[ In the aftermath of the Netherbrain fight, Lae'zel absconds on a dragon to free her people. Shadowheart goes off to live a peaceful life in a cottage with her many, many animals. Karlach has no choice but to return to the Hells, and Wyll joins her. Gale, of course, returns to Waterdeep. And Astarion—
He doesn't have anything to go back to in Baldur's Gate. He and the rest of the freed spawn have no choice but to flee to the Underdark, where they can hide from the sun's rays. It's... fine. Minsc visits more often than Astarion would strictly like, and living with a thousands-strong commune of vampires in the Underdark is less than ideal, but he adapts. In his trance, though, he replays what it was like to step out of the mind flayer pod and feel the sun on his face. To go where he pleased instead of being all but exiled to the metaphorical sewers of Faerûn. To have real freedom.
Astarion has never been the type to let things go. It weighs on him, this desire to return to the surface world, to civilization. More than that, to experience everything it has to offer, day or night. He won't go back to hiding in the dark like a rat.
If there's anyone who can help him, it's an (ex-)archwizard. He bids his ragtag group of spawn a temporary farewell before setting out on his journey to Waterdeep. He's never been, but the City of Splendors sounds up his alley. It takes longer than he'd like, having to travel under the cover of night, but he finally sets foot in the place on one chilly evening. A glittering, cosmopolitan city, a bustling hub of trade even at night. Vendors call out to him as he wanders the streets, hawking wares he can't afford. When he passes by a shop with sparkling rings on display in the window, he makes a mental note to return and pocket one when he gets the chance.
He hasn't seen Gale in months, not since he decided to defy his goddess and keep himself in one piece. A few scattered letters have been exchanged here and there, as they have with all of his ex-companions, but that's all. He could have asked via letter, but— he feared Gale might say no. If Astarion shows up at his doorstep, he really won't have any choice, will he?
At least, that's what he's depending on as he approaches Gale's tower, which was easier to locate than he'd expected. A few descriptions of Gale given to the right people, and they'd pointed him where he needed to go. (Brown hair, sad cow eyes, earring, can't stop talking, he'd said. "Oh, you mean the wizard!" they'd replied.) He stands at the doorway now, smoothing down his vest. His clothes aren't as luxurious as he would like, bought on an adventurer's budget as they are, but he's made sure through careful tailoring that they at least look smart.
A knock, and he waits. Throughout this whole trip, he'd never once questioned his decision to show up unannounced, but now that he's in the thick of it, he can't help but feel nervous. What if Gale says 'no' anyway? What if he's upset by Astarion's impertinence? Gods, what if he's not even here? That last concern turns out to be untrue, because Gale opens the door, and— ]
[ With time his body has healed, the constant pain and weakness of the orb’s ravages easing almost at soon as Mystra removes it. In its place is an echo, a memory of its hunger that twinges now and then. A whisper beneath his scar.
His abilities, however, have been slower to return. In lieu of sleep Gale spends many of his nights running through somatic exercises, practicing the simple cantrips he gives his youngest students. He is making progress, if agonizingly slowly. At this rate he’ll be as old as Elminster before he recovers all that had once been his, as intrinsic to him as breathing. It is a fitting punishment, he knows, for what he’d nearly cost the world. Privately, it devastates him.
More than even that he finds he misses, in so many ways, the shared purpose of adventure. He misses his companions most of all, misses all of them with an ache that feels almost as physical as the absence of the orb, at times. He’d thought it was enough, once, to simply be respected by colleagues. That he could want for nothing as long as he held Mystra’s love, which as he understands now, he had never truly had at all. Nor does he want it any longer.
Only he might never have realized that had he never known what it was to be cared for by true friends. To share burdens and joys alike in a way he’d never known possible. They all deserve happiness, and that lies, by necessity, on separate paths now. Still, there are times when Gale finds himself grappling with a strangely pervasive sense of loss.
He thinks of Astarion, perhaps, most of all. Worries for his safety, of course; his well-being. Eagerly awaits (and keeps tightly wrapped in a drawer in his desk) the letters he does receive. He pens long replies, dozens of pages of scrawling thoughts and anecdotes. And then he puts those away as well, embarrassed in a way he can’t quite articulate even to himself. He drafts more sensible, far shorter responses and passes those in the direction of the underdark. He hopes Astarion will simply know that he’s thought of, when he reads them.
Gale is rebuilding, despite it all. He has students who delight him with their curiosity. A circle of friendly colleagues who have begun to welcome him back. His work is satisfying, if a bit lacking in the thornier challenges Gale has always thrived on most.
The tower alerts him to a visitor one evening, as Gale is reorganizing his study, searching for a particular book he’d borrowed some years ago from Elminster himself (Sunlight and Magic, as it happens). It’s late for deliveries, and a rare enough occurrence in itself that it startles him. He instructs his simulacrum to tidy the mess he’s made and then goes to investigate, still in his dressing gown. He starts when he sees who is standing there, his shock of silver hair, his familiar lean form. His heart leaps. ]
Astarion! [ He’s surprised, but the delight on his face is obvious, a light in his eyes. ] Indeed it is! But a most welcome one.
[ Instinct makes him reach for a hug - only to stop halfway there, not wanting to presume. Still the gesture is unmistakable, awkward in Gale’s slightly abashed way. ]
[ It's been ages since anyone has hugged him. Near the end of their journey, after the initial repair of her infernal engine, Karlach had squeezed him so tight he felt like he might pop. Astarion had groused about it, but it had been surprisingly nice. And the first time Minsc had found his way—the gods only know how—to Astarion's lodgings in the Underdark, he'd wrapped him up in a three-way hug between them and Boo. Vampire sandwich, he'd called it. Astarion quickly had to set some ground rules that hugs are a privilege reserved for near-death experiences and Minsc's birthday. ]
Ah—
[ He's never hugged Gale, though. Reluctant to be impolite so soon, he leans in for a perfunctory embrace, arms wrapped around Gale's middle for only a moment before he steps back. Gale really does smell like a wealthy dowager, just as Shadowheart had once teased. Like fancy soap.
Gale seems genuinely happy to see him, which feels... surprising. It's not that he thought Gale would be unwelcoming, but after so long surrounded by people who ran the spectrum from 'mere toleration' to 'outright disdain and hatred' in their feelings toward him, it's still strange to wrap his head around the idea that his presence might be wanted. Enjoyed, even.
It's a foreign feeling, but a pleasant one.
Astarion's eyes trail down Gale's face, down his neck and chest where the first tendrils of the orb used to peek out, to his dressing gown. His mouth twitches with amusement, because of course Gale wears a dressing gown around the house (tower?).
With a teasing lilt: ] Don't you look cozy.
[ His face falls, then, because there's not much that's a bigger imposition than showing up unannounced while Gale is quite literally in his slippers. ]
I suppose you're busy. [ Almost like he's decided for Gale. ] I can return next evening.
[ He just got here, and he's already turning tail. ]
Hells- was I impolite? [ He wonders if it’s about the hug. Alarmed, he steps out into the cool night entirely, slippers be damned. ] I’m hardly too busy to speak to an old friend.
[ Astarion has his moods, and Gale likes to think he’s even begun to understand them. He must have traveled quite far, at great risk. Perhaps something has gone wrong with the spawn. ]
[ Was I impolite. Astarion has to scoff. Gale is so damn genteel that even when he's insulting someone, he does it politely. In all honesty, he could probably stand to get down in the mud and be impolite more, but that's a conversation for another day.
It'll be more than a chat that Astarion requests of him, but it feels somehow wrong to just come out and say it while they're standing in the darkness of the chilly evening. It needs preamble, he thinks. Something to convince Gale that it's a worthy cause to spend his talents on. ]
Yes, of course I am. I'm delightful.
[ He stands there, then, awkwardly hovering at the doorway. ]
You may enter, now and always. [ He announces it with a dramatic wizardly gesture. Will that work? He hopes so.
Gale leads him through the foyer and into the parlor. He is a bit embarrassed of its untidiness; the space is immaculately clean (maintained diligently by several unseen servants) but somehow still strewn with books, maps, notes, instruments, and other evidence of his many projects.
But Astarion had seen the state of his tent on many occasions, after all. He decides not to stand on ceremony. He must be chilled from travel, and the parlor has several plush arm chairs and a roaring fire.
The walls are lined with tidier rows of books, as well as evidence of his appreciation for art in many different styles and compositions. The night sky is a recurrent theme in many pieces. ]
Now, would you care for some wine? [ He is fetching some from the cabinet anyway. He suspects they will be needing it. ]
It would be a shame to drink such a fine bottle alone.
[ Gods, how long has it been since he's had wine? Ages, it feels like. Not since absconding to the Underdark, at least. Gale is a hospitable host already; Astarion can imagine him with guests over—wizardly, academic types, surely—flitting around to tend to their every need. He's always been a bit of a showboat. It's not surprising that he'd show off his hosting skills, too. ]
I wouldn't turn down a red.
[ Not the type of red he'd really like to indulge in after his long journey to the surface, but somehow he doubts Gale keeps jars of blood around. ]
Although, ah— I have to admit that this isn't just a social call.
[ Astarion hovers for a moment before finally perching on one of the swanky arm chairs across from Gale. He runs a hand over the arm of the chair; the fabric is velvety, smooth. The sort of luxurious thing that Cazador kept in his palace and never let his spawn indulge in. He leans back in it now, letting the crackling heat of the fire warm him. ]
Well.
[ He probably should have rehearsed this, he slowly realizes. Too late now. ]
I've been thinking about... my condition, [ he starts awkwardly, unsure how to segue from drinking wine into begging for a cure for his vampiric setbacks. ] And its drawbacks. And I thought, really, it would be a mere trifle for a wizard of your acclaim to look into it. Honestly, hardly an inconvenience.
[ Gale can only watch him for a moment. His visible discomfort, as if he’s asking him for something he would surely prefer to withhold.
Can that be all?
Such a particular cruelty for Astarion, who had already suffered so many. It had not felt right even then to simply abandon him to the shadows, to return to his comfortable home as if all they had shared had not occurred. The lure of the crown had consumed him in those chaotic weeks following the brain’s defeat, the orb’s hungers ever more insistent as Mystra’s price for his life came due. The question of whether he would take it for himself, and all of its power with it.
Perhaps he could have done more. He should have tried, he knows that.
And so he had not forgotten, once they had parted. The question churned in his thoughts when rest eluded him. A puzzle to unravel that captured more of his imagination than his student's practicums could, in truth. ]
Oh! Yes. References are quite scattered, so it has taken me some time to gather them. The question of the sun and the question of vampirism must be held separately, of course, and while no clear solution to either currently exists, one could certainly be constructed by an enterprising mage. [ He preens a bit, unable to resist. He is quite proud of what he’s managed thus far. ]
I do believe it is possible. My early experiments were not promising, which is why I- did not mention them in my letters. [ His gaze drops. ] But I am beginning to develop a theory.
[ Astarion is halfway through a sip of his wine, the glittering glass Gale had provided for him pressed to his lips, when Gale answers. Vampires can't get drunk—at least not on alcohol—but there's something about the feeling of a nice vintage on his tongue that soothes the nerves, and his certainly need soothing. At I am beginning to develop a theory, Astarion is so surprised that he chokes on his drink, coughing and spluttering and trying not to spill any of this dark red wine on Gale's very nice armchair. ]
I don't— [ Understand, he nearly says, but that isn't quite right. It's shocking to hear and yet it makes perfect sense. Gale is unrelentingly kind and adores an intellectual challenge. The kind that vampirism could surely provide.
Even with that knowledge, it's strange to sit in the realization. He'd spent time combing through references, doing experiments. For Astarion's sake? He chides himself. No, for cerebral stimulation, surely. Regardless, it hardly matters why he did it, only that he did it at all and, what's more, seems like he plans to continue. ]
You've been researching this.
[ He huffs, incredulous. ]
Honestly, Gale, you should have been going to parties and taking advantage of your hero status, not gathering references in some dusty old library.
[ He laughs at that, a bit startled. ] Perhaps if I were to enjoy the experience of being pawed at and interrogated. The social prospects of being a hero leave surprisingly much to be desired.
[ Perhaps as a younger man he would have appreciated such attention more. Now he finds it leaves him feeling surprisingly empty and cold. A mere conversation piece rather than someone worthy of true conversation. A genuine acquaintance on his own merits.
He straightens a bit, extending his hand, palm up. ]
[ Astarion's eyebrows lift at the suggestion that there even is anything to see. Then again, perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. Gale's arcane talents might have been weakened by the orb and subsequent illithid tadpole, but he still has the mind that made him an archwizard. Even when they'd just met and Astarion found him arrogant and irritating, he'd known that Gale was uniquely clever.
It takes everything he has not to jump out of his seat and demand to be shown immediately. He has to tread carefully, avoid coming across as entitled or presumptuous. The last thing he wants is to offend Gale enough that he decides to stop his research.
But he can needle him a little. Nonchalantly, as if he isn't dying to see it himself, he says, ] I wouldn't dream of denying you the opportunity to show off.
I do appreciate your indulgence. [ He is beaming, a light in his expression.
He whispers an incantation and there in his palm floats a tiny ball of bright energy, cast with a dark surrounding corona. It creates an odd little void in the air surrounding it. The candlelight in the room flickers, as does the fire. Gale holds it carefully, but it takes him some effort. ]
Now, I cannot be sure yet that it will work as intended. But it is meant to mimic the effect of a shadow. To form a sort of invisible shield in transmuting the energy of the sun, if properly harnessed within an object. You could walk in the sun, and not be harmed by its touch.
But- well. There is more left to be done. [ There are things he lacks here in Waterdeep; a powerful siphon to make up for where Gale himself is lacking in strength. Something to keep it self sustaining without his constant effort. Potentially critical texts likely buried in vaults or private libraries. A missing piece of information could mean the difference between success and failure. Gale wants to be very sure, lest he risk greater harm to Astarion.
It had seemed entirely natural to not speak of it the start; to not raise a cruel hope in a solution that might never materialize. But it occurs to him now that perhaps he should have consulted with Astarion first. That perhaps he would have preferred he not take such liberties in the creation of something that meant so dearly to him. He looks for his gaze through it’s light, brows pinching together. ]
[ Astarion tilts his head at the strange ball of magic in Gale's hand, scooting forward in his chair and reaching out to touch it with a finger. It doesn't feel like much of anything, which he supposes is to be expected. Shadows aren't tactile. ]
You've already done more work than I— [ What? Thought? Hoped? All of the above, perhaps. He hadn't expected Gale to be thinking of his condition at all, when he could be amazing Waterdeep's socialites with illusory tricks. ]
You've done plenty, [ he settles on. ]
What will it cost me for you to keep working on it?
Cost you? [ Confusion crosses his face, and then true, genuine hurt. Does Astarion think him so caddish? The sort to construct such a solution merely in the hopes of extracting something from him?
He lets the spell dissipate, hand dropping to his lap. ]
[ Oh. He's said something wrong. Not a first for him by any means, but caring about having said something wrong is still new. Embarrassment bubbles up, first at having misstepped and then at being embarrassed that he misstepped. Gods, giving a damn about other people really is a drag.
Instinctively defensive, he bristles. ] Oh, you know I didn't mean anything by it.
[ And, really, he didn't. Everything did have a price for two hundred years. He's still getting used to the idea that someone, anyone, might want to help him out of the goodness of their hearts. Not long ago, he'd been convinced that no one really had any goodness in their hearts. He'd been proven astonishingly wrong, of course, but it's still a rough transition to make.
After a moment, he softens again, shoulders relaxing, aware that he has no reason to be prickly about this. ]
I only thought that this sort of undertaking would be costly for you. Cures for sunlight sensitivity are hardly commonplace.
[ He had not thought at all on what he would tell Astarion, any more than he had questioned whether he should take on the task to begin with. Of course he should try, if it were within his power. And yet he finds himself wincing now at his own thoughtlessness; his eagerness to show off.
Astarion had endured 200 years of enslavement and torment. Of course he would feel uncomfortable, confronted with such a thing with little warning. And perhaps indebted, whatever Gale’s intentions.
as gently as he can: ] -Well. I would be an awful friend if I were to hold you in debt for a task I took on without so much as consulting you.
But such as it may be. My time is my own, yes? And the question holds no small amount of intellectual fascination.
[ he hesitates. ] ...If you would feel unable to accept such a gift, surely a rogue of your considerable talents could... acquire it from my possession.
[ By some other means, Gale says, as if there's any subtlety to it at all. Even as strange as it feels to be on the receiving end of someone's generosity, Astarion can't help but huff out a laugh. Dry, amused. A little charmed, despite himself. ]
Gale, if you wanted to play the daring rogue and his helpless victim, you only needed to say so.
[ An obvious jest, only meant to fluster. He gave up on enticing hopeless romantic Gale to play anything of that sort a long time ago. Right around the time Gale professed that he preferred taking their walks in silence, probably. ]
What will you need to complete it? [ Because if not for some external roadblock, Gale would have already finished. He's irritatingly clever that way. Quoting Gale, he adds, ] A rogue of my considerable talents might be able to procure it for you.
[ Embarrassingly, he flushes at the joke right on cue, which is certainly the rather rich wine going to his head. He sets his glass down primly. ]
Well, chiefly a vampire. If I may beg your assistance in that regard, we may verify that the theory is truly sound.
Assuming that it is, we’ll need to find something to... amplify the spell. So that it will sustain itself. [ His face falls. ]
My... former abilities have not as yet returned as I had hoped.
[ Tara has guessed, naturally, but he has not said the words out loud to anyone else. It feels like admitting weakness, acknowledging some sort of defeat. ]
[ Gale looks like a sad puppy abandoned in a box on the side of the road. Astarion can't begin to relate to what magic is to Gale—more than a tool, more than a passion; a religion—but he has to fight his own face falling all the same. Gods, is this empathy he's feeling? He's gone soft. Unlike Gale, however, he does manage to hide his own frown. With feigned nonchalance, he waves a hand. ]
It's only a matter of time, I'm sure.
[ He isn't sure. Gale wasn't only affected by the tadpole, but the orb, too. Something that powerful siphoning away one's magical abilities — it can't be easy to get them back. ]
Besides, you've already more than enough arcane talent to come through. [ Dryly: ] And that's me saying so, so it must be true.
[ Astarion isn't in the habit of giving out undeserved praise. Sometimes, he isn't even in the habit of giving out deserved praise. There's no one on this planet more devoted to magical studies or more annoyingly clever than Gale. (If there were, he might have gone to them instead of showing up at Gale's door pleading for help. The very thought of what he's done is humiliating, tempered only by the knowledge that Gale was already working on it.)
Leaning back in his chair: ] I'm not particularly well-versed in wizardry — despite your endless jabbering. [ The dig is less sharp than it might have been, back when they'd first met. It's wry, almost amused at the memory of Gale's nattering on about magic. ] But I can't imagine magical amplifiers like that are just lying around.
I am touched you retained enough for even that much optimism.
[ Hardly warranted at all, but Gale finds it curiously doesn’t matter. He’d not been seeking comfort exactly, only for Astarion to understand his current limitation, which was only fair given the task before them. That he had offered it in his own way anyway is a small, unexpected balm of warmth. ]
Oh! Yes. I do have leads, of course, but most are outdated by some years. Unfortunately not everything of use can be learned from a book. [ Gale says it as if this reality of the world greatly disappoints him. ]
But perhaps you can assist me in that. [ Astarion has always been better at more practical forms of investigation. Gale does love watching him work. ]
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redound.
He doesn't have anything to go back to in Baldur's Gate. He and the rest of the freed spawn have no choice but to flee to the Underdark, where they can hide from the sun's rays. It's... fine. Minsc visits more often than Astarion would strictly like, and living with a thousands-strong commune of vampires in the Underdark is less than ideal, but he adapts. In his trance, though, he replays what it was like to step out of the mind flayer pod and feel the sun on his face. To go where he pleased instead of being all but exiled to the metaphorical sewers of Faerûn. To have real freedom.
Astarion has never been the type to let things go. It weighs on him, this desire to return to the surface world, to civilization. More than that, to experience everything it has to offer, day or night. He won't go back to hiding in the dark like a rat.
If there's anyone who can help him, it's an (ex-)archwizard. He bids his ragtag group of spawn a temporary farewell before setting out on his journey to Waterdeep. He's never been, but the City of Splendors sounds up his alley. It takes longer than he'd like, having to travel under the cover of night, but he finally sets foot in the place on one chilly evening. A glittering, cosmopolitan city, a bustling hub of trade even at night. Vendors call out to him as he wanders the streets, hawking wares he can't afford. When he passes by a shop with sparkling rings on display in the window, he makes a mental note to return and pocket one when he gets the chance.
He hasn't seen Gale in months, not since he decided to defy his goddess and keep himself in one piece. A few scattered letters have been exchanged here and there, as they have with all of his ex-companions, but that's all. He could have asked via letter, but— he feared Gale might say no. If Astarion shows up at his doorstep, he really won't have any choice, will he?
At least, that's what he's depending on as he approaches Gale's tower, which was easier to locate than he'd expected. A few descriptions of Gale given to the right people, and they'd pointed him where he needed to go. (Brown hair, sad cow eyes, earring, can't stop talking, he'd said. "Oh, you mean the wizard!" they'd replied.) He stands at the doorway now, smoothing down his vest. His clothes aren't as luxurious as he would like, bought on an adventurer's budget as they are, but he's made sure through careful tailoring that they at least look smart.
A knock, and he waits. Throughout this whole trip, he'd never once questioned his decision to show up unannounced, but now that he's in the thick of it, he can't help but feel nervous. What if Gale says 'no' anyway? What if he's upset by Astarion's impertinence? Gods, what if he's not even here? That last concern turns out to be untrue, because Gale opens the door, and— ]
Surprise.
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His abilities, however, have been slower to return. In lieu of sleep Gale spends many of his nights running through somatic exercises, practicing the simple cantrips he gives his youngest students. He is making progress, if agonizingly slowly. At this rate he’ll be as old as Elminster before he recovers all that had once been his, as intrinsic to him as breathing. It is a fitting punishment, he knows, for what he’d nearly cost the world. Privately, it devastates him.
More than even that he finds he misses, in so many ways, the shared purpose of adventure. He misses his companions most of all, misses all of them with an ache that feels almost as physical as the absence of the orb, at times. He’d thought it was enough, once, to simply be respected by colleagues. That he could want for nothing as long as he held Mystra’s love, which as he understands now, he had never truly had at all. Nor does he want it any longer.
Only he might never have realized that had he never known what it was to be cared for by true friends. To share burdens and joys alike in a way he’d never known possible. They all deserve happiness, and that lies, by necessity, on separate paths now. Still, there are times when Gale finds himself grappling with a strangely pervasive sense of loss.
He thinks of Astarion, perhaps, most of all. Worries for his safety, of course; his well-being. Eagerly awaits (and keeps tightly wrapped in a drawer in his desk) the letters he does receive. He pens long replies, dozens of pages of scrawling thoughts and anecdotes. And then he puts those away as well, embarrassed in a way he can’t quite articulate even to himself. He drafts more sensible, far shorter responses and passes those in the direction of the underdark. He hopes Astarion will simply know that he’s thought of, when he reads them.
Gale is rebuilding, despite it all. He has students who delight him with their curiosity. A circle of friendly colleagues who have begun to welcome him back. His work is satisfying, if a bit lacking in the thornier challenges Gale has always thrived on most.
The tower alerts him to a visitor one evening, as Gale is reorganizing his study, searching for a particular book he’d borrowed some years ago from Elminster himself (Sunlight and Magic, as it happens). It’s late for deliveries, and a rare enough occurrence in itself that it startles him. He instructs his simulacrum to tidy the mess he’s made and then goes to investigate, still in his dressing gown. He starts when he sees who is standing there, his shock of silver hair, his familiar lean form. His heart leaps. ]
Astarion! [ He’s surprised, but the delight on his face is obvious, a light in his eyes. ] Indeed it is! But a most welcome one.
[ Instinct makes him reach for a hug - only to stop halfway there, not wanting to presume. Still the gesture is unmistakable, awkward in Gale’s slightly abashed way. ]
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Ah—
[ He's never hugged Gale, though. Reluctant to be impolite so soon, he leans in for a perfunctory embrace, arms wrapped around Gale's middle for only a moment before he steps back. Gale really does smell like a wealthy dowager, just as Shadowheart had once teased. Like fancy soap.
Gale seems genuinely happy to see him, which feels... surprising. It's not that he thought Gale would be unwelcoming, but after so long surrounded by people who ran the spectrum from 'mere toleration' to 'outright disdain and hatred' in their feelings toward him, it's still strange to wrap his head around the idea that his presence might be wanted. Enjoyed, even.
It's a foreign feeling, but a pleasant one.
Astarion's eyes trail down Gale's face, down his neck and chest where the first tendrils of the orb used to peek out, to his dressing gown. His mouth twitches with amusement, because of course Gale wears a dressing gown around the house (tower?).
With a teasing lilt: ] Don't you look cozy.
[ His face falls, then, because there's not much that's a bigger imposition than showing up unannounced while Gale is quite literally in his slippers. ]
I suppose you're busy. [ Almost like he's decided for Gale. ] I can return next evening.
[ He just got here, and he's already turning tail. ]
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[ Astarion has his moods, and Gale likes to think he’s even begun to understand them. He must have traveled quite far, at great risk. Perhaps something has gone wrong with the spawn. ]
You are always welcome, Astarion.
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It'll be more than a chat that Astarion requests of him, but it feels somehow wrong to just come out and say it while they're standing in the darkness of the chilly evening. It needs preamble, he thinks. Something to convince Gale that it's a worthy cause to spend his talents on. ]
Yes, of course I am. I'm delightful.
[ He stands there, then, awkwardly hovering at the doorway. ]
...You'll need to invite me in.
[ Humiliating. ]
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You may enter, now and always. [ He announces it with a dramatic wizardly gesture. Will that work? He hopes so.
Gale leads him through the foyer and into the parlor. He is a bit embarrassed of its untidiness; the space is immaculately clean (maintained diligently by several unseen servants) but somehow still strewn with books, maps, notes, instruments, and other evidence of his many projects.
But Astarion had seen the state of his tent on many occasions, after all. He decides not to stand on ceremony. He must be chilled from travel, and the parlor has several plush arm chairs and a roaring fire.
The walls are lined with tidier rows of books, as well as evidence of his appreciation for art in many different styles and compositions. The night sky is a recurrent theme in many pieces. ]
Now, would you care for some wine? [ He is fetching some from the cabinet anyway. He suspects they will be needing it. ]
It would be a shame to drink such a fine bottle alone.
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I wouldn't turn down a red.
[ Not the type of red he'd really like to indulge in after his long journey to the surface, but somehow he doubts Gale keeps jars of blood around. ]
Although, ah— I have to admit that this isn't just a social call.
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For all that Astarion is whole and alive before him, he does fear something terrible has happened to him. He pours the wine and then takes his seat. ]
Do tell me what’s on your mind.
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Well.
[ He probably should have rehearsed this, he slowly realizes. Too late now. ]
I've been thinking about... my condition, [ he starts awkwardly, unsure how to segue from drinking wine into begging for a cure for his vampiric setbacks. ] And its drawbacks. And I thought, really, it would be a mere trifle for a wizard of your acclaim to look into it. Honestly, hardly an inconvenience.
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Can that be all?
Such a particular cruelty for Astarion, who had already suffered so many. It had not felt right even then to simply abandon him to the shadows, to return to his comfortable home as if all they had shared had not occurred. The lure of the crown had consumed him in those chaotic weeks following the brain’s defeat, the orb’s hungers ever more insistent as Mystra’s price for his life came due. The question of whether he would take it for himself, and all of its power with it.
Perhaps he could have done more. He should have tried, he knows that.
And so he had not forgotten, once they had parted. The question churned in his thoughts when rest eluded him. A puzzle to unravel that captured more of his imagination than his student's practicums could, in truth. ]
Oh! Yes. References are quite scattered, so it has taken me some time to gather them. The question of the sun and the question of vampirism must be held separately, of course, and while no clear solution to either currently exists, one could certainly be constructed by an enterprising mage. [ He preens a bit, unable to resist. He is quite proud of what he’s managed thus far. ]
I do believe it is possible. My early experiments were not promising, which is why I- did not mention them in my letters. [ His gaze drops. ] But I am beginning to develop a theory.
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I don't— [ Understand, he nearly says, but that isn't quite right. It's shocking to hear and yet it makes perfect sense. Gale is unrelentingly kind and adores an intellectual challenge. The kind that vampirism could surely provide.
Even with that knowledge, it's strange to sit in the realization. He'd spent time combing through references, doing experiments. For Astarion's sake? He chides himself. No, for cerebral stimulation, surely. Regardless, it hardly matters why he did it, only that he did it at all and, what's more, seems like he plans to continue. ]
You've been researching this.
[ He huffs, incredulous. ]
Honestly, Gale, you should have been going to parties and taking advantage of your hero status, not gathering references in some dusty old library.
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[ Perhaps as a younger man he would have appreciated such attention more. Now he finds it leaves him feeling surprisingly empty and cold. A mere conversation piece rather than someone worthy of true conversation. A genuine acquaintance on his own merits.
He straightens a bit, extending his hand, palm up. ]
Would you like to see? It is only a start, but-
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It takes everything he has not to jump out of his seat and demand to be shown immediately. He has to tread carefully, avoid coming across as entitled or presumptuous. The last thing he wants is to offend Gale enough that he decides to stop his research.
But he can needle him a little. Nonchalantly, as if he isn't dying to see it himself, he says, ] I wouldn't dream of denying you the opportunity to show off.
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He whispers an incantation and there in his palm floats a tiny ball of bright energy, cast with a dark surrounding corona. It creates an odd little void in the air surrounding it. The candlelight in the room flickers, as does the fire. Gale holds it carefully, but it takes him some effort. ]
Now, I cannot be sure yet that it will work as intended. But it is meant to mimic the effect of a shadow. To form a sort of invisible shield in transmuting the energy of the sun, if properly harnessed within an object. You could walk in the sun, and not be harmed by its touch.
But- well. There is more left to be done. [ There are things he lacks here in Waterdeep; a powerful siphon to make up for where Gale himself is lacking in strength. Something to keep it self sustaining without his constant effort. Potentially critical texts likely buried in vaults or private libraries. A missing piece of information could mean the difference between success and failure. Gale wants to be very sure, lest he risk greater harm to Astarion.
It had seemed entirely natural to not speak of it the start; to not raise a cruel hope in a solution that might never materialize. But it occurs to him now that perhaps he should have consulted with Astarion first. That perhaps he would have preferred he not take such liberties in the creation of something that meant so dearly to him. He looks for his gaze through it’s light, brows pinching together. ]
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You've already done more work than I— [ What? Thought? Hoped? All of the above, perhaps. He hadn't expected Gale to be thinking of his condition at all, when he could be amazing Waterdeep's socialites with illusory tricks. ]
You've done plenty, [ he settles on. ]
What will it cost me for you to keep working on it?
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He lets the spell dissipate, hand dropping to his lap. ]
Must everything have a price, Astarion?
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Instinctively defensive, he bristles. ] Oh, you know I didn't mean anything by it.
[ And, really, he didn't. Everything did have a price for two hundred years. He's still getting used to the idea that someone, anyone, might want to help him out of the goodness of their hearts. Not long ago, he'd been convinced that no one really had any goodness in their hearts. He'd been proven astonishingly wrong, of course, but it's still a rough transition to make.
After a moment, he softens again, shoulders relaxing, aware that he has no reason to be prickly about this. ]
I only thought that this sort of undertaking would be costly for you. Cures for sunlight sensitivity are hardly commonplace.
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Astarion had endured 200 years of enslavement and torment. Of course he would feel uncomfortable, confronted with such a thing with little warning. And perhaps indebted, whatever Gale’s intentions.
as gently as he can: ] -Well. I would be an awful friend if I were to hold you in debt for a task I took on without so much as consulting you.
But such as it may be. My time is my own, yes? And the question holds no small amount of intellectual fascination.
[ he hesitates. ] ...If you would feel unable to accept such a gift, surely a rogue of your considerable talents could... acquire it from my possession.
By some other means.
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Gale, if you wanted to play the daring rogue and his helpless victim, you only needed to say so.
[ An obvious jest, only meant to fluster. He gave up on enticing hopeless romantic Gale to play anything of that sort a long time ago. Right around the time Gale professed that he preferred taking their walks in silence, probably. ]
What will you need to complete it? [ Because if not for some external roadblock, Gale would have already finished. He's irritatingly clever that way. Quoting Gale, he adds, ] A rogue of my considerable talents might be able to procure it for you.
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Well, chiefly a vampire. If I may beg your assistance in that regard, we may verify that the theory is truly sound.
Assuming that it is, we’ll need to find something to... amplify the spell. So that it will sustain itself. [ His face falls. ]
My... former abilities have not as yet returned as I had hoped.
[ Tara has guessed, naturally, but he has not said the words out loud to anyone else. It feels like admitting weakness, acknowledging some sort of defeat. ]
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It's only a matter of time, I'm sure.
[ He isn't sure. Gale wasn't only affected by the tadpole, but the orb, too. Something that powerful siphoning away one's magical abilities — it can't be easy to get them back. ]
Besides, you've already more than enough arcane talent to come through. [ Dryly: ] And that's me saying so, so it must be true.
[ Astarion isn't in the habit of giving out undeserved praise. Sometimes, he isn't even in the habit of giving out deserved praise. There's no one on this planet more devoted to magical studies or more annoyingly clever than Gale. (If there were, he might have gone to them instead of showing up at Gale's door pleading for help. The very thought of what he's done is humiliating, tempered only by the knowledge that Gale was already working on it.)
Leaning back in his chair: ] I'm not particularly well-versed in wizardry — despite your endless jabbering. [ The dig is less sharp than it might have been, back when they'd first met. It's wry, almost amused at the memory of Gale's nattering on about magic. ] But I can't imagine magical amplifiers like that are just lying around.
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[ Hardly warranted at all, but Gale finds it curiously doesn’t matter. He’d not been seeking comfort exactly, only for Astarion to understand his current limitation, which was only fair given the task before them. That he had offered it in his own way anyway is a small, unexpected balm of warmth. ]
Oh! Yes. I do have leads, of course, but most are outdated by some years. Unfortunately not everything of use can be learned from a book. [ Gale says it as if this reality of the world greatly disappoints him. ]
But perhaps you can assist me in that. [ Astarion has always been better at more practical forms of investigation. Gale does love watching him work. ]