Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.”

Chapter Text

It had taken Astarion a week of travel to get from Baldur’s Gate to Waterdeep, but he doesn’t have that sort of time now. For the first time since the tadpoles, he feels hastened. The journey he’d taken several weeks ago had been almost languid, relaxed, and there hadn’t been a sense of urgency at all as he’d picked his way up the Sword Coast. Now, though, Astarion needs to move. Fast.

He manages to charm a couple of merchants into letting him and Tara hitch a ride. (“Charm” is one way of saying that Astarion emptied half of Gale’s coin pouch onto the floor of their wagon and all but demanded to be let on board. But tomato, tomahto.)

Once onboard, Tara makes her wrath known by ignoring him all morning. Astarion turns to look at the woods roaring past. With the way this caravan is moving, they’ll make it to Baldur’s Gate in two days. Warmth bleeds through the tree’s leaves. He stretches a hand out, catching a handful of twigs but also the orange of the dying sunset stained against his fingers.

Though night is approaching, the wagon doesn’t stop until they make it past the Delimbiyr River. Passing over running water isn’t a novel concept to Astarion, not since the tadpoles, but he leans over the side of the wagon to watch the river rush past anyways. Up North where Waterdeep is, the air is cooler and the water icier. He thinks it suits Gale better than Baldur’s Gate had; the wizard had always seemed half-ready to burst into tears once they’d entered the Lower City. Gale was a solitary sort, the kind of man who preferred the company of books over people, and his disposition suffered because of it. But – Astarion had to acknowledge – it was a welcome change compared to either the prickly or overly enthusiastic character the rest of their companions shared.

“We’ll stop here for tonight,” one of the merchants calls. He swings himself over the side of a neighboring wagon, reaching upwards to tie his horses’ stays to a nearby tree.

Astarion raises an eyebrow. “Daggerford is back that way,” he says.

The man rolls his eyes. “Figured a rich kid like you wouldn’t understand, but we ain’t got money for a hostel. We’re roughing it ‘till the Gate.”

“But the money I gave you—”

“Goes towards our lodgings in the city,” the man grunts. “Now, either get your skinny ass onto the grass or take a hike.”

Gritting his teeth, Astarion looks himself over. The “rich kid” comment makes sense now; he’s wearing Gale’s clothes, a richly embroidered doublet in a decadent chocolate color and a pair of tight-fitting leather breeches that he’d had to take in with a needle himself.

“Seems you’ve gotten used to the creature comforts of the tower,” scoffs Tara. She flutters down onto the ground beside him and tips her nose up. “Now, who would’ve thought?”

“Shut up,” Astarion hisses. But he follows her onto the grass all the same.

He picks a nice shady spot a couple meters from the nearest merchant and closer to the forest than any of them dare. Tara nestles herself beside him, somehow falling into a catnap despite them having done nothing all day, but Astarion can’t seem to trance. There are too many thoughts in his mind.

Back when they’d traveled together – him and Gale – he’d tried not to lure the other man into conversation. It was a known fact that given the chance, Gale would blather on forever. But now he’s kicking himself for that. How had Gale been abducted by the Nautiloid? He’d never been to Baldur’s Gate before, so had the Nautiloid passed through Waterdeep? Astarion doubted it; with the way Tara spoke of it, it seemed like she had been here at the time of Gale’s abduction. Did that mean Gale was somewhere else? Where could he have gone?

He snaps his eyes shut. Ever since that damned Elminster showed up, Astarion’s mind has been plagued by remembrances of Gale. The way Elminster had just assumed Astarion would jump at the chance to revive the wizard was absurd; Astarion and Gale had become almost-friends as a consequence of a short history of unfortunate events. Gale’s death had brought him too many things to count: a warm home, a closet full of the richest silks money could buy, a companion who wasn’t actively plotting his death or usurpation. He’d be a fool to waste it.

Somehow, Astarion trances. A night of rest has done him good; his reflexes are sharp enough to dodge the knife aimed for his face.

The camp wakes to chaos. Darkness still reigns, and so those with lacking vision find themselves on the wrong end of a spear or arrow all too quickly. Astarion scrambles to his feet, grabbing a dagger from his hip as he squares off against his attacker.

Bandits. He should’ve known this wouldn’t be as easy as it seemed. There must be a dozen of them, all tall and stocky. Hired looters, trained killers perhaps? It might not be premeditated. The man in front of him is taller than the rest, his face scarred from his eyebrow to the corner of his lip with burnt tissue. Dirty blonde hair and ice-blue eyes swim before Astarion’s vision.

His attacker lunges forward, swiping at the air where Astarion’s body had been not a second before, and Astarion stabs into the man’s knee. The knife hits something sinewy and thin. Astarion wrenches it out, ready to re-attack, but the man is already howling in pain. Sticky, crimson blood covers his blade.

“Duck!”

Astarion dips just in time for an arrow to go whizzing over his head. A pained shriek echoes from behind him, and he turns to find Tara digging her claws into the archer’s face. He collapses to the ground, the bloody mess of his eye staring unseeingly at Astarion.

“Well?” yells Tara, “What are you waiting for? Run!”

He doesn’t think; he grabs Tara and books it.

Running through the woods is harder than it seems. Twigs and branches swipe at his cheeks, snagging in the curls of his hair. If he hadn’t grabbed Tara and allowed the tressym to fly beside him, there’s no doubt that she would’ve been lost hundreds of meters back.

Astarion has no idea if they’re even running the right way; the sky is covered by the evergreens’ high-reaching trunks, and he’d have no idea how to use the stars to locate their position anyways. That was something that had always been left to Shadowheart or Wyll during their journey. But they haven’t crossed a river yet, which means they aren’t running straight back the same way that they came. It’s enough.

He can feel Tara’s tiny heart beating against his chest, and it’s only when it slows that he stops. Somewhere far in front of them, a monster’s bellow shakes the ground.

“This,” pants Astarion, ignoring the fact that he doesn’t need to breathe, “was a terrible idea.”

Tara sighs. “Have hope, Astarion dear. We’ll have Gale back soon enough.”

“You mean I’ll be able to walk in the sun forever soon enough.”

Yes,” says Tara knowingly, “that.”

He sets her down on the grass (much wetter than he remembers it being, but maybe they’ve run far enough that they’ve entered a part of the forest where it rained last night?). “Do you have any idea where we are?”

Tara shakes her head. “We’ll have to wait for the sun to come up, I’m afraid. That’ll give us a direction at least. Baldur’s Gate—”

“Is South, yes! Tara, you’re a genius.”

“Well.” She fluffs her feathers, preening. “Of course I am.”

***

Gale shut him down so oddly that Astarion didn’t think to ask a second time. He wasn’t Astarion’s first choice (Wyll was), but progress had been slow-going with the warlock.

“I am enjoying our walks together, aren’t you, Gale?” he asked. Their path was parallel to a stream that day, and Astarion kept his eyes on the ever-moving water rather than Gale. He could practically feel the wizard tense up beside him. A glance upwards caused him to make dramatic eye contact with the man, who was looking at him with big, round eyes. Eyes the same color as the riverbed.

“Um, sure,” said Gale, “in silence.”

Astarion whipped back to the stream. Gale shifted uncomfortably beside him, the hem of his well-worn robe brushing against Astarion’s heels as he attempted to keep pace with the elf. He could smell Gale’s nerves, a sickly sweet taste that reminded Astarion of sweat and wine.  The poor man was going to work himself into a conniption if he kept this up.

“Shadowheart,” he purred, “such a mysterious name for such a beautiful flower.”

“I heard you practicing that one last night,” the cleric called back, a laugh in her voice. “It needs some work.”

“Oh, but do keep calling her a flower. She enjoys it,” Lae’zel rasped.

Astarion snorted. Beside him, Gale relaxed.

***

The sun rises to their left, so they continue on the way they’d been running. The ground seems to soak up moisture the further they travel; Astarion’s nicest boots are covered in mud before midday. It’s a shame that Gale’s feet were a size too big for them to share shoes.

In the first few days of travel back when they’d been in the Absolute’s shadow, it had been a surprise to wake up and find that he hadn’t been incinerated into ash. Even when an ill-advised attempt to steal the Blood of Lathander had gone awry (Astarion’s idea, later blamed on Gale), he’d remained as intact as ever. But now it just feels like greeting an old friend.

“Tara, darling,” he drawls, “I’m practically walking in quicksand over here! Are you sure that we’re going the right way?”

Tara shoots him a deadly look. Of course she isn’t; they’d left Astarion’s map back at camp. Rays of thick fog cut off whatever Astarion was going to say next. The forest thins around them.

“What—”

Suddenly, the marshy ground makes sense.

“Oh, Hells.”

The ground before the forest empties out into a lower-lying plain. In the distance to the left the ground rises again to form a stout hill of sorts, covered in wet strings of moss and dripping trees. It’s too far away for Astarion to make anything else out. But not half a day’s walk in front of them stands a castle—if it can even be called that. Rising from the ruins of what might have been a grand city lies a crude tower built from dark stone. Smog billows around it, obscuring the rings of thick earth that rise the tower further into the sky. Atop its highest turret sits the carcass of a great beast. Its smallest bone must be taller than Astarion.

“Is that—”

“Dragonspear Castle,” breathes Tara. “I think we may need to backtrack.”

The fucking High Moor. They’d wasted a day’s worth of travel on the fucking High Moor. Astarion suddenly feels his throat close up, drying in that distinctive way that tells him he’s about to cry. The last time he cried was at Duke Ravengard’s reinstatement. The man had barely mentioned Gale’s name; oh, Astarion remembers thinking, alright. Let’s just not mention the man that killed himself to save all of our sorry asses. He’d only cried a little, just a single tear, and when Jaheria had awkwardly patted his head he’d let her believe it was for the city and not out of anger.

“Astarion…”

He swipes at his face furiously. “It’s fine. Let’s head back to Atland and see if we can’t poach another ride.” He doesn’t look at Tara as he storms past her back into the dark forest. Astarion glances down at his hands. They’re trembling. Still covered in that bandit’s blood. “Come on,” he calls.

They make it to Atland before nightfall, either out of sheer rage or willpower. He pickpockets a woman wearing thick scarves and ruby earrings, and then settles into the nearest tavern for a pint.

Tara nestles closer to him. Whoops and shouts of excitement fill the air as a young boy manages to charm one of the waitresses into dancing with him. She’s pretty. Dark hair, big doe eyes. A hefty amount of weight on her chest.

“Do stop staring,” Tara sniffs. “It’s unbecoming.”

Astarion groans. On their first night in the Elfsong, Shadowheart had gotten all of them in on a coup to steal all the best wine from the tavern’s cellar. After all, they were the only ones in the building after a certain time, and the whole city would likely end up in disrepair anyways. A missing bottle of well-aged wine meant nothing.

By then, Astarion had cataloged how all his friends acted when drunk. Whether due to his years of preying on tavern-goers or because he was simply observant, he’d noted down things unconsciously. Shadowheart got a little mean. Lae’zel could hold her liquor unsurprisingly well, but she always seemed less high-strung when she drank. Wyll and Halsin became touchy (they’d already started dancing by the time Astarion found a drink he could stomach). Jaheira laughed and laughed and laughed. Karlach’s drink made her weepy until Wyll caught her by the wrists and pulled her into a country dance.

Gale, of course, got tawdry. His words slurred, his hands roamed, but even when he was breathing into Astarion’s face, hands fisted in his shirt like a maiden begging her beloved not to leave, he was still, somehow, talking about magic. At least it wasn’t Mystra.

“Here you are.” The same waitress from before slides his ale onto the table in front of him. She’s blushing from her cheeks to her chest, turning her an appealing sort of pink. A shy, flirty smile appears as he meets her eyes.

“ Did you know—” Gale slurred. “That Otto’s Irresistible Dance—” His eyes were a very gentle shade of brown, misted over by the wine and drooping sweetly. Astarion’s gaze fixed on his mouth – red, plush, warm – before darting away.

He snorts. The waitress frowns before she spins away, insulted.

Ale drips down his throat, thick and frothy. Astarion drinks until the tankard is empty, then leaves a couple coins on the table before wrapping Tara in his arms and ducking out of the tavern.

A few paces away lies a young boy. He almost doesn’t see him; hay covers almost every inch of his skin. Horses line the stables behind him.

Astarion really hates horses. Nasty beasts—always wet around the snouts and caked with grime. He wanders along the stables, casting a passing look at each of them. At the very end of the row hangs a sign. It might have been lovely once, but now the gold has been chipped away and even the vampire has to squint to make out what it says. Atland Horse Show.

“People come to see these… things?” spits Astarion.

Behind him, the boy lets out a snore.

“I’m taking one,” he declares.

“Do you even know how to ride?” Tara chides.

“It can’t be too hard, can it?” He peers over the horses once again, trying to pick out which one is least likely to bite his fingers off. “That one.”

That one is a horse with a coat that looks as if it’s made of spun silver. It shines nearly white under the moon’s glare, and Astarion can’t help but remember the “rich kid” comment from that merchant. Has it really only been a day since then? They’ve already wasted a day traveling in a circle; if only he’d gone slightly to the West when running from those bandits!

The merchant had been right, though. Astarion is practically spoiled now, all thanks to Gale.

He reaches forward and grab’s the horse’s stays. The beast simply tips her head to the side and stares at him like he’s a particularly interesting speck of muck as a simple lock-picking opens her stable.

“And where the devil am I supposed to sit?” hisses Tara.

Astarion swings his leg up onto the horse’s hide. She kicks back gently, sliding him off her silken coat. He groans. “In a minute, Tara!”

“—no, Dad, yes, I’ll bring—” the boy murmurs. Tara and Astarion share a nervous look.

He jumps up, trying to fling himself onto her back, only to slide off the other side into the stable. With a flutter of wings, Tara seats herself closest to the horse’s rump and says, “You might want to hurry, Mr. Ancunin. I believe the boy is waking.”

With a look of pure hatred, Astarion grabs the horse’s stays and pulls her closer. She goes willingly; nervous, he swings his leg up, over, and—

And smacks the boy right in the face.

He hadn’t noticed how close they’d gotten! Can you blame him?

The boy tumbles out of sleep with a loud scream, probably alerting everyone in the nearest hundred meters to their misdeed. “Hey—!”

Astarion smacks the horse’s side and she shoots out of the stables, whinnying. A cackle of glee leaves his mouth as he turns over his shoulder to see the boy chasing after him, still covered in hay.

“Terribly sorry!” Tara calls.

“I’m not!” Astarion shouts back. In fact, this may be the best he’s felt since this whole ordeal began.

Chapter Text

The trip to Baldur’s Gate takes another two days. That’s four days gone; only four more left. Astarion has spent half of his precious time getting to a city he’s not entirely sure even has the Crown of Karsus.

When Gale blew himself up, he’d teleported Astarion and the others to safety on a dock near the smoking remains of the Steel Watch Factory. The Crown couldn’t have fallen far from there. He has a sinking (ha) sense that it’s underwater, which is going to make retrieval very dangerous given that Astarion can’t swim in running water anymore.  

But that was a worry for another day. Now, finally—

Baldur’s Gate is just as grand as he remembers it. The city stretches out in front of him like the Sea of Swords from the shores of Waterdeep, never-ending. The Lower City is full of bustle as people go about their business: hawking their goods, dancing for coin, rebuilding the destroyed architecture of the Gate. Astarion can’t help but stop and breathe it all in.

They’d left their horse with the Flaming Fist, but it was just as well because he’d truly forgotten how narrow the roads were. With all the construction happening, they’re all the narrower.

A woman darts past, clad in resplendent, gauzy fabrics of turquoise and deep red. Gold buckles line her waist, a row of gleaming coins falling from each one to her feet. She spins, and the sound of metal ringing against metal is added to the cacophony of the city. A cry rises from the men sipping their drinks in the balconies of the Elfsong; the woman laughs melodiously and spins once more.

Nearby, a group of kids chase each other, ducking dangerously under metal beams. A harried Flaming Fist runs after them, too out of breath to yell and sweating from his hairline.

Someone is singing a hymn inside Stormshore Tabernacle. The clang of blades echoes from the Flaming Fist’s headquarters. Astarion understands why Gale was so overwhelmed now; after almost a month spent in Waterdeep, this place is chaos.

It’s not his home anymore. He feels love for the city, but it doesn’t have anything on the comforts of Gale’s tower. Astarion misses it dearly.

Tara curls around his neck. “Let’s go,” she urges him gently.

The walk down to the docks seems like it goes on forever. Lady Jannath’s estate has its door open, no doubt for another art showing. The less hygienic (but no less charming) tavern, The Blushing Mermaid, is already in full swing despite it being just past midday.

He’s on a mission, though. There’s only one place with people who will have any inkling about what is and isn’t on the seafloor.

Umberlee: “Bitch Queen”, Wavemother, goddess of the seas. Capricious by nature, yet stunningly savant about interior decorating. She’s one of the goddesses Astarion hasn’t bothered to pray to in all his centuries; water and vampires don’t mix. But he can appreciate her eye for detail. The Water Queen’s House is just as ostentatious as he remembers. Thin stone columns hold up a domed roof ridged with blue-gray shingles. On either side of the temple, the earth it’s built upon shaves off steeply into the water. Saltwater – alongside that briny, familiar smell of a port city – churns below.

“Hello— oh, it’s you!” The woman in front of him turns, blue eyes widening. “You’re the one who avenged Holli!”

Astarion blinks. After the initial fanfare following the Netherbrain’s defeat, he’d all but wanted to disappear from the public eye. He’d once thought that he loved attention, lavished in it even, but after everything… It felt cheap. Even though he had been an important part of the brain’s defeat, the whole mess ended with him tucked on a safe little dock, hundreds of meters away from the true action. Even worse, he was sure that when Duke Ravengard was congratulating them, several people recognized Astarion for the wrong reasons. Tales of a silver-tongued, silver-haired elf with eyes like dark wine, come to steal away the innocent. 

(If he was being honest, it had more to do with the cheapness. Gale had been the one to save the world—Astarion had found himself hesitant to take the credit, and, even more vexing, angry that no one had given it to Gale.)

“Hello,” he says slowly.

The woman laughs. It shakes her whole body, making her black hair swish in a curtain over her face. “Diomira. We met briefly at Holli’s funeral. I’m sure your head is full of people to remember; being a hero must be so exhausting.”

For a moment he thinks she means to flirt with him, but then the mischievous twinkle of her eye gives her away. Astarion laughs gently. “Oh darling, trust me, it is.”

Diomira giggles. “Anyways, you must be here for a reason. We’re all forever in your debt. Anything you ask of us, consider it done.”

This is turning out to be easier than expected.

Oftentimes Astarion butted heads with the other group members over how to handle a situation. Wyll and him were strictly forbidden from being alone after a week had passed; they both were too stubborn and convinced that their way was the only way. (Another reason why he never got around to seducing Wyll.) Shadowheart acted as the mediator, though Gale had stepped in a couple of times. The wizard frequently ended up taking Wyll’s side, which always pissed Astarion off something fierce.

They’d gone about this whole Umberlee business Wyll’s way: calm discussion, an offer of aid, and a favor held in the balance.

Astarion could have kissed Wyll. That favor was more precious to him than blood at this very moment.

“Actually, I’m curious about something I lost during the siege…”

***

The night of the tiefling’s party was the first night Astarion saw Gale well and truly sloppy. Gale was hardly neat; he left his books all over camp, his robes always had mud at the bottoms, and after cooking there were enough vegetable shavings to feed Scratch for a week. But sloppy? That was unheard of.

It may have had to do with the fact that Gale was sloshed. Astarion picked his way over to the wizard, keeping an eye out for any leads on potential new marks. He skirted around the tiefling bard and her girlfriend, dodged another tiefling’s attempt to dance, and by the time he had reached Gale, he was so sick of this damn party that he all but tugged the man into his tent.

“What— Astarion!”

Astarion buttoned the tent closed and turned to look at Gale. The man’s cheeks were flushed, his mouth red from the wine. The fabric of his robe stretched across his stomach in a way that should’ve been unappealing but really, really wasn’t.

Focus.

“I was getting really fucking tired of this extravaganza,” started Astarion. He folded his knees under him and stared down at Gale’s boots, which were poking out from underneath his robe. “Whoop-de-doo, we killed some goblins. Why do we need to have a whole party about it?”

Gale laughed. It was more of a wheezy huff, really. “They’re throwing us a party because they’re grateful, my sanguine friend. Something you could learn to be.”

Hot, fiery anger roared through him. Astarion whipped his head up, ready to throw himself across the small space between them and throttle the wizard, when he found Gale smiling at him instead.

Teasing. Gale was teasing him.

How much had changed in such a short period? When had he and Gale become close enough to tease each other? They weren’t friends; Astarion was sure they never would be. But this certainly wasn’t the at-arms tenseness of their previous conversations.

Maybe alcohol had softened Gale. Astarion tossed him another cursory look. The shining earring in his left ear caught the flame’s glow, turning it gold rather than its normal silver. His robe was open a bit wider than usual, and for the first time, Astarion was seeing the orb in all its glory.

It was a strange thing, circular but almost roughly so, with a detached stroke running up Gale’s chest to his cheek. The veins that Astarion had noticed through Gale’s tanned skin were not veins of blood, but veins of Weave. It shimmered violet, pulsing in turn with the rabbit-quick beat of Gale’s own heart. In a way, it was like a second one. How ironic that cold, cruel Astarion had no heart and sweet, naïve Gale had two?

An arm reached across the tent and it was only when it was skating over the sharp rise-and-fall of Gale’s chest that Astarion realized it was his own. He couldn’t look at Gale. There was something stopping him. Something that welled up inside him. Burning like the heat of liquor, only softer.  

“You can touch it,” whispered Gale.

Astarion dragged his fingers over the whorls of Gale’s hair instead. He darted over the carved markings of the orb, choosing instead to brush his thumb over the skin under the man’s collarbone, over his chest. What a marvel. Human skin was always so unbearably warm, but he somehow found that he didn’t mind this heat.

His eyes darted up, catching Gale’s for a brief moment, and his thumb dug into one of the orb’s lines. Pure Weave fizzled up his arm.

“Shit—ow!”

Gale froze in place, heartbeat hammering. Then he started to laugh.  

***

The Bitch Queen comes up with nothing.

“Lady Umberlee says that she cannot sense anything on the seafloor outside the harbor,” one of the waveservants says.

For a moment, Astarion wonders if the damned crown has washed out to sea. That would just be the cherry on top; he never gets what he wants.

Tara thwaps her tail against his leg before he can have a meltdown. “Be calm,” she whispers. Sometimes she says something in such a unique tone that Astarion can’t help but be reminded of Gale. It’s almost cute, knowing that whenever Gale got in one of his pissy moods he was simply copying his tressym.

He takes a deep breath. “Do you have any idea where it could be?”

Diomira gives him a sad look. “Unfortunately, it may have been scooped up by the clean up crews earlier this week. A lot of rubble fell into the waters—”

“Umberlee forbid anyone in this city cares about the sanctity of the ocean,” the other waveservant mutters.

With a sharp look at them, Diomira continues. “Some of it, Duke Ravengard thinks, can be repurposed. It might be too late, but I’d check in the scrapyard.”

“And where exactly,” asks Astarion, “is this scrapyard?”

Instead of answering, Diomira points just past his shoulder. He turns, following the line of her finger, and—

Of course it’s the fucking Steel Watch Factory.

The gate opens when Astarion pushes the palm of his hand against the lock, bracing to lockpick. He frowns. “This feels like a bad omen,” he tells Tara.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” she says, promptly leaving him in the dust as she sashays past the open gate. Astarion hastens to follow.

The inside of the factory is a mess. Stacks of metal plates cover most of the floors. Interspersed between them are buckets of nuts and bolts, twisted scraps of old Steel Watchers, broken arrows and shattered swords. It seems as though everyone in the city is using the place as a dumping ground as they clean out their homes.

That explains the gate being unlocked, at least.

Astarion stares at the clutter in horror. He feels a sickening heat rise up his throat; it’s been only a day since he’s eaten, back in the forest before they entered Rivington, so he knows it isn’t hunger. Then the feeling turns slimy and he knows what it is. Defeat.

Tara’s wings flap as she lands on his shoulder. She butts her head against his cheek, purring, and with a grumble of disgust says, “I haven’t had to do this with Gale since he was twelve. Regressing, are we?”

A wet laugh leaves him. “My dear Tara, I hate to tell you this but Gale was not exactly the paragon of emotional stability.”

With a swat of her tail, Tara sniffs. “Well, I guess I won’t help you anymore.”

“Then don’t!”

“Ohhhhh,” mutters Tara. She stamps her paws into his shoulders, growling, and Astarion hides a laugh. “Fine. I’m casting Detect Magic. Thank me graciously later.”

They make their way through the factory that way. Tara casts her spell and then Astarion rummages through whatever she tells him to. They’re halfway up the stairs when Detect Magic turns the entire wall in front of them pink. Astarion pauses.

“What—”

The aura of pink fades to expose a deep black splatter on the very wall of the factory. It stretches in a huge circle from one metal panel to the next. “Someone cast this.”

“I believe you’re correct,” Tara peers at the wall.

Astarion takes a step closer and wipes his thumb along it. It comes away sticky with soot; a neat steel smudge replaces where it’d been. He sniffs it. “It’s ash.”

In but a second, all of Tara’s demeanor changes. She shuffles closer to him, a soft, content sound leaving her mouth. “A Fireball spell.”

“Who’s been doing battle in the Steel Watch—”

He had. He and Gale had. This is the remainder of one of Gale’s Fireballs. The memory of it comes to him like a bucket of water dumped over his head; Shadowheart and Lae’zel had a Steel Watcher backed into a corner on the other side of the hall. One of those awful Absolute cultists had been trying to put arrows in Astarion’s head all evening, and he remembers bracing himself for the next shot when someone shouted “Arde!” 

A great heat had rushed past him then, nearly singeing his eyebrows off (as he later yelled at Gale about), and when he’d turned the cultist was a crumpled heap of ash against the wall. Gale had given him a proud grin – when wasn’t he showing off, the damn braggart – before turning back to battle.

“Oh,” he says softly.

When Gale had died, all of him had gone in one blast. Both his soul and his body were no longer on this Plane; that was why all of Shadowheart’s attempts to Revivify him hadn’t worked. But here was something that he had left, perhaps his most recent mark of extant. Gale’s tower hadn’t been touched in a month by then. Astarion rubs his thumb over the ash more firmly. 

Cruel words spring to mind: “It’s unfortunate that you love him so much, because he’s never coming back.” As true as they are, they bring bitterness to his tongue. There’s something wrong about them. They aren’t just mean—they’re something else, a word Astarion can’t quite reach.

Something to do with Gale, no doubt. It always is.

“Well!” Tara inhales. “This has been lovely but we’re on a mission. Turn left.”

It’s well past midnight and verging on the fifth day of Astarion’s quest when Detect Magic goes off for the final time. Tara yawns and snuggles into his skin. “That’s all I’ve left in me, Astarion dear.”

Astarion waves her off, bending low to pick up whatever’s glowing soft pink under all that metal. As he peels off the final sheet, the tressym gasps.

There, covered in dust and in several pieces, are the remains of the Crown of Karsus.

Chapter Text

“What the fuck do you mean, three thousand gold? I’m not made of money!”

The smith – a tall man with a roughened face and all his hair on his chin rather than his head – glowers at him. “That’s my price. Seems you can pay.”

Astarion bites the inside of his cheek, silently cursing. Right. Gale’s damn outfit is, once again, making this quest a whole lot harder than it had to be. “I’m going to tell everyone that you’re a shitty smith,” he hisses. With a swipe of his hand he snatches the satchel of the crown’s pieces from the man’s arms.

“I’m the best damn smith in all of Rivington!” the man cries.

“And the only one,” Tara chimes in. Perched on a nearby table, she is impervious to the mess Astarion’s created.

The smith points at her sharply. “Yes! That too!”

“I’m taking my business to the Lower City,” mutters Astarion, turning on his heel and stalking off. A moment later, Tara perches herself around his shoulders.

“Is three thousand gold not worth a Wish?” she asks in that tone of hers. It’s the same tone Gale used to use whenever Astarion landed them in deep shit; somewhat mocking yet admonishing all the same.

“I don’t have time to pickpocket all the damn people in Rivington,” Astarion bites back. “We’re on a tight schedule, if you haven’t noticed.”

“There’s bound to be a smith in the city,” says Tara, quickly changing her tune. “We’ll have the crown fixed up in no time.”

As they pass through the arch separating the Lower City and Rivington, the bright glare of the sun pricks Astarion’s eyes. He holds his hand over his forehead in a makeshift awning. “Is that always so damn bright?” he asks.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Hmph.”

The longer he spends in the city, the more fragments of his memory coalesce into something fuller. Looking back on his adventure several months back, he can only pick at certain memories, flashes of gold in a pan. He remembers Shadowheart’s steely gaze as they’d stopped before the House of Grief. He remembers Karlach nearly running Dammon to the ground when she’d seen him. He remembers Halsin—

Dammon! Of course!

He turns right, picking up speed through the empty spaces between conversations and vendors’ stalls. Dammon and him never quite got along, though that may have had more to do with Astarion’s sticky fingers than anything else he might have said, but he’d be willing enough to help him out. Astarion could scrounge up money somehow. He always did.

As he squeezes past a couple engaged in a heated argument, he remembers Gale’s first day in the city. He’d hated the narrow streets. Once, he complained, “With the way everyone is rubbing up against me, I’m practically smelling their armpits.” Astarion had gazed haughtily at him from where the wizard was wedged under his arm. “And you’re not smelling mine?” he’d said.

That had sent Gale into a flurry of profuse apologies. Astarion hadn’t heard any of them; he was more focused on the soft shade of pink diffused over the wizard’s cheekbones. There were times like that where Astarion (unfortunately) found Gale very charming. Gale would’ve hated to hear him say that. To know that Astarion’s favorite part of him wasn’t his high honors or his perceived prowess of seduction based on him sleeping with a goddess, but that it was those moments in between, when Gale was more himself than he was wizard.

He hated himself for thinking that, sometimes. Figuring out Gale’s game had been easy. There was a mark of devotion that ran through him, and oftentimes Astarion wondered if there was really a person under there or if it was all wretched need.

But then Gale would blush or laugh in his stupid witch’s cackle, and suddenly he was so painfully human.

Ugh. This damn city, making him regain his fondness for a dead man. Or did that fondness ever leave?

Astarion feels the forge before he sees it. A great wall of heat suffuses through the air; at the furnace, a tiefling with startling aquamarine eyes is hammering away at a greatsword. Behind him is—

He balks. “Karlach?”

Karlach looks up and her face splits in a grin. Her hair is shorter now, more black than red and interspersed with shimmering silver beads. Through the plates of her armor, her heart burns red-hot, though it seems less prone to explosion than it had a few months ago. “Astarion!” she shouts. He barely has a moment to compose himself before Karlach is squeezing him in a hug. Tara yelps and flaps out of the way.

“Karlach—” Astarion grips her arms but makes no move to push her away. “What are you doing here? I thought you were about to implode!”

“There’s so much I have to tell you about!” she cries. With a final squeeze, she releases him. “But don’t worry about me,” she raps her knuckles against her chest, “we’re well on the way to figuring this mess out.”

“Are you here alone?” he asks. “Where’s our knight in shining armor?”

“Always knew you had a bit of a crush on him,” Karlach teases. He rolls his eyes.

“Karlach, what— oh, Astarion! Is that you?”

Wyll jogs over, eyes wide. In opposition to Karlach, his hair is longer, twisted in elegant ropes and fastened with gold cuffs. He grins and tugs Astarion into a one-armed hug. “How is it that you’re walking in the sun again, my friend?”

Astarion coughs. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got plenty of time.” Wyll raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. Karlach presses close to him and nods.

“I don’t. I need this thing reforged.” He shoves the satchel in their faces, wincing as Karlach practically rips it open in her haste to satisfy her curiosity.

“IS THAT THE CROWN OF—”

“Shhhh!” Astarion lunges forward and slaps a hand over her mouth. “Don’t let the whole Sword Coast know, you infernal woman!”

Karlach laughs at the unintentional pun, shoving him back. “Oh boy. Now you’ve just got to tell us how you got into this mess.”

“Can I at least give the bag to Dammon so he can start piecing the damn thing together, dear?”

With a wave of her hand, she ushers him towards the tiefling, who has been watching them with barely hidden amusement. Astarion explains only the basics to him: he needs the crown reforged urgently, and he’ll pay anything under three thousand gold.

Dammon frowns. “Who tried to charge you three thousand gold for this? I’ll take two hundred.”

“Thank the gods,” murmurs Astarion before Karlach gets her arm around his shoulders and starts yanking him towards the Elfsong.

They get a table in the far back; it only takes a look at Wyll for the owner to offer up one of their private booths. Astarion squeezes into one side of the niche as the former warlock tugs the curtains closed around them. With a wave of his hand, a Silence bubble forms.

Astarion raises an eyebrow. “You’ve gotten quite handy at magic.”

“I make for an excellent ranger, if I do say so myself,” is Wyll’s reply. Karlach shuffles in beside her partner so that both of them are staring at Astarion over the tabletop. Tara is nowhere to be seen; he’s found that she’s shy in front of new people. She’s probably gone back to their camp in Rivington for the evening.

“So,” says Karlach, “what’s the stitch?”

“Gale gave me the tower,” Astarion blurts. Wyll barely suppresses a cringe at the name. He was closest to Gale, Astarion knows, and he’d been just as angry with his father at the lack of mention of the man at his reinstatement as Astarion had been. He’d almost been jealous of them. In the few weeks it had taken Astarion and Shadowheart to become friends, the two men were practically joined at the hip.

“I knew that,” Karlach waves her hand, “what else?”

“You knew that?” spits Astarion. “How?”

“Shadowheart is a gossip,” says Wyll with a small smile.

“Actually, Lae’zel told me.”

“Disregarding all of that—” he swipes his hand through the air as if wiping away the last few minutes of conversation, “Gale gave me his tower and Elminster showed up to offer me a deal.”

Wyll makes a face. “Marginally better than a deal with a devil, I’d say.”

“Gale made an agreement with Mystra back at Stormshore Tabernacle. He’d return the reforged Crown of Karsus to her in exchange for her favor. Being the stupid bastard he was—”

“He took the deal,” Wyll finishes. He shakes his head. “I’d known that Mystra wanted the crown, but I hadn’t known that Gale had agreed to fetch it for her.”

“It seems that he neglected to tell all of us.”

“Actually,” Karlach says slowly, “I knew.”

“Selüne’s tits, Karlach, do you know everything?”

The tiefling shrugs. “Gale told me! I guess he figured we were in the same spot, y’know, with the whole about-to-die thing. I really didn’t think he’d do it, by the way.” She reaches across the table and takes Astarion’s hand in her own. The smell of something burning fills the air but neither of them pull away. “I’m sorry. I know how much you cared for him.”

“I didn’t,” Astarion bites out. “I promise, I didn’t.”

“Astarion.” With a sigh, Wyll drags his palm down his face. “Even now you won’t admit it?”

“There’s nothing to admit.”

“Fine.” Karlach lets go of his hand with a huff as a mixture of pity and annoyance dances across her face. Amber-colored eyes lock onto his own. “Continue.”

“Elminster offered me a Wish. This ring I’m wearing allows me to walk in the sun for just a few days. Once I get Mystra her crown, I’ll be able to walk in it forever.”

“That’s great news!” she gasps.

“Is that really what you want?” Wyll leans back against the booth, crossing his arms over his chest. “A Wish is a powerful spell. You could have anything.”

As Karlach’s eyes dart between the two men, clearly confused, Astarion grits his teeth. Damn Wyll. Damn his perceptiveness. Without Astarion even saying it, he’d known that there was another offer on the table. At least he had the grace not to say it aloud. It would break poor Karlach’s heart to hear that Astarion had no intention of bringing Gale back.

“I’m quite sure,” answers Astarion.

Wyll simply frowns.

***

The first time Gale tried to detonate the orb, Astarion panicked.

After Ketheric Thorm fled the rooftop for the bowels of Moonrise, Lae’zel was the first to give chase. She was halfway down the tentacled shute before Karlach reached in and yanked her out.

“Hold on,” she said, “let’s talk about this.”

Looking back on it, Astarion realized that she was covering for Gale. A bond had formed between the two of them after their last visit to Dammon. Astarion could understand; the inevitability of death was more comforting when it was done on your terms.

But in the moment he’d simply shrank back into the shadows, content to let his companions duke it out.

“There is no time to talk,” hissed Lae’zel. Despite her acerbic tone, she had gone limp in Karlach’s hold like a sack of potatoes.

“Gale?” Karlach called.

Gale’s head jerked up. “Yes?”

“What are your plans?”

(This was a normal question, so it hadn’t tipped Astarion off to any foul play. Gale was often the first one asked when strategy was involved; Wyll tended to be overzealous and Lae’zel overconfident.)

“I’ll go alone,” Gale answered slowly. The wind whipped at his hair, exposing the dull purple strokes of his tattoo. It crawled up from under the high collar of his robes. “I have a duty to oversee.”

“No,” snapped Shadowheart, a smidge too vehemently. “What if you die making your way down? We can’t risk it.”

With a laugh, Gale wiggled his fingers. The tips of them were blackened, singed from the Fireballs he’d been lobbing. “I think I’ll be just fine, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart’s face twisted for a second before she drew back.

“So we all agree?” said Gale. “I’ll go alone?”

Astarion often forgot how young Gale was. The harrowed curves of his face made him look older than he really was. But in truth, Gale still behaved like a child. Overly enthusiastic about his spellcasting, bumbling through his interactions with Astarion, so lonely and afraid. Even at the end of the world, despite all his protestations, he wanted company before he died.

“I’ll go,” offered Astarion. “If things go belly-up, at least Cazador won’t ever be able to finish his damned ritual.”

“And it will,” Gale turned to him, suddenly firm, hands grasping at Astarion’s elbows. “Astarion. It will go belly-up.”

Astarion stared. He felt untethered, unmoored, desperate—there was a large part of him that, for some reason, hated to think that Gale might die alone. Astarion had experienced it himself. It was horrible.  

“You dolt. You don’t scare me a lick.”

Gale beamed. It had a radiant nature, one that reminded Astarion of the rising dawn and the calm that came with it. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Neither do you.”

“I’ll go too,” Karlach butted in, “I’m in the same boat, Gale. Belly-up it is!”

“I wish to go as well,” Lae’zel declared. “Let my death be in glory rather than cowardice.”

The wizard looked back at Wyll and Shadowheart. Steely determination colored his words as he said, “Make sure everyone is out. We’ll give you two hours.”

Wyll nodded. Then he leaned forward and pulled Gale into a hug that seemed to last forever. Shadowheart’s mouth trembled as she patted his shoulder. “Be safe,” she whispered.

“Always am,” was Gale’s reply.

The lying bastard.

And so, two hours later, when Astarion found himself facing what seemed to be certain death, he thought back to the moment he had volunteered and hated himself, a little bit. But then he turned to look at Gale, whose hair was charred at the ends and whose eyes shone with warmth even in the darkness, and found that he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

***

It takes both Dammon and Karlach to lug the finished crown onto the table. Tara has reappeared; she floats beside Astarion with a look of contemplation. Her nose twitches.

“We’ll need to shrink it, I think.”

Dammon wipes his brow and stares at her, mouth open. “You could have shrunk it?”

The tressym rolls her eyes. “We’ll see. Let me check if Reduce will work.” With a flap of her wing, the Crown of Karsus contracts into a circlet no wider than the circumference of Astarion’s head. The three Netherstones inlaid into its dark metal glint under the firelight. “There we go.”

“Excellent,” purrs Astarion. He snatches it up with both hands and hangs it securely at his hip. A velvet bag clunks onto the table in exchange. “Your payment.”

“Where’d you get the money?” whispers Tara.

“Some old sod in front of Sharess’ Caress,” he hisses back. Tara giggles.

“Where will you go next?” asks Wyll. Karlach waves goodbye to Dammon and wanders over to his side.

“Stormshore Tabernacle.”

“Yikes,” she mutters, “seems like that place just keeps coming up.”

“Good thing the two of us don’t have any gods to worship,” Wyll reminds her, bumping his hip into her thigh.

Sparrows take off from a nearby tree as Karlach cackles. “We’ve had enough bad luck for a lifetime, Ravengard.”

Wyll shakes his head, laughing. A wave of his hand causes the air behind them to split into a rift, the burning fires of Avernus captured within it. Karlach tugs Astarion into one last hug before skipping through the portal.

Astarion is forced to make eye contact with Wyll as he steps forward.

“When the time comes,” he says, “I can only hope that you will be true to yourself, Astarion.”

“Always am.” The vampire gives him a lazy salute. Wyll gives him one last enduring look before stepping into the portal. It snaps shut behind him with a szzt. 

Astarion grimaces.

Guess I’m a lying bastard, too.

Chapter Text

Stormshore Tabernacle is much more impressive in the daytime, but Astarion chooses to visit after dark. He can’t explain why; something in him squirms at the prospect of having to lay offerings at a god’s feet when there are people around to see. He’s always been staunch in his scorn towards the gods and goddesses of the realms. They’d never helped him. In turn, he’d never seen much reason to respect them.

The door opens under his touch, the lockpick being tossed into a nearby bush as he makes his way in. With no sconces lit the entire room is cast in unsettling shadow. Mystra’s statue seems ten times taller than he remembers.

Tara pauses outside the doors. “I think I’ll stay here,” she says softly. “Better to watch for guards.”

Astarion looks back at her. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “Make whatever choice is best for you, dear Astarion. That would be what Gale wanted.”

He has no doubt she’s right. With a firm nod, he closes the doors behind him.

A whispered “Ignis” sets the candelabras full of flame. His boots are quiet against the plush red carpet, worn down after years of use yet still reverently dusted each morning. He’s thankful for the open windows. If they’d been closed, the whole place would’ve felt like a crypt.

Gale, like most people who kept a faith, had an odd thing about burials. He’d always remarked that a shoddy one was better than none at all. But when he died, there hadn’t been anything to bury. That was one of the crueler aspects of his death: the lack of anything to provide proof of it. Astarion hadn’t even really seen it happen. The blast had knocked the wind out of him and the brightness had been so overwhelming that he’d looked away.

There was nothing. No singed robes, no missing fingers, not even Mystra’s earring had been left behind (and Astarion had been convinced that the damn thing was charmed to Gale’s ear, for how he never took it off).

Shadowheart – ever pragmatic about the dead – had spent a day trying to Revivify him before giving up entirely and assigning the matter to Astarion. No one else was left to help; Karlach and Wyll had gone to Avernus and Lae’zel to the Astral Plane almost the next day. They’d stayed just long enough for Duke Ravengard to make his speeches.

Astarion had taken the assignment back to Waterdeep with him. He’d thought very little of it in those months where he’d been moping in Baldur’s Gate. Gale deserved to be buried in his home city.

Tara and him ended up burying an old locket of Gale’s. They’d shoveled through barely a foot of dirt before dropping the damn thing down the hole and covering it up. No headstone. No name. Just a handful of flowers with crushed stems every week to mark his grave.

Then, a week into Astarion’s stay, Gale’s mother showed up.

***

Astarion had barely cracked open his book when there was a knock at the door. He motioned to get up and answer it, but a moment later the door flew open and a woman walked into Gale’s tower.

“Tara!” she called. “Come down!”

Tara appeared on the kitchen table beside the woman, ears raised in surprise. “Mrs. Dekarios! This is certainly a surprise.”

The woman sighed. “I just wanted to pop by for a bit. Just to see what he’s done with the place.”

For a moment, Astarion thought she’d meant Gale. Oh no, he’d thought, there’s no way I’m equipped to tell her that Gale is dead. But then she’d turned to Astarion and smiled—it was such a familiar smile, one that had Astarion’s stomach clenching, his throat bobbing. “You must be Astarion Ancunin. I’m Gale’s mother, Morena.”

Morena was a tall woman with dark, wavy hair that ran down to her lower back. Most of it was corralled into a bun at the back of her head but several strands had escaped. She was wearing a deep red dress that hugged her figure and pearl earrings that were on just the right side of oversized. The toes of her black boots dug into the thick rug under Gale’s door.

She looked so startlingly like Gale that Astarion didn’t know what to do for a moment. There were pieces of her that were in mismatch with him, yes — almond eyes in comparison to Gale’s round, her uncommon height, the birdlike structure of her jaw – but it was abundantly clear that she was his mother.

“Pleasure,” he managed to stutter out.

Morena stepped forward until she was standing just before him. She smelled like expensive spices, saffron and pepper and—

She brushed a strand of hair away from Astarion’s eyes. It was downright motherly; Astarion balked.

“Apologies,” Morena said quickly. She shook her head. “I just— in his last letter, he spoke so fondly of you. I just had to check you weren’t a figment of his imagination. He is so very inventive, isn’t he?”

In a strange way, Astarion felt the world slot back into place. Morena talked about Gale as if he was still alive but far away, on a journey that neither of them could fully explain yet knew he would return from. It was almost the same way Astarion thought of Gale: as an eternal presence that didn't quite haunt but inhabited Astarion's very existence. He placed his hand over hers, gripping it tightly.

“He’s wonderful,” Astarion replied, and meant it.

She nodded. Her voice wobbled as she whispered, “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

***

Mystra’s statue looms before him, resplendent and seductive in equal measure. Her stone robe has been artfully carved to imply that it is in the process of falling off her shoulders. Below her feet are the day’s offerings: coins, locks of hair, food, flowers. Astarion shoves them off the tableau and dusts his knees before sitting before it.

“You’re crazy if you think I’ll pray,” he tells her.

Mystra doesn’t reply. Astarion dips his head down, staring at the crown in his hands, and sets it atop the stone. Then he closes his eyes and breathes.

He doesn’t like remembering; most of his life has been painful, and none of it has required him to re-examine old wounds. But he almost feels like he owes it to Gale. Astarion has carried the memories of so many people’s last moments; Gale is not one of them. But he remembers the before, at least, and so that is where he starts.

***

They were almost to the Absolute when Gale stopped them.

“I’m going up,” he said.

Lae’zel had frowned. “No,” she’d said with such derision that it’d be funny in any other circumstance, “we are all going up.”

Gale shook his head. “No. I’m doing this alone. I’m not going to be responsible for any of your deaths.”

Astarion dug his fingers into the man’s forearm. He hadn’t noticed how close they’d been standing until that very moment. It was as if some part of him had known that Gale would do something like this and had been preparing to pull him back from the precipice if he dared.

“This is giving me an awful sense of deja-vu, darling,” Astarion hissed. “We’re going up together. We don’t have time for your games.”

“Not a game,” said Gale firmly. He peeled Astarion off of him. Astarion tried to ignore how much it hurt. “This is the only way and you know it.”

“Do you not trust my prowess in battle?” argued Lae’zel. She hitched her sword to her side in a silent threat.

Gale snorted. “Hardly. But there are more important things than fighting right now. You have to trust me. Do you trust me, Lae’zel?”

Lae’zel stared at him. Something unspoken passed between them before she nodded, notching her sword back behind her shoulders and laying a gentle hand on Shadowheart’s shoulder. “Come. The wizard will do what he must.”

“Gale,” said Shadowheart angrily, “you’ve already done this once. You’ve already backed out once before. I don’t trust you not to do it again!” Steady, the pitch of her voice rose the longer she spoke, and suddenly it became clear that she was not mad but scared. Scared, not for herself, but for Gale.

The wizard hung his head. Astarion could count his lashes, absurdly dark and thick, when his eyes closed.  “I understand. I wouldn’t trust me either, Shadowheart. But please know that I’ve reflected on that moment in the Oubliette far too many times since our arrival here. Know that I’m prepared, now. I will rid the world of this evil.”

Shadowheart choked on a sob. “Take me back,” she snapped. Gale placed his hands over both women’s shoulders and they disappeared.

For several moments Astarion was alone. The sky around him turned dark, muddled by gray clouds and interspersed with streaks of blue lighting as the fighting continued. It was very lonely up at the top.

Then Gale was back in his own flash of lightning, robes lifting with invisible wind as he reappeared in front of Astarion. He gave the vampire a crooked smile. “Ready?” he asked.

“What are you doing?” asked Astarion flatly.

Gale’s smile dimmed. “I’m sorry?”

“Why have you regained this idea that killing yourself is the right answer? It’s not, by the way. I would’ve thought by now that you’d gotten over your self-importance, but trust me, Gale, darling—the world doesn’t revolve around you.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered.

A startled laugh tore through Gale’s throat. The sound of it was lost in the chaos around them but Astarion found himself wishing he’d pressed his hand along the column of Gale’s neck to at least feel it.

“Yes, yes,” he laughed, “I’m a terrible, arrogant wizard. May I take you back now?”

“You may not,” said Astarion, prim.

Gale shook his head. He was sort of beautiful right now. Astarion couldn’t quite put his finger on what, exactly, was making the wizard so lovely, only that he was and it was somehow devastating.

“Astarion,” Gale pleaded.

Behind him, a dragon roared. The sky opened up and two more Nautiloids poured through, leaving behind sunbeams in their wake. Astarion felt his chest constrict with the urge to breathe.

“I’m telling you, this is a bad idea,” he bit out.

“Please,” said Gale, and then he was reaching across the space between them and grasping Astarion’s hands as though he’d die if he didn’t. Which, Astarion supposed, was true. His hands were overwhelmingly warm. “Trust me.”

Astarion swallowed.

Gale’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why do you even care?” he asked softly.

“Is that what this is? Just another ploy to see who actually cares about you?” Astarion was past the point of being kind. Not that he ever had been, but Gale was really pissing him off.

“It’s a nice bonus,” said Gale with a wry laugh. “Do you care for me, Astarion?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Great.” The wizard grasped Astarion’s hands tighter. “Let’s go.”

Before Astarion could do anything, the world around him blurred into a mix of colors. Gale was gripping him so tightly that it was about all he could feel at that moment. That, and a sudden weightlessness. A moment later his feet hit the ground. Gale appeared beside him a second afterwards, and almost immediately the wizard let go of his hands. He could still feel their lingering heat.

“You agreed?” gasped Karlach.

Sooner than Astarion could ask her what she meant, Gale spun to face him.

Astarion had considered death many times but being that he was undead himself, there was always an underlying aloofness to it. It was so easy to sink into the assumption that death was impermanent.

Gale was going to die now. This would be the very last time he ever saw the man alive, yet he met his eyes with curious detachment.

“You have to promise me that you’ll take care of yourself,” said Gale quietly. “Of the others, of course, but you especially.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Astarion bristled.

Gale smiled sadly. One of his hands came up to cup Astarion’s face gently enough that it felt like the wind was simply caressing his skin. “You’re a special case. You always need looking after.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve been looked after enough.”

“No,” said Astarion very softly, “I don’t think you have.”

Gale stared at him, eyes wide, and then stepped back. “Be safe,” he called, and it was only then that Astarion realized how close they’d been and how tenderly they’d been speaking. Before he could do anything more – reach out and touch Gale, tell him that he didn’t want him to go, kiss him, maybe – the wizard was gone.

***

A flash of light behind Astarion’s eyelids pulls him from his trance. In front of him is a thin, jagged rift carved into the air, wavering dangerously. He can’t quite make out what’s within it.

“Come,” says an unfamiliar voice.

He stands on weary knees, mouth pursed. Around his finger, his ring gleams brilliantly. The cluster of red stones in its center seems to pulse like a heartbeat. In just a few minutes, Astarion will be able to walk outside without it. He’ll pawn it off for a couple hundred coin, he thinks. It looks expensive enough.

He’s hesitating. There’s something churning in his gut, something that rankles of guilt. Tara had said that Gale would’ve wanted him to do this. But there’s a part of him, no longer small (had it ever been small?) that hates that this quest has only been bestowed on him because Gale is dead.

With a shake of his head, he presses his shoulders back. No time to think about Gale now, not when Astarion is so close to victory. He’ll have to find some extra nice flowers to lay on the wizard’s grave in thanks when this is all over.

Astarion takes a deep breath and steps through the portal.

Chapter Text

Astarion was having a terrible day.

First, he’d woken up onboard a ship made of squirming tentacles rather than in his bunk at Cazador’s mansion. Then, he’d been given a worm to the eyeball, which had (quite reasonably) made him pass out. When he’d opened his eyes next, he was hurtling through the air, still somewhat encased in his pod.

The only good part of today had been the arrival of the cleric. She introduced herself as Shadowheart.

“Shadowheart,” repeated Astarion. “Is that really your real name?”

She set her hands on her hips. “After the day we’ve had, is my name really the strangest thing you’ve come across?”

Fair enough. He inclined his head and followed her across the decimated landscape. He’d expected to have been burnt to cinders by now, but something had changed. Astarion deduced it was likely the tadpole, which was unfortunate, really, given that Shadowheart was on a single-minded mission to remove hers and was under the impression that Astarion had the same goal.

They came across a gith  woman who Shadowheart seemed to have a brief history with. She was tall and green as a sage leaf, and Astarion immediately latched onto her if only because she looked strong enough to take a few hits for him. That, and because the moment she saw the rune she turned the other way.

The rune was set into a short cliff face, fizzing with power, and upon seeing it Astarion grabbed Shadowheart’s arm and tried to tug her away.

“Come on, no use in getting ourselves killed this early on,” he said.

Shadowheart rolled her shoulders, forcing him to release his grip on her. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. Both Astarion and Lae’zel watched with dull curiosity as the cleric approached the stone. She placed her hand on it without any hesitation, and almost instantly a great wind surged around her, blowing her bangs straight back. Her eyes fluttered closed.

Streaks of purple Weave crackled at the edges of the rune as a hand jerked through the center of it. Astarion bit down on his tongue to mask his scream, but given the look Lae’zel shot him, it was clear she’d heard.

“A hand? Anyone?” the hand said.

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. “Who are you?”

A long-suffering sigh echoed from the stone. “Just your average adventurer who lost his way. Now, a hand, if you would?”

Lae’zel had wandered up beside Shadowheart at that point, and at the hand’s insistence she gave it a swift slap. Astarion didn’t bother to hide his bark of laughter.

The hand dropped almost sadly before pointing upwards with one finger. “Perhaps I should have clarified? A helping hand?”

Shadowheart elbowed Lae’zel  back with a roll of her eyes before reaching forward and grasping the adventurer. She took a step back, her boot digging through the dirt behind her, and pulled.

It was Gale, of course, who came tumbling out.

The wizard was a mess. The sash across his chest was ripped and his hair was haphazardly brushed behind his ears, though one side had already come undone. He glanced up at Astarion on his hands and knees, panting, and before Astarion could comment, he surged upwards and gripped the elf’s hand in a handshake.

“I do apologize,” he babbled. He continued speaking for some time, and annoying as it was, Astarion could only focus on the soft brown of his eyes. He was handsome in a quiet sort of way; he had a pretty, straight nose and a full mouth, but there wasn’t anything particularly striking about him. And yet Astarion was struck.

“Gale,” said the wizard finally.

“Astarion,” he answered.

Gale beamed. “Well. I don’t suppose you have any room for a wizard of great acclaim in your party? I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Then Astarion had scoffed, and the beginning of their never-ending bickering began.

***

The Astral Plane stretches out infinitely around him, shimmering in hues of amethyst and starlight mingling imperceptibly. A serene sense of calm settles over him like a well-loved blanket, and Astarion takes a hesitant step forward. His body moves weightlessly, almost as if the very space around him is giving way to his presence. Constellations overhead blink like cosmic jewels set into the necklace of the universe.

“Welcome,” says that same voice. He turns to find Elminster standing behind a woman clad in iridescent satins. They flow across her shoulders to criss-cross over her chest before draping off her body in bunches. At her collarbones the dress is pure white to match the stars around them, but as the robe drips off her skin it melts into the amaranthine sky below. Her gaze is cutting.

Before him stands Mystra: Lady of Mysteries, the mother of magic, goddess of the Weave. Astarion swallows. He’s not sure what to say. He doesn’t exactly want to bow in deference, but he can’t think of anything else to do.

“Ahem,” says Elminster. He steps forward and produces the Crown of Karsus, now back to its original size. With a gentle wave of his hand, it floats forward to hover before Mystra.

Speechless, Mystra carefully runs her hand up one of the crown’s spokes. She seems barely cognizant of Astarion standing there. He doesn’t blame her; not only has the crown grown, it’s almost begun to glow too.

It holds power beyond his comprehension. Gale had tried to explain the concept of Karsite Weave to him, an abject failure due to Astarion’s inability to pay attention when Gale started speaking in sentences longer than ten words. But Astarion knows the basics: the power within that crown is the same kind that was in Gale’s chest. World-ending, realm-shattering power.

Mystra removes her hand from the crown and snaps her fingers. It disappears from view. Hopefully, it’s been hidden away in some vault like Mephistopheles had done for so many years. He doesn’t doubt that’s what Mystra has done; she may have been particularly shitty to Gale, but she’s by no means a terrible goddess.

“Now,” she says, focusing on Astarion. He feels a shiver run down his spine. “You’ve completed the task I’ve given you. As promised, I will give you one Wish.”

Astarion’s eyes flicker to his Sunwalker ring. It seems to glow even brighter here. He twists it around his finger once, twice, and then clasps his hands together.

I Wish to be able to walk in the sun forever.

The words come so clearly to him, yet his mouth refuses to open. 

It seems like a lifetime has passed since Elminster first assigned him Mystra’s quest. “It’s a matter concerning Gale,” he’d said. As if just that was enough for Astarion to agree to do whatever wretched task had been handed down to him.

“You agreed?” Karlach had gasped, like she had never considered that Astarion would let Gale go, much less so easily.

“Gale was fond of you. Too fond,” Tara had said all those months ago. Astarion had been fond of Gale too. Terribly fond, even if he never showed it. But somehow other people had noticed that terrible fondness, and somehow Gale hadn’t. There was a thread that tied him to Gale, and as much as Astarion had wanted to snap it, it remained. Perhaps he’d hoped that Gale’s death might’ve been the necessary scissors. Perhaps in those months he’d stayed away from Waterdeep, he’d been running just to put distance between him and where the thread tied off. In the end, he’d come running back, anyways.

His throat feels tight.

“Mr. Ancunin?” asks Elminster. It sounds like he’s underwater.

Gale was selfless. He was kind. And the terrible fondness he’d felt for Astarion had been all too apparent. He’d never hidden that.

“You’re a special case. You always need looking after.”

No, no, no! Astarion had promised himself that he’d see this through. He’s wanted this for so many years.

He opens his mouth.

“The sun—”

A vision cuts through his mind. The sun sparkles across the waters of the Chionthar, turning the river a lovely rose as it sets. The breeze whistles through his hair. Somewhere in the background, someone is playing a calming melody on the flute. The sound mingles with the gentle push-pull of the river lapping against the shore.

Gale turns around, eyes wide. Astarion stares at him, feeling unmoored. He’s really quite pretty. Always has been.

Then Gale smiles, and the vision breaks.

“I Wish to bring Gale back.”

For what is likely once in her life, Mystra looks completely shocked. Her hand stills in the air as she darts a look back at Elminster. Elminster, who is smiling at Astarion like he knew this would happen all along.

“Are you quite certain?” asks Mystra, turning back to him.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I’m certain.”

Mystra’s nose wrinkles before she lets out a soft sigh. “I do suppose he has that effect on you,” she murmurs. Her hands raise, lifting the hem of her robe and sliding its sleeves down her arms. “I Wish for Gale Dekarios to return to the land of living.”

For a moment, nothing happens. Then Astarion suddenly can’t speak because Gale is sitting on top of his chest. Memories don’t do him justice. Gale’s features are more refined than Astarion remembers them; that gorgeous straight nose and his mouth, carrying a subtle warmth, swim before his vision. Through the layers of his haphazardly tied robe, tan skin peeks out from between ivory swaths of fabric.

“What—” says Gale in this sweet, cracked voice, and Astarion rolls them over and kisses him.

He tastes like death, like the cool cleanness that assaults the senses after a massacre has been cleared. Like pure nothingness. But Astarion kisses him harder, pressing their lips together in a dry crush. Gale gasps.

A hand reaches up and slaps him on the shoulder.

Gale pulls back, open-mouthed. He stares at him as if he can’t quite believe he’s really there, those soft brown eyes searching for a lie hidden among Astarion’s features.

“Oh,” says Gale. And then he starts laughing.

“What’s so funny!” Astarion hisses, grasping Gale by the shoulders and shaking him. It just makes Gale laugh harder.

“It’s just—” a heaving breath, “you really brought me back?”

“What’s wrong with that?” demands Astarion. “There’s nothing wrong with you! I made a perfectly good choice.”

Gale cackles. Astarion kisses him again just to shut him up. His mouth is wetter this time, soft and plush, and Astarion tips his head further. Gale’s nose notches into Astarion’s cheek like it belongs there.

He has to let Gale go eventually because the poor human is starting to hyperventilate.

Elminster coughs very loudly.

“Oops,” says Astarion languidly. He reaches across Gale’s waist and grips the skin there, biting his lip to keep from turning and kissing him at the sound he makes.

Mystra’s brow is furrowed. “Are you quite done?” she asks.

“Not quite—” Astarion begins. He’s cut off by the wind getting knocked out of him as they’re transported back to Stormshore Tabernacle. Gale yelps as cool stone presses against his bare skin.

The doors fly open. “Gale!” gasps Tara before hurtling into his arms. Gale tugs her into a hug but not before spitting a feather out of his mouth. Astarion grins.

“I really wasn’t sure he’d do it,” Tara is saying. She gestures at Astarion. “He kept going on and on about the sun, how beautiful it is, how bright, blah blah.”

“He is beautiful, isn’t he?” says Astarion. He’ll recoup his old apathetic persona tomorrow—for today, he just wants to enjoy this.

Gale flushes bright red. “I—”

Astarion snorts. He pushes himself to his feet, then reaches down to pull Gale up. Tara’s wings flap as she frees herself of Gale’s arms. “Come on,” he says. “We should get back to Waterdeep. The journey will be long now that I can no longer walk in the sun.”

“Are you forgetting that you revived an archmage?” says Gale with a smirk. He draws his hand in a wide circle through the air, a thin purple line following his motions. “Porto,” he calls.

A shimmering portal appears before them; through it Astarion can see the familiar comforts of Gale’s tower.

“Arrogant bastard,” he mutters.

“Always,” promises Gale sweetly.

“You know,” starts Astarion, “I’m getting a real sense of deja-vu from this whole portal situation.”

Clever Gale doesn’t need further explanation. He shrugs. “That wasn’t my best work.”

I’m glad we let Shadowheart pull you out, he thinks.

“Unfortunately not.”

“You know,” says Gale, soft as anything, “if you regret using your Wish—”

“Nonsense,” Astarion spits.

“As I was saying, if you regret using your Wish, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You said that too,” he realizes, “back at the portal.”

“What?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to do anything. I made my own choice.”

Gale gives him a haughty look. “Then I suppose I won’t need to work on any Sunwalker rings in the future…”

Astarion reaches forward, grips his wrist, and yanks him through the portal. Gale’s ringing laughter follows him through.

4 Months Later

A knock on the door startles Astarion out of his needlework. He sets aside the robes, but before he can open it, the door slams open and Morena Dekarios marches through.

“Well?” she asks, hands on her hips in a near perfect impression of her son, “How is it coming along?”

Astarion holds up the robes proudly. The exquisite fastenings of the overcoat are embroidered in pure gold thread that flows down the piece, stopping at the hem. Tiny pearls decorate the bottom, hanging at precise points along the edges.

“It’s beautiful!” As the sun’s shine is caught in the golden accents, Morena holds a hand over her mouth, eyes sparkling.

Halfway down the stairs, Gale groans theatrically. “Mother. Is it not enough for you to plan our whole wedding? Do you need to check up on Astarion’s work every single day?”

Morena gives a dramatic false gasp. “So ungrateful!”

“Isn’t he?” chimes Astarion with a huff. “He doesn’t appreciate all that I do for him.”

Gale, ever the charmer, shoots him a sidelong grin. “I assure you,” he says with a gentle laugh, “he absolutely does.”