gale is dead because he cared far too much what people thought of him and far too little of what he thought of himself.)
“It’s a matter that might concern Gale,” Elminster amends. “But if that is not enough to interest you, then it’s a matter that concerns your ability to walk in the sun.”
Astarion freezes. The sun. Gods, how long has it been? He catches only the barest glimpses of it these days; in the spaces between shadows, glancing off of Tara’s fur, streaking the hardwood of Gale’s room. How he misses it.
“Pray do tell,” croons Astarion.
If Elminster were a lesser man, he might have rolled his eyes. As it were, he simply allows his face to twitch in irritation before speaking. “Before he died, Gale was tasked with retrieving the Crown of Karsus by Mystra. Seeing as he failed to do so—” Elminster’s throat bobs with grief, “and Mystra is still owed the Crown, the honor might fall upon you to find and return it to her.”
“That has nothing to do with—”
A weathered hand appears in front of his face, halting his next words. “As payment, Mystra has offered a Wish.”
“A Wish?” Astarion shoves Elminster’s hand out of his face. “What the fuck is a bloody Wish?”
“A Wish is an immensely powerful spell that alters the fabric of reality in accord with your desires. If you were to please Mystra, you would be granted one use of this spell. Granting you the ability to walk in the sun is one way you might use that power.”
“And Gale?” chirps Tara. She’s been silent until now, but there seems to be a certain agitation gripping her at the mention of the Wish.
Elminster sighs. “You could bring Gale back.”
Tara whirls to Astarion, feathers fluffed, but says nothing. Her yellow eyes bore into him. “Well?” asks Elminster.
“Lay out the whole damn story, wizard,” Astarion grits out.
“You will have eight days to retrieve the Crown. If you are unable to do so, no consequences will befall you. To allow you the greatest time possible, I grant you this.” A thin sliver of gold slides across the table and stops before Astarion. Rubies clustered in the center of the ring give the impression of a much larger, singular stone. “The Sunwalker ring.”
“It’ll let me—”
“Walk in the sun, yes,” snips Elminster. Really, the awful wizard has a bad habit of cutting other people off. Then again, so did Gale. “For only eight days. Then the magic will wear off.”
Astarion stares at the ring in front of him. The chance to walk in the sun again is priceless— he can think of nothing he wouldn't do to be able to again. But even more pressing is the matter of Gale. Tara will be furious with him if he doesn’t raise her precious pet from the dead. But Gale being alive serves no purpose for Astarion, and honestly, it’s better that he’s dead. At least Astarion gets a tower out of it.
He snatches the ring off the table. “I’ll do it.”
“Gale—” starts Tara.
“Oh, shush,” says Astarion, holding the ring up and peering at it. A grin crawls across his face. “What good would that idiotic mage do me?”
In his entrancement with the ring, he misses the look of pure sorrow Tara and Elminster share.
***
When Gale was eight, he lit his mother’s rose bushes on fire. That was not the young boy’s first surge of magic – no, Mystra had been watching well before that – but it was the surge of magic that brought Elminster Aumar to his doorstep.
He still remembers how Gale had looked: tanned from his time playing outside, dressed in a purple shirt that was smeared with mud, a face full of fear.
Elminster smiled. “Terribly sorry to intrude,” he said, “I’m Elminster Aumar.”
Gale’s mother (Morena, a lovely woman with dark, curly hair and a weary gaze) frowned. Then a sharper expression cut across her face. “The wizard.”
“Yes,” he answered, “the wizard. I’m here on behalf of Mystra.”
Only then did little Gale perk up, eyes widening. In the dappled sunlight of the hallway, the color of them was imprecise. Some mixture of blue-brown-green. “Mystra,” he recited. “The Goddess of the Weave. The Mother of Magic?”
An indulgent smile wove its way across Elminster’s lips. “Yes,” he said, “very good. And she is interested in you, Gale Dekarios.” He ignored Morena’s growing anger and continued, “I cannot convey how much of an honor that is.”
***
Tara is upset with him.
“I’m going with you,” she hisses, “whether you like it or not! Maybe my presence will remind you of how selfish this whole endeavor of yours is!”
Astarion rolls his eyes as he packs his bag. “My dear,” he says with a put-upon sigh, “your whole endeavor is just as senselessly greedy as mine.”
He tries to ignore the growing well of guilt in his stomach; Tara, as much as she berates him, is his only companion these days. And honestly, he quite likes her. But he won’t bend to her wishes. The Sun versus Gale. Salvation versus a chatty, gauche wizard. The choice is clear.
Tara’s tail flicks in his face, and she sends him a smug look when he spits her hair from his mouth. “Honestly, I don’t know what Gale saw in you,” she laments. But it doesn’t seem like she really means it.
Astarion does wonder what made Gale so sweet on him. His stunningly good looks, perhaps?
Right—Gale was always attracted to him, he knows. He’d caught the wizard watching him too many times to count. It wasn’t unusual; Astarion is very good-looking, after all. But is that really the reason why Gale gave him the tower? Astarion isn’t sure. Gale was vain, sure, but that vain?
He bites his cheek as he contemplates. No blood flows out as he chews on the skin; he hadn’t finished his duck before starting to pack. It was as if there was an invisible thread sewn into him and someone was pulling its spool.
Tara is watching him. She cocks her head and gives a short snort of laughter. “Nevermind,” she says.
“Nevermind what?”
He gets another mouthful of her hair for his troubles.
The bag he’s using is one of Gale’s—richly embroidered, soft leather with thick gold buckles. He shoves another set of clothes into it and swings it over his shoulder. “Are you coming or not?” he sneers, “Because I can guarantee that you’re not getting a Gale out of this either way.”
With a flap of wings, Tara settles around his shoulders like an expensive scarf. “Gale would want me to keep an eye on you.”
Astarion rolls his eyes. “Please. The wizard needed constant supervision himself.”
“That’s right,” sighs Tara fondly, “my precious pet.”
He starts down the stairs, watching as the floors rise above him. Every bit of the tower has something of Astarion now. Clothes thrown over the velvet loveseat, jars of blood in his pantry, desks shoved free of nick-nacks to make space for Astarion’s books. But even then the entire tower is wholly Gale at its core. The smell of Weave hasn’t gone away at all. Gale’s bed is undone and messy, the same way he presumably left it before he was taken by the Nautiloid. It is a shrine of mourning, inescapable even as Astarion tries to rearrange, remove, and strip the place of Gale’s influence.
No. Astarion doesn’t care about Gale, not enough to feel anything more than wavering grief at his loss.
The sun. He stops before the tower’s door. A hand reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Sunwalker ring.
Tara rubs her wet nose into his neck. “Men and power,” she grumbles. “It is quite overdone by now, isn’t it?”
“Not quite yet,” Astarion chirps back, and shoves the ring onto his finger.
There’s no physical change, as far as he can tell, but if there’s supposed to be Astarion doesn’t give it the chance to manifest. He shoves the door open and steps out into the sun.
It’s beautiful—just as beautiful as he remembers, resplendent and enchanting and finally, finally benevolent. “Oh,” he whispers.
Ecstasy builds in his chest. After months of darkness, feeling the sun again is a balm to his wounds. His eyes flutter shut. The sun presses against his eyelids like a lover’s hands, gentle and warm.
After the tadpoles were removed, Astarion had thought that he’d never see the sun again.
The only reason this is happening is because Gale is dead, a traitorous part of himself murmurs. He frowns. Good riddance, then; the wizard was the one who wanted to die in the first place!
“Alright,” says Tara, “where to first?”
Astarion snorts. “Where else?” he replies. “We’re going back to Baldur’s Gate.”