Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Here we are, sir."

Gale hummed and opened the door. He climbed out of the car; his knees protested after having been bent for too long. Gravel crunched underfoot, and long grass whispered against his shins as he turned to face the cottage.

It looked as quaint as it always had in the advertisement, the dark beams set in the facade half swallowed by ivy, the windows half hidden behind overgrown brambles, thatch roof keeping the elements at bay. A hand-painted sign on the door marked the house as 3 Hawthorn Way.

What the advertisement had never quite managed to capture was the feel of the place—wild, fragile, suspended in time. Even the air smelled differently here. Gale's lungs expanded more readily, and he took what felt like his first deep breath in months.

After fighting for so long, his nightmare of a divorce was a thing of the past now.

Time for a new start.

While the driver started taking the suitcases out of the boot, Gale's feet carried him to the door as if pulled by invisible strings. The key was meant to be under the doormat, and it was. As he bent to pick it up, he noticed a faint white line right in front of the door. Was that ... salt? What reason would there possibly be for someone to pour salt on his doorstep? It must have been something else. Perhaps some stone dust from repairs?

Gale brushed the grains away and let himself in.

The cottage made up in charm what it lacked in space. There was only the ground floor, although he'd been told that was a small attic under the roof. The kitchen and the living area took over most of the space; he could see the overgrown backyard from the window behind the sink. The living room connected to the observatory, which had drawn him to the property in the first place. He could soak in the sun there, and read his books, and be content. A small bedroom and an even smaller bathroom were tucked away on the eastern side of the house. With the money he'd got in the settlement, he could have afforded much more. And yet, this was all he required. No more needless luxuries that Mystra had amassed, no more fake smiles, no more endless scrabbling after more more more. He was free to be himself now.

He was free.

With another deep breath, he returned outside to fetch Tara from her carrier.

"What do you think?" he asked as he held her in his arms. "Shall we make a new life here?"

•~•~•~•

The rest of his possessions arrived in the afternoon. He dug the kettle out the cardboard box first; unpacking could come after tea. While the water boiled, he found a mug and a squished box of PG Tips. No milk today, but he'd suffered worse.

Just as the kettle boiled, he heard a knock on the door, and he opened it to reveal a massive man with vicious scars on his face and kind eyes.

"Hello," he said. “My name is Halsin Silverbough. I wanted to welcome you to the community.” Gale found himself enjoying his voice immediately. There was something about it, some strange quality that reminded him of old songs and secrets whispered in the night. "May I join you for tea?"

Gale blinked, then did it again as the man held out a carton of milk.

What in the world? How did he ...?

No, that was foolish. It must have been a coincidence. After all, it couldn't be too difficult to assume that a newcomer would have yet to purchase his first groceries in town.

"Ah. Yes, of course." He smoothed the sides of his trousers in an attempt to regain composure. "Please, come in. I've only just arrived a few hours ago, but I've ... made tea ..."

Coincidence, surely.

"A cuppa would be wonderful." Halsin smiled as he sat down at the table. What little floor space the house possessed was further taken over by the boxes, and yet, even with his size, the man didn't look cramped. Rather, he seemed to fit right in with the rustic second-hand furniture and the old dark beams that carried the walls.

Gale poured two mugs and placed one in front of Halsin. "I'm afraid I have little to offer in terms of other refreshments."

"No need to concern yourself with that."

"Ah." He shifted his weight to one leg and then the other. Shoved his hands into his pockets and took them again. Was he expected to sit? "Are you my neighbour?"

"No, no, that would be Jenevelle and her parents. I live all the way on the other side of the village."

"How did you know ...?"

Halsin took a sip. "I've heard of your arrival. It seemed only right that I come and greet you. We'll belong to the same community, after all."

Perhaps the estate agency had spread the news. In a rural town tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the cities, it should hardly come as a surprise that word had travelled fast. The arrival of a stranger might be considered exciting news here.

Yes, that must have been it. Gale nodded as he drank, and swallowed a curse when the tea scorched his tongue. Before he could figure out how to continue the conversation, Tara peeked out from an open box. She jumped out with a soft chirp, and padded over to Halsin on silent paws.

"Hello, little lady." Halsin bent down and offered the back of his hand to her. "What's your name?"

"Tara," Gale said. "She's not usually this sociable with strangers."

"She needs friends in this new place." Halsin scratched her under her chin. "You'll have to be taught which paths to thread after dark, but I'm certain you'll find your way soon."

Was he ... Was he talking to Tara?

Gale shook his head. Perhaps Halsin was just ... odd. That was all right. Oxford had been full of people with unique quirks and some questionable habits. Gale himself might have been considered strange by some. He had no room to judge, really, and so far, Halsin had been nothing but polite. The least Gale could do was be a good host and a good neighbour, and try not to sour the relations with his fellow villagers because of some perceived weirdness.

Mystra would never have let the man set foot in the house. Would never be caught alive in this place herself. But then, Mystra wasn’t here, was she?

Still, the thought of her soured his mood. Perhaps it showed on his face—he couldn’t tell. Halsin took another long gulp of tea, then set the mug down and stood. “I shouldn’t keep you.”

“Oh, no, you’re not intruding at all, it’s …” It was what? Gale did need to unpack. He had things to do, so why did he feel the need to deny that? Why had he been denying that his whole life?

“Is there some place I could grab a bite to eat?” he said, hoping to stem the awkwardness.

“Of course. Stag’s Head’s in the market square. You can’t miss it. I hope to see you in town soon.”

Gale nodded his thanks and walked his visitor to the door.

•~•~•~•

Walking up the road towards the village proper felt like stepping into an old postcard. A web of beams hugged by stucco facades spun around him, ivy flourished, and dahlias bloomed in the gardens that could have been featured in one of Mystra’s fancy magazines, if she ever bothered to read about something as mundane as gardens. White lace hid the interiors from prying eyes, and he noted with no small amount of curiosity that shallow bowls had been placed on the outside of a few windows. Some odd habit? A local tradition?

The sun had sunk behind the rolling hills in the west by the time he crossed the threshold of the pub. When was the last time he’d set foot in one? It must have been in his college years … and even then, he hadn’t been much of an outgoing person. What need was there when he had—

No. This was meant to be his fresh start. He could go to a pub, and he could spend an evening without thinking of Mystra.

Heads turned as he entered, and perhaps he couldn’t do this after all.

The place hadn’t gone quiet. The jukebox in the corner still played, balls still clacked together at the pool table, conversation continued. And yet. He felt so bare, so exposed under the stares. A clear outsider, as he’d been most of his life in one way or another.

Really, he should have gotten used to judgemental glares by now. After the way the entirety of his faculty had stared at him whenever he’d walked through Oxford … Well. He’d already failed at not thinking of his past, so perhaps there’d be no harm done if he failed at visiting the pub too. His stomach wouldn’t be too pleased, but he’d gone without food before whenever he’d got too absorbed in his research, so …

“Come on in, come on in!” The bartender waved at him, a smile stretching wide across her face. Her hair was shaved on one side of her head and streaked bright red on the other. She looked strong enough to snap Gale in half. “You must be Gale! Halsin said you’d stop by.”

So much for slinking away.

“Er, yes.” He shuffled forward and squeezed himself onto a stool at the bar. “Hello. I’m Gale. But you know that.”

Her smile grew even wider as she offered him her hand. “Karlach. You hungry?”

“Pleasure to meet you.” Gale shook her hand. “Yes please. Could I have a …” Did they have a selection of wines here? Probably not. “… a menu, please?”

Karlach jerked her thumb in the direction of the wall. A chalkboard proclaimed the day’s menu to be shepherd’s pie. Right.

“Er. Yes. I’ll take it. And a glass of … red. Whatever red you have.”

Mystra would have hated this place. He found it more endearing as soon as he thought of that.

But he’d thought of her again, too. 

With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned on the bar. This might be more difficult than he’d anticipated.

At least, the sensation of gazes burning into his back had abated. He could eat his dinner and leave. Yes. That sounded like a solid plan.

Then he caught motion from the corner of his eye and realised someone had slid into the empty chair next to him. Right. Small town and all. He stifled a sigh and looked up to see a curtain of pale hair and copious amounts of dark kohl.

“Hello. I’m Isobel. I thought you might like to join the festival tomorrow.”

Gale raised his eyebrows. “The festival?”

She nodded. “Yeah. You know, the festival.”

Gale was just about to point out that he did not, in fact, know, when she added, “It’s the equinox.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” The equinox. Not many people celebrated with a proper festival anymore, did they? He didn’t know much about that. Studying quantum physics had hardly trained him to be an expert in rural traditions.

“Great, I’ll see you there!”

She slipped from the chair before Gale could point out that he hadn’t agreed to participating at all. Or had he? Mystra did always say that—

No.

Karlach placed a pint of something that was, in fact, red-ish in front of him, but was certainly not wine.

“I didn’t …”

“It’s local,” she said. “Try it. I’ll pour you the wine after if you want, but it won’t be as good. ”

When he’d pictured a life in the countryside, he’d imagined a rocking chair by the fire, a book in his hands, and Tara in his lap. Not transforming into a magnet for new faces and having his wishes disregarded while his mind was busy processing new surroundings. Then again, he’d been told what was best for him for years. Perhaps that was just how the world spun?

He took a sip of the cider. The taste of berries spread across his tongue, the prickliness of bubbles burning a trail down his throat. The flavour was far fruitier than he’d expected. As though it came from real berries, not artificial flavouring. Whoever had created the formula must have been skilled at what they did.

“So?” Karlach arched an eyebrow.

“It’s good,” he said quietly.

“Hell yeah it is. Here.” She pushed a glass of wine over to him. “I know this isn’t too great, but it’s what we got.”

She wasn’t wrong.

•~•~•~•

Half an hour and three introductions later, he unlocked the door of his house. His home.

The first day of the rest of his life was all but over. He rinsed the sweat off his skin, wishing he could wash his past off him just as easily, and pulled on the first comfortable shirt he could find. It took him two tries to find the box that contained his blankets. By the time he made it to bed, he was already half asleep. Tara curled up by his side, and he passed out to the soft vibrations of her purrs travelling through his fingers.

•~•~•~•

Mist swirled around his ankles, caressing, tugging, calling. His feet knew the way, or perhaps he wasn't moving at all and it was the land that moved around him. A tree rose before him—a hawthorn, bending towards him, as though the branches were pointing at something. Where they pointed, a crack opened in the ground.

Fear rose inside him like a tidal wave, and he wanted to run, wanted to scream, and could do neither. He was being called forward instead, as if his body only knew one way, as if that was the path home.

Familiar laughter filled his ears—Mystra's laughter.

He froze. Had she followed him here?

Where was 'here'? Where was he?

A faint knocking sound came from somewhere far away.

Then the tree breathed in, and he inhaled with it, and he could feel the branches as though they were his arms, could feel the leaves trembling with the breath as though they were his fingertips. The crack—the wound, he realised—ached, and if the hawthorn tree could cry, it would have cried.

It couldn't, so Gale felt tears running down his cheeks instead.

In his ears, the knocking grew louder.

•~•~•~•

Gale opened his eyes. Disorientation kept its claws in his flesh for a moment longer before it retreated and he realised the knocking was coming from the door.

"Coming!"

He climbed out of bed, feeling for his slippers with his feet, and stumbled past the boxes towards the front door.

A new face greeted him, a lovely woman with a long, ornate braid and a thin scar running across her cheek. The second scar he'd seen in so many days. Were these lands dangerous? Perhaps wild animals prowled the woods?

He blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes. The sky was barely just beginning to brighten. "Apologies. I was just ... dreaming. Is something the matter?"

"You should hold on to that dream."

"Pardon?" Was he still half asleep?

"It was your first night here. You should always remember what you dream on your first night in a new place." Her tone implied he should have already known that. That he was the strange one here, and perhaps he was. It wouldn't be the first time he was unable to tell.

"Right. So. Can I help you?"

"I'm Jen. You neighbour. You told Isobel you'd attend the festivities today, did you not? It wouldn't do to be late."

Late?

"It's ... dawn."

How could he be late for anything at this hour?

"We're about to greet the sun. You should hurry." She shifted her weight back and forth with far too much energy for this early in the morning.

Greet the sun. Of course.

Too tired to ponder this any further, he nodded. When in Rome ...

"Two minutes."

He did need to get dressed, after all.

•~•~•~•

He expected Jen to turn towards the town, but she led him down the road instead, then through a wooden gate in the hedge onto a path that ran across a meadow. The edges of a forest loomed on their right; the path forked before them, one trail curving towards the trees. On the left, the land rippled in a series of rolling hills, the impression of a smooth sea surface broken by low hedges and occasional gnarled trees.

In the distance, he could already see a gathering—more people than he could easily count. Certainly more than he would have expected at dawn. Muted conversation reached him as he followed Jen closer. At the centre of the gathering stood a tree of some kind, but the people blocked his view.

A soft yet sombre mood hung above the group. Gale trailed behind Jen as she wound her way through the crowd. He caught a whiff of coffee and noticed flasks passed about. A stranger offered him a basket filled with scones; he took one and hurried along. Whether Jen was looking for someone or simply aiming for the centre of the crowd, he couldn't tell, and as they reached the tree, he also couldn’t care.

Branches bowed towards him like desperate arms reaching for a saviour, for a kind touch. For love. He looked down. The ground under his feet was solid, undamaged. No crack to be seen, and yet he stood before the hawthorn from his dream. He was sure of it.

A chill ran down his spine. How was this possible? Certainly, hawthorn trees were a familiar concept to him and therefore available to his mind to conjure up in the dead of night. But to have dreamt in such detail of something he had never seen?

His limbs moved before he could think about it. He took a step forward, and another, and another—

A hand grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him back.

"What are you doing?" Jen hissed. "You nearly stepped on the roots!"

"Sorry, I..." What had just happened? And why had he apologised? Something strange was afoot, and surely, surely, he was not the only one to realise that.

But Jen only clicked her tongue, pulled a bottle out of her bag, and started pouring its contents over the ground around the tree. If the smell hadn’t told Gale it was cider, the fizziness would have.

"There." She shook the last drips from the bottle neck. "That should appease it."

The ... tree?

Before he got a chance to ask, a hush went through the crowd, and he found himself following everyone else's lead in looking east. The sun had begun its climb over the horizon. No matter how odd the situation, Gale could appreciate a clear morning. The play of light, the shifting of shadows. Something about the shared experience filled his chest with an odd ache. A ... desire? But for what?

He took a breath, and sunlight filled his lungs, and—that wasn't how light worked. And yet it felt like it. He could be poetic, could he not, now that he was a scientist no longer? Even if it was only in the confines of his own mind.

He watched the sunrise in silence, unable to remember a time in his life when he'd done it before. Still, the sight tugged at his memories. Perhaps his mother had taken him some place to experience a sunrise? He must have been too young to remember, but the impressions lingered in the deep recesses of his mind. A feeling of familiarity, of home, in face of an eternal sunrise ...

Perhaps that was pushing it with the poetic turn of a phrase.

Once the sun rose, the villagers stirred too. Soft music started to play. A guitar? No, a lute. An unfamiliar song spread through the crowd.

Shaken out of the reverie, he turned back towards the tree, then to where Jen had stood to ask her about the dream. But she was gone, replaced by a pair of children with pink dahlias in their hair. He turned around, but he didn’t recognise anyone, so he let his gaze settle on the tree again.

Remember the first dream, Jen had said, but that must have been nought but superstition. Pulling him away from the roots. Pouring an offering on them. Superstition, all of it. The place must be rife with it …

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Isobel slipped into the spot next to him.

“I suppose …” Perhaps in an eerie kind of way.

“It’s dying,” she said quietly. As though she cared. As though it mattered. As though it was normal to display more empathy for a tree than Gale had experienced from most people in his life.

“Oh,” was all he managed to say.

Isobel crouched next to him and placed a small bowl on the ground. The liquid inside sloshed; a few drops spilled over. Was that … milk?

He didn’t know what tugged at his limbs to make them move. Perhaps it was the desire to fit it. A strange sadness in the face of the inevitable death of this particular bit of nature. The mood of the moment.

He knelt and placed the scone he’d received earlier next to the bowl. He pointedly refused to glance at Isobel. If he’d done something wrong, if he’d misunderstood her gesture … But she didn’t scold him. Didn’t mock him. Didn’t say anything, and he realised that a strange hush had fallen over the entire gathering again.

A new voice filled the crack of silence.

“Isobel!”

The name was drawn out in a way that set Gale’s teeth on edge. From the corner of his eye, he saw the woman tense. Her fists clenched at her sides as she stood, a frown etched into the features.

“Lorroakan,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “You’ve got some nerve coming here today.”

“Do I?” A pale man with long orange hair and a business suit with creases sharp enough to cut came to a stop before Isobel; the crowd had parted for him like a shoal of fish before a shark. “Your father would have welcomed me.”

“My father isn’t here.”

“No indeed. Where is he?”

Isobel didn’t reply. Her fists shook at her side.

“Oh? Oh, dear. My condolences.” Lorroakan didn’t sound sorry at all.

“No matter. I’m sure you and I will come to an agreement sooner or later. By the state of your fields, I’d imagine sooner.

“We will never do business with the likes of you!”

“Come now.” Lorroakan spread his arms. “’Never’ is such a strong word.”

Before Isobel could reply, a hand thumped down onto Lorroakan’s shoulder. The tallest woman Gale had ever seen appeared behind him. Vitiligo bloomed on her skin, turning her cheeks into a semblance of cracked pottery.

Lorroakan flinched away from her. Smart man. What limited self preservation instincts Gale possessed screamed that the woman was not to be trifled with.

“Leave,” she said.

With a huff, Lorroakan smoothed the fabric on his shoulder, as though the material had been dirtied. “You’ll be begging me to come back before this winter’s through,” he hissed. “Mark my words.”

Then he strode down the path, away from the crowd, from a trembling Isobel, from the dying tree.

Slowly, sound returned. Murmurs rose, people moved, the world spun on again.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Gale said quietly.

Isobel turned towards him. Her lower lip trembled and she caught it between her teeth. Let it go. “He’s not dead. Just … changed. Ever since he came back.” A pause. “But he had it coming. He should have known better, he should have …”

The woman who’d scared Lorroakan away wrapped an arm around Isobel’s shoulders. “Don’t let him get to you, my heart. He’s the one in the wrong.”

Isobel leaned into the touch and sighed. “I know … I know.” She offered Gale a tired smile. “Welcome to Coedpont.”

The couple disappeared into the crowd, and Gale remained alone with the tree.

Alone, and very confused.

Chapter Text

Time flowed gently here.

He had the luxury of flowing with it, of stopping to notice the sun on his skin, of browsing the farmers’ market every Saturday and spending time with Tara in his lap. The pile of books he had yet to read began to diminish. There used to be more, so many more, in the house he’d shared with Mystra. There used to be space for more. Now … there wasn’t. And yet he found that he wasn’t dreading the day he’d inevitably run out of reading material quite that much. Funny, what packing one’s entire life in a few boxes did to a person.

Instead, he found himself drawn to the outside more and more. He cut away enough brambles in his backyard enough to create space for a chair and an overturned crate that served as a footstool. Really, he should clean it up more. All other gardens in the village were … picturesque. Carefully nurtured, and yet somehow wild and free.

It was pride that pushed him to act. After a week of peeking over picket fences and wallowing in the shame of falling short, he borrowed some shears and a rake, and set out to assault the brambles.

Five minutes later, he had to admit that he did not, in fact, have a faintest idea what he was doing.

“You look like you could use a hand.”

He got up so fast he nearly stumbled; pain shot through his right knee. A middle-aged woman was peering at him. Her white hair was pulled back, and a glint of what Gale was tempted to call amusement lit up her eyes. He might have felt offended if his focus wasn’t pulled to her arms.

Her arms, which were full of gardening tools.

“Why …” He trailed off, unsure of what to say. What had this place done to his eloquence?

“You’re a city kid, no?” She shaped her words with sharp edges that he couldn’t quite place. Eastern European perhaps?

“No … Well, not originally. We moved—how did you know?”

She arched one neat eyebrow. “That you’re a city kid?”

Gale shook his head. “No. That I needed help. That I needed …” He gestured at the tools with his wrist, his hand still full of torn bramble stems.

“The dream visitors told me.” The tools clattered as she placed them on the ground. She fished out a pair of gloves and threw them at him. “Put these on, or you’ll hurt your pretty fingers.”

He did, and she nodded. “That’s a start. Now, let’s see what you need.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jaheira.”

“I’m Gale.”

“I know,” she said. And then she dug into work.

•~•~•~•

Autumn didn't seem like a time to do much in the garden at first, but with Jaheria's help, he found himself busy. She gifted him daffodil and tulip bulbs to plant, helped him trim the brambles he'd decided to keep, and provided directions as he dug into the soil by the house to plant blackcurrants and gooseberries. His hands, more used to handling paper and keyboards before, now smelled of freshly turned soil, and the buzz of physical exertion chased away late-night thoughts of Mystra more often than not.

Other memories began to creep around the edges of his awareness instead. Memories he'd forgotten and could still only half touch right before he drifted to sleep. His mother's face turned towards the sun, all the more radiant for the unabashed smile on her lips. His mother's face, streaked with tears. A coffin lowered into the ground. Boxes. The way the sun shone through branches and leaves and painted a web of shadows onto the ground.

He dreamt of things he couldn't remember and woke up with a dull ache in his chest. Digging his fingers into the soil soothed it. Breathing in the crisp morning air soothed it, too, so he continued to do both. Sometimes he worked alone, sometimes not. Mostly it was Jaheira who joined him, and when they were done in Gale's garden, he lent her a hand with hers. Once, Jen hung around too, though she mostly played with her dog.

After a week, Gale had learnt the layout of the village by heart. After two, he could safely say he knew what things he could purchase from what villager, what was tucked away on the shelves of the local Co-op, and what needed to be ordered online. The latter was the reason he clung to his smartphone—he didn't much care for technology, and after being surrounded by so much of it for so long, living without a computer felt remarkably refreshing. He didn't miss it. Books and plants and people filled his days now, and there were many. The number of new acquaintances he made grew most every day.

There was Halsin, who ran a farm and sold his produce at the market, and perhaps also ran a council—Gale wasn't sure of that yet. Jen, who'd moved here with her parents two years prior to take care of them, though she never shared why. Jaheira, who'd lost her husband years ago, retired from being a forest ranger after an injury, and sold baked goods now.

Karlach the bartender. Isobel and Aylin. Wyll with a 'y', who worked as a police officer in the next town over and mostly policed Coedpont as well. Dammon the blacksmith and carpenter, who handled most any kind of repairs. Alfira, who wanted to be a singer and helped on the local farms when she wasn't filming songs for YouTube or TikTok, or wherever young people posted them these days.

They were far more welcoming than Gale had expected. They were also strange in ways he never could have predicted.

Three weeks in, he became convinced the entire village believed in fae, which was rather odd in this day and age, but who was he to complain? If leaving out milk and walking with measured steps to avoid stepping on cracks brought them joy ... Well, there were many worse things they could be doing. Some harmless superstition didn't undo their kindness. Perhaps their own strangeness contributed to their willingness to welcome Gale, which was a change for the better. He'd had his share of rejection and mockery in life and—

No. No thoughts about Mystra here. No thoughts about losing his life's work. He'd moved to start anew—things being so different here was a good sign. He could be a good neighbour in turn and humour the villagers. No harm done.

So when Jen gifted him a horseshoe, he hung it above his front door. He took care not to step on cracks when anyone could see, and he only commented once when Jaheira placed an offering of honeyed milk outside.

"Do you believe in this?" he asked. "Have you ever seen ... anything?"

"You don't need to see a thing for it to exist," she said in that sharp manner of hers, and that had been that.

Gale decided not to risk offending anyone else over such trivial matters.

•~•~•~•

The first time he thought he saw the boy was mid October, at dusk. He was raking the leaves in his garden when he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. For half a moment, he thought one of the local kids must have come down the road, but when he turned, there was no sight of anyone.

Must have been a trick of the light. It was dusk, after all.

The second time was through his kitchen window when he was preparing chicken for dinner. A silhouette of a child, there and gone in a blink.

The third time, he tried not to look directly at the figure, but it disappeared all the same.

Gale rubbed his eyes. Was he going mad now? Had this place fanned his imagination too much? It must have. Tara didn’t seem upset by anything, showing no signs that she’d detected anyone nearby.

No, he must have been conjuring things up in his mind. Children didn’t have the ability to disappear into thin air.

•~•~•~•

In the middle of October, Jen hung a bird house in her garden.  Feeling inspired, Gale borrowed some tools from Damon to attempt the same. The end result was rather sad, its symmetry out of balance, but it held together as he hung in on the apple tree in front of the house. He filled it with seeds and headed inside to clean up.

By the time he returned from tea with Jaheira (armed with her scone recipe, because he had nothing but time these days and it had been long enough since he’d baked anything), a robin had perched on the edge of the bird house.

“Hello,” Gale said to it quietly—and the bird turned to look at him. Held his gaze, if such a thing was even possible.

No, no. What was he thinking? Of course a bird would examine the source of a noise. Those were basic survival instincts.

But he could have sworn the robin tracked his walk across the yard until he disappeared inside.

•~•~•~•

The robin returned every day.

It disappeared in the mornings, but it would show itself in the afternoon or evening without fail.

And then.

Then he saw Tara spending time with it. Not tracking it with her eyes the way she usually would with birds. No prowling, no twitching tail. She was perched on one of the tree branches, rubbing her cheek against the bark, and the robin was right there, in front of her, as though they were enjoying a lazy afternoon together.

A cat and a bird.

Together.

Was Tara lonely? Gale tended to spend much more time with her now than back in Oxford, but perhaps the move had stressed her out?

Wouldn’t a stressed cat become more aggressive, not less?

•~•~•~•

A few days before Halloween, jack-o-lanterns began popping up around town, their faces twisted in grotesque grins. Not the cartoonish kinds Gale was used to, nor the ever more popular artistically layered versions. Instead of pumpkin, most were carved into turnips, with slits for eyes and teeth that looked too realistic for comfort. If any door hadn’t been adorned with a horseshoe before, it was now. The whole village became shrouded in a hushed air of caution and anticipation.

The celebration took place in the square this time. Fires flickered in braziers, logs cracking. The scent of roasted chestnuts mixed with ale. Alfira strummed a lute, and the villagers lent her their voices in songs that Gale didn’t recognise. It should have felt festive. It did feel festive. And yet it was accompanied by an aspect of otherworldliness. People carried their jack-o-lanterns around as though there were no street lights. Children were running around the square, but if any of them set foot outside it, an adult would snatch them right back. Costumes had been donned, but the masks were strange. None of the store-bought characters or skin-tight revealing outfits. Gale caught glimpses of sharp canines and pointed ears, a sense of wrongness on the familiar faces that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Unfamiliar with the music and unnerved by the strangeness of it all, he meandered to a long table laden with food on the western edge of the square; it stood outside the direct reach of the light, wrapped in shadows.

Odd, but what wasn’t odd tonight?

He reached out to help himself to some bread when a strong hand blocked his path. 

“Don’t,” Haslin said, a strange effect to his voice that made a shiver run down Gale’s spine. He sounded … old. Ancient. “That’s not for us.”

For a moment, Gale considered pointing out that the food was just sitting there, clearly untouched and clearly not getting devoured by any magical beings. Something in Halsin’s expression gave him pause.

It must have been the shadows, deepening the lines of his face, sharpening his features. He belonged to the group that chose to wear pointed ears and teeth tonight, and Gale had to admit he’d done a masterful job applying them. His eyes seemed darker, wilder, his head cocked in the way that triggered an inexplicable sense of deja-vu in Gale.

Debating folk beliefs with Halsin did not seem like a good idea right now.

Gale dropped his hand. “My apologies.”

“That is all right. You’re still learning. Keep at it, and no harm will come to you."

Gale swallowed. "Do you really think I'd have been in danger?"

"Perhaps not, but it's not worth the risk."

The way he phrased it, he must have believed in the superstitions too.

Could there have been a kernel of truth to it all? Not fairies, of course not, but some other local phenomenon that the people couldn't quite explain? The universe was a strange place after all ...

"Can I ask a question?"

Halsin nodded. "Of course."

"That hawthorn tree where the Equinox was held ... Is it important?"

"Why do you ask?"

Gale hesitated. Surely nothing he said could be stranger than what the people here already believed, right?

"I had a dream, on my first night here. I saw the tree in it."

"Hmm." Halsin crossed one arm over his chest, rested the elbow of the other on it, and touched his chin. "It's not uncommon to receive messages in dreams. You could say that hawthorn is important, yes. It's one of the crossing points."

"Crossing point?"

"Between this world and the wilds."

Gale nodded. He'd expected some kind of a symbolism. Perhaps figuring out where this strong belief in fae came from would prove to be an interesting project. There’d be little to do in the garden during winter; he could do with a topic to occupy his mind.

"Thank you," he said and followed his nose to where someone he didn't know yet was roasting corn.

•~•~•~•

He stayed for another hour or so before the craving for peace and quiet compelled him to head home. With his hands in his pockets to fight the evening chill, he strode down the road. It had got colder than he'd realised—the braziers must have done a great job keeping the square warm.

He hurried down the road. Five minutes, and he'd be back in the warmth of his home. He could get a fire going, drink some hot tea —

There was an opening in the hedge, a path through.

A path that he'd never seen before even though he'd been walking this road for weeks now.

Impossible.

He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, but the path remained.

What? How? He wasn't drunk. Sure, he'd had a pint of ale at the celebration, but that could hardly make him hallucinate.

Had someone slipped something into his drink? That would explain ... But who would do this to him and why?

The logical, sane thing to do would have been to keep walking. To get home and climb into bed and sleep this off.

But.

If he was hallucinating, then the path wouldn't be real. If took a step forward, he'd collide with the hedge.

His feet moved, and he stepped onto the path, and didn't slam into anything. A breath hitched in his throat, his heart beating a furious staccato beat now. The soles of his shoes landed on the path as surely as they had been planted on the road a moment ago.

He swallowed.

And then he strode onto the path.

It led across the meadow. In faint moonlight, he could just about see the silhouette of the hawthorn tree in the distance. His toes hit something hard and he stumbled, his eyes drawn to the path once more. In front of him loomed the forest, suddenly close, and when he turned to the left again, there was a forest too.

That wasn't right. The hawthorn tree ...

He rubbed his eyes. No. He could see nothing but trees, closer now though he hadn't moved at all. As if the distances themselves had warped in strange ways. A light shone up ahead, or perhaps everywhere—the warm light of a twilight in summer.

He was hallucinating. Clearly, clearly hallucinating. Tomorrow, he'd find Wyll and ask him to search for the culprit who'd drugged the ale. For now, he needed to get home.

He turned, but the path was gone. Before him stood the hawthorn tree, its spindly branches reaching, reaching, reaching. Did they want to be held? Could a tree long for an embrace?

Jen had stopped him so quickly last time when he'd tried to approach ...

No one could stop him now. He reached out, his hand trembling. His fingertips brushed the bark, softly, gently—

The ground before his feet cracked, and he staggered back, back, back, heart beating in his throat.

The dream. His dream. He'd seen this crack before. Was he asleep again?

He needed to get home. He needed to wake up. He needed ...

He ran. Directions didn't make any sense anymore, so he didn't even try to keep track of them. All he knew was that it had been night in the village and it wasn't night here, so he ran away from the twilight towards the sliver of the sky that seemed just a tad darker. His lungs protested, his calves burned, his heart hammered in his ears. He ran and ran and ran, and stumbled ahead when he couldn't run anymore.

Something moved up ahead, a small, familiar shape.

Tara?

"Tara!"

In his rush to get to her, he nearly tripped over his own feet. He needed to ascertain she was all right. He needed to keep her safe ...

Tara cocked her head, then slowly started walking away from him. After a few paces, she stopped. Looked back at him. Ahead again.

Back at him.

As though she wanted him to follow.

He did.

She led him to the left, and then what felt like backwards, but with every step, the sky grew darker, the landscape half familiar and more solid, until Gale found himself back on the road, surrounded by the night. At last, he dared to look back—the strange path was gone, the hedge whole.

Tara nudged his shin with her head, and Gale crouched to pet her.

"Thank you," he choked out. "Let’s ... Let’s go home."

Moving was good. Moving meant he didn't have to think about whatever had just occurred.

Tara continued to stay ahead of him all the way into his kitchen, as if she were trying to make sure he would follow, and he did. A deep sigh shuddered free of him as he closed his front door behind him.

All right. He needed to shower, needed to ...

Tara scratched at the back door.

"You were just out," he muttered but crossed the room to let her out anyway. She deserved whatever she wanted after—

He froze, the door halfway open, his hand still on the handle.

There was someone in his backyard.

Not the phantom child he'd been seeing. Not anyone he knew. Probably.

He couldn't quite tell because the person was lying face down in the dirt. The most he could distinguish with the light streaming past him was a mop of white hair.

Did someone get a bit too drunk at the celebration? Why they would end up in Gale’s backyard, he couldn’t tell. Only a farm or two were further down the road, so no one should be likely to wander past.

“Hello?” he called out.

The person didn’t stir.

Slowly, Gale approached them.

“Hello?” he tried again, louder.

Nothing. He couldn’t smell alcohol on them either.

He crouched. Up close, he could see a pointed ear peeking through matted pale hair and a tattered cloak. Another villager in costume then. Perhaps someone had slipped them whatever Gale had ingested too?

Gale nudged their shoulder, and still they did not react.

“I’m just … going to turn you around,” he said as he took hold of their shoulder and rolled them onto their back.

It was a man. His head rolled to the side until it came to rest on one cheek. Moonlight cast striking shadows on his face, or perhaps his features were simply that sharp. That gaunt. That … starved?

Gale didn’t get the opportunity to ponder that any further as his gaze travelled down his neck to the ruffled collar of his shirt. The wide open collar which revealed a thin metal band around his neck and an expanse of open wounds and scarring around it.

Shit. Shit. That was …

He needed help.

Gale pulled his phone out of his pocket and went to dial 999, but the screen froze on the second digit. He locked it, tried again. Nothing at all. His screen wouldn’t even light up.

What the hell? This was the moment his phone chose to die? Damn.

Okay. Breathe. He could handle this. Jen would have a working phone, and she should be able to recognise the man to alert his family. If the man was even local. How would a local get hurt—get tortured—like that? But why would anyone other than a local be dressed up for the celebration in this particular fashion? Gale should probably bring him inside in the meantime, check what he could do. Examine the wounds under a better light. See if anything was bleeding profusely. At least he could try to stop that before he rushed over to Jen’s.

He pulled one of the stranger’s arms over his shoulders and pushed himself upright; the man seemed far too light. Gale half dragged, half carried him inside and managed to get him lying on the sofa.

Under the proper light, the mess around his neck looked both better and worse. The wounds were oozing more than bleeding, and his chest kept rising and falling evenly. No blood was seeping through his clothes anywhere that Gale could see, so that was good, right?

Light reflected off the collar around his neck, and Gale leaned closer. The skin in immediate contact with it seemed to be in the worst condition. Had someone been yanking on it? Who would even do such a thing?

He reached out to feel for a way to open it at the back, but he couldn’t find anything. Only smooth metal all the way around. With a frown, he started turning the collar to take a closer look. The man made a faint sound at that, but didn’t stir, so Gale kept going—until his efforts made the collar touch a less blemished part of the man’s neck, and the spot started turning a violent red in response.

Gale dropped the collar as though he’d been the one who’d got burnt. What was—how was this—

With unsteady hands, he felt along the shell of the man’s ear. It should come off. It was just a costume, so if he tugged on the prosthetic, it would come off. Surely. Surely.

Except he could feel nothing but smooth skin. No prosthetic. No seam. No nothing.

Just a long, pointy ear.

But … But that would mean …

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

That would mean everything might have been real. The villagers might have been right. And Gale …

Gale might have just found a fae in his backyard.

Chapter Text

Jen opened the door in fluffy yellow pyjamas, her hair loose around her shoulders.

"Why the fuck are you banging on my door in the middle of the night?"

Gale shifted back and forth. "Do you have a file I could borrow? Maybe pliers? I, uh, I need to sort out some ... uh ..."

Jen blinked at him. "You woke me up now because of a hobby project?"

"No! No, it's a—a plumbing issue," he murmured. It probably sounded like the nonsense it was, but he didn't care. "You woke me up at an unreasonable time before too. Now we're even."

"I hardly woke you up in the middle of—"

"Jen, please. Do you have the tools?"

She narrowed her eyes, then nodded and disappeared inside. Gale was left fidgeting at the door. The mysterious stranger in his living room hadn’t seemed likely to perish within the next few minutes, but Gale's stomach still turned at the memory of metal burning into skin.

Footsteps told him Jen was about to reappear a few moments before she did.

“Here.” She shoved a toolbox into his hands. “Now bugger off, I’m going to sleep.”

“Thank you,” Gale said just as she closed the door in his face. He turned and hurried back home.

The stranger—the fae? Could he really be one of the fae folk?

But if he wasn’t, why would iron hurt him? Gale had touched the collar and remained unscathed.

Whoever and whatever the stranger was, he was lying on the sofa exactly as Gale had left him. The only change in the scene was Tara, perched on the backrest as though she was keeping an eye on him.

Gale dug a pair of pliers out of the box and tried them first, but the metal was too thick to snap. With a sigh, he got a file instead. Finding an angle proved tricky; he ended up having to tilt the stranger’s head to the side and back to be able to move the file without jamming it against his jaw. Metal slid against metal. The motion jostled the collar, and the man moaned.

“Sorry,” Gale murmured as he watched fresh blood ooze down his pale neck. “Just—hang in there. I’ll get this off you.”

He shifted his grip on the collar, and the stranger’s head jerked to the other side too fast for Gale to withdraw the file—a gash bloomed on the man’s cheek and his eyes snapped open.

Wild eyes the colour of blood.

Gale registered a flash of sharp fangs before the world spun and the air got knocked out of his lungs. He blinked, then did it again. His body screamed at him to breathe again, and he tried, he tried, but something dug into his chest, flattened him down to the ground—

He gasped, hungry for oxygen.

The stranger hovered above him, one knee digging into his sternum, a hand raised as if to strike.

But the pain never came.

Gale stared up at him. The stranger’s pupils were blown wide. His chest kept rising and falling far too fast.

“Easy,” Gale said, or tried to—the pressure on his chest turned the word into a gasp.

A droplet of blood slid from the gash down the man’s cheek. It clung to his jaw for a moment before it dripped onto Gale’s neck.

Slowly, the man lowered his hand. “Where am I?” His voice wrapped around Gale, soft and raspy like a cat’s tongue.

“You’re in my house. I found you in the garden, and you weren’t … all right. You’re not all right.”

The man—the fae—bared his teeth further, but made no move otherwise, so Gale continued.

"I'm trying to help you." He lifted his hand, the file still clutched in his fist. "See? I was trying to get that ... thing off you. It seems to be hurting you."

The man blinked. His pupils shrank a tad, narrowing into a more slit-like shape. He shifted his weight backwards; the pressure on Gale's sternum eased.

"Thank you," Gale said. "Now, if you would allow me to get up, we can see to it that you'll be free of that collar as soon as possible."

There was no immediate response. After a while, the man slid off of him in silence, and Gale pushed himself up into a seated position.

"That's better. What's your name?"

A blink. Then, "You may call me Astarion."

"All right. Astarion." An unusual name, perhaps, but Gale enjoyed the sound of it. "Can you tilt your head to the side like so?" He demonstrated. "That way, I won't hit your jaw."

Astarion mirrored the position and held it as Gale scooted closer and began to chip away at the metal again. Held it without a sound or movement the entire time, even when Gale needed to flex his hands to ease the strain on them, even when the collar was finally thinned enough for the metal to give way under the pliers. It came apart with a snap.

Astarion straightened his neck; if the position had put a strain on his muscles, he didn't show it.

"First part done." Gale wasn't sure who the words were for. "Now I just need to bend this ..."

It wasn't any easier than the first part. He gripped one end with his hand, the other with the pliers, and slowly forced them apart. Blood beaded on Astarion’s skin and trickled down his neck. Try as he might, Gale couldn't keep the iron from touching him.

At last, he'd bent the hateful thing out of shape enough that he could pull it off. As soon as it came free, Astarion’s hands found their way to his neck, feeling around with a desperation of a starving man, and a choked-off sound escaped his lips.

"Let's get something for the wounds," Gale murmured. A tightness had settled in his chest, along with an overwhelming need to avert his gaze from the sheer relief on Astarion’s face.

He returned with the first aid kit and some disinfectant, and was about to apply that to the wound when he took in the general state of Astarion. His hair stuck to his head, matted together, his clothes torn, dirt and soil sticking to his skin.

What would be the point of putting bandages over that?

"I'd recommend washing first. You don't want dirt in your wounds, or they might get infected."

Astarion cocked his head. "They'd be all right. I do not ... require a bath."

"Oh, I don't have a bathtub, I'm afraid, only a shower. And you really should get yourself cleaned up. You ... Well. You'll ... feel better." He couldn't exactly tell Astarion that he smelled, could he? "It's no bother, really. Here. It's that way."

He tugged on Astarion’s hand to pull him to his feet, and the man froze.

Oh. Oh, of course. Maybe physical contact wasn't the smartest choice.

But then Astarion rose, and stepped closer to Gale, and Gale let go as though he'd been burnt.

"It's ... Towels are in the cupboard. Use whatever shampoo you'd like. I'll, uh, I'll get you some clean clothes to wear."

He hurried into the bedroom before Astarion could reply—if he would have replied at all. The fae seemed about the same height as Gale, but thinner, too thin, so Gale's clothes should fit. Something comfortable would be the right choice. Something with a loose neckline to accommodate the injuries.

He gathered a set of clothes complete with a worn, oversized jumper. It didn't look very stylish, but it was soft and comfortable to wear. 

The sound of running water told him Astarion was in the shower, so he placed the clothes in front of the door and busied himself by making tea. The night was cold, and Astarion had been lying outside—he might appreciate a hot beverage. Besides, when was a cuppa not a good idea?

Once he’d finished the tea, he started making sandwiches. If Astarion wouldn't be able to stomach much, Gale could finish them.

A long time passed before the rushing of the water in the shower subsided. The door creaked as it opened. One pale hand snatched the clothes from the floor and disappeared again.

Gale sat down at the kitchen table and fished his useless phone out of his pocket to try again. It did power on this time, but he was still out of signal. Hmm...

The creak of the bathroom door made him look up once again. Astarion stepped out on silent feet, droplets falling from his hair onto a towel wrapped around his shoulders. Gale's clothes hung loose on him, the collar dangling somewhat to the side to reveal part of his left shoulder. Gale's gaze lingered on the line of his collarbone for a moment before settling on the gruesome mess around his neck.

"Here." Gale stood and gestured at the other chair at the table. Astarion obeyed, and Gale caught a waft of mint as he leaned closer to inspect the wounds. Odd, smelling his own shampoo on someone else. Odd, but ... lovely?

No, what was he thinking?

He reached for the disinfectant. "This is going to sting a bit."

Astarion nodded, then hissed once when Gale began dabbing at the open wounds. They looked clean, at least. Perhaps the metal had somewhat cauterised them as it burned the skin … He worked as fast as he could. Astarion stiffened when Gale started wrapping bandages around his neck, so he made sure to keep them as loose as he could.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

“I escaped,” Astarion said quietly. He didn’t elaborate, and Gale didn’t dare ask again. Whatever had happened to the fae (he was fae, he really was fae), it must have been bad. Some kind of captivity … Perhaps the fae kept slaves? Or perhaps it had been more of an individual situation. A … relationship gone wrong?

Thoughts of Mystra threatened to creep into the forefront of his mind, and he shoved them away.

Not now.

Not ever again.

“You’re safe here,” he said, the words coming out with more vehemence than he’d intended. “No one will follow you in here, I swear.”

“You swear,” Astarion echoed, and for a moment, it sounded as though the house echoed it too. Swear, swear, swear—

Gale must have imagined it. Exhaustion tugged at the edges of his awareness, he’d had one hell of a night, and his senses must have been playing tricks on him.

“There.” He tucked the end of the bandage under another layer. “Are you injured anywhere else?”

Astarion didn’t respond right away. His gaze flicked towards the floor, then back up to Gale. He shook his head.

“Okay. I made you something to eat.” Gale nudged the plate with grilled cheese towards Astarion, who reached out slowly. His fingers hovered over the sandwich for a moment before he closed them around it and brought it to his mouth. His gaze found Gale again.

“Go on,” Gale said.

Astarion ate.

•~•~•~•

Sleep claimed him as soon as his head hit the pillow. He’d barely managed to sort out a makeshift bed for Astarion on the sofa and drag himself to the bedroom, eyes already sliding closed. Once he surrendered to the embrace of his duvet, he was gone.

At first, he didn’t know what woke him. It was dark still. Night. He blinked, eyes sticking together with sleep. Something stirred in the dark. The mattress shifted.

He snapped his eyes open and found himself staring at Astarion.

Once again, the fae was kneeling above him.

This time, he was naked.

This time, his lips hovered inches from the tip of Gale’s cock. Gale’s very hard cock, straining against his boxers.

“What …” Gale scampered backwards until his back hit the headboard. A knot tightened in his throat, and he tugged his legs close to his chest to get them out of Astarion’s reach. “What the hell are you doing?”

Astarion blinked. In the dark, his eyes seemed to glow just the slightest. “You need it.”

What?

“What? No. No, I—just because I get—it happens, in my sleep. It’s normal. You absolutely don’t need to do anything about that. What are you doing here?” Gale’s heart hammered against his sternum, and sickness crawled up his throat. Oh gods, had the fae … If Gale hadn’t woken up … 

Astarion slowly crawled backwards. “I …”

“Yes? Because I assure you, your coming into my room in the middle of the night and crawling onto my bed doesn’t inspire trust. Were you—were you trying to assault me?”

“No!” Astarion shook his head and waved his arms in front of his chest. His eyes went wide, eyebrows drawn towards each other. “I’m here to pay you back.”

“Pay me back?”

Astarion nodded, and Gale swallowed. “What do you mean ‘pay me back’?”

The silence in the room felt near oppressive. Laden with something Gale couldn’t name, couldn’t grasp, much like the situation he had found himself in.

“For your help,” Astarion said at last. He sat back on his haunches at the far end of the bed, halfway curled in on himself as though he was trying to make himself smaller. “You got the collar off me. You fed me. You’re letting me stay the night. I have to repay you.”

Oh. Maybe it hadn’t been meant in a bad way …?

“You don’t have to repay me. I just did what every decent person would do.” What he wished someone had done for him.

Astarion hunched over even more. His fingers dug into his triceps as he brought his arms around himself. “I have to.”

Gale opened his mouth to object, then closed it again. What if this was a fae custom? He vaguely recalled something about repaying favours, but he couldn’t remember for certain. If only he’d paid more attention to the strange quirks of the villagers. But he hadn’t, and now he found himself out of his depth.

Well, he had a fae before him. Surely Astarion would know.

“Is this a fae thing?”

But Astarion only shrugged. “It just … is. I just have to. Always have.”

Oh gods, that didn’t explain anything. Gale could go along with fae customs. He could do that. What he couldn’t do was exploit a potential trauma response by accident. How was he supposed to tell which was which? He didn’t know anything about the fae. No one could really know anything about the fae, because, by rights, they shouldn’t exist. And yet. And yet.

He couldn’t wait for the morning. Couldn’t wait to consult with Jaheira or Halsin. Astarion was staring at him, naked, looking so small.

Gale shoved the duvet his way.

"There ..." Why was his mouth suddenly desert dry? He swallowed. "There are other ways. Please, cover yourself up."

Astarion grabbed the duvet with one hand and pulled it to his chest; the faint light spilling through cracks in the blinds fell on his arm. For a moment, the skin on his wrist looked almost silver.

"What would you have me do?"

"Well, you can always ..." He could always do what? "Help me around the house," Gale finished, stating the first thing that came to mind. Anything was better than a stranger trying to suck his cock in the middle of the night.

Astarion nodded.

"Just—don't do this again. You can't just touch people without permission. Okay?" Surely fae understood how consent worked?

Astarion only nodded again.

He didn't seem to speak much; Gale had heard a few sentences from him at most. Was that normal? He needed to learn more about fae as soon as possible.

He sighed. "Can I expect any other surprises? Anything else I should know? Some strange fae customs that might cause the heart of an unsuspecting human to give out?"

"I was not trying to harm you," Astarion said. His voice remained quiet, his fingers clutching the duvet. For a moment, he reminded Gale of a cornered animal.

An animal that had given up.

The image in the mirror.

Before.

A dull pain bloomed in Gale's chest and he sighed. "I know. I'm not trying to harm you either."

Astarion nodded; Gale couldn't tell if he believed him or not.

"Please put some clothes on and go back to sleep."

Another nod. Astarion released the blanket, climbed off the bed, and walked out of the room with hunched shoulders. Gale suddenly had to try very hard to keep his gaze on the back of Astarion's head.

What in the world had he got himself into?

Once Astarion had disappeared from view and Gale could hear no more sounds, he got up and closed the door. Then he locked it for good measure.

After an hour of tossing and turning, he slipped into fitful sleep.

•~•~•~•

"You're early," Jaheira said in place of a greeting as he entered her bakery. The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the small shop, warming something inside him like mulled wine on a cold winter night.

"I had a strange night."

She shrugged. "It was samhain. The usual for you?"

Gale nodded. "One of these days, I'll have to try baking bread myself. I've always been more of a cook than a baker, but you make it look easy."

"Hm. That's called practice. I'll have to try your cooking sometime." She handed him a loaf of bread and a scone, and he hummed in agreement. It had been a while since he'd cooked for someone else. That grilled cheese he'd made for Astarion had been the first thing he'd prepared for another person since he'd gotten engaged to Mystra. She’d always insisted on having a cook. As though touching the food before it was served would be beneath Gale.

"Say, Jaheira ..." There was no good way to ask this, was there? She'd think him crazy either way. But this situation was crazy. This entire village was crazy. "How would you interpret one of the ... folk trying to get into your bed?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "If that was real, I'd say you attracted some complicated attention. If we're talking about a dream, I believe the proper expression is that you need to get laid."

Heat flooded his cheeks, and her eyebrows somehow arched even further.

"We are talking about a dream, are we not?"

"Yes," Gale managed. "Yes. A dream."

"Right." She gave him an odd look. "I'll see what I can come up with."

The heat intensified. If the ground opened up and swallowed him now, he would have been grateful. "N-no need for anything. I just thought—since it was a fae—I don't know much about them, really."

Jaheira narrowed her eyes. "If you're humouring me, there's no need. If you're actually interested, you'd best talk to Halsin. He always knows something about everything."

"Thank you." Gale packed up the bread into his tote bag and left.

•~•~•~•

Gale had never visited Halsin's farm before. In truth, he could have gone without ever visiting; Halsin had had a strange air about him last night, and Gale wasn't too keen on a repeat performance.

But when he arrived, Halsin greeted him with an easy smile. No more sharp teeth or pointy ears. Which was only logical. No one would keep a costume on.

Except Astarion’s ears weren't a costume.

"Good morning." Halsin lifted a hand in greeting. He wore gloves, and his rubber boots were covered in mud. "What brings you here?"

"Oh. Am I intruding?"

The smile on Halsin's face faded, replaced by something Gale couldn't quite place. "You really must stop assuming the worst from every sentence, my friend. True, there is always work to be done, but you are not intruding. I presume you have come here with a purpose?"

"Yes." Gale shoved his hands into his pockets. "Jaheira recommended I come to you. I was hoping you could tell me about … well, about fae.”

Halsin studied him for a moment. “Have you had a change of heart?”

A change of heart? He’d been perfectly polite about the odd habits of the entire village before, hadn’t he? Could Halsin somehow tell that he now actually believed in the fae too?

“I had an odd night.” He tried burying his hands deeper into his pockets, only to realise there was nowhere else for them to go.

“We all had an odd night. The frost came far too early.” Halsin sighed. “But I doubt you came for stories about ruined crops. Let’s see …”

“Ruined crops? Can they control the frost?”

Halsin shook his head. “Not directly, no. But they’re tied to the wilds, and the wilds are tied to our land. We’re all connected, so we have to coexist. If you’re looking for ways to avoid trouble, keep them happy. Milk is good, milk with honey is better. A well-kept garden might please the little ones. Some things, you should avoid. Don’t tread on paths you don’t know. Don’t eat their food, unless it is their payment for something you did for them. The give and take is important, and if you take without knowing what you agreed to give, you might never be able to return. Or you’ll end up like the old Ketheric Thorm. Came stumbling out of the mist one evening. He’d been gone for a day in our world, but time flows differently in the wilds. In there, he’s already lived another lifetime.”

Gale swallowed. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, far too dry. He swallowed again. It didn’t help.

“It’s all real,” he managed. “It’s all real, isn’t it?”

Halsin nodded.

Oh. Oh, shit, it was real. There had been no drug, no hallucinations. Gale had stumbled into the fae lands last night and escaped through sheer dumb luck. He’d found a fae in his backyard, had helped said fae, had had said fae climb into his bed naked.

Well, fuck.

His chest felt so tight. There was no room in his lungs for air. He pressed a hand against his chest, rubbed at it as if he could scrub the ache away.

“Breathe, Gale.”

He’d love to, he would, but his chest wouldn’t have it—

“One, two, three …” Halsin’s voice felt soft in his ears, a lifeline thrown within reach. If he could only move his arm and grab onto it. If he could only …

“… four …”

He felt his chest expand. Just a little.

Just enough.

Compress.

Expand.

“Good,” Halsin said, and it felt true. It felt as if Gale had done something worthwhile, something good enough. As if he’d been good enough. A strange feeling.

He could get used to this.

“Thank you.” His voice shook a tad. “I apologise, I …” He swallowed again. “When I was heading home last night, I saw a new path in the hedge, and I took it. I thought it was a mad dream, or that I had been drugged … Tara found me. She brought me back.”

Halsin nodded. “Your cat is a wonderful companion. I am glad to see you in one piece, and with your wits about you.”

A chuckle bubbled on Gale’s lips. “I don’t know about my wits. After this display, you must think me a delicate urbanite.”

“Not at all. Some things take time getting used to. You’ve done well adjusting to this life. But then, this place attracts a certain kind of people. No one ends up here who shouldn’t end up here. I think it’s the land that calls for them. For you. It’s yearning to have its heart back, and it weeps. Some folks can feel it.” Halsin sighed. “But that is not your burden to bear. You’ve come for a new chance at life—you deserve to live it.”

Gale opened his mouth, and closed it again. He didn’t understand half of what Halsin had said, but did it really matter that he didn’t? He could feel the truth behind the words, and that was a whole other can of worms. This place, these people, Astarion … He couldn’t comprehend reality by trying to dissect it, could he? All of his scientific background, all of his painstakingly won research experience didn’t offer him the right tools to unpack this. And yet, he knew something. Somewhere deep in the parts of himself that had been lowered into the ground with his father’s coffin and drowned in the image of his mother’s tears.

Something stirred deep, deep down inside him. Swelled in his chest, and pushed against the back of his eyes.

Why had he come here? He’d taken one look at that old cottage in a backwater village in the middle of nowhere and known that this was to be his home, but why? The appeal of peace? He’d thought to write about quantum physics, and yet he hadn’t even touched the project. Instead, he’d buried his fingers into the soil, spent his Saturdays at the market and Thursday afternoons at Jaheira’s for tea, and …

He didn’t miss his research. Didn’t miss his former colleagues, or the home he’d shared in Oxford that had never felt truly his.

Perhaps he’d forgotten who he was.

Perhaps he’d begun planting the seeds of himself in the cold autumn soil, just like the bulbs that might bloom come spring.

If only he could ever bloom too.

Chapter Text

On his way home, he stopped at the Co-op to purchase ingredients for lunch and some snacks. He would need to get some clothes for Astarion at some point, but he was going to have to sit down and talk to Astarion first. Because buying anything for Astarion would imply that Astarion was staying. And why would a fae be staying at Gale’s house? He might very well be gone by the time Gale made it home. Which would be a relief. It would.

Only, Astarion wasn’t gone. He was curled up on the sofa instead, knees tucked up to his chest, wrapped in the blanket that Gale had given him last night. Asleep. In daylight, he looked even more fragile, as though a slight breeze might snap him in half.

Shaking his head, Gale walked over to the kitchen counter and dropped off his shopping. He’d purchased the ingredients he’d need for baking, and an extra bottle of milk for Astarion. Perhaps he could make some scones in the afternoon, drop a few off at Jaheira’s as a thank you for the recipe … Though his baking could hardly compare with hers, so perhaps not …

A soft churp announced Tara’s arrival. She jumped onto the counter and rubbed her cheek against the back of his wrist. He scratched her between the ears.

“Hello, love. Had a good morning?”

The way she turned to look at him seemed almost too intentional to be a coincidence. There was no way she could understand him, right?

But it should also not have been possible for her to find him in the wilds and guide him home. It should not have been possible for her to make friends with a robin. Had Tara changed? Had the land somehow influenced his cat? What had Halsin said when they’d first met? That she’d have to be taught what paths to thread? Had he meant it literally?

Gale shook his head. If Tara was growing a tad more intelligent than an average cat, well, that could hardly be a bad thing. She was his oldest and dearest friend, and he only wished the best for her. And she did seem happy here. Relaxed. Generous with her purrs and affection, far more than she’d been whenever Mystra had been around. Even a cat had known better than to allow that woman close, but Gale had been too foolish to see the obvious. All the pain and strife he could have avoided if his instincts had been anything like Tara’s …

A whimper yanked him out of his spiralling thoughts, and he spun towards Astarion. The fae was curled up on the spot still, but his face was scrunched up, deep lines of distress cut into his forehead. His head rolled from one side to the other, then back as another soft sound escaped him.

The oblivion of sleep was an elusive mistress. Gale understood all too well.

He found himself at Astarion’s side without thinking and reached out to touch his shoulder.

“Hey.”

Another whimper, then nothing. Astarion’s knuckles had turned white where he was gripping the blanket.

“Astarion. Wake up, it’s a dream.”

The words garnered no response, so he gripped Astarion’s shoulder more firmly—

Red eyes snapped open, fangs bared in an instant. A growl crawled at his throat; Gale heard the very start of it before Astarion must have swallowed it down. In the sunlight, his pupils narrowed to slits.

How much alike were humans and fae? Were they similar enough to coexist, as Halsin seemed to believe? Or were the villagers offering food to feral creatures of twilight and magic who could no more be tamed than a tempest could be contained in a bottle?

Did it matter?

Staring down at the naked fear on Astarion’s face, he didn’t think that it did.

Because Astarion, for all he was a different being entirely, looked so much like Gale’s mirror image in the past. Worse. The way Gale’s mirror image might have looked had he not recognised where his relationship with Mystra was heading. Had she not betrayed him so completely that even he couldn’t keep throwing sand into his own eyes anymore? Had he not scraped together what little self-esteem he had left, and got the hell out of her grasp.

He couldn’t turn his back on the horrors that might have been when he saw them written so clearly on somebody else’s face.

“You were having a nightmare,” he said quietly, trying to keep his voice soft and even. Non-threatening. Safe, if he could, though that might be pushing it. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m sorry.”

Astarion’s eyes flicked about the room as though he were a caged animal seeking a route to escape, and Gale slowly backed away to give him more space. It seemed to work; Astarion sucked in a shuddering breath and sank against the cushions again. He didn’t say anything, and Gale didn’t know what to say either.

Perhaps he could do something else.

He returned to the kitchen. Fae liked milk. He had milk. He could offer Astarion something. Tara settled in a little cat loaf on the counter and tracked his movements as he worked. He heated the milk up and added a spoonful of honey to it. That was supposed to soothe, right?

He made sure to keep his steps audible as he approached Astarion again.

“Here.” He held out the mug. “This might help.”

Astarion’s gaze slid from him to the mug, then back to him. Slowly, the fae reached out with one hand. His fingers brushed Gale’s; they felt cold.

“Thank you,” Astarion murmured halfway into the mug as he brought it to his lips. Then he took a sip.

The reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, his lips parted—he grasped the mug with both hands and all but poured the rest of the liquid down his throat.

A smile tugged at Gale’s lips, and a soft warmth settled in his chest. It felt good to see that such a simple gesture could bring someone joy.

“I take it it’s good?”

Astarion pulled the mug away from his lips. Just as suddenly as joy had lit up his face, his expression closed off again. “It’s … fine,” he muttered, though the flush high on his cheeks betrayed him. Even the tips of his ears had turned red. It was … endearing?

Well. Perhaps not quite endearing. But … something?

“I can make you more,” Gale offered. “If you’d like.”

Astarion shrugged, and Gale held out his hand to recover the empty mug. Pushing would probably not get him far. With how thin Astarion was, food can’t have been readily available to him, right?

For a moment, Gale’s gaze lingered on the bandages around his neck.

Gods, how could someone do something like that? How had Astarion endured that? And here Gale was, and the only thing he could do was to warm up more milk.

Life had a way of rubbing his own helplessness in his face, didn’t it?

He collected the mug without a word and returned to the kitchen to mix up more milk. When he returned, Astarion was still sat in the exact same position. He didn’t move even when Gale held out the mug.

“What will you want for it?” he asked.

“Nothing. It’s fine, you can take it.”

Astarion’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head.

“Truly. It’s fine.”

Astarion didn’t respond.

With a sigh, Gale rubbed at his temple. “Can I sit down?”

No response. Then, slowly, Astarion nodded once. Gale made sure to sit at the far end of the sofa, so their legs wouldn’t touch by accident.

“We have got to talk about this transactional mentality of yours. I’ve been told it’s a fae thing, so I doubt you can do much about it as such, but …” He pinched the bridge of his nose. Stringing words into a cohesive whole had no right to be this difficult. “Does it always have to be one favour for one favour? Can you group them together? Is there a system for what actions are equivalent in size?”

Astarion stared at him as though he’d grown another head. Was Gale not making sense?

“Okay, why don’t you tell me how it works?”

“If you do something for me, I have to pay you back.”

“Yes, but how exactly does that work? Is there some kind of a system for ranking favours, or …?”

He was pretty certain Astarion’s blank stare meant ‘no’. Of course the fae didn’t have a convenient spreadsheet. Why would things make sense if they didn’t need to?

“Okay. All right. How about an example? If I were to deem it a satisfactory exchange for you to help me clean up the house as a repayment for my aid, is that something you could accept?"

Astarion hesitated, or perhaps took a moment to consider the offer, before he nodded.

"I think if we both agree, then that should suffice," he said quietly. "I'm not entirely sure how this is meant to work."

Oh. "Well, if there are no fixed rules, we can make our own, can we not?"

Astarion furrowed his brow. "I suppose ..."

"Great. Then I would propose that we not count each individual act. For example, warm milk falls under my hospitality, which I am willing to offer in return for your aid around the house, should said aid be required. Though, of course, I do believe you should recover first." Gale paused and gestured in the general direction of his neck. "Does it hurt?"

"Not much. It should be more or less healed by now."

Gale arched his eyebrows and held the mug out to Astarion again. "You heal fast."

The wrinkles on Astarion’s forehead deepened as he accepted the mug at last. "I believe I heal normally."

"Perhaps for a fae. Humans tend to heal rather more slowly."

"But you're not entirely human."

"I'm—what?" If Gale had still been holding the mug, he would have dropped it now. "No. No, of course I'm human. What else could I possibly be?"

Astarion shrugged and took a sip. "You are human. But you're one of them—what are they usually called?" He made a vague gesture through the air. "Fae touched. You must have had dealings with the folk before."

"I ... No, no, I can't have. I would have known." Wouldn't he?

"Hmm. Perhaps your mother then?"

A flash of heat behind his sternum. His hands balled into fists. "Are you implying my mother cheated on my father?"

Astarion tsked. "Nothing quite so dramatic, darling. She might have crossed paths with one of us when she was pregnant. It must have been quite a favourable encounter for her to receive a blessing. You may wish to ask her about it."

The heat receded as fast as it had arisen, leaving ashes in its wake. "She's dead."

"Oh." Astarion turned his gaze towards the mug in his hands, as if he felt a sudden impulse to study the milk. "My parents are dead too. Everyone I ever cared for is dead."

It was Gale's turn to find himself at a loss for words. Was there anything anyone could say to fill the vast chasm left behind after everything you’d ever known had disappeared? No one had ever said any such words to him. After his mother had died … Mystra had been the only one left in his life, and she wasn’t worth losing thoughts over.

Tara. Tara had been with him too. His darling Tara who’d served as his lifeline for longer than he cared to remember. Who’d always lightened his moods when they turned heavy. But he couldn’t very well copy her strategies for cheering him up. Somehow, he doubted curling up on Astarion’s lap would help.

“No one is looking for you,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question, but Astarion shook his head anyway.

“You have nowhere to go.”

Again, a shake of his head. A lock of pale hair slid onto his forehead.

Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how things work in the wilds … Is there a—a hospital, or some kind of police you could go to?”

“What’s a police?”

Oh. “Guess that’s a no then …”

Astarion sipped his milk again, then cupped the mug with both hands and held it to his chest. His gaze fell somewhere around Gale’s feet. “Could I … stay here? I can be good, I promise.”

What was he supposed to do with Astarion? He wouldn’t kick him out while he was injured, of course not, but he couldn’t very well keep a stranger in his home. This wasn’t the same as bringing in a stray cat to feed it one night, only to find yourself still living with it five years down the line. This was a person. A fae. Who’d tried to—well, Astarion hadn’t tried to assault Gale, but it had been a rather nasty surprise …

All of Gale’s extensive education had done nothing to equip him for the situation at hand.

“I don’t know. You can stay while you heal, but …”

“Please. This place is safe. You’ve made it safe. Please.”

Damn it all, what was he meant to do? The thought of throwing Astarion back to the proverbial wolves made his stomach turn. Had it been his own people who’d hurt him? They must have been … Which meant he would be safer in the human world …

“I can’t promise you anything long term,” he said and averted his gaze. He couldn’t stand to look at the bandages, at the hollowness of Astarion’s cheeks, at the way he clutched that mug as though it were a treasure. “You can stay for now. Then we’ll … see.”

“Thank you.”

The intensity in Astarion’s voice made him look up, and he found himself caught by those crimson eyes, all wide and wild and filled with things beyond his comprehension. Found himself transported to ancient forests and eternal twilight, to dancing sprites and roots that dug deep, deep, deep into the soil—

Astarion blinked, and Gale sucked in a sharp breath.

Not human. Not human.

But if his guest was aware of what had just transpired, he didn’t show it.

“What can I offer in turn?” he asked.

Gale sank into the cushions. “Tell me, what does it mean to be fae touched?”

“It depends on the circumstances. Who the fae was. What intent they acted on. Most will be drawn to places of power, or sensitive to certain aspects of the wilds. Half the people here are fae touched.”

“How do you know that?”

Astarion shrugged. “The lands know their family lines. The Ravengards have lived here for centuries. They have a sense of justice and truth. Others, I can’t really tell. They haven’t been here long, haven’t sprung the roots so deep yet.”

A memory stirred in the back of Gale’s mind. “Jaheira mentioned receiving a message in dreams.”

“That would work.” Astarion shifted and straightened his legs out a bit. Beneath the blanket, his toes brushed against Gale’s thigh and retreated in a blink of an eye. “It would be a gift of some kind. A talent. A sense.”

A gift … His talent for academia, perhaps? His interest in physics? No … That felt far too … mundane. He’d clawed his way up the ranks to a tenure, and while he had, in part, his remarkable talent to thank, it had never felt magical. Nothing like Jaheira’s dream visitors, or whatever Wyll’s ‘sense of justice’ might entail.

Would it feel magical though? What if it didn’t? What if it should, and he simply didn’t possess a gift?

Astarion frowned. “Have I upset you?”

“Hm? No, not at all. Thank you. For trying to explain.”

No response.

He didn’t know what else to say either. How could he expect Astarion to tell him things he didn’t even know about himself? He’d lived with himself for nigh-on forty years; Astarion had known him for one night.

They sat in silence for a while. Gale felt all too aware of the near complete lack of sounds; his own breathing echoed in his ears.

"Gale?"

"Yes?"

Astarion kept his gaze directed at his lap. "Ma—could I have some more of this?"

"The milk?"

Astarion nodded once.

"Yes, of course! I'm glad it's to your liking."

"It's the best thing I've ever had," Astarion said quietly, and Gale's heart cracked. What gruel had the fae been fed in the past if some honey milk counted as the epitome of culinary experience for him?

He didn't dare ask. What right had he? They were strangers still; he would not appreciate Astarion picking the scabs off Gale's barely healed past, so he had no intention of doing the same. He could, however, make sure his physical wounds were healing.

"I'd like to check on your neck, and then I'd be happy to warm up more milk for you."

Astarion nodded, so Gale fetched fresh bandages and got to work. He tried to be fast, he really did. The rigidity with which Astarion held himself when the distance between them decreased sent a twinge of guilt though his gut. He was doing what needed to be done, and yet the thought that his proximity could cause someone such discomfort was a sobering one. It wasn't personal, he understood that on some clinical level. Anger stirred inside him, anger at whoever had hurt Astarion so, at all the people in the world who believed it their right to push others about, at—

At Mystra.

He hated how much of himself he saw in Astarion. Such thoughts were dangerous. He would only fool himself into believing that he knew the fae, and then what?

He forced his attention back to the matter at hand. The fresh wounds had already scabbed over. This accelerated healing must have been how Astarion had survived the collar in the first place.

Gale wrapped a bandage around his neck anyway to keep anything from catching on the scabs and tearing them off.

"There." He tucked the end of the bandage in. The back of his hand brushed against Astarion's jaw, and he saw his throat move as he swallowed. "Let me get you more milk."

•~•~•~•

The odd silence that hung over them felt alive, its own entity breathing down their necks. Gale tried to educate himself about further work in the garden, but his phone continued to act up, so he decided to make an early lunch instead.

Astarion's eyes followed his every step. The fae remained curled up tight on the sofa, as if he were trying to make himself disappear, and yet his presence proved difficult to ignore.

With a sigh, Gale turned to face him. "Would you stop staring at me? If you're bored, you can help me, or you can do whatever you'd usually do to pass time."

"I'd rather not." The words came out so quietly.

Perhaps that hadn’t been the most considerate thing to say.

“Apologies.” Gale rubbed the back of his neck. “Why don’t you come here and give me a hand? The potatoes need peeling.”

Astarion did. In less than a minute, Gale realised that the fae had never peeled a potato in his life. He also realised that was okay. He didn’t mind teaching. He didn’t mind company in the kitchen. Most of all, he didn’t mind feeling the silence transform into something busier. More comfortable.

Something, where there had been nothing before.

•~•~•~•

Over the course of the next week, Gale established several things.

His phone, though misbehaving in strange ways every day while he was at home, worked perfectly well when he was not in close proximity of Astarion. Most of the time. Mostly well. Which came as a relief, because purchasing a new one didn’t make it anywhere near the top of Gale’s wish list.

Astarion, for all that he was trying to uphold his end of the bargain, had little knowledge of housekeeping. He did, however, seem to know which bits in Gale’s garden required covering in mulch and what the best spots for planting winter lettuce would be without so much as setting a toe outside. When pressed about it, he shrugged and said, “The land told me,” as if that explained anything.

He clung to the house like a babe to his mother. The furthest Gale saw him go was within two feet of the back door. Was he scared? Was someone after him?

Gale didn’t dare ask. Perhaps he was scared of the answer. Besides, returning to an empty house after running errands wasn’t something he was too keen to experience again. Some company was … nice. Even if it did come in the shape of a strange fae, who gave occasional good gardening advice.

The weather turned colder. The early frost that Halsin had mentioned seemed to be but the beginning of it. On the first Friday in November, Gale woke up to a thick blanket of snow outside and decided the time had come to tackle the scones he’d been putting off.

Astarion was still lost in dreams. He slept much more than Gale. Healing. Recovering. The wounds on his neck had disappeared, but the ring of scars remained; Gale could see a sliver of them between his jaw and the blanket.

Quietly, so as to let his houseguest rest, he started setting the ingredients onto the counters. Last, he put down the piece of paper with Jaheria's recipe on it and smoothed it out with his hands. Quiet excitement filled him as he measured and mixed the ingredients. It had been far, far too long since he'd tried something new. Why had he waited until now?

He flattened the mixture into shape and cut it into circles with a mug. Baking and gardening weren't too dissimilar, were they? Both required him to get his hands dirty. Both combined the individual ingredients into far more complex results.

He hoped Jaheira would enjoy his scones. Hoped Astarion would, too. He hadn't complained about a single dish yet. Wherever he'd been kept before, food must not have been abundant or delicious, so perhaps it was no wonder that he seemed to appreciate everything.

Gale popped the baking tray into the oven. As he straightened up again, Tara rubbed her cheek against his ankle.

"I haven't forgotten about you."

She squinted at him, and he smiled as he opened a can for her. Preparing food for others satisfied him much more than throwing together a quick meal for himself.

Once the scones were done, he left some on the coffee table for Astarion to find. The rest, he packed up and took with him to subject them to the judgement of the resident expert.

•~•~•~•

Jaheira greeted him at the door and rushed him inside with a smile. Fresh coffee awaited on the kitchen table—someday, Gale would stop being surprised at her uncanny ability to predict the future. Someday.

He held the box of scones out to Jaheira. "I used your recipe. They're no masterpiece, but I think they turned out all right."

"I'm sure they did, cub." She nudged him to take a seat while she rummaged through the cupboards for plates. They didn’t match; Gale’s plate was a smooth slate grey; Jaheira’s an off white with daffodils twirling around the edges. 

“They look good.” She sat down and picked a scone up with her index finger and thumb; Gale noted a smudge of flour on her sleeve.

"So?" he asked as she took the first bite. He counted five daffodils on her plate. "Pass your judgement."

But she said nothing. Her eyebrows arched, and she took another bite, and another, and another until there was nothing left but a stray crumb sticking to her thumb.

Had he done a decent job then? Had he failed? 

"This was ... exciting." Jaheira smiled at him with an odd spark in her eye. "Something new, something ..."

Gale tried not to fidget with his hair. He took a sip of coffee instead. "That's a peculiar way to talk about food. Was it okay?”

"Okay? That is one way of putting it. This scone … Eating it made me feel good. Perhaps I should try something new too. Change my routine.” She brushed the crumbs off her lip and looked somewhere into the distance. Then she looked straight at him. “Perhaps you should try something else that is new, not just making scones. You did say you were lonely, no? A date might be just what you need.”

Gale nearly spluttered. A date? He should not have mentioned his little mishap with Astarion to Jaheira. Now how was he going to explain that he didn’t want a potential partner shoved in his face? "I don't think—"

"No, no, you don't need to think. You don’t need to do anything, I’ll take care of it. Just make sure to wear something nice."

Gale opened his mouth to protest, but the only thing he could think of was Astaron naked on his knees. He closed his mouth again. 

What on Earth had just happened?

Chapter Text

Gale stared at Jen.

She stared back.

Neither of them spoke. Chatter filled the cafe around them, but it did about as much for the mood as listening to crickets might have done.

“So …”

“So,” Jen echoed back.

“Jaheira told you to meet me.”

“Jaheira told me to meet you.”

“Cool.” He folded his hands on the table. The patterns on the cloth consisted of little red and white squares. A quarter of an inch wide, perhaps. Too many to count. “So … The weather’s been … cold.

Jen arched an eyebrow. “You can’t be serious.”

“Well, it has …” Twenty-six squares from the edge of the table to where his right hand was resting.

“No,” Jen snapped, “you can’t be serious about this. We’re not calling this a date. We’re not having a date.”

“Oh.” Relief mixed with the sinking feeling of rejection. Not that he had any romantic interest in Jen, but to be turned down so bluntly …

Something must have shown on his face; she reached out and gave his hand a pat. “It’s not personal. You just have a dick too many.”

Oh. Oooh. “I see. Yes, okay that—that makes sense. We can cordially agree to just stay on ‘neighbours’ terms then?”

She nodded; her long braid slid past her shoulder and landed on the chequered tablecloth. “That would be much preferable, yes.”

Gale nodded too. The sting of rejection was already fading into the comfort of familiarity. “Very well. Allow me to buy you a coffee then, neighbour.”

“Happily, neighbour.”

Jaheira’s idea hadn’t resulted in a disaster after all. It would make for a funny story to share, as soon as he found someone to share it with.

•~•~•~•

 Astarion’s nose scrunched up in what might have been distaste. “She forced you to …?”

Perhaps Gale shouldn’t have chosen him to share the misadventure with. Or perhaps he’d told the story wrong somehow? That happened sometimes …

“No, no, she didn’t force us, she just arranged the meet-up without telling us who we’d be having coffee with. That’s not the part that matters, the funny part was—”

“That Jen had no interest. Yes. I gathered that.” Deep lines cut across Astarion’s forehead, and tension coiled in his neck. “But if she had, then you would have been obliged to fuck her because that Jaheira lady—”

“No!” Gale waved his arms before him, almost knocking a glass of milk out of Astarion’s hand. “No, of course not!”

What strange dating customs did fae have? Some old fashioned courting rituals? Arranged marriages? Perhaps Astarion thought a date to be an equivalent of some binding agreement?

“That’s not how dates work.” Gale managed to regain some composure. “I wouldn’t have been forced into anything.”

“Oh.” Astarion’s shoulders sagged and he sank back against the chair. The frown on his face faded to something less violent. Something more tired. “My apologies.”

“No, no, you’re all right. You couldn’t have known.” Had Astarion got angry on Gale's behalf? At the assumption that Gale might have been forced into unwanted intercourse?

Gale should ask why.

His next inhale lasted an eternity. He should ask. Lungs full of air, lips parted to speak. No excuse not to ask.

“Things are just different here,” Astarion said. “Life is different here. Better,” and Gale released all that air with a sigh, almost light-headed from the intensity of it.

“Thank you for looking out for me,” he managed, and Astarion nodded without a word.

•~•~•~•

His conversation with Astarion replayed in his mind when he laid down to sleep that night, over and over like a dragon chasing its own tail.

Life was better here.

Life was better.

Gale couldn’t go back in time to undo whatever horrors had befallen Astarion—nor himself—but he could live in the here and now. Had been trying to live. Had moved here to live.

Perhaps he could help Astarion live too. Share the good things with him on purpose. His favourite books. Meals that took a little more time to make than warm milk, or sausage and mash. Loose-leaf tea instead of PG tips. The joy he’d found in digging his fingers into the soil, in giving back to nature in the form of his little bird house that he kept stocked up with seeds.

He started leaving books for Astarion on the coffee table and saw the fae reading them when he’d return from the market or Jaheira’s or anywhere else. Astarion still refused to set foot outside, so Gale obtained a ficus and some begonias from Halsin in exchange for helping him repair some holes in the wire fence around his chicken coop. Astarion didn’t say much on the matter of plants, but Gale found him murmuring to one of them in the middle of the night when he went to the bathroom, and he would swear the begonia bloomed more brightly in the morning. He brought home a few more that afternoon.

If he had a TV, he would have shown Astarion movies. Instead, he suggested that they might enjoy a book together. As they settled down by the fire and he started to read, he realised that whatever force had dropped a stray fae into his life had done him a favour indeed.

The colours of life felt more vibrant when shared.

•~•~•~•

Gale leaned closer to the mirror and turned his head to see if any unruly hairs were sticking out where they shouldn’t.

“What’s the occasion?”

He caught Astarion’s reflection in the mirror as the fae leaned against the doorframe.

“Why do you assume there’s an occasion?”

“You used perfume.”

Gale felt heat creep up his neck. “It’s not perfume,” he muttered. “It’s cologne.”

Astarion waved his hand in dismissal. “It doesn’t matter what you call it, darling. I could smell you from the other side of the village.”

The heat spread into his cheeks, and he lowered his gaze to the sink. “I didn’t use that much.”

“It’s not—” Astarion fell silent.

Gale couldn’t hear him move, but when he looked into the mirror again, the fae was gone. Running his fingers through his hair one last time, he left the bathroom, too.

Astarion wasn’t difficult to find; the cottage was far too small for that. He was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, a book in his lap and Tara curled up on the armrest next to him. 

“Everything all right?”

“Of course, darling.” Astarion didn’t look up, but his eyes weren’t moving down the page either.

Gale stifled a sigh. He wasn’t running late, not yet, but he didn’t have much time to spare. On the other hand, seeing Astarion act this way brought up an odd pressure in the back of his mind. Almost an ache. He didn’t want to leave the house if it meant abandoning his—friend? House guest? Whatever Astarion was—to a bout of low mood.

“Talk to me,” he said. “Have I said something?”

Astarion set the book aside face down. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Offend me?”

“With the comment. I …” He looked somewhere at the floor beside Gale’s feet, red eyes half hidden by the whiteness of his lashes. “It’s a lovely scent, actually.”

Oh.

A hint of heat rose towards Gale’s cheeks again. He cleared his throat. “Thank you. I … I’m going out. Jaheira arranged another date for me.”

With Wyll this time. Gale didn’t know what to expect, but perhaps he could have fun. Wyll was kind, wasn’t he? Kind and fair—even Astarion had acknowledged the Ravengard’s sense of justice. There were far worse people in the world.

“I see.” Astarion ran his hand down Tara’s back. “And you want to do this? No one’s forcing you?”

“No one’s forcing me.” Although his nerves were through the roof. Was it a good idea? He wasn’t ready for a relationship yet. Not so soon after Mystra, after the debacle that had been their divorce proceedings, after everything that had happened before. How was he meant to truly open his heart to anyone? Perhaps seeing Wyll would be unfair to the man.

But if he cancelled, he’d probably retreat even further into his cocoon. The majority of his company consisted of an middle-aged lady, a lesbian next door, and a stray fae. How much could it possibly hurt to give Wyll a try?

“All right,” Astarion said quietly. He picked up the book again.

“See you later,” Gale said.

Astarion didn’t reply.

•~•~•~•

The wind flung snow into his face as soon as he opened the door. What the hell was wrong with the weather? One bout of snow in November might have been understandable. A week of consistent snowfall? Not so much.

He nearly turned around then, but the pub wasn’t far. So he pulled the collar of his coat up instead, tugged his cap lower to make sure it covered his ears, and braved the snow. The way felt longer than it had any right to be.

When he finally arrived, the warmth of the pub enveloped him like a hug. Thank the gods for the small comforts in life. Like central heating.

He meandered past the tables to the bar, keeping an eye out for Wyll, but found no sight of him.

“Heya,” Karlach greeted him as he slid onto an empty barstool. “You’re looking a little lost.”

“I’m supposed to be meeting someone in”—he glanced at his watch—“two minutes.”

“Ooooh, it is a date?”

He sighed. “Yes, it’s a date.”

A spark lit up Karlach’s eyes. “You got this, mate! Go get lucky.”

He must have flushed at that, so he decided to look at his phone instead. One minute to eight. He shifted. Folded his hands on the counter, then moved them to his lap. Back to the counter.

Eight o’clock.

Cold settled in the pit on his stomach.

No, it was fine. Wyll wouldn’t simply neglect to appear, would he? He was probably just running late. But Jaheira had said she’d given both the other’s number, so if he was running late, there should have been a message, right?

Five minutes past.

Gale rested his elbows on the bar and buried his face in his hands. He could call Jaheira and ask if she’d heard from Wyll, but that would be a new level of pathetic. What had he been thinking, agreeing to this?

Someone nudged his forearm, and he snapped his head up. Karlach pushed a drink his way; he refused to meet her eyes for fear of the pity that would await him.

“Thank you,” he mumbled and knocked the shot back. Cherry sour. “I might need something stronger than that tonight.”

She patted his arm. “I got you. Lemme just get that sorted.” She gestured at a couple of men on the other end of the bar.

Gale nodded and gazed at his phone again. Nothing. It was on, he had signal, but there were no messages.

Okay, then. Okay. Shame on him for expecting anything to come of Jaheira’s pet project. Perhaps Mystra had been right—who would want to date Gale Dekarios? Even she had barely touched him in the last years, and she’d been his wife. Gods, he should have accepted his fate and found comfort where comfort was to be found instead of trying to seek something outside his grasp.

Karlach shoved another shot his way; it burned its way down his throat and thawed a chunk of the ice that had settled in his stomach.

If alcohol was about to be the only thing keeping him warm, then so be it.

He placed the shot glass down on the bar with a thud. “Another.”

“You might want to pace yourself, soldier.”

Did he? No. Should he?

Well, he should have done many things in his life, shouldn’t he? Fuck this. Fuck all of this. What had he been thinking, believing that he’d found a place in the village? Jaheira had sent him on two horrible dates, Jen would never fancy him. Karlach kept pouring him shots out of pity, perhaps thinking him some bothersome, sad old man who got stood up and had no one to mope to about it, except the unsuspecting bartender stuck on duty. Astarion probably didn’t care for him either. Gale’s house was a convenient place for him to stay at, to avoid returning to the wilds. He hadn’t even said goodbye when Gale’d left. Even Tara, his darling Tara, pestered Astarion for affection more often than not these days.

The back of his eyes burned, and he pressed the heels of his palms against them. Whatever happened, he was not going to cry in public. He was not. No need to reach another new low.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

It stung.

A familiar voice at the edge of his awareness disrupted his train of thought. Who …?

He turned and found Lorroakan chatting to a man with curly hair that Gale didn’t know yet.

“I’m sure I’ll make swift progress now. How badly did the snow affect the crops this time?” Lorroakan’s voice sounded no more pleasant than the last time.

“Badly. I don’t know the details, but Halsin’s been quite vocal about it. He’s still refusing to take a loan, and Isobel remains as stubborn as ever, but I think the winter should push them far enough.”

Lorroakan clasped the other man’s shoulder. “Always a pleasure talking to you, Aradin. I’m sure you’ll make an excellent manager once we open up shop.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Aradin lifted his pint, and Lorrokan did the same.

Gale looked away. Perhaps he should tell someone, but who? He’d established his lack of connections well enough … Besides, if Gale’d heard them, half the pub must have too. The village would be fine.

He waved Karlach over and handed her his credit card. “Pull me a pint, please.”

She studied him for a moment before she nodded.

Gale leaned on one forearm and allowed himself to get distracted by the jukebox in the background.

He’d be fine, too. He could drink, and listen to music, and pretend his night hadn’t gone to shit. All. On. His. Own.

•~•~•~•

Sitting had been no problem at all. Standing? A bit of a problem. Walking was difficult, but he’d managed to get to the door in what he hoped was a straight line. At least Karlach hadn’t tried to stop him. The snow added another layer to the challenge that was moving his feet, so if he stumbled a little, who could blame him?

The way dragged, but at least the alcohol kept him warm, and he could see his home already. Just a little further, just, just a little...

He caught himself against the front door and fumbled through his pockets for the key. It had to be somewhere. Had to be.

Wasn't in his trousers. Wasn't ... Wasn't in the coat ... Gods, his eyelids weighed a ton. His body too. Had they always been this heavy?

He could ... try the back door. Yes. Yes, that was a good idea.

With one hand against the wall, he dragged himself around the house. There ... was a key under the doormat, wasn't there? Or had he given it to Astarion? He couldn't think with his head full of cotton and his limbs feeling like lead. He pressed down on the door handle, but the door didn't budge, and the doormat was buried under a pile of snow, and if he could just rest for a moment and clear his head, he'd figure out what to do.

Yes. Just, just sit down for a moment. The night wasn't even that cold, he wasn't cold, only so, so very tired ...

•~•~•~•

Ice mixed with fire. He shivered against the heat, burrowed himself into it as though he was a starving man grasping for sustenance, or perhaps his body knew what it craved even as his mind remained tangled in a daze of half dreams.

Heat was good. Heat meant life. Heat meant—

He tried to open his eyes, but they refused to obey. Tried to part his lips and speak, gasp, make any sound at all, but they didn’t move. Panic singed his nerve endings, his mind too awake for his body—or—or was he dead? Could death be warm? Soft?

Heat bloomed along his cheek, and he tried to lean into it, tried to do something, anything—

“Shhh …”

Could death be comforting?

No, no, what …?

His thoughts spun like strings of candy floss, sticky and fragile. Pinpricks of pain blossomed through his limbs as he plummeted into the darkness, falling, falling, falling.

Drifting.

Floating.

Reaching out with branches, sprouting roots into the soil, drinking in the minerals, the water, the stories of the land like a fresh spring in summer.

Was he awake? Asleep?

He understood something somewhere deep deep down, too far in the dark to crawl through the surface of the earth.

Cold on his right. Warmth on his left.

His body pressed into it. Solid. Safe.

A sigh squeezed past his lips, and he rolled onto his side, reaching for the warmth. His fingertips found skin, and he slid his hand past Mystra’s hip to the small of her ba—

Huh?

His eyelids still felt too heavy, his head throbbed, but surprise gnawed at his sleep-addled mind and forced his body to obey. He opened his eyes to a mess of silvery white curls. Slowly, awareness seeped into his limbs, and the heat that surged up his neck had nothing to do with the heavy blanket on top of him and everything to do with the fact that he was tangled in Astarion’s arms. Naked.

He was naked. They were naked.

They were naked.

Why was he—why were they—

Oh. Oh.

He’d fallen asleep in the snow, hadn’t he? Such a fool… Had Astarion found him? He must have. This … made sense. Being naked made sense. For the heat. Yes. Yes, that. He understood that.

The rationale behind the situation did nothing whatsoever to convince his body not to enjoy the feeling of skin on skin, the pressure of Astarion’s leg over one of Gale’s thighs. Astarion’s breath washed over Gale’s collarbone, and goosebumps broke out on his skin.

A slow exhale. The slightest snore on the inhale.

Astarion was asleep.

Gale should untangle himself. Or wake the fae up and thank him for saving his life, and then do something for the pounding in his head that was making it impossible to think. But the warmth felt so soothing. So good. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d held Mystra this way, never mind anyone else. Would it be so bad to soak in the comfort a little bit longer? Astarion still seemed to be starved for rest, albeit less than in the first few days. Gale didn’t need to wake him up.

Without thought, he trailed his fingertips up along Astarion’s spine, meeting ridges where smooth skin should be. Scar tissue? Did it matter? The skin under his touch was so warm; would its pallor appear silver in moonlight?

What was he doing?

He yanked his hand back and found himself at a loss for where to place it. He let it hover in the air for a moment before he slowly brought it up to Astarion’s face and brushed the curls off his forehead; the fae had tucked his face against Gale’s neck, and the angle just about afforded Gale the view of those pale, pale lashes.

Still asleep, Astarion stirred at the touch, arched his spine a little, rolled his hips. His leg slid higher.

Oh. Oh, that wasn’t …

It wasn’t … unpleasant. It wasn’t unpleasant at all, and that was going to become a rather pressing problem rather soon. He needed to squirm free before … Before … What if Astarion woke up and …

Memories of the first night flashed before his eyes. Astarion on his knees, leaning down to take Gale into his mouth.

Fuck. Fuck, not helpful. He needed to think unappealing thoughts. Boring thoughts. Like, like snow. Like peeling potatoes. He’d taught Astarion how to do that on the first day—shit. Shit.

Maybe he could just … lie there. Until his body realised that nothing was happening. How was he meant to convince it of that with Astarion pressed against him like some kind of a … koala? He didn’t much resemble a koala. A cat maybe.

Okay, those were safer thoughts. Except … Except cats were adorable, and maybe Astarion was a little precious too. So peaceful in his sleep. Beautiful, with his silvery lashes and his lips parted against Gale’s neck …

No. No, fuck.

Perhaps he made a sound, or he moved, or he’d gathered enough bad karma with his thoughts that the time for the reckoning had arrived. Astarion’s lashes fluttered open and Gale found himself staring straight into his endless crimson eyes, nearly black in the dark. He didn’t find himself falling through time and space, not like before, but he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t—

A corner of Astarion’s lips curled upwards just a tad. “Hello, darling.” Sleep clung to the edges of his words.

Gale tried to speak. He did. His lips parted, but nothing came out. All of his awareness concentrated on where the top of Astarion’s thigh pressed against his cock, or perhaps it was his cock pressing against Astarion’s thigh. He needed to speak, to explain, to apologise—

Astarion took a slow breath, his exhale turning into a hum, and he stretched his body like a cat, arms above his head, his spine arching into Gale even more, his leg shifting—

Gale’s hand was on his hip before his thoughts caught up—to push him away or to tug him closer, he couldn’t tell.

“I’m—I—”

Astarion just looked at him with those mesmerising eyes of his, and Gale felt himself blush. His fingertips dug into Astarion’s hip. Then his brain caught up and—

Astarion rolled his hip into the touch. Slowly. Deliberately.

What. This was … This was … He was … Was he?

For a moment, he closed his eyes. The pounding in his head had retreated into the background.

Did he want this?

Yes.

Surprise flavoured the answer for a moment. He endeavoured to examine it in half-formed thoughts, but Astarion’s hand covered his own, and Gale opened his eyes.  His thoughts crumbled into pieces.

Astarion looked ... otherworldly. Shadows sharpened his features, shadows that couldn't be cast by the sliver of moonlight spilling through the window. They seemed too changeable, too alive, as if he was illuminated by his own source of light, invisible to mortal eyes. His lips parted to reveal a hint of sharp canines.

What would it be like to kiss him? Would Gale have to mind the teeth?

He swallowed; his tongue stuck to his palate.

"Do you want me?" Astarion’s words caressed his jaw.

He swallowed again, but his voice came out no less raspy for it. "Yes.”

Astarion's leg pressed more firmly against him. The first motion of his hips sent a jolt of pleasure through him and pulled a gasp from his lips. Such delicious friction ... The contact of dry skin on dry skin pulled a little, but what was a modicum of discomfort compared to the dream unfolding?

Perhaps he was asleep. Perhaps he'd never woken up and remained buried under fresh snow, because this didn't feel real. The world outside didn't feel real.

He squeezed Astarion’s hip, gripping it for leverage, and rocked his pelvis against him again, again, again. Astarion’s cock gave a slight twitch where it was pressed against the side of Gale's hip, and the fae let go of Gale’s hand to trail a single fingertip up Gale’s arm, slowly, gently. A soft wrinkle formed between his pale brows as he followed the motion with his eyes, as though the simple gesture required such intense focus, as though he’d never done anything like it before and had yet to discover where it would lead.

The sheer intensity of it plunged its claws into Gale. His gaze followed Astarion’s touch. Every breath he took lasted an eternity. How did an action he performed every day without thought demand so much attention now? His body forgot how to perceive its parts as a whole—he felt goosebumps break out on his arm, he felt his chest rising and falling, his hips undulating against Astarion’s leg, but where was he? What was he? A sum of those sensations, an observer floating in the tender embrace of an otherworldly creature who, somehow, for some reason, chose to zero in on him with such dedication that it stole the breath straight from his lungs?

Astarion’s finger reached Gale’s shoulder. For a moment, it lingered. One by one, the other fingertips came to rest against his skin, feather light, and started to slide down again. Four trails instead of one. The barest hint of nails.

No one had ever touched Gale that way. No one had ever looked at him like that. He could drown in Astarion’s eyes—his lungs already fought for air.

“You like this.”

Was it a question? A statement? A universal truth carved into the bones of the Earth?

“Yes.”

A shudder passed through him as Astarion’s fingers trailed over the inside of his elbow. He felt his heartbeat pound against his sternum. Far too fast. Far too loud.

Surely this was a dream. How else would a simple touch undo him so? Heat built in him, pulsing in the rhythm of his heart, a distant reminder of just where his blood pooled. And yet he could spare it no more than half a thought, his very being reduced to the four pinpricks of burning heat sliding down his forearm, over his wrist. Lifting. The warmth lingered, would linger in his memory forever, burnt into his core. A single finger slid down the line that curved around his thumb.

“Your life line,” Astarion murmured, and it was, he was. Gale would plummet into the darkness without those brilliant ancient eyes to hold him in place. He pulled Astarion’s hip closer, closer, even though there was nowhere for him to go, but he needed, he needed—

Astarion moved with him, and oh, that felt good, and Gale’s eyes slid closed. Sensations consumed him—the heat, the friction. Astarion’s clever fingers now slipping between their bodies and wrapping around him slowly, with the same care they’d traced Gale’s arm before. Then they moved, slowly still, and then faster, faster, and the pleasure built with the speed until it felt just right, until everything felt just right.

He came with a gasp. His breaths echoed through the quiet of the night alongside the thrumming of his heartbeat. Darkness called him and scared him, a welcome rest and a threat to this dream all at once.

With far too much effort, he pried his eyes open and found Astarion gazing at him. The fae slowly released his cock. His hand disappeared somewhere under the blanket, and Gale mourned the loss of its touch even when Astarion’s body remained pressed against his.

“Sleep.” Velvet soft.

“You…” Gale released Astarion’s hip to reach for his cock, half-hard against his side, but Astarion caught his wrist.

“Sleep,” he repeated. “You’ll be all right now.”

Gale wanted to protest. Would have protested, but the darkness beckoned, and even as he fought its grasp, he understood that he was powerless to resist.  

Chapter Text

The world narrowed down to the pounding behind his eyes. His mouth felt like ash, his throat sticking to itself as he tried to swallow, forcing him to cough instead. Ugh.

He blinked against the light that spilled through the gap in his curtains, and pushed himself up into a seated position.

Water. He needed water and painkillers and ...

He was naked.

He was naked.

Which meant ... it hadn't been a dream. The memory of Astarion’s touch burned, and he found himself shivering as though those clever hands were on him now. Gods, the pleasure had been something else ... but where did that leave them now?

Rubbing his eyes, he got up and picked his dressing gown from where it hung on the door. Then he took a deep breath and entered the living room.

Astarion was curled up on the sofa, the blankets pulled so high that only half his face remained visible. A treacherous part of Gale felt relieved; he could postpone any awkward conversation that might follow and at least deal with the consequences of his other bad decisions first. Quietly, so as not to wake Astarion up, he chugged some water, fed Tara, and took a shower. His head continued to throb, but he had nothing to take for it. Jaheira would have some ibuprofen, surely. He'd need to leave the house for that, however, and so he needed to clean up and get dressed.

Astarion didn't stir as he left, and for that, he was grateful.

The snow had stopped falling, but the sky remained a blanket of pale grey, ready to scatter more snowflakes at a moment's notice. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but it felt a little warmer than the day before.

Walking to Jaheira's bakery required three minutes in normal conditions and double the time threading through last night's snowfall. The little bell above the door dinged as he entered.

"Be right with you," Jaheira called from the backroom. She emerged, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Good morning, I was won—"

"Gale Dekarios! Oh, thank the sun!"  Then her eyes darkened like a storm. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Home?" What was happening?

"Home? Home? Then why in the bloody hells didn't you answer your door? Why didn't you answer your phone? We were worried sick about you, and you were home this entire time?"

"My ... My phone?" He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen. The signal bar was full. He had no new messages.

"Yes, your phone. Did I stutter?"

Without a word, he handed his phone over the counter to Jaheira. She took it; her brow wrinkled.

"I don't understand ... You never got any of my calls?"

He shook his head. Then his phone pinged. And pinged again. Again. Again.

Gale stopped counting as he took it back and looked at the screen.

"Oh." He didn't know what to say. "I'm ... terribly sorry."

Jaheira sighed. "That was an inconvenient turn of events. Perhaps the storm messed with the signal last night, or we were simply unlucky." She paused. "You didn't hear me banging on your door?"

Gale shook his head. A knot formed in his throat. Guilt and relief and things he couldn't name. They ... had been looking for him. They cared enough to look for him.

They cared.

Wyll had wanted to reschedule the date. Jaheira had come to his house in the middle of the night, though how he'd slept through that ruckus remained a mystery. Had Astarion somehow slept through it too?

"I'm sorry," Gale said again. "I didn't mean to cause you so much trouble. I didn't think ..."

"You didn't think?" Jaheira arched her eyebrows.

He focused his gaze on the croissants in the display. "I didn't think anyone would be looking for me."

Jaheira huffed. "Was it the city life that instilled this self-deprecation in you, or was it someone specifically?"

The croissants seemed so very interesting. Much more than delving into his past.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. "Do you have any painkillers I could take?"

Jaheira sighed; he could picture her rolling her eyes. “Of course I have painkillers. As should you. Wait here.”

Her footsteps disappeared in the back, leaving Gale alone with his thoughts. His messy, messy thoughts, which swirled like the snowflakes last night. Had he seen Wyll’s message on time, he might have … He might have what? Felt relieved? Excited at the prospect of postponing? Mollified because he hadn’t been the reason for the rejection after all?

Did any of that matter? The memory of Astarion’s fingertips had seared itself into his mind, over everything else.

He was going to have to tell Wyll no. Tell Jaheira to stop trying to set him up. The village had worried, had cared, and how was he repaying them? By keeping secrets and lying? But he couldn’t very well tell them he had an escaped fae sleeping on his couch. Sleeping in his bed. They’d think him mad.

Was he?

He’d been told never to eat food that came from the fae. If food was dangerous, what could the consequences of having sex with one of them be? Oh gods, what had he done? Had he unwittingly entered into some bargain of sorts?

No. No, Astarion wouldn’t trick him … He’d even offered sex as a repayment that first night. Oh, no, had he still …? No, no, no, that can’t have—Gale can’t have—he’d told Astarion not to—

“If you set my croissants on fire by glaring at them, you’re buying them all.”

His head jerked upwards, and he found Jaheira holding out a paper box over the counter.

“Sorry. I was just thinking.” He took the tablets and shoved them into his pocket. He shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and back towards the heels. “I … appreciate the efforts you put into finding me company, but I don’t believe I’m ready to date. To … develop feelings for anyone.”

Jaheira crossed her arms over her chest. “Bad ex?”

“You could say that.”

“It’ll get better. I promise.”

“Did you go through the same?” Did she understand? Would it truly ever be all right again?

Jaheira shook her head. “My husband died. It’s not the same, is it? But I know a thing or two about pain nevertheless. Plenty of folk around here do. It’s not just our quirks that drew us here. The land here is … different. It healed me. It might heal you too.”

“I’ve been working on it for a while.”

Jaheira offered him a small smile. “You’ll be okay, cub. Trust an old woman on this. There’s a spark of life left in you.”

His throat tightened and he swallowed, tongue plastered to the roof of his mouth. “Thank you.” If his voice came out a tad weaker than intended, he could blame it on the dehydration. “I’ve got to go. Got to take the tablets if I want them to work and all that … Thank you.”

She just smiled at him, and he all but fled the bakery. The sun peeked through the clouds, and the snow glistened like crystals where the light hit it just so. The reflection hurt his eyes, but he could appreciate the beauty of it. Some things in life were worth a little pain.

Tara was waiting by the door when he entered his home. She rubbed her whole body against his ankle, starting with her cheek and slinking around until only the tip of her tail remained in contact with his trousers. He bent down to scratch the spot under her chin, and she leaned into the touch.

A quick glance at the sofa told him Astarion was still out cold. Was something wrong? Perhaps he was only pretending so as to avoid Gale? And if he wasn’t?

Painkillers first. Thinking past the pain was a struggle, so he poured himself a glass of water and swallowed a pill. After a moment, he filled another glass and walked over to the couch.

“Astarion?” he said quietly, then, when nothing happened, with a little more volume, “Astarion?”

The fae made some unintelligible hum. His eyelids twitched, but remained closed.

Gale crouched and shook his shoulder. “Are you—”

Red eyes snapped open. Astarion jerked away, pressed himself against the backrest as far as he could go, fangs bared—

Then his eyes focused on Gale, and he deflated, tension bleeding out of his muscles.

"Oh."

Gale found himself relaxing too; he barely noticed that he'd frozen. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Here, I thought you might be thirsty."

Astarion’s hand trembled slightly as he took the glass. He drank. Offered the empty glass back to Gale.

"Thank you," he said.

"Are you feeling all right?"

Astarion nodded.

"You slept a long time."

A shrug. "It's safe to rest here."

Such simple words, and yet they made guilt well up in Gale's stomach. He’d like to think he could offer someone a safe haven, yes, but at what cost?

He swallowed. No easy way to broach the subject, was there?

"Is that why you were in my bed last night?"

Astarion blinked and shook his head. "I was in your bed because you'd almost frozen to death and needed to be warmed up," he said slowly, as though Gale had posed an absurd question.

Perhaps he’d phrased it too vaguely.

"Yes. Thank you, by the way." Gale sat down on the floor and leaned back against the club table. He placed the empty glass on the floor.

Astarion shrugged. "You helped me. I helped you. I owe you more than I can repay by doing your dishes."

As though it were that simple. As though that didn't answer everything and nothing all at once.

"Look." Gale folded his hands in his lap. Placed them on his knees and pressed the wrinkles out. "I made some questionable choices last night. I need to know if what we did was one of them."

A small crease formed between Astarion’s eyebrows. "Was it bad for you?" One of his fangs pressed down on his bottom lip, and he tucked his knees into his chest. "Apologies, I thought I could try something different, but I should have—"

What?

"No! No, no, not at all!" Gale waved his arms. "It was great, I ... I've never experienced anything like it before."

"Oh."

"That wasn't what I meant." This conversation wasn't getting any easier. He dug his fingers into his thighs. "Since you'd tried to repay me for aid by assaulting me in my sleep that first night—"

"I asked." Astarion seemed to shrink even further. His knuckles turned white where he clutched at his forearms. "Last night. I asked if you wanted me. I wouldn't—I wouldn't have—I asked. I asked."

Gale's throat closed up. "I'm ..." His voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. "It’s all right. I wanted it. I enjoyed it. I'm trying to ask if you did. If you ... got me off because you wanted to, or because you thought you owed it to me."

Astarion didn't answer. The crease between his brows deepened. He looked ... sad. Somehow younger and older both at once.  How old was he anyway? If he were a human, he could be around Gale's age, but did the same rules apply to fae?

"Astarion?"

"I was curious."

That implied want, didn’t it?

"Curious?"

"What it would be like. To please you."

"Because I'm human?" Did they somehow differ from fae in their biology? It didn't seem that way, aside from the ears and the teeth and the eyes, but the differences could manifest in less obvious ways.

Astarion shook his head; his curls were still flattened from sleep. "Because I chose to."

Gale might have stared at him. "I don't understand."

Astarion stared back. "I chose to please you."

Good, that was good, but Gale was still missing something, wasn't he? "You were curious what touching me would feel like," he repeated slowly, turning the words around in his mind, "because you chose to do it?"

"Yes," Astarion said and nodded, as if nothing made more sense in the world. "I liked it."

"Wait. You're not ... Are you saying that was the first time you had, well, for the lack of a better word, sex?"

At that, Astarion laughed, a startled, high-pitched little sound. "Oh, darling, I've had sex plenty of times. I just never had a choice before."

“You …” What?

Sickness twisted Gale’s insides, digging its claws in the soft tissue with so much force he thought he was going to throw up. He pressed his lips together. Perhaps that could keep the contents of his stomach down.

“It was different,” Astarion continued, as if he were talking about the weather, “touching you. For a bit, I forgot about making you come, so I wasn’t sure if I still did a good job, but if you say it was good—”

“Astarion,” Gale managed. “Hold on. Hold on.”

The fae cocked his head. “What?”

“How can you—just—” Oh gods, Gale might throw up after all. A knot tightened in his throat, the pressure threatening to burst, someway, somehow. The back of his eyes stung. If he weren’t already on the ground, his knees mights have given way now. “You were forced into sex?”

“Nothing so crude, darling. I just had to pay them back.” Astarion waved one hand in what might have been dismissal.

“Pay them back for what?”

Astarion shrugged. “Food and clothes and other things.”

“Sorry, what?” How was Astarion talking about this so casually? As if … As if that was all … normal?

“Food and clothes and—”

“No.” Gale reached out on instinct, then stopped himself before his fingers made contact. His gaze lingered on the scars around Astarion’s neck, visible past the wide collar of one of his jumpers.

Fuck. Fuck, it was normal for Astarion, wasn’t it? Someone … Someone had put that awful collar on him and raped him and convinced him to be grateful for it?  “That’s not normal. That’s awful. Who did that to you?”

Astarion shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Of course it mattered! They needed to be held accountable. Except. Except what could Gale do? Go to the police about fae? They’d laugh him out, and even if they didn’t, what could they possibly do?

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Isn’t there some kind of a justice system in your world?”

“Some kind,” Astarion said, but he didn’t elaborate.

It wasn’t worth pushing.

With a sigh, Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. Oh gods, of course Astarion had tried to climb into Gale’s bed on Halloween if he’d been taught to offer his body in exchange for everything.

Gale should never have touched Astarion. Should never have let Astarion touch him. But he couldn’t take it back now, couldn’t make sure his tormentor was brought to justice, couldn’t fix anything.

Was there anything he could do?

“I’m sorry.” Was that all he could offer? Such insignificant words in face of the truth he’d just discovered. “I shouldn’t have … I told you that you’d be safe here. You don’t ever need to offer yourself up to repay me for anything.”

“I told you that wasn’t why.”

“Okay. I’m just saying—”

“Well, stop.”

But this was important, wasn’t it? Some things needed to be said. Spelt out, even, if that was required.

“You do understand that what happened to you was wrong, right?”

“Of course I understand! Don’t fucking patronise me!” Astarion’s eyes flashed nearly black, shadows warping around his features, or perhaps Gale only imagined the distortion. He found himself pressed backwards against the table regardless, instincts flaring in the face of the distinct sense of wrongness his mind had just encountered.

A brush against his knee made him jump. Tara slunk past him, hackles raised, and hissed at Astarion.

Astarion hissed back, fangs on display, his nose scrunched up.

It should have been ridiculous. It was ridiculous, a grown man hissing at a cat. Yet all Gale felt was a shard of pain piecing some place behind his ribs. Perhaps this was normal fae behaviour. Perhaps it was all right. Perhaps Astarion didn’t act like some half-feral stray because of his captivity.

“I’m sorry.” He tried to keep his voice soft. Maybe Astarion needed to treat his experience as normal. Hadn’t Gale done a great deal of rationalising as well?

Slowly, Astarion’s expression softened into something more neutral. More tired. Tara remained planted on the spot, but she ceased her hissing as soon as Astarion sank back against the cushions. Could she read the fae better than Gale? Could they communicate on some level he wasn’t aware of?

“It’s fine,” Astarion muttered. “I’m fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“Oh?” Astarion tipped his chin up and squared his shoulders, switching between fighting and deflating and fighting once more in a blink of an eye. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Gale sucked in a sharp breath—and released it.

Nothing. He could do nothing.

He clenched his fists, his cheeks burning with shame and helpless rage. Why were they fighting? Shouldn’t they be working together to achieve … something? Try to reach an understanding, perhaps, or some degree of catharsis in shared misery? Not that Gale shared Astarion’s experience, but he could relate to trauma well enough, right?

Perhaps not. Jaheira’s story of loss hadn’t made him feel all that seen. He understood death. Understood loss. But the mindfuckery that Mystra had put him through … Maybe trying to tell Astarion that he could relate would backfire just as spectacularly as all his other attempts thus far.

But if he didn’t say that, what else could he say?

Astarion stared him down. The blazing fire in his red eyes smouldered down to their more usual crimson as he ground out, “I thought so.”

He stood up, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, and disappeared into the bedroom. Gale couldn’t even find the will to protest as the door closed behind him.

With a groan, he buried his face into his hands. He was allowed to wallow for a minute or two and curse the world in his mind. He was. And if he stayed on the floor for longer than the said minute, who was counting?

When he at last forced himself to his feet and deposited the empty glass in the sink, he caught a glimpse of a child outside again.

A blink, and the boy was gone.

One more, and he thought he saw him again from the corner of his eye.

Without thought, he strode to the back door and yanked it open. Looked from one side to the other, but the garden was empty.

Seemed empty.

“Who are you?” he growled into the frozen landscape outside. “What the fuck do you want? If you can’t be bothered to talk to me, then just leave me alone!”

He slammed the door shut again, pressed his back against it, and sank to the ground.

Despite the painkillers, his head continued to throb.

Chapter Text

Gale let his feet carry him, and it barely surprised him that he found himself beneath the hawthorn tree. Why he kept returning was a question for another time. It wasn’t so bad out here. The landscape exuded a sense of calm, painted in shades of white. The blanket of snow seemed to hush any and all sounds.

Good. He could hear himself think. Could hear himself breathe, and breathing was better than thinking.

In and out. In and out, over and over, like so many times before.

Then he walked away and continued to walk until his thighs ached from the cold and his head emptied.

A short detour to the shop later, he returned home. Darkness was beginning to creep over the sky, and he couldn’t delay confronting Astarion any longer. They needed to sort this out. At least he had a plan now.

Tara greeted him at the door, as did a faint reek of smoke.

Was something burning?

He rushed into the kitchen, his boots leaving wet footsteps in their wake, but nothing seemed out of place. The oven was turned off. The kettle was turned off. The smell remained faint, and he could find no source. Perhaps it had come from the outside?

Crisp air greeted him when he opened the window. Might as well let the room air out then.

Astarion was nowhere to be seen, and the bedroom door was still closed. A part of him wanted to go there and try to solve the problem right away. The rest of him feared another fight more, and he’d purchased all the ingredients, so he had a cheesecake to bake.

Perhaps it was simple bribery to make a treat for Astarion, but it should signify that he meant peace better than his awkward words, should it not? Besides, Astarion seemed to appreciate sweet flavours. He always put sugar in his tea, and Gale suspected he’d be content to live off honey milk alone.

If Gale was helpless to do anything about Astarion’s past, the least he could do was provide some measure of comfort to him in the present, and making food was something he was good at. Words were fickle things, bound to fail. Food, at least, was reliable. He could show Astarion that he cared this way, right?

Baking was still not his expertise, but if his scones had earned Jaheira’s approval, surely he could create a half-decent cheesecake. 

Tara found a spot on the window sill behind the sink and wrapped her tail around her paws. She tilted her head as though she’d come to supervise his work.

All right. He could do this. He’d make something that would bring Astarion joy, however small.

The present mattered more than the past after all. How many times had Gale’s therapist told him that? How many times had he told that to himself?

Here and now. That was what mattered.

The familiarity of rummaging through the kitchen centred him, and he sank into some kind of flow. While the cake was in the oven, he watered the plants (had they grown again?) and took a quick shower. Astarion’s towel hung in its usual spot, visibly damp. Good. The fae must have emerged from the bedroom then.

The sweet aroma of baked goods began filling the house soon after that. Could Astarion smell it in the bedroom? Surely he could. Perhaps he didn’t care, or perhaps he was asleep. The amount of sleep the fae was getting couldn’t be normal…

Fuck, Gale was just delaying the inevitable at this point, wasn’t he?

He took a deep breath and opened the bedroom door.

There was no sign of Astarion. The bed was made, everything else appeared undisturbed, and Astarion was gone.

If he wasn’t in the bedroom, then he wasn’t in the house.

Why wasn’t he in the house? Where was he?

Of course Astarion was allowed to leave, he was an adult after all, but considering his aversion to even going near the door, what could have compelled him to leave?

What if he hadn’t chosen to leave? What if whoever had held him before had found him and dragged him away? Gale could see no signs of a struggle, but did that mean anything? Perhaps they’d caught Astarion unaware, perhaps they’d had weapons. Perhaps they’d hurt him and just—

Shit.

Gale pressed a hand against his chest. He’d promised Astarion that he’d be safe here, and then he’d disappeared for an entire day, and now Astarion could be trapped somewhere in the wilds, suffering.

Gale’s hands trembled as he put his coat back on.

Should he ask someone for help? Tara had found him in the wilds on Halloween—could she guide him to Astarion now?

No, what was he thinking, Tara was a cat . He couldn’t instruct her to be his guide. The best he could do was put his feet to work and hope an idea struck him while he searched.

He tugged his boots on, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and walked out the back door.

Straight into Astarion.

Gale’s knees collided with Astarion’s back—the fae was sitting on the ground—and a startled “Oomf!” was knocked out of him. Relief flooded him as he caught his balance. Astarion was here. Astarion was fine.

Astarion was also sitting in the snow, curled up in a ball, in nothing but one of Gale’s jumpers and tracksuit bottoms. He was shaking.

“Astarion?” Gale crouched next to him. “What’s wrong?”

The fae rested his chin on his forearms and stared ahead. He blinked once. If that was in any way an indication that he’d heard the words, Gale didn’t know.

“Astarion? Let's go inside, okay? Whatever it is, we can deal with it inside."

He got no response. With nothing to lose, he slowly reached out and placed his hand on Astarion’s shoulder. Even through fabric, he could feel how cold the skin beneath was.

Another moment passed in silence. His exhales fogged in the night.

Then Astarion leaned into the touch just a tad.

Good. That was a response. Gale started rubbing little circles with his thumb, pressing against the tight muscles under his touch.

"Could you tell me what's wrong?"

Slowly, Astarion shook his head almost imperceptibly. Gale could feel him trembling still. From cold or something else?

"Okay." He could do this. He could handle this for both of them. "That's okay. You don't need to talk right now. But I'll need you to get up for me, all right?"

He stood, walked around Astarion, and held out both hands. "Come."

Astarion’s gaze travelled up to the offered hands. His lips parted and closed, parted and closed. In the dark outside, it was hard to see, but his eyes seemed puffy as though he might have been crying.

"Come," Gale said again. He was trying to keep the urgency from his voice, he really was, but he needed to get Astarion back into the warmth. Who knew how long he'd spent outside? Gale was not going to resort to naked cuddles to warmth him up.

He couldn't.

When Astarion didn't react, he bent down and took hold of his hands; they were freezing. Then he straightened, keeping Astarion’s hands clasped in his, and Astarion rose with him. For a moment, they stood motionless, silent, their faces only inches apart. Astarion’s breath carried a hint of warmth to his cheek.

"See, we got this," Gale said quickly, all but tripping over the words as he tugged Astarion towards the door.

Astarion followed.

Gentle warmth and the scent of the cheesecake enveloped them both. Gale guided Astarion inside. Shut the door. Led the fae to the sofa, and sat him down. Wrapped him in a blanket, and then one more.

He boiled the kettle and poured a mug of ginger tea, which Astarion accepted only when it was pushed into his hands.

The fae kept trembling.

"You're still cold, aren't you?"

Astarion nodded.

Gale frowned. "What on earth compelled you to go out?"

No answer, but he saw those red eyes turn towards the kitchen.

"Oh. That. I’m making you a cake. I wanted to apologise. Do something nice for you."

Astarion’s eyes widened for a moment before the fae looked away. His lips moved, but his voice was so faint that Gale had to lean closer to hear him. "...n't deserve it."

A pang of sadness shot through Gale's lungs.

"Why do you think that?"

"I ruined one of your pans."

"Pardon?"

Astarion flinched. "I'll go. Please, just—I tried to, but I couldn't, just—just give me a minute—"

Oh gods no.

Gale sat down on the sofa next to him. "Astarion, you don't need to go anywhere. Are you saying you cooked while I was gone? Did it go wrong?"

Astarion nodded. With the blankets pooling around him, his body language was harder to judge, but the tension in his face remained.

The fear.

The expectation of punishment in the face of a mistake.

Gods knew Gale had experienced that fear often enough. The freezing panic that would claw at his throat every time he'd done something Mystra wouldn't approve of. She'd turn to ice, always, always, withhold her affection and her words, would not so much as look at him until she'd deemed that he'd crawled at her feet for long enough ...

(The panic he'd felt when he'd thought Astarion had disappeared.)

"That happens." He had to let Astarion know that mistakes occurred. That no punishment was forthcoming. "It's happened to me before, it'll happen again. I'm not going to judge you for trying to make food when you were hungry."

"Wasn't hungry."

Then …

Gale swallowed. "Were you attempting to cook ... for me?"

Astarion nodded.

The surge of emotions that welled up inside Gale urged him to envelop the fae in a hug, touch him, do something to find release, but he stomped on it at the last second. Though perhaps his instincts weren’t entirely wrong—Astarion was still shivering, and body heat was, objectively speaking, the most efficient way of warming someone up. What a pair they made, freezing outside in turns.

The timer on the oven went off, yanking him out of his contemplation, and he rushed over to take the cheesecake out.

"It'll need to cool down a bit," he said, mostly to Astarion and a little bit to himself, as he took the mittens off. "Care for more tea?"

"No."

Perhaps he shouldn't have asked. He returned to his spot on the sofa. Tara followed him this time and jumped onto the armrest.

"Thank you," he said, “for trying,” and he meant it in a way that ran deeper than he'd expected and caused an unhealthy degree of disregard for what, exactly, counted as eating fae food. "I can't remember the last time anyone wanted to cook for me."

Astarion shrugged, or at least Gale thought he did—the blankets made it harder to tell. "I disrespected your hospitality today. You would have been well within your right to throw me out. I thought if I tried to make up for it ..."

"Look at me."

Slowly, as though the action required far more effort than anyone could imagine, Astarion did.

"I appreciate the effort. I really do." Gale held his gaze. For once, nothing strange  happened. Time didn't bend, the edges of reality didn't blur, and Astarion didn't seem to change. The shade of red in his eyes didn't darken. He just looked at Gale, and Gale looked back at him, and then he couldn't stand to keep on looking any longer because little tremors still shook his body, and ethical questions be damned, Gale had the means to help, so help he would.

It didn't stop heat from creeping up into his cheeks.

"I could—that is, if you're willing, I could help you warm up." He traced a wrinkle on his trousers with his index finger. "If you wouldn't mind sharing those blankets."

A moment of hesitation. Then, quietly, "I wouldn't mind."

Gale swallowed. Odd, to be nervous about something as simple as a cuddle now when he'd been rutting against Astarion's thigh with abandon not twenty-four hours ago.

Odd, this entire arrangement.

Did it matter? Hadn't he been considered strange his entire life? Hadn't he felt strange? Looking from outside in, always, always, and now he was here, in this little bubble of warmth in the midst of winter come too early.

With a fae.

A real fae. Solid. Tangible.

A fae, who unwrapped the blankets and climbed over to Gale. Leaned carefully against his side as though he were afraid of breaking him, or perhaps shattering against the broken edges himself.

Gale wrapped his arm around Astarion's back and tucked him closer. With the other hand, he pulled the blankets around them. The heat of it would probably make him sweat, but Astarion still felt cold. The crisp smell of snow clung to him, if that was even possible. Perhaps a fae could smell of literal winter. Mixed with faint notes of the lavender soap that Gale had been favouring for the last two months, the result was rather lovely.

Now that he thought about it, the contact was rather lovely too.

Perhaps his fear had less to do with what was unwanted and more with what may be wanted too much. Perhaps both. Was he allowed to want? The reverence with which Astarion had traced his arm the night before had filled some gap inside his lungs that had started aching so long ago he barely still noticed the pain. If he allowed himself to want, he might have to contend with his want being unwanted. Could he bear that? Could he bear the rejection again, no matter how justified?

He was human.

He needed food, and water, and rest—and connection to others. His body craved the touch of another over the familiarity of his own hand. Such were the facts of life.

Astarion was cold, and traumatised, and smelled lovely.

Facts.

His curls tickled Gale's neck where his head rested on his shoulder. Were they as soft as they seemed? Would Astarion object to Gale carding his fingers through them?

Did the fact that Astarion had, in his own words, liked touching Gale mean that Gale hadn't committed a grave error, or was it up to Gale to know better? Could he ever presume to know better what someone else needed? How much ego was required for such a thing?

He had far more questions than facts, and far fewer answers.

“Is this okay?” He had to start asking somewhere, didn’t he?

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m sorry. For this morning. I fear I made some assumptions and angered you in the process.”

Astarion didn’t say anything, so Gale inhaled to continue, but the fae spoke at last.

“You’re too kind .” The words came out quick and sharp. “It isn’t a fair exchange. You let me stay here, you got that — that thing off me, you cook for me. I didn’t even manage to be a good guest. When I should have left, you brought me back in. I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I.” Resisting the urge to touch Astarion’s hair shouldn’t be this difficult, right? “I won’t pretend to know the fae rules of exchange and hospitality. I’d never even met a fae until I found you outside. Had you interacted with humans before?”

He felt Astarion shake his head against this neck.

“Then I think it’s safe to say we’re trying our best. I do enjoy having company, you know? I’m not very outgoing. Jaheira tried to set me up, but I … I’m not ready for that yet. For … feelings. Towards anyone. So life gets a little lonely. It’s helped, having you around. That must tip the scales towards balance.”

Astarion shifted. His breath washed over Gale’s neck. “You’re very strange.”

“Yes. It would appear that I am.”

Astarion was strange too, wasn’t he? In this world that was meant for humans, he might be branded a monster. Perhaps their strangeness could be normal here.

It felt … nice. Novel.

“I’m glad you didn’t leave.” The words were out before he could think about them, but they settled in the room with all the finality of a truth, and he didn’t regret them. 

“I tried.” Astarion shifted again. Pulled away. Leaned back against Gale. Indecisive, perhaps, or just looking for a comfortable position to settle in. Gale was reading too much into everything, wasn’t he?

“What happened?”

He didn’t get an answer, and maybe it would have been too much to expect one. Maybe Astarion didn’t understand either. What mattered was that he’d stayed, and they were here now. Warm. And Gale was not supposed to lift his arm and give into the incessant urge to card his fingers through Astarion’s hair. He was not supposed to, but he did, and the world wasn’t ending. Astarion wasn’t protesting, wasn’t pulling away, wasn’t leaving. May have even relaxed against Gale a little bit more, and oh, that was …

His touch was welcomed .

How long had it been since he’d felt that?

“Did you really want to touch me? Last night?”

“Mm-hmm. I told you I was curious.”

“And you liked it?”

“And I liked it. Touching you was different than touching everyone else.”

Everyone else?

He didn’t dare ask. Didn’t want to ruin the moment even as his insides protested. If Astarion didn’t want attention drawn to the horrors of his past, then Gale would avoid doing that. Still, his mouth remained dry, and had to swallow to clear his throat. “I’m glad.”

“Me too.” Astarion leaned into the touch some more, and settled into silence. Just when Gale thought that would be the end of the conversation, he spoke again.

“Would you let me try it again?”

What?

His hand froze mid stroke, and he felt Astarion tense in turn. 

“I’m sorry,” Astarion said. “That was a stupid thing to ask.”

“No.” Gale resumed the motion. “No, not at all. You caught me by surprise, that is all.”

Would he like to explore more with Astarion? Should he? He’d never been one to engage in proclivities outside a relationship, but then he could hardly remember a time in his life when he hadn’t been in a relationship. Astarion was good company. Handsome. Perhaps in need of affection just as much as Gale. Those were all excellent reasons to sway him into agreeing, but that all faded in the face of the simple fact that Astarion wanted him.

And Gale wanted to be wanted.

It wasn’t up to him to determine what Astarion could or could not desire based on his past, right? If he could enjoy the touch of another after being abused, wasn’t that all the better?

(Was he thinking too much about it, or not enough?)

“I would be amenable to that,” he said. 

"You would? I mean, of course you would. Not many wouldn’t be." Astarion straightened and shook his head. "Fuck that. I'd rather not compare you to anyone else."

"I'd rather you didn't either. I would also rather like to share some cake with you before we choose to shed any layers. It's been a while since I've eaten, and I wager the same holds true for you."

"If you insist." Astarion looked to the side, but his voice was devoid of any real bite. A token protest for its own sake, no more.

"I most certainly do. Whatever we decide to do later, doing it full and clean won't make it worse."

Astarion rolled his eyes but didn't object. He even helped Gale untangle himself from the blankets — fae really did seem to have a taste for desserts.

"I hope it's good," Gale said once he brought two plates over. "I've never tried making one before."

"I'm sure you did well, darling, as you always do."

"Oh." He didn't know what to say, and then he forgot whether he was supposed to be saying anything at all, because Astarion took a bite, and made a sound somewhere deep in his throat that sent Gale's thoughts straight to the gutter. His eyes closed, pale lashes resting against pale skin, and the slightest of smiles tugged at his lips.

Fuck.

Now that Gale had allowed himself to think of Astarion and sex in the same sentence, he couldn't help but imagine those pretty lips closing around his cock instead. Was that good or bad?

He couldn't tell. But apparently he'd been able to bring a moment of joy to the fae with his baking, and that was what he'd been aiming for, so he must have made the right choice.

•~•~•~•

The bathrobe felt soft against his skin. He wiped his palms against it and swallowed. Shoved his hands into his pockets, realised he'd need one to open the door still, and pulled them out.

Once Astarion was finished washing, Gale had run his own shower so hot that the bathroom resembled a sauna more than anything else. It hadn't done much to soothe him.

Lying on the sofa before, with Astarion against him, it had been easy to imagine his touch drawing goosebumps on naked skin. Last night had been easy too, in a surreal sort of way.

Now?

Now he was all too aware that he was really just a lonely middle-aged man whose hair seemed to sprout new streaks of grey every month and who'd benefit from more long walks and fewer scones.

Could Astarion really desire him ? Or was Gale himself inconsequential, only an object to indulge his curiosity that could just as easily be replaced by anyone else?

Did it matter?

(It did.)

Damn it all, Gale couldn't even decide what to do with his hands, who was he to reintroduce someone to the pleasures of sex? Even in the most generous terms, he could never be considered an expert. Mystra had—

Fuck Mystra. If he thought of Mystra, he was probably getting lost in unhelpful, if not unhealthy, thoughts.

It would be fine. He wouldn't force Astarion into anything, and he himself didn't need to do anything he didn't want to. It would be fine.

Before he could reconsider, he strode out of the bathroom. The bedroom door had been left ajar, and through the gap, he could see Astarion lying under the duvet.

Hands in the pockets or not? He could never go wrong with pockets, right? Or did that logic apply to proper apparel only, and he was bound to look silly in a bathrobe no matter what he did with his hands? That was probably it. So it didn't matter. It didn't.

He pushed the door open all the way and made his way to the bed. Opened his mouth to say something, anything, because Astarion hadn't stirred yet.

Then he realised that was because Astarion was asleep, and Gale had worried for nothing.

It hadn't mattered what he'd done with his hands after all.

Chapter Text

Perhaps it was the jostling of the bed that woke Astarion up, or the fact that Gale only had one duvet and had to tug it towards himself, or perhaps his curling up next to Astarion because where else would he go?

"Mm?" Astarion blinked a few times, bleary eyes turning towards him.

"Warm enough?"

"Yes ..." Astarion rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The neckline of his t-shirt (Gale's t-shirt) was stretched to one side, revealing the expanse of scars and one bony clavicle. He was still too thin.

Gale squeezed a handful of duvet to stop himself from reaching out and tracing the dip of that collarbone. Why was he stopping himself? It was the hands again. As if he'd suddenly grown more than the typical two and had to take care what signals his brain was sending down to his fingertips.

But why? He'd been asked to indulge in pleasure with Astarion.

If he knew to think less, perhaps he could have indulged in the pleasures of life more. Perhaps, perhaps. This train of thought had been hunting him for too long. Could he change his skin? In a new environment? With new people?

It was the hands.

He reached out and followed the line of Astarion’s collarbone with a single fingertip. An echo.

Slowly, Astarion wrapped his fingers around Gale's wrist and guided it away. Then, before Gale thought to ask why, he let go and splayed his fingers against his chest instead. Not pushing. Not even pressing. Just touching.

Gale's heart sped up behind layers of muscle and bone. A simple touch, through clothing no less, sent his blood rushing down as if he were a teenager again. He sucked in a strained breath, and it might have been his imagination, might have been some strange magic rolling off Astarion again, but he smelled roses, tasted them in the back of his mouth as he swallowed.

Then Astarion parted his lips, said, "I’ll suck you off, darling, if you let me," and Gale forgot how to breathe.

He barely managed to nod.

Astarion pushed himself to his knees; the motion tugged the duvet down to Gale’s waist, but he had no attention to spare the cold because Astarion was now between his legs, lying down after a moment of quiet hesitation. His right hand came to rest on the belt of Gale’s robe, his left supporting his weight. His eyes turned up to find Gale’s. A question? Request for permission?

Gale nodded. Cold air hit his skin, mixing with the heat pooling beneath it. Astarion’s breath on his pelvis caused a shudder to run down his spine, and he propped himself onto his elbows to have a better view.

The first touch of careful fingers around his cock had him sucking in a breath through his teeth. The wet heat of Astarion’s mouth followed but a moment later, hot and cold meeting in the middle in an odd dance of sensations that he could no longer tell apart.

Sheets wrinkled in his grip, his head fell back against the headboard, and his hips twitched into the pleasure. More heat, more—

Fuck. Fuck . He couldn’t follow the exact paths of Astarion’s tongue against the tip of his cock, but he did not need to. For once, he could feel, plummet into sensations headfirst and leave all thoughts to gather dust in some chest locked deep inside his mind.

He moaned, then, and that was okay, too. Reached one hand towards Astarion to brush a few curls off his forehead, to run his hand through his hair. Let it linger for but a heartbeat.

Red eyes found his through the criss-cross of pale lashes. Iron grates of a cage, fire that knocked the breath from his lungs—

Astarion blinked, and Gale was left panting through the mixture of fear and arousal and scattered thoughts.

“Wha—”

Astarion swallowed him so far down that Gale could feel his throat clenching around his cock, and how—how was he even—

“Fuck—ah, ‘starion—”

What was—what was happening? How was—

He couldn’t think. Magic, it was all magic, was it not? Some kind of magic anyway. How else would any of this be real? How else would he be here, grasping at the sheets like a drowning man, throbbing in Astarion’s wicked mouth, and getting far too close far too soon?

A hand slipped underneath his balls, soft fingertips pressing against his taint, and he moaned and thrust his hips into the touch on instinct. A small, choked-off sound reached his ears, and he felt the vibrations travel through his cock.

He didn’t have the time to formulate a warning. Trying to halt his impending orgasm would be a pointless as trying to stop a tidal wave; one moment, he was at the precipice, the next he was falling, falling, falling—

The landing knocked the breath out of him, possibly shattered a bone or two or the entire world. He couldn’t tell.

A heavy breath. Another. Another. He was on his back now, head on the pillow—when had that happened? Astarion’s lips were still wrapped around him, his throat working lazily as he swallowed any remnants of—

Oh gods, Gale had just come down his throat. Just like that, no questions asked, and Astarion had swallowed, was now twirling his tongue around the head of Gale’s cock, no questions asked either.

The pleasure proved too much; Gale’s legs twitched, and Astarion pulled away. His lips glistened with saliva, and for a moment, the instinct to shove his fingers past them flitted through the back of Gale’s mind.

(He wouldn’t dare. Mystra would have had his hide just for the thought.)

“I’m—” he tried, found his throat sticking to itself, and coughed. “I’m sorry.”

Astarion licked his bottom lip, displaying the barest hint of his fangs. Fangs. They’d been right next to Gale’s cock moments ago, and Gale had never even thought to worry …

(Why did Astarion have fangs? It can’t have been for drinking honey milk …)

“Whatever for?”

Enough blood must have returned to Gale’s face for him to blush; he felt the telltale heat. “It happened so fast, I should have warned you I’d …”

Astarion climbed to his knees. A slight crease appeared between his eyebrows. “I was trying to make you come, and I succeeded. Why are you apologising for it?”

“I …” Well, when he put it like that, as if it wasn’t all kinds of messed up …  "We never discussed if you were okay with my, um, finishing in your mouth." Possibly because having this conversation was already triggering an impulse to beg the earth to swallow him. (But talking mattered. Talking had saved him before.)

Astarion shrugged. "How could I have told you before? I didn't know how it would feel if you did."

Gale blinked. "Has no one ...?"

"Of course they have. But this is different. You "–Astarion jammed his index finger against Gale’s sternum with enough force to startle a gasp out of him—"are different."

Then his frown deepened and his finger touched the spot between Gale’s collarbones, gentle as a feather once again. "What's that?"

Huh?

"What's what?" There was nothing in the spot under Astarion's finger, only unblemished skin.

"You've got a mark ..." His eyes narrow. "A sliver of our power."

Gale shifted, half tempted to hide his chest from view as though that could make the magic clinging to him disappear. "You mentioned I was fae touched. Is that not normal then?"

"Sometimes. Let me have a look ... May I?"

Gale nodded, and Astarion closed his eyes. His palm radiated warmth where it came to rest against Gale's sternum, no longer cold now, but Gale's gaze was drawn to Astarion’s face. The little wrinkles on his brow. The minute twitch of his ears. One of his fangs grazing his bottom lip.

Panic spiked inside him. Was he somehow cursed? What was this magic doing to him?

Could Astarion feel the wild thumping of his heart under his touch?

"Relax," Astarion said quietly. Yes, perhaps he could feel it.

"It's rather hard, with some unknown power sticking to my chest."

Astarion opened his eyes again and looked at him. "It's not harmful. In fact, it's become an integral part of you. Like threads, keeping your heart together." He cocked his head. "I'm no healer, but this may have saved your life in the past."

"I ..." Gale tried. When? How? "I can't remember ever hearing anything about a heart problem ... If there ever was one, I must have been too young to remember."

Was that how he'd become fae touched? Had his mother made a deal with a fae to ... what? Save his life? In exchange for what? She wouldn't have met an unusually charitable fae who'd do it without expecting anything in return, right?

He covered his face with his hands.

"It shouldn't harm you," Astarion said, but Gale shook his head.

"It's not that." He let his hands drop, so he could turn his gaze back to Astarion, who was still kneeling next to his hip. "My mother must have made a deal. Who knows what she gave up." A pause. Then the truth, buried in every fibre of his being. A longing for the times long gone. "I miss her. Perhaps that's the reason I moved here. When I was very young, we used to live in a village like this. I can barely remember. What I have left of that time are only flashes of sunshine and flowers and her laughter."

Astarion shifted his weight to one side and crossed his legs before him. His hand withdrew. "You moved away."

Gale propped himself up on one elbow and nodded. "After my father died. All I have of him are pictures."

"I don't remember my parents' faces anymore," Astarion said slowly. His eyes glazed over. "Only their screams."

Their ... Would Gale ever get used to hearing Astarion drop horrific crumbs of his past as though they were nothing but mundane memories?

"How long?" His voice came out so weak, his mouth suddenly dry. He should have brought some water with him to the bedroom.

"In your world? Around two hundred years, give or take a few. Time flows differently there in mine. I can't tell, but far more years have passed there."

"That's... How old are you?" More importantly, what exactly did that imply about his abuse?

Astarion shrugged. “Old for you. Not old for my people.”

A part of Gale wanted to sink his teeth into the sheer vastness of research potential that this presented. Another part wanted to … Wanted to …

He couldn’t undo the past.

He could do his best to make the present better.

“Listen to me, bringing the mood down.” He forced a chuckle. “It wasn’t very fair of me to turn the conversation to such heavy topics, nor to forget about you after you took such good care of me. Let me return the favour.”

Little tension lines appeared around Astarion’s eyes. “That’s not necessary, darling.”

“I would like to. Give and take, no? I daresay I have a rather talented tongue, and …” He saw Astarion go very, very still. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, Astarion didn’t respond. Then he blinked, and seemed to come back to life as though a wave washed over him. “Nothing, dear. You’ve given me much already. There is no need for you to bother yourself with all that.” He waved a hand dismissively; the gesture travelled from his shoulder to his fingertips, and Gale followed it with his eyes.

“It wouldn’t be a bother. I like bringing my lovers pleasure.” He frowned. A kernel of fear popped in his stomach and spread like ice through his insides. Drawing his next breath required too much effort, but he had to, had to get the words past his lips. “You are doing this because you want to, right? Promise me. Swear to me you did that because you wanted to, not because you thought you owed me.”

Nothing.

“Astarion .”

No, no, this couldn’t be—Astarion had said—

Gale couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t. The thumping of his heart filled his ears, nausea clawing at his throat. He hadn’t just—

“All right, all right, I swear!”

The next breath shuddered down Gale’s throat. His lungs, his stomach, his limbs unclenched, body drinking in the oxygen again, his mind placated.

“You …” He needed another breath. “You told me the truth? You did want to? ”

“Yes.” Astarion pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. His chin came to rest on his forearm, and his gaze fell somewhere on the sheets, as though they were the most interesting thing in the world. “I told you the truth. I just …”

With his legs on display, Gale caught sight of a thin scar curling around his left shin. He resisted the urge to follow it with his fingertips, to wrap the duvet around Astarion, to do something, anything, just to avoid doing nothing at all.

(As if a duvet could keep him safe.)

Gale sat up. “What is it?” he asked instead.

Astarion’s grip around his knees tightened. “I don’t want you to touch me.”

Oh. “Okay.”

Red eyes snapped towards him. “Okay?”

“Of course.”

He’d touched Astarion before though, on the sofa. And Astarion had leaned into it. Had seemed to enjoy it. There must have been more to it.

“You won’t … insist on it?”

Gods, the way his eyes widened made an ache bloom in Gale’s chest. As if that was a surprise, a shock, to have someone agree.

Maybe it was. It probably was.

“No,” he said. “I won’t force you into anything.”

A modicum of tension slid from Astarion’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Do you … think you could tell me why?”

Astarion opened his mouth and closed it again. His fingertips dug into his upper arms, and Gale would have reached out to stop him if he hadn't just promised to keep his hands to himself.

"Because..." Astarion said at last. "Because it's one thing to be forced to do something, and another to ... be forced to feel . To have my own body used against me. Have it betray me. I can't ..." His voice faded almost to a whisper. "I can't ..." One hand coming free to wave through the air, the other digging its fingers deeper, deeper. The words falling like a rock to the bottom of the ocean. Heavy, hard. Invisible to the world above the surface. "All the pleasure I've ever felt has been forced upon me."

Gale might have been plunged below the surface too.

"Thank you," he managed with a tremor in his voice. "Thank you for telling me. Earlier, on the sofa ... Was that unpleasant too?"

Astarion shook his head. His fingers were still applying far too much force to his arm.

"That had nothing to do with sex."

Gale's gaze remained glued to his fingers. Crescents of pain against pale skin.

"You're hurting yourself," he said, and again fought the impulse to reach out and do something to help.

Fought it and lost. Stopped himself before his hand made contact with Astarion’s skin, before he broke his own promise.

"Oh." Astarion relaxed his grip, but the imprints on his skin remained.

Gale's hand hovered inches from them.

"You want to touch me, don't you?"

"I want to comfort you," Gale said because it was the truth and because he wasn't ready to examine his desires any more closely than that. "If non-sexual touch brings you a measure of comfort, would you welcome that?" He rested his hand on the mattress. "I won't touch you if you say no. You have my word."

Astarion's gaze lingered on Gale's hand. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"All right. Might as well try that too. What ... What do you want to do?"

Gale lifted his hand and reached towards Astarion’s arm slowly, so slowly. "May I?"

A nod.

He ran his fingertips over the indentations. A light pressure, as if that could smooth them out or undo them altogether. Had he ever touched another person this way? Oh, he'd been over the moon when he'd first experienced the joys of flesh with Mystra, but had he ever been so alert, so in tune with how much of a privilege it was to be granted permission just to caress someone's skin? How much trust he was being offered in this moment?

It was intoxicating; a pit of gratitude and craving opened up between his ribs. He wanted the moment to last, wanted to get lost in it, in this dream of warmth amidst the frozen winter.

"Is this all right?"

A soft sigh slid from Astarion’s lips. "I think so. Does it satisfy you?"

"Satisfy me?"

Astarion lifted his gaze from where Gale's fingers continued to stroke his arm and turned it towards his face instead. "Yes. You wished to offer comfort; I suppose it is comforting. It's ... kind."

"I'm glad," Gale said, or thought he did. He couldn't look away from those piercing red eyes, somehow a vibrant crimson even in the dimmed light. Was it magic he saw when he stared into them? The unspoken age of a fae, a glimpse into the rules of their realm?

(Could his mind ever comprehend the concepts of that reality well enough to satisfy the hunger within him?)

"Very few have ever been kind." Astarion’s voice dropped lower, turned softer in some fragile sort of way. "I do like this. In case you doubt me still."

Gale trailed his fingers down Astarion’s arm, across his forearm to his wrist, which was still resting on his knees. He took his hand gently into his, cupped it with both palms.

"It's not you I doubt.” he said. “I know my own mind and how it warps reality at times. How it would convince me to employ strategies that hurt just to survive. It took me two years of therapy before I even dared to ask for a divorce, and I have much to work on still. Pain does something to us in ways we can never fully understand, and I would not wish to hurt you just because we don't know where to look."

That crease between Astarion’s brows was back again, tempting, taunting Gale to touch it too. Could he?

"What's therapy?” Astarion asked, and the impulse to reach out died on Gale's fingertips.

"It's a ... process we have. Where you talk to a professional about things that bother you, and work through them." The Wilds probably lacked a suitable equivalent then?

Astarion’s fingers twitched in his grasp. “And there are people who just … listen to you?”

“Well, they get paid for it.” Gale started rubbing little circles against the back of Astarion’s hand. “But sometimes, people listen because they want to. Because they care.”

Too rarely, since his mother had passed. But … Astarion was listening now, wasn’t he? And the village … They’d searched for Gale, and wasn’t that almost as good in the end? Now that he thought of it …

“Jaheira said she’d come looking for me last night. I must have slept through it. Did you hear her at the door?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

Astarion’s brow furrowed. “Why would I answer a stranger banging on your door in the middle of the night as if they’ve been possessed? How was I to know she’d come looking for you ?”

Oh.

Looking for Gale. Which meant …

“You’re hiding here.”

“Of course I’m hiding.” The words came out clipped.

Astarion had escaped. From somewhere, and someone was looking for him. Facts to add to Gale’s collection. Questions, too. Were they in danger? Who was searching for Astarion? How far were they willing to go? What should Gale do?

Something else slipped out through his teeth instead. “Is that why you stayed?”

Astarion squirmed his hand free, and wrapped both arms around his shins again. He nodded once before his chin came to rest on his knees.

(As though he could make himself any smaller. As though he could disappear.)

“I meant to go.” His lips barely moved, his voice muted by the pressure on his chin. “You’ve been a wonderful host, and I haven’t been a very good guest.” His fingers dug into his arm again; was Gale allowed to reach for him now?

“I meant to go,” Astarion repeated. “But I stepped outside, and I … couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.”

Was Gale allowed to—was it all right to—surely if he had no alternative motive behind touching—

With a deep breath, he reached out and took hold of Astarion’s hands, pried his fingers away from his arms.

Astarion let him.

Gale placed his hands on the mattress and started rubbing over the indent on Astarion’s upper arms, and still Astarion let him.

“You don’t have to go,” he found himself saying—and, and, gods, he meant it, didn’t he? Even in face of unknown danger, the mere thought of forcing Astarion back into the snow—back into the hands that had closed that circle of iron around his neck—made his gut squirm. “You said once that you were safe here. Stay. Stay .”

Red eyes met his, the scent of petrichor and lilac blooms, the whisper of leaves in a summer breeze. Roots reaching all the way down.

He forgot how to breathe.

For a moment, he thought Astarion might kiss him.

For a moment, he wanted Astarion to kiss him.

Foolish, foolish. Why would he seek—how could he—

He didn’t feel anything. Wasn’t ready to feel anything, not after Mystra had left his heart in tatters and he’d barely stitched it together again. Or was that fae magic, keeping him alive all these years?

“Thank you,” Astarion murmured.

Right. Right, his brain had skipped four topics ahead again. Same old Gale Dekarios, getting ahead of himself, reading more into gestures than what they represented.

Grasping his scattered thoughts was almost painful, but he needed to know more still. “Why did you say you were safe here?” Where was ‘here’? “Because they won’t look for you in the human world?”

Astarion shook his head. “That too. But you made it safe, remember?”

Huh?

“Oh.” Astarion averted his gaze. “Was that not intentional?”

Heat kissed Gale’s cheeks and his hands stilled on Astarion’s arms. “Err, no. Believe me, if I had any knowledge of how to ensure you were safe in my home, I would have put it to good use, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh. Well, you … So humans don’t …?”

“I’d venture a guess the answer is no.”

“Oh.” Astarion picked at the sheets. “You swore no one would follow me here. So they can’t.”

“As simple as that?”

A shrug; Gale’s hands slid off his arms. “It’s the basics of hospitality. I am your guest and therefore welcome here. Anyone who might be pursuing me is unwelcome. Unless you invite them in, they can’t enter.”

Oh. That was…

“Good. That’s good.” A pause. “Am I in danger?”

Astarion shook his head. “You shouldn’t be. They shouldn’t know I’m here, and I doubt it would occur to anyone that a human might be aiding me. Our kinds … We coexist, but we fear each other too.” His gaze snapped towards Gale again, his eyes a thunderstorm contained in shades of red. “Should they ever come for you, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

The fierceness in his voice made Gale’s throat seize up. All he managed was a nod, and though he didn’t think Astarion could fight anyone with how fragile his body still looked, it was the sentiment that curled up in his chest like a cat and kept him warm.

Chapter Text

Astarion was staying for the foreseeable future.

How ‘foreseeable future’ was to be defined, Gale didn’t know, but Astarion was staying, and that meant there was now a future to think about. Things that he needed. Gale had to leave the house, so that his phone would behave enough for him to order another duvet, more pillows, and some toiletries and clothes for Astarion; the fae had a preference for shirts with loose necklines and all things soft, and Gale did his best to cater to that. If Mystra ever found out what he was spending her settlement money on bergamot-scented cuticle oil and boxers for a fae roommate …

(It was a better use for her money than she’d ever had.)

He brought books from the library in the neighbouring town, bought samples of most everything Jaheira had on offer, cooked and cooked and cooked to introduce as many dishes as he could to Astarion.

The snow thawed in a week, washed away by rain, and the sky assumed a universal greyness that disolved colours like bleach. The grumbling about the weather continued still, at the market and the pub and everywhere else Gale went, and would likely continue as long as Britain did, but he paid it little mind. In the dull tones of November, he found brightness in watching his house plants (Astarion’s house plants?) grow ever more vibrant, in teaching Astarion how to cook. When he tore his sleeve on the corner of a drawer, he learnt that Astarion knew how to wield a needle and a thread, learnt to appreciate the gentle frown of concentration on the fae’s face as he worked; the way his eyebrows drew together, the slight tilt of his head to the right, the clarity in his eyes.

The smile that lit up his face once Gale purchased a set of embroidery supplies for him.

Twice, Astarion asked to join Gale in bed. Both times left Gale gasping, clawing at the sheets, holding back so he couldn’t grasp at Astarion’s hair instead. Both times, Astarion retreated to sleep on the couch. Whatever they were doing defied Gale's attempts at defining it, and perhaps that was for the best—he wasn't seeking anything that went by a familiar label anyway. Besides, Astarion seemed ... not quite happy, but more ... settled. More present, now that there were more traces of him in the house, so why ruin that by poking in places that would cause pain?

(He still wore Gale's clothes more often than not.)

(Gale didn't mind.)

Days consisted of tea with the villagers and homemade meals with Astarion, and then he bought a turntable on an impulse, and the mundanity of life in his cottage got its own soundtrack too.

It wasn't bad, the little bubble he'd spun for himself.

•~•~•~•

"Why does technology malfunction around you?" Gale put down the shopping bags. He started toeing off his shoes.

Astarion hopped off the sofa where he'd been reading, picked up the bags, and carried them to the kitchen counter. "No idea. Is your phone still refusing to turn on?"

"Most of the time, it's just left without signal. It only dies every now and then."

"Hmm." Astarion put milk in the fridge. "Are you sure it's my fault? You don't even have other … What did you call them? Devices? Maybe your phone is just garbage."

"Excuse you, my phone isn't garbage." Gale hung his coat on the rack and joined him in the kitchen. "I never felt the need to surround myself with technology. But I am curious, and ..."

"And?"

"I thought we might watch a movie," he mumbled. Why were his cheeks heating up? "Since there are so many and you've never seen one. I could borrow a laptop, but if it wouldn't work anyway ..."

"Ah." Astarion pulled the last of the items out and folded the bag. "That's fine, darling. I don't think we'll perish without movies."

"Well, no," Gale said. "Our survival is not under threat, but they are a part of the human experience, and a good part at that, so I'd share it with you if you were so inclined."

He still expressed his care better through food than words, even if his speech ran the risk of turning convoluted every other time he opened his mouth. Irony was a wonderful thing.

Astarion leaned one hip against the counter and cocked his head. The overhead light hit his eyes, making the red all the brighter.

"Gale, darling, we have plenty of things to enjoy, do we not? Music and books and Tara? You can plan out the garden for spring, and I can do something about the awful way your clothes fit you—"

"What's wrong with my clothes?

"—and if you want to organise an activity for the evening, you can read for us, and provide one of the thousand varieties of snacks you're so fond of. That's plenty good enough."

This time, the heat mercifully remained inside his chest instead of rushing into his cheeks.

Good enough.

If organising a cozy evening reading session was judged good enough ... did that imply ...

"I can do that. I can definitely do that."

"Good. I'll get some laundry going before that."

"Please don't turn the entire load purple again, you have to—"

"That was one time! One!"

Gale nodded. "Admitting one's mistakes is the first step t—"

Astarion threw the shopping bag in his face.

•~•~•~•

Gale might have gone out to buy more snacks. And he might have thoroughly scrubbed his skin in the shower, and dabbed just a hint of cologne behind his ears. It was only polite to ensure he was clean and at least halfway groomed, since Astarion seemed prone to swallowing his cock down at random times. He couldn't stink of disintegrating sweat.

(What styling his hair had to do with it, he wasn't sure, but it was practical to keep it out of his face when he read ...)

When he emerged, he found Tara had taken over most of the sofa, her front paws resting on Astarion’s thigh. Gale gave her a quick scratch behind the ear as he passed on the way to the kitchen.

In truth, he might have bought too many snacks, but even with a few week's worth of efforts to introduce as many new things as he could to Astarion, there were still plenty the fae hadn't tried. Gale had begun the introduction with sweets, but if this were to be the equivalent of a movie night, the occasion called for some savoury nibbles.

He filled a bowl with crisps, another with crackers, and carried them both to the coffee table.

"There you go." He popped a crisp into his mouth. "Salt and vinegar. Delicious."

Astarion looked at the bowl, then back at him.

The reluctance reminded Gale of the way he'd looked at the grilled cheese on the very first night.

"You don't have anything like that in the Wilds? It's fried potatoes, nothing weird. Go on, try them."

Again, Astarion looked at the bowl and back at Gale. Back at the bowl. Slowly, he reached out and took a few crisps. Brought them up to his mouth. Put them in.

"All right?"

Astarion nodded as he chewed.

"Okay. Oh, let me grab the drinks too."

Gale returned a couple of minutes later with mugs of steaming cocoa. What was more cosy than drinking hot cocoa by the fire?

He held one out for Astarion, and as the fae took it, Gale’s gaze got caught on a splosh of red on his lower lip.

"You got something..." He reached out without thought, and then froze. "Is that blood?"

Now that he looked more closely, Astarion’s whole lips seemed a little swollen. A little ... burnt?

"It's fine." Astarion’s tongue darted out to lick at the blood, but the drop only smeared along his lip—or perhaps that was fresh blood welling up, or ...

"You're bleeding. What's wrong?" Gale leaned in to see better, his hand coming up towards Astarion’s chin.

Astarion swatted it away. "I'll be fine —"

Then he bent over and retched up blood into his hands.

"Shit, Astarion!" Gale reached out. Stopped himself. Let his hands hover an inch or two away from Astarion’s shoulder. "What's wrong? What can I do?"

A cough shook Astarion’s bones; a splattering of blood missed his hands and landed on the carpet. Gale rushed to grab a towel from the kitchen, sank to his knees, and pressed it into Astarion’s hands.

What was happening? Was Astarion sick? Injured?

The fae shook his head. He pressed the towel to his lips and sucked a sharp breath in through his nose. “It’ll pass soon enough. You don’t need to do anything.”

“Are you certain? Should I call a doctor, or, or—”

Red eyes pinned him down.

Red, like the blood on his lips, on his hands, in his veins.

“Calm down, darling.” A lopsided smile to go with those red, red eyes. “It’s just salt.”

“What?”

Astarion furrowed his brow. “Salt.”

“Salt?”

Gale couldn’t … What was he …?

“I’m a fae, darling.”

That line. That line he’d found in front of his door when he’d first arrived.

Salt.

Salt, to keep the night out and the fae away.

Salt .

Which he’d fed Astarion. Which he’d been cooking with this entire time.

“You haven’t—why—you can’t—” He waved his hands through the air, grasping for words or perhaps trying to clear away the chaos in his head. “Why did you eat that?”

Astarion shrugged. Another cough. A spray of blood.

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You provided it for me.”

“Of course, but—you knew what it would do to you? And you ate it?”

“Of course I knew.”

What was Gale not seeing? Why did none of this damned fae logic make any sense still? Every time he thought he’d figured out how the world spun on the other side, its axis tilted again.

How was he meant to help Astarion feel better if he couldn’t understand?

Always almost there, always almost comprehending, only to miss something still. A curse. A curse he’d borne for far too long—could he never be rid of it?

(He wanted to understand. Just this once.)

Astarion averted his gaze. “I thought you knew too.”

What?

“Why would I—no! No, of course I didn’t know! Oh gods, I would never have fed you something that would harm you on purpose. That’s—no. Astarion. No.” Gale grasped Astarion’s hands, uncaring of the blood. “I would never.”

Slowly, Astarion nodded. “I … know. I know.”

“Please help me understand why you ate the crisps. Why you’ve been eating the food I make this entire time.”

Gale felt Astarion pull his hands back a tad, as if he were about to slip them free, and he loosened his grip to let him.

But Astarion didn’t move.

Gale reached out with one hand and wiped a speck of blood off Astarion’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. His hand trembled slightly; Astarion sat so, so still.

“Please,” Gale said quietly and rested his hand on top of Astarion’s again.. “Your world and mine … They’re not the same. You and I are not the same. Please help me learn. I’d like to understand you.”

Astarion blinked. His lips parted, but all that passed them was a breath.

(Two feet of space that Gale would have to cross to kiss that breath off his lips.)

“You would?”

Gale nodded. He was a scientist. That was what he did—look at things. Study them. Pick them apart to learn how they worked and fit them back together and put them in neat little boxes.

Only, people didn’t fit in boxes.

Astarion didn’t fit in a box.

And somehow, Gale didn’t care. Somehow, he wanted to know anyway.

“I …” One of Astarion’s fangs worried his bottom lip. “I’m not used to that.”

Gale squeezed his hands. “Neither am I.”

Silence grew between them, bloomed into a flagrant, tangible weight, and lost its petals one by one.

“I’m a guest,” Astarion said quietly. “You provide so much already. Space. Warmth. Protection. How could I make demands? How could I place the burden of preparing extra meals on you? You come alive when you cook, did you know? Watching the joy with which you shared your food with me … There is something delightful about the food you make. How could I refuse? I’m a guest ,” he repeated, as if that explained everything, and perhaps it did.

Perhaps that was the root of so many complications they faced.

“What if you weren’t?”

Astarion sucked in a breath to speak, but Gale continued, “What if you weren’t a guest? What if this were your home too?”

Astarion opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying fuck the rules of hospitality. You live here too. You could call this house our home until a time you no longer wish to do so.” What was he saying? “If you’re no longer a guest, then you don’t have to worry about propriety, right? You can do whatever you want in your own home?”

What the fuck was he saying? He was getting ahead of himself, and it was probably a foolish idea anyway, but he—he—

(Sharing a home sounded lovely, did it not?)

“I have nothing to offer,” Astarion said. “I don’t have money. I can’t get money, looking like this.” He tugged one hand free and gestured at his head.

“I have money. It might be the only good thing to have come of my failed marriage. Besides, don’t think I haven’t noticed how plants thrive around you. If the vegetables outside behave anything like the ficus, you’ll be helping put food on the table too.”

“Does that count?” Astarion murmured. “It doesn’t seem like a fair bargain for you.”

Gale shrugged and continued before he could think about what he was doing too much. If he stopped now, he’d falter.

If he faltered, would he ever find the courage again?

(Two years just to tell Mystra he planned to walk away.)

“Does it matter? We can make our own rules. Who’s to say what a bargain must contain. If both parties agree, we have a deal, and we can agree to anything we want to, can we not?” Was that not the point of being free? Was that not the basis for companionship?

So long as his choices were respected, why would it not be fair?

(Astarion had respected Gale’s wishes considerably better than most this far.)

“Have I mentioned you’re strange?” A slight smile tugged at the corners of Astarion’s lip.

“I believe you have indeed.” Gale found himself smiling too. “Does that mean we have a deal?”

“We have a deal, darling.”

“Good. Shall we get you cleaned up?” Gale pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand.

Astarion took it and stood. “You know, I can have tiny amounts of salt. I might get a little nauseous sometimes, but putting a pinch of salt into a cake doesn’t hurt me. Things that taste salty are worse. Pure salt would be … bad. I’d prefer not to touch it either.”

Gale nodded. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind. Besides, I can just add salt to my food after I’ve put your portion aside.”

“Oh. I haven’t … thought of that.”

More likely Astarion hadn’t thought that someone would go out of their way for him, and gods, could Gale relate to that.

(Two years of therapy before. More therapy after.)

“The best we can do is make the future better, is it not?”

Astarion cocked his head. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Good. Now, let’s get that blood off your face.”

Astarion nodded, and Gale tugged him towards the bathroom, and it was only then that he realised Astarion hadn’t shied away from the touch this entire time.

•~•~•~•

Astarion came to his bed. After.

After Gale had wiped the last specks of blood from his skin, got a fire going, and curled up on the sofa with Astarion and Tara sprawled between them. 

After thirty odd pages read out loud.

After Astarion had fallen asleep, and Gale had covered him up with a duvet, and gone to bed himself.

Some indeterminable amount of time after, between the evening and the dawn.

Like a stream of moonlight, Astarion slipped through the door. Maybe the floor creaked. Maybe he'd said something before that had woken Gale up.

Gale didn't know. He blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes.

"May I?" Astarion asked softly, and Gale tried to say "Yes," but his mouth felt too dry and his tongue too heavy to move. He nodded instead.

A few soundless steps and Astarion was climbing onto the bed, onto Gale, straddling his hips as though he did it all the time, but that was new, that was all new. The undulations of his pelvis, the weight of his hands on Gale's chest, pining, pressing, branding.

Slowly, Gale pushed his pelvis up to meet the motion halfway.

Astarion’s rhythm faltered. His fingers dug into Gale's chest, little groves of pain, and then he moved again, faster, wilder, desperate. Moonlight hit his lips, his chin, reflected off his bared fangs while his eyes hid in shadows.

He looked like a ghost, a creature of thunder and magic and broken glass. Too sharp around the edges to hold close, and yet, and yet—

(Did Gale dare to cut his hands on him?)

With a growl, he pushed off Gale's chest and scampered backwards, to the very edge of the bed. Wrapped himself up in a ball, hands pressed to his temples even as he shook his head.

"I can't. I'm sorry, I can't, I can't ..."

"It's okay." Gale pushed himself up with his hands. "You don't need to do anything at all."

With a sigh, Astarion buried his hands further into his hair. Then he dropped them and looked up.

"I know ." Frustration cut lines into his face. "That's not it. The point is, I can't do it even if I wanted to! I can bring you "—he gestured at Gale—"pleasure, but I try taking it from you and I can't ."

His voice cracked.

"Do you want to?" Gale asked quietly.

Astarion sighed. "I don't know.'

"Perhaps I'm getting hung up on semantics,” Gale said, “but ... perhaps it would feel better to be given pleasure as opposed to taking it?"

Astarion stared at him in a way that told Gale he probably was reading too much into the wording, and perhaps using semantics to make a point would not help at all, but what if it did?

What if it did?

"You've been curious about bringing me pleasure, and you have enjoyed it, have you not?"

A nod.

"Well, it would please me to do something for you too. I'm not talking sex, per se. Touch doesn't have to be sexual, but it is one of the great things we tend to share. It's ingrained in us. I would help you enjoy it again, if I may."

Shadows shifted on Astarion’s face as he tilted his head to the right. His brows drew towards each other. "That would be enjoyable to you?"

Gale nodded. "Helping you reclaim something that was taken from you? I'd be honoured to assist."

"Oh."

He nodded again. Then he stood, walked around the bed, and sat down next to Astarion. He held out his hand, palm up.

Waiting.

Waiting, while Astarion stared at it with enough intensity that Gale almost began to fidget. Perhaps this was foolish. Naive.

Who was he to think he could undo two centuries of torment and shame?

Then Astarion placed his hand on his waiting palm, and a ripple spread through Gale's chest. He took hold of the fae’s hand with the care normally afforded to the finest china and pressed his thumbs into the dip of the palm.

A sigh escaped Astarion’s lips. He let his legs drop away from his chest, let his knees open and rest on the bed instead.

Gale followed the lines on Astarion’s palm with his thumbs, over and over as though he could smooth them out, or perhaps they might lead him to hitherto unexplored destinations.

Perhaps they could.

He looked up to find Astarion’s lips parted and his eyes nearly closed, a sliver of the darkest burgundy. He wanted …

What did he want?

(The ache in his chest gone. The air back in his lungs. Things unnamed and unknown.)

“How’s this?” he asked; if his tongue was busy forming words he understood, it couldn’t slip up.

A crease appeared between Astarion’s pale eyebrows. “It’s not … bad.”

“Would you like me to stop?”

“ No. ” The words came out whip fast. “No, this is … This is nice.”

Gale nodded and worked his way up to Astarion’s fingers. Up and down once again. Back to the wrist.

“Give me your other hand.”

Astarion did. His eyes were closed now, and that odd feeling curled up in Gale’s chest again.

It was working. This was working. He was helping, Astarion was letting him, seemed to be relaxing into the touch, and Gale was … glad. Proud of the progress. Grateful for the trust.

(Did the sum of these feelings add up to the bruised warmth behind his sternum?)

“I’ll make you some food that’s more to your taste tomorrow,” he said quietly.

Astarion peered through his lashes. “I could make it myself. Well. I could try.”

“I like cooking for you. I mean, I like cooking for others. It’s …” Gale looked back down at their hands. “I remember that from my mother. It’s how she showed hospitality and affection.”

“Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman.” Astarion flipped his hand and squeezed Gale’s.

Gale nodded as he said, “She was. And I’m glad that I can share her memory with you.”

Perhaps he should have stopped the flow of sentimentality, but Astarion’s lips twitched into a smile, and Gale was happy he hadn’t done that after all.

Chapter Text

“Astarion, can you come here for a few?”

“What for?”

Gale looked over his shoulder to the observatory where Astarion was curled up on a chair, soaking in the first taste of sun in weeks.

“I’m making bread. Tell me how much salt you’re good with.”

“Oh.” In one smooth motion, Astarion unfolded his limbs and rose to his feet. He stretched his arms above his head; the edge of his jumper (Gale’s jumper that seemed to be his favourite still) rose a few inches, revealing a sliver of pale skin.

Gale forced himself to look back up at his face.

If Astarion had caught his gaze straying, he didn’t show it. He crossed the space until he stood next to Gale and leaned on the counter with one hand; his fingers landed in scattered flour and he moved them further away.

“How much?”

A shrug. “How much is usually in there?”

“A pinch or so. Is bread usually all right for you?”

“Mm-hmm. I can tell that it’s got salt in it, but it barely causes any effects.”

Gale nodded. He made sure to keep the pinch small and knead it in before he asked, “Would you like to try?”

Astarion blinked. “Making bread?”

“Yes. That is, if …” Perhaps that was a foolish idea. Astarion had probably been helping him prepare ingredients in the past out of some sense of obligation rather than genuine interest.

But Astarion nodded, and Gale found himself smiling before he could convince his lips not to move. He moved to the side to rinse the flour off his hands and watched as Astarion buried his into the dough. His motions started off hesitant and abrupt. Gale smothered the impulse to place his hands over his and guide them—giving Astarion a hand rub was one thing, but he’d have to press himself against the fae for this, and … And he wouldn’t mind, but Astarion probably would. 

So he watched as the movements changed, slowly, gradually, morphing into one long fluid back and forth. Astarion’s whole body moved with his hands, elegant in a way Gale was sure he could never be, although the fae didn’t even seem to be trying.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” Gale asked. “The salt?”

“No.” Astarion rubbed the side of his jaw with the back of his hand. “Not when it’s  mixed in. It’s diluted enough.”

“Good. I think that’s done. Let’s let it rest now.”

Astarion hummed in agreement and stepped past Gale to wash his hands. A speck of flour clung to his jaw. Another one to his ear.

Gale reached out without thought. He leaned in closer, and his fingers brushed against the shell of Astarion’s ear. “You’ve got a—”

Astarion froze.

Gale did too. From this close, with the sun shining in, he could see tiny holes along his ear. Made for piercings, perhaps, but … scarred.

"What..." Gale ran the pad of his finger over them, down the shell of Astarion’s ear, and Astarion shuddered. His lips parted, his eyes closed, his head tipped backwards slightly.

Oh. Did that ... Was that ...

Ever so gently, Gale rubbed the tip of the ear between his finger and thumb.

Astarion moaned .

Then he clamped his hands over his mouth, eyes snapping wide open, and all but ran into the bathroom.

The lock clicked into place.

Gale stood frozen on the spot, his hand still in the air. Slowly, he dropped it back to his side.

Shit. Shit . What had just happened?

The way to the bathroom door felt impossibly long. He pressed one palm against the door.

“Astarion?”

Silence.

“Astarion? I’m sorry if I overstepped. Could you talk to me?”

Silence still.

Shit. He’d fucked up now. What had he been thinking, touching Astarion like that?

He hadn’t, that was the thing. He’d seen the flour and he’d reacted, and then the scars had roused his curiosity, and he’d … Well. He’d enjoyed touching Astarion too.

Shame burnt bright in his gut.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Go away.”

The burn spread until he choked on it. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll … I’ll go out for a bit. Give you some space.”

He didn’t get a response. With a sigh, he put on his shoes and coat, and headed out to the pub.

~•~•~•

The Stag’s Head was fairly busy for a late morning. Isobel and her girlfriend, who he now knew as Aylin, were sipping coffee in one corner and waved at him as he entered. Karlach wasn’t in today, but he saw a few other familiar faces: Alfira swiping away on a tablet, Nettie chatting with someone who might have been named Francesca, the old lady Ethel who ran a tea shop. No one Gale felt close enough to talk to.

Was that a blessing or a curse? He could use a distraction, but what could he say? For all that the village believed in fae, how would they react to an actual fae living among them?

He ordered a cup of coffee (black, two sugars) and retreated to an empty table by the wall. Chatter filled his ears. The weather had finally normalised, but the snow had done a number on everything. First advent Sunday this week, had they seen the wreaths that Larkissa had started selling in the market? Olodan’s chicken coop got broken again, did you hear? She’d seen some stranger loitering about, and she’d sworn she’d smelt something burning, but when she'd gone to check, there’d been no one there. What, strangers in Coedpont? Lorroakan had been around again, and he’d sent his assistant, too. Poor man had looked a little lost though, hadn’t he?

The coffee burnt down Gale’s throat, a heat much preferable to the guilt and anxiety that lurked in the background still.

But stewing in his misery would do him no good. Astarion deserved his space, and Gale would give it to him, but unless he found something to do, he’d keep counting down the minutes until he could reasonably return home.

Decision made, he stood, his cup in hand, and headed towards Isobel and Aylin.

They fell silent as he approached.

“Hello.” He wrapped both hands around the cup. “Would you mind terribly if I joined you? I understand if you’d rather I didn’t, and I will respect that, of course. It’s only—”

“Sit dooooown.” Isobel smiled at him. Her eyes had been lined with half as much kohl as usual. Perhaps that was more of an evening look?

He sat. “Thank you.”

“You look a little lost.” Isobel took a sip out of her cup. “Everything okay?”

What could he say? He’d scared off his housemate by touching his ears in an inappropriate manner? Perhaps he should have kept in touch with his therapist. He must have had an option to do appointments online. Who didn’t these days?

(Not that Gale’s phone would cooperate at home.)

“Just an odd day. Say, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“That Lorroakan … Who is he?”

“Oh.” Isobel’s expression darkened. Aylin shifted next to her, throwing a glare in Gale’s direction.

“We don’t need to talk about that,” Gale said quickly.

Isobel shook her head. “No, it’s fine. He won’t go away if we ignore him, and the topic concerns the whole village anyway.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Lorroakan runs a chain of stores called the Sundries. He’s had his eye on our plots for years. Their value as farmland is relatively low, but he wants to develop the land, not farm it.”

Gale frowned. “Aren’t most of the villagers farmers?”

“Yes, we are.” Aylin. “That’s why we’re not selling.”

Isobel placed her hand on Aylin’s thigh. “In the past, he wouldn’t stand a chance. My father used to tell me stories that his father had told him. How no disease nor disaster could have hurt the land. The crops grew and the flowers bloomed like nowhere else. Some think that a fairytale, but are we not surrounded by the fair folk?” Her hand balled into a fist. “The decline has been steady for decades. Our fields grow more barren every year. Our animals have no young. The land is dying, and we’re all dying with it, so some have started to consider selling what they have and moving on.”

“But not all?”

She shook her head. “Not all. Be it out of loyalty or fear, we persist. It’s dividing the town.” Her gaze fell to her knees, her hair slipping from behind her ear again.

Aylin reached out, covered her hand with her own. For a moment, Gale saw Astarion’s hand in his.

“Why fear?” he asked.

Isobel’s eyes snapped back up to him. “Because of the fair folk, of course. They’ll be very cross if their trees and their meadows are torn asunder for warehouses and shopping malls.”

Right. “Of course.” Still … “Who would even need a shopping mall in Coedpont?”

A shrug. “We’re close enough to other places. People would come. Stories sell, do they not? This land is full of them.”

She was right, wasn’t she? There was nothing comforting he could say to that, so he said nothing and poured the rest of the coffee down his throat instead.

A sound came from behind; Aylin looked somewhere behind his shoulder. “What do you want, Naaber?”

Gale turned to find a blond man with a ponytail staring at him.

“You Gale?”

“Yes.”

“You the one with the scones?”

What was happening? “I’m … not sure?”

“Jaheira gave me it. Said it was from you.” Naaber gestured at him. “Don’t know what you put in them, mate, but could you make more? I had the one and got inspired to find a new job. Whatever you did, it worked well nice.”

Gale frowned. “I didn’t put anything in them.”

“’s all right, you can tell me.” Naaber winked. “No one’s gonna judge you.”

“I used Jaheira’s recipe. No secret ingredients.” Naaber must have simply got inspired on his own, much like Jaheira had got the idea to set Gale up on her own. People had ideas without taking drugs.

Naaber sighed. “Fine, nothing I can do if you wanna play coy about it. If you ever do make more, save some for me, all right?” He clapped Gale on the shoulder and sauntered away.

Gale resisted the urge to rub the spot.

“What was that all about?” Isobel asked.

“Honestly?” He arched his brows. “I have no bloody idea.”

•~•~•~•

 He returned home to find Astarion curled up in the observatory. As soon as Gale hung up his coat, the fae hopped off his chair and came straight at him.

Gale sucked in a breath. “I—”

Astarion grabbed his hands and all but slammed them against his ears. “Do that again.”

Huh? Huh?

Gale stared, frozen on the spot.

Astarion’s gaze bored into his, eyes bright and alive, as he said, “It’s not the same if I do it myself.”

Heat rushed into Gale’s cheeks as his brain struggled to catch up. Astarion’s ears were warm under his cold palms, Astarion’s grip warm against the back of his hands. Gale couldn’t look away, couldn’t blink, couldn’t move.

Didn’t want to do any of those things.

Slowly, he ran his hands down towards Astarion’s jaw; Astarion released his hands as though he’d been burnt, giving Gale space to slide his index fingers up along the edges of his ears.

One touch, and Astarion’s head tipped forwards, his forehead inches from Gale’s shoulder now.

Up and down, and his hands flew up to grip Gale’s sleeves. Gale’s fingers found the dip where Astarion’s ears met his neck and lingered for a moment.

“Astarion?”

“Hhhmm?”

“What's happening right now?"

"Shhh, don't talk so much."

He let his fingers travel up again. "I take it this feels good?"

Astarion hummed in acquiescence.

"I'm glad." Gale dropped his hands to his sides, slipping his arms from Astarion’s grasp despite the small protesting sound that rose from Astarion’s throat. "At the same time, I am truly sorry that I overstepped before. Do you think we could discuss what happened?"

Astarion slowly lifted his head and peered up at him. "Did you have to stop?"

"I'd be happy to give you an ear rub if it feels nice, but I do think we should talk. You went from telling me to go away to... this. I'd like to understand."

Astarion pouted at that, but he nodded. He walked over to the sofa to sit. Gale toed off his shoes and followed.

"I'm not sure I understand myself." Astarion tucked his legs under himself. He seemed to focus on the folds in a blanket that was haphazardly thrown over the backrest. "You touched me, and it felt ... good. I wasn't expecting ..."

"You had flour on your ear," Gale offered even though Astarion hadn't asked for an explanation. But in the end, everyone wanted to know, didn't they? If he could explain himself to their satisfaction, perhaps he'd be forgiven. "And then I noticed the scars ..."

If Astarion stared at the blanket with any more intensity, it might have caught a fire. "Cazador liked my ears pierced," he murmured. "He liked to use iron for it."

Well, fuck.

"That's ... That's just ... I'm sorry." Gale's throat closed up. What else could he possibly say?

And who was Cazador? He must have been Astarion’s ... captor? Ex? The thought made Gale’s stomach turn.

“I’m used to having my ears serve as a source of pain.” Astarion’s volume dropped even further. “But you touched them, and it felt … nice. I didn’t understand. I don’t understand.” He looked up, an ocean swirling in his eyes, the whispers of an ancient forest filling the room. “I tried it myself after you’d left, but it wasn’t the same. So I wanted to … try again. See if it worked.”

“Did it?”

A nod.

“I’m glad,” Gale said, and he was. If this was a comforting touch that Astarion could tolerate—welcome even—it meant a step in the right direction. “Thank you.”

“Whatever for?” Astarion arched his eyebrows.

“For sharing. For trusting me with this. For allowing me close after I’d hurt you.”

Mystra would have held such oversights against him, and … knowing she’d weaponised her affection was one thing. Unlearning to expect the same from everyone else was another altogether.

Astarion blinked at him. “You caused me no harm.”

“No, I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” His features morphed into a frown. “Stop it. Stop taking on the responsibility for the entire world. You’re not even aware how nice you’ve been to me, are you?”

“I …”

Had he been nice? Where did the boundary of basic human decency bleed into kindness? Did he deserve the praise when all Astarion had for comparison were years of abuse?

“I thought so.” Astarion crossed his arms across his chest. “Give yourself some credit, damnit.”

Gale opened his mouth and closed it again.

“And put that bread into the oven. I would’ve done it while you were gone, but I was afraid I’d burn it.”

A flash of warmth, light and airy like a summer’s breeze. An imprint of something that touched places between his ribs, there and gone again. Laughter bubbled in his throat, and he shook his head even as his muscles twitched into a smile.

Then he got up and put the bread into the oven.

He set the timer and returned to the sofa.

Settled back into his corner.

Astarion looked at him, kept looking at him as though he was expecting him to say something, do something, anything—

“Do you think you could …” He averted his gaze and made a vague gesture towards his head with one hand.

Was that a tint of red on his cheeks? On the tips of his ears?

“Oh. Of course. Of course.” Gale folded his hands in his lap. Placed them back onto his thighs. “Let’s … Let’s find a more comfortable way than standing up, yeah?” What was he supposed to do with his hands? Should he have Astarion sit in front of him? On the ground? Should they go to the bed instead?

No. No, he was overthinking everything. No need for that. Things may not have been simple, but that didn’t matter. Astarion had discovered something he enjoyed, and Gale would help him with it.

Those were the facts.

Everything else were insignificant details, and so whatever way he chose would be fine.

A deep inhale. A long exhale.

Tension melted from his shoulders and his hands stilled.

“Come here,” he said, and patted the spot next to him. Placed one leg next to the backrest, so he wouldn’t have to be twisting the entire time, and leaned back against a pillow.

Astarion scooted closer; his leg tangled into the blanket that had been thrown between them, and he plucked it up. Held it in his lap as he settled with his back to Gale, still as a statue.

Gale ran a single fingertip over the faint pink on the tip of his right ear.

Astarion sucked in a breath.

Gale ran his finger down, a slow caress over the faint ridges of the scars that must have inflicted so much pain. Poetic, perhaps, that this should bring about a measure of enjoyment now.

He couldn’t see Astarion’s expression from this angle, but he could observe the tension melting out of his neck and shoulders with every move of his fingertips until his torso sagged forwards. Curious, how a few soft touches could melt his bones. Gale had never found his own ears particularly sensitive to touch, but perhaps fae were different in that regard?

“You can lean back,” he said quietly as he brought his other hand up too and started rubbing the cartilage between his forefingers and thumbs.

Astarion made a small sound, somewhere between a startled breath and a moan. His weight dropped back against Gale’s shoulder—a warmth that grounded. Rubbing little circles up the length of his ears turned his exhales into little hums that grew louder and louder the closer Gale got to the tips of his ears.

“Is that good?”

Perhaps his breath washed over Astarion’s neck as he spoke; Astarion shuddered just so, the movement too slight to see, but Gale felt it against him.

“Mm-hmm …”

“Good. Just relax and enjoy yourself, all right?”

Astarion inhaled, probably to speak, but what he might have said, Gale never found out. He rolled the tip of one ear between his fingers, and Astarion moaned, high-pitched and loud.

“Apologies.” Gale stilled his hand. “Was that too much?”

Astarion dropped his head back against Gale’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare stop.” He might have been trying to glare up at Gale, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the breathlessness in his voice and the heaviness of his nearly closed eyelids, and oh. That must have been a good sound then.

Gale repeated the motion.

Astarion's lips parted. Tension that had melted away before wound up his muscles in different ways. His fingers found Gale’s shin and clutched at it, his head turning away from the touch and back into it, his back arching away from Gale, then sinking against him.

Again, Gale rolled the sensitive tissue between his fingertips. One ear, then the other. Again.

Again.

Again.

The little sounds Astarion kept making, the ripples that travelled down his spine, the heaviness of his body when he relaxed fully against Gale—they suited him. This was a different side of him, and seeing it …

It was a privilege.

Gale wouldn’t have thought he’d let anyone this close again, after … Wouldn’t have thought someone would allow him to get this close.

But here they were, and it felt … good. Not simple, never that, but … safe in a way that sparked curiosity inside him.

What other sides were there to Astarion? How much more of this relaxed, melted version would he get to see?

(He was bound to crave more, now that he’d seen it.)

Again.

Pain bloomed in his shin where Astarion’s fingers dug into it, the fae’s other hand clutching the blanket to his stomach.

Was it … a bit much?

“Astarion? Did that hurt? Are you all right?”

“No, no. Yes.” A heavy breath. “I don’t kn—don’t stop! Don’t.”

Gale frowned. Took in the way Astarion’s chest kept rising and falling, his exhales blending into a staccato rhythm. The way his back arched, his hands gripped whatever they could find. The flush on his skin, on his ears, his softly parted lips. How they opened and closed as though he wasn’t sure whether to speak or scream or remain forever silent.

Oh. Oooh.

Should Gale … Was this a good idea?

But who was he to think he knew better than Astarion?

“If it gets too much—if you need me to stop—you’ll let me know.”

It wasn’t a question, but Astarion nodded against him anyway.

“Good.”

Gale let his fingers travel slightly lower again, rubbing the places between the scars, around them, over them. As if their exchange had given Astarion some kind of permission, his breaths now bled into gasps, into soft, breathless moans that sent shivers travelling down Gale’s spine.

This was … different. Fuck, this was different. Gale could keep his hands to Astarion’s ears without letting them stray anywhere else. He would . He didn't want to spook Astarion by trying something he hadn't asked for—but for the first time, he wished he could let his hands roam.

Well. Perhaps he had to keep his attention focused on Astarion’s ears, but did he have to limit himself to using his hands?

He angled his head and pressed his lips against the tip of one ear and slowly, gently, sucked it into his mouth.

Astarion mewled. His back arched, his pelvis pressing backwards, and he brought a hand up to cover his mouth.

Gale wrapped one hand around his wrist and applied the slightest pressure to it. Not forcing. Suggesting.

Astarion allowed his hand to be lowered again. Allowed it to be guided to the sofa and kept it there when the grip around his wrist retreated.

"Let it out," Gale murmured; his breath made Astarion’s skin break out in goosebumps. "I want to hear you."

"Gale ..."

His name, carried on a gasp, made something snap inside him, and he closed his lips back around the tip of Astarion’s ear. A hint of teeth, the softest nibble, before his tongue darted out to soothe the bite away.

Astarion’s legs twitched. His grip on Gale's shin turned to steel, but the little sounds spilling from his lips were beautiful, so beautiful, their pitch rising higher. Like a mirror he shattered under the ministrations—shifting, squirming, pushing into the touch for more. Trying to lean away, then changing his mind in a second. The dusting of pink on his cheeks deepened, and even with a blanket over his lap, Gale could clearly see where his erection was straining against the fabric.

"What do you need?" he whispered.

"This, this is ... Please. Your mouth is ... This ..."

Gale nuzzled the cartilage and licked a slow stripe along the shell of the ear. "Like this?"

"Mmm, nnnh, yes! This is—I don't—"

A nibble on one ear, a pinch on the other. Astarion’s moan filled the whole room. Gale did the same again, again, again , and oh, that was a lovely sound, louder this time, louder still—

Astarion’s back arched so far his spine lost all contact with Gale’s chest, his head pressing hard against Gale’s shoulder. A shudder gripped his body, and his mouth fell wide open as a shattered whine dragged up his throat. He grabbed at Gale’s wrist, sloppy and hard enough to scratch. The whine turned into a whimper, into something far too much like a sob.

Gale stilled. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Astarion released him as though he’d been burned and buried his face in his hands.

Gale could feel him trembling. Slowly, he rubbed his upper arm. “Astarion?”

“I don’t …”

Fuck, his voice sounded far too much like crying. Was he crying?

“I didn’t know I could—no one’s ever—” The words broke on a sob.

Gale didn’t understand, but that didn’t matter, did it?

“It’s okay,” he murmured, “it’s gonna be okay, I’ve got you. Can I give you a hug?”

Astarion didn’t answer, but he dropped back against him and buried his face in his neck. Twisting half to the side displaced the blanket on his lap; he was hard still, but a wet patch had spread on his tracksuit bottoms.

Oh. Had he …?

On an impulse, Gale ran his fingers through Astarion’s hair and wrapped his other arm around his back.

“What do you need?”

“I don’t …” Astarion’s fingers dug into Gale’s shirt. “My ears, they’d … only ever been used to inflict pain. I didn’t know it could feel this good. I didn’t know I could …”

“Come?” Gale finished for him.

Astarion nodded into his neck; a tear ticked a path down Gale’s neck to his clavicle.

“Was it …” Good? That would have been a needless question. Bad? Equally dumb.

“Ruined, I think,” Astarion muttered. “I don’t know what to do next.”

Oh.

“Take a breath first. Just take a deep breath.”

 Astarion did; it shuddered out through his teeth.

“Good. Take another one.” His curls felt so soft under Gale’s hand. “Another one. That’s it, good.”

Slowly, Astarion ceased shaking. The sobs subsided. His fingers remained twisted into Gale’s shirt, but their grip softened; colour returned to his knuckles.

“Better?” Gale asked

A nod.

“Good.” Another stroke through his hair. “What would you like now? I’d be happy to help you to a proper orgasm if you’re not too sensitive. Or you can have a shower, change into something clean, and we can just relax.”

Astarion’s breath tickled Gale’s neck as he sighed. “I don’t know what I want. I … It wasn’t … very satisfying. But what you did to my ears … Stars, I’ve never known …”

Nor had Gale. To think he’d done that, had unravelled Astarion to that point …

He swallowed. “Would you like me to do it again? Sometime?”

Astarion didn’t answer right away. He shifted, turned onto his side a bit more. Grabbed the blanket and pulled it over his hips. “Sometime, perhaps.”

“Don’t be ashamed.” Gale ran his hand down the back of Astarion’s head again and continued the motion to his shoulder and arm. “I’m glad it made you feel good, and I wouldn’t want you to stay frustrated. Would you let me bring you to a proper finish?”

Astarion twisted the fabric of Gale’s shirt between his fingertips. He didn’t say anything.

Gale stayed still, except for the tiny strokes of his hand on Astarion’s arm.

“You won’t touch me unless I say ‘yes’, will you?”

“I won’t.”

“All right. Let’s … try.”

“Of course.” He kept his right hand on Astarion’s arm. His left, he placed on the fae’s hip.

Astarion pressed his face more firmly against Gale’s neck.

“Is this okay?”

The slightest nod.

Slowly, slowly, Gale slid his hand under the blanket and rested his hand against Astarion; his cock twitched against his palm, and Astarion gasped.

“Still good?”

“Y-yes. You don’t—you don’t need to ask every two seconds, I’m not made of gold leaf.”

“Perhaps not, but you are precious.”

Astarion hummed, or moaned, or made a sound somewhere in between. His hips moved ever so slightly, pushing against Gale’s hand.

Gale met the motion halfway.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips nearly touching Astarion’s hair. “Keep going.”

A rhythm built. It felt … easy. So very satisfying, this opportunity to bring another pleasure, to be accepted. To whisk them from the world for a brief fracture in time and take them to a dimension of new heights. To do that for Astarion.

He broke the back-and-forth to slip his hand under the waistband of Astarion’s trousers, under his boxers, and wrapped his fingers around him.

Astarion’s hips stuttered to a halt. Gale moved his hand, a slow up and down that drew a whimper from Astarion’s lips; he felt them move against his neck, felt the barest hint of fangs scrape over his skin. Not to the point of pain, no, but the awareness of it sent shivers down his spine.

He tightened the grip on Astarion’s cock, sped up the motion, squeezed just underneath the head on the next upstroke—

“Stop.” Astarion’s fingers dug into his chest. “Please. Please stop.”

He stopped.

Pulled his hand away and placed it on top of Astarion’s.

Squeezed.

Astarion’s next breath hitched. “You … You actually … Thank you. Thank you .”

The words dug into Gale like hooks, tearing through layers he didn’t think could feel pain. The back of his throat burned.

“Always.” Without thought, he pressed his lips against the crown of Astarion’s head.

“Thank you.” Softer this time. “It was … too much. Can we just leave it?”

“Of course.”

Astarion stretched out his legs. “I think I’d like that shower now.”

“You do that. I’ll check on—”

Shit, how long had that loaf been in the oven? The kitchen still smelled like freshly baked bread, not a monstrosity burnt to crisp, but he’d lost all sense of time, distracted as he was with … Well. More important matters.

He wriggled free from under Astarion and limped into the kitchen with one numb foot and two protesting knees, but he got to the oven without tripping. 

That had to count for something, right? 

•~•~•~•

Later, when darkness had already staked its claim of the land outside and the flames had died in the fireplace, he invited Astarion to bed.

There was a ‘why’. A soft, suspicious ‘why’.

And a shrug. Because after doing what they’d already done, wouldn’t he just be rude if he kept making Astarion sleep on the sofa? The bed was large enough anyway. Plenty of space for them both and an empty stretch in between. No need to touch at all.

Astarion nodded. He didn’t join Gale until the lights were turned off and Gale half asleep.

Soft steps against the carpet. A dip in the mattress.

“May I?”

Gale forced his eyes open a crack and nodded.

Astarion climbed into bed, scooted closer, so close, until he was curled up right next to Gale, and the only thing that seemed to make sense was to wrap an arm around him and tuck him close.

“Gale?” the fae said quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you. For today.”

After a few minutes of silence, after Astarion’s breathing had evened out, after Gale’s eyes had long since closed again and his mind started to drift, he pressed his lips to the crown of Astarion’s head.

“My pleasure entirely,” he murmured, “ orion mou .”

Chapter Text

 Lights winked into existence overnight, wreaths hung on the doors, and carols wafted from every direction, though Gale could never quite determine who was singing or where. The Stag’s Head poured mulled wine over orange slices, and gingerbread filled Jaheira’s displays. The early snowstorms of the previous weeks had eased off, giving way to a mild, cosy winter.

And if that weren’t enough to soothe any lurking lethargy or melancholia, Astarion showed propensity to enjoy casual touches more and more. As though something had shifted with that one boundary established and respected, Gale found himself falling asleep pressed against him more often than not. Running his fingers through his hair, although Astarion would protest that his curls got messed up and threatened to shave Gale’s beard in revenge. On one occasion, the fae rested his feet in Gale’s lap while they were both curled up on the sofa to read, and when Gale put down his book to rub the arches of his feet instead, Astarion didn’t withdraw.

Something had shifted, kept shifting and building in sync with the expectant mood of the Advent. He could feel it in his bones, in places that ached and places that didn’t, as he helped Jen hang garlands along the edges of their roof, or topped up the seeds in the birdhouse, or when he caught Astarion’s gaze and fell into it, as though he were looking not at a pair of brilliant red eyes but an entire universe instead.

A world dying. A world evolving.

(He could feel it, the snowballing that had begun further back than he could ever recall, even if he could not name it.)

Considering how much Gale still knew about the village despite his reclusive tendencies (Alfira posted a new winter-themed song, one of Halsin's dogs was pregnant, the postman delivered Auntie Ethel's mail half an hour late last Tuesday), it was a little surprising that it took him until the second Advent Sunday to learn that there was, in fact, a chapel in Coedpont, and that a priest did, in fact, visit every Sunday. How exactly religion worked in places where everyone believed in magic and faeries, Gale didn't know. Perhaps this was normal? A mix of traditions?

Would the village celebrate Christmas or Yule? Both?

(What did Astarion celebrate?)

Sometime between hanging up mistletoe, building a gingerbread house with Astarion, and dragging in a Christmas tree, Gale remembered to ask Jaheira about his scones.

“Of course I sold them, people loved them. Got very excited.” She pushed a slip of paper into his hands. “Here, try making these. I want to see what else you can do.”

When he unfolded it, he found a recipe for shortbread biscuits, so he added purchasing large quantities of butter from Halsin to his list. 

On the way home, he thought he caught a glimpse of someone from the corner of his eye, but when he turned, the road was empty. Might have been the disappearing kid again.

He was going to have to ask Astarion what the hell that was about.

•~•~•~• 

“Don’t you ever get tired of looking at the same four walls?” he asked as he spread the ingredients out on the counter.

“I don’t mind,” Astarion said without looking up from his sewing. “It’s safe. Your house feels very comfortable, and I’ve been confined to far worse.”

A pang of pain shot through Gale’s chest. How thoughtless of him to comment. He should have have known, he should have—

But he couldn’t have, not really. Because Astarion hadn’t told him. Because he hadn’t asked.

He turned towards the fae fully and leaned back against the counter.

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

Astarion paused mid motion and lifted his head. “They didn’t keep me in a cell, dear, if that’s what you were wondering. I had a room.”

A room. A room . As if that made it so much better.

“Astarion, why—”

“Let’s not talk about that.” Astarion’s words fell from his lips sharpened to a point. Then, a sigh. “Please.”

Could they afford to do that? How much did it matter what was hiding behind it all? Astarion was Astarion, no matter what, and trauma was trauma, and Gale … wouldn’t want to be coerced into sharing his painful memories either.

“Okay,” he said. “Would you like to go outside sometime?”

“I don’t know.” A pause. A moment of hesitation. “Yes. Yes, I think I would. But last time …”

“I’d be happy to go with you.”

Astarion looked at his lap. “You might encounter danger.”

Gale peeled himself away from the counter and crossed the room. “Do you think we wouldn’t be safe in the village? Or even just in the backyard?”

“Maybe.”

“Hey. Look at me.” Without thought, he ran his knuckles down Astarion’s cheek, under his jawline, and gently, so gently tipped his chin up.

Astarion let him.

“We’ll find a way.” Gale’s words carried the weight of a promise. Hiding inside, never breathing the fresh air, never feeling the breeze or the sun on his skin—gods, the sun —that was no way to live.

Red eyes glistened through white lashes. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Astarion’s lips. “I’d like that.”

(Were his lips as soft as they seemed?)

Gale lifted his thumb and traced his bottom lip. Caught his gaze.

(Falling, he was falling through space and time and roots all the way into a foreign story, he could feel the shivers of the earth beneath his skin—how did that work, how did Astarion do that—)

Realisation hit him like a truck, the awareness of what he was doing, of what Astarion was allowing him to do, and he felt blood rush into his cheeks.

“I’ll go make the shortbread biscuits,” he murmured and started to lower his hand.

Astarion caught it. Squeezed it for a moment before he let go. “All right, darling. I’ll keep making sure we have something festive to put on the table. You didn’t have any red ones, but we will make do.”

Draped across his knees was one of the tablecloths (their tablecloths?). White. Plain. Only now, stars peppered the fabric in little galaxies of silver and gold.

“It’s beautiful.” Gale resisted the urge to run his fingertips over the pattern. “Where did you learn to sew like that?”

Astarion shrugged. “I had to keep my clothes in one piece. Learning to fix them was much preferable to going naked.”

Well, fuck.

One day, Gale might stop feeling horrified from every new detail Astarion shared. One day. He had a feeling the road there was going to be long and riddled with one horrifying reveal after another, but one day. Perhaps.

As if Astarion could feel the weight of Gale’s emotion, he shifted and waved a hand through the air. “All right, go bake the biscuits, darling. You’re blocking my light.”

Gale tried to swallow down the knot in his throat and failed, but he shuffled back to the kitchen.

If Astarion could only address his past in that dismissive way of his for now, who was Gale to push? But he could make him the best damn biscuits he’d ever had.

He would.

(He would do so much to bring that shattered man on his sofa some comfort and peace. Some hope and dreams.)

•~•~•~• 

Astarion ate half a bowl of the biscuits. Some invisible weight seemed to slide off his shoulders as he munched on them, clutching the bowl to his chest as though someone might try to take it from him. But his eyes cleared, and a shadow of a smile returned to his face.

“Thank you,” he murmured before he headed to sleep. “They made me feel better. Thank you.”

If he could, Gale would have folded the words between his palms and carried them with him forever.

•~•~•~• 

The village, it turned out, threw one big celebration that started on Yule and would last until Christmas. The main square turned into a fairytale landscape of lights and trees and ribbons in red and green. Open fires danced in the braziers, and the scent of mulled wine and spice hung in the air. Someone had installed speakers that played a mixture of folk tunes and Christmas hits; laughter and off-key voices rose with the music.

Gale felt a fist clench around his heart as he stood at the edge of the crowd in the half darkness. A few steps forward, and he would join the joyous gathering. He’d get to have this while Astarion was trapped in the house.

It wasn’t right .

Gale didn’t even celebrate Yule. Astarion did.

It just wasn’t right, to be left alone without a light on the darkest night of the year.

He spun on his heel and rushed back home.

•~•~•~• 

Astarion looked up from where he was petting Tara by the fireplace. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon, darling.”

“Come with me.”

Astarion cocked his head. “Where?”

“To the festival.” Gale took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his racing heart. His walk back may have been a little too brisk for his stamina. “It’s … It’s so lovely, and this isn’t right. You. Hiding inside all the time.”

Astarion parted his lips, and Gale stumbled over his words, “You can wear a hood, nobody will look twice in this cold. And it’s dark. And …” I’ll keep you safe , he thought but dared not voice. “I want you to have this,” he settled on instead. It felt truer than a wishful promise.

Slowly, Astarion nodded. He picked Tara off his lap and placed her on the carpet; she protested with a little chirp.

Gale shuffled his weight back and forth while Astarion put on shoes and a jacket. On a whim, he pulled a dark grey scarf from the hangers and lifted it towards the fae.

“May I?”

Astarion paused mid zipping his jacket. He blinked once, then inclined his head.

Careful not to touch skin, Gale wrapped the scarf around his neck, keeping the folds as loose as he could. It hid the scars well enough; darkness would do the rest.

“There. Let’s go.” He moved towards the front door.

Astarion caught his sleeve and tugged him towards the back. “You’ve got the horseshoe.”

Right. Did that actually work? “Does it stop you from going through?”

“Stop me? No, not when I’m welcome here. But it would hurt.”

“Back door it is,” Gale said and resisted the urge to reach for Astarion’s hand as he led the way outside.

They didn’t talk. Astarion kept his head down the entirety of the way. Perhaps Gale imagined it, or perhaps shadows did wrap around him somehow, making him blend into the night as though he were part of it. Sometimes, Gale felt the urge to glance his way just to reassure himself that the fae was still walking at his side.

Music flowed down the road, growing ever louder as they approached. Alfira’s voice rose above the rest. They turned the last corner, and the square opened up before them, and suddenly Gale didn’t know what to do or say next. He stopped.

Astarion stopped next to him. “You were right.” His voice flowed with the music somehow. “It is lovely.”

“Should I grab us a bite to eat? I’d invite you along, of course, but …” Heat rushed into Gale’s face.

“I know, darling. I’d like a nibble.” There was so much softness in Astarion’s voice, so much softness in his eyes too—the lights reflected within them as he stared at the square, and something clenched inside Gale’s chest.

Bringing him here had been the right choice.

“I’ll …” Gale coughed to clear his throat. “I’ll be right back.”

He slipped into the crowd, trying to stay unnoticed, trying not to get caught in conversation.

It was a lost cause. Jaheria called him over as soon as she saw him to tell him his shortbread biscuits had already sold out. Karlach poured him a mug of spiced wine before she even boomed ‘Hello’ at him. Alfira waved at him while he passed the stage on the way to the stand with plum pudding. There was hardly a face now he didn’t recognise, even if he couldn’t name them all. It must have taken him at least a quarter of an hour to disentangle himself from well-meaning villagers—it would hardly do to arouse suspicion by rushing, would it?—and return to the edges of the crowd, only to see that Astarion had begun making his way towards him.

“I got us plum pudd—”

“Something’s wrong.”

Gale froze, a surge of dread rising in his throat. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Astarion’s eyes darted back and forth, seeking something in the crowd, or in the shadows beyond. “It might be …” His gaze slid down to the ground, and he dug his hands into his pockets. “Nothing. Just …”

Old fears. Shadows that didn’t vanish when the lights turned on.

Gale understood.

“Let’s go home,” he said. “We can get all warm and cosy by the fire. No need to keep freezing our toes off out here.”

Astarion didn’t respond right away. A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows, faint lines around the corners of his lips. Each moment of silence dragged like rush hour traffic.

At last, Astarion looked at him, and whatever internal conflict had been raging in his head must have been resolved, because he nodded, started to turn away from the square—

Froze.

“I’m sorry.” Rushed, letters tripping over his teeth, over themselves.

What—

Hands grabbed Gale by the lapels of his coat. Yanked him close.

Astarion’s lips smashed against his, and—and—

Astarion’s lips. On his.

Astarion’s lips. His.

The tight, tight grip on his collar.

Gale’s hands hovering in the air, holding the pudding and a cup of mulled wine still. A droplet or two might have splashed over his hand, his sleeve, somewhere, somewhere.

His body knew what to do even when he didn’t, and his lips moved against Astarion’s (soft, soft, they were soft, and cold, and tasting faintly of wild berries and the winter’s breeze and things he almost remembered.)

A moment, two, twelve. The need to breathe drove him away, but the iron grip on his coat held him in place, allowing him enough space only to breathe the same air as the fae.

"Play along." Astarion’s lips brushed against his. " Please ."

Play along? Play ? What …?

He inhaled the air from Astarion’s lips; it froze on the way down to his lungs, steeped in anxiety and confusion and shame. Whatever that meant, whatever pain may have just been inflicted on him, he could analyse it later. 

He trembled as he pressed their lips together again, or perhaps Astarion trembled against him. Slowly, Gale wrapped his arms around his back, trying his best not to spill the wine. It was Astarion shaking, he could feel it now. What had him so ... scared? He should he safe in the village, away from the feywilds, should he not?

Had somebody come searching for him?

Kissing forgotten, he tried to lean to the side to see past Astarion. The fae loosened his white-knuckled grip just enough to let him.

"Are they gone?"

"Who?"

"There were..." Astarion’s voice trembled too. "Across the street, by the lamppost. They were from the Wilds."

Gale sought out the lamppost, but its light fell on old cobble stones and nothing else.

"No one's there."

"Good. Good."

The fae didn't move though. Didn't relax at all.

Gale let go. He stuffed the pudding onto the pocket of his coat; it protruded uncomfortably, but it gave him a free hand to work with. To place over Astarion’s and gently pry away one finger after another. To clasp around Astarion’s forearm as he wound their arms together and started leading him away from the square.

Halfway down the road, thunder rumbled overhead.

Thunder. In the middle of winter.

Wind arrived next, a gust that hit exposed skin without mercy and yanked at their hoods. Gale sped up the pace. Whatever this odd storm was, they shouldn't be outside when it hit.

The futility of his attempt became clear as lightning cleaved the sky above them. Thunder shook the ground below them, too, reverberated through heavens and earth and everything in between, and then the sky opened up.

Gale abandoned the cup of wine by the road and pulled Astarion into a run.

A minute was all it took to the house. A minute was also all it took for rain to drench their hair and drip down their necks, to make trousers cling to their legs. They stumbled into the kitchen with a gust of rain, and Gale slammed the door closed behind them.

"Where on earth did that come from?" He pulled off his shoes and his socks, so he wouldn't leave wet footprints all over the floor. The coat was next; he hung it over a chair. The puddings in the pocket had somehow escaped getting completely drenched.

"I believe a hot shower would be an appropriate remedy for this. Why don't you go ahead, and I'll make us a cuppa in the meantime?"

Astarion didn't move. Didn't look at Gale either. Water dripped from the edge of his jacket onto the tiles below.

"Astarion?"

"Hmm?" Red eyes turned in his direction, but they weren't looking at Gale, weren't focused on anything.

"You need to get out of wet clothes."

Astarion hummed again. He moved to take his jacket off, the motions slow and imprecise as if someone were forcing his limbs to life with invisible strings.

“Let me.” Gale took hold of the lapels and stepped around Astarion to peel the jacket off his arms. “All right,” he said as he folded it in half and draped it over the other chair to let it dry. “Shoes.”

Astarion toed them off.

“Good.” If following instructions was the current extent of doability, then Gale would provide instructions. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.”

Astarion didn’t react, but he followed along when Gale took him by the elbow and led him across the room. Followed him into the tiny bathroom with barely enough room for the both of them. “There you go. Have a shower. Warm up. Okay?”

Slowly, Astarion nodded.

“Okay,” Gale echoed and turned to leave.

A hand grasped his sleeve. “Don’t go.”

His eyebrows rose. He faced Astarion again. “You’re asking me to stay? While you shower?”

A nod. The tiniest hint of pink appeared high on the fae’s ears.

“All right.”

He could do that if it helped. Whether Astarion appreciated the company or the directions, Gale could stay. Maybe figure out what was occurring right now. Some kind of a freeze response because of the fae in the square? Probably. Hadn’t Gale himself experienced a similar reaction countless times in face of Mystra’s ire? What helped him then? What could he offer Astarion now?

Keeping his motions deliberate and as predictable as he could, he unwound the scarf from Astarion’s neck and placed it on the toilet seat. He peeled his jumper off next.

Before he reached for the hem of his t-shirt, he hesitated a moment. Letting Astarion react, letting him protest if he wanted to. But no reaction came, so he hooked his fingers under the fabric and pulled it up. Astarion lifted his arms obediently.

Gale had seen him naked before, but ... Well, seen wasn't the correct term. He'd been pressed against him, more like, with a blanket keeping anything but his shoulders and half of his chest from view. This would be different.

But he'd also made Astarion come into his trousers, so perhaps any concerns about modesty were misplaced.

(It was more about boundaries anyway.)

Jitters twisted his stomach into a knot as he reached for the waistband of Astarion’s trousers, but he tried to relax with a deep breath.

They were not about to fuck, or make out, or do anything at all. He was helping Astarion and would continue to do so until the ice that held him in place thawed away.

Which meant that perhaps Gale wasn't nervous because of any potential sexual charge in the air. And if he was not nervous about that ... Then what was he nervous about?

(The truth behind a waved hand and a dismissal of pain?)

He rolled wet fabric down Astarion’s legs. Trousers first, boxers next. Offered his arm to make balancing easier when Astarion stepped out of the clothing that now pooled at his feet, and steered him into the shower. For a moment, they stood in place and found each other's eyes, Astarion now standing an inch higher than Gale with his feet on the raised shower floor.

"Stay?"

A moment of vulnerability.

(There was no world in which Gale would say no.)

"Of course." He stepped backwards to let the curtain slide back into place, but Astarion's grip only tightened on his arm.

"Stay?" he repeated, a question still.

Oh. Oh, like that.

"You're asking me to shower with you?"

Astarion nodded.

Was it okay to do that? Then again, was it okay for Gale to be coming down the fae's throat or licking his ears? If Astarion asked, if Astarion wanted it, why not? Why the hell not.

It couldn't be wrong to want to take care of him. Somebody should. Somebody should have done that ages ago.

With a nod, he pulled his arm free. He stripped and tried to banish the worries of what Astarion might think of his body—he'd certainly been naked in front of him before, and it hadn’t seemed to matter. Shoving the thoughts aside, he turned the overhead shower on.

Cold water sprayed at their feet for a moment or ten before turning warm, and Gale stepped under the spray. A sigh rolled out of him along with the cold.

"Come here."

Astarion shuffled closer, and Gale tugged him closer still, so that the warmth hit him too. They weren't hugging, not really, and yet their chests were almost pressed together, Gale’s big toe brushing against Astarion's pinkie. Water soaked into the fae's hair, plastering the curls to his skull, trickling down his cheeks. Or perhaps that was the tears now.

Astarion shivered despite the warmth.

Gale hugged him.

No more space remained between them now. Physically, at least, and perhaps in other ways too. The less visible ones.

"I don't want to go back." Water and Gale's shoulder muffled the words, and it all came out rather like a hiccup, or like the truest sentence Astarion had ever said. "I won't, I won't ."

That was what lurked beneath the nonchalance—shivers and so much pain that he could barely speak.

"You won't have to," Gale said, and what did he know right? But he would make it true, he would fight tooth and nail to make sure the world didn't turn him into a liar, and he understood that as he said again, "You won't ever have to."

"Please. Please, I won't go back, don't let them take me back. I can't ... again, I... Please, don't let them ..."

The repetition grew into a mantra. Gale's heartlungssoul ached, and he tightened his hold, and he stroked Astarion’s hair, and found a mantra of his own. "I won't.  You're going to be okay, orion mou , you're going to be okay now."

A question and an answer. Not quite carved into the bones of the earth, but two halves that fit together nonetheless. That was worth holding on to, was it not?

He started running his hand up and down Astarion’s back, feeling ridges rise beneath his fingertips. An old injury?

(So many scars everywhere.)

Cazador, Astarion had said. Who the hell was Cazador? What kind of person delighted in the torment of another?

Gale brought both hands up and cupped Astarion’s cheeks. Gently turned his face so he could see the tears still brimming in his eyes. One of them spilled, and he brushed it away with his thumb.

"It'll get better, I promise. It won’t be easy, but it gets better. Okay?"

The slightest nod. "Okay."

Gale reached for the shampoo. It was a new bottle with a creamier scent. Vanilla and frankincense and cardamom, maybe. The label only marked it as Mystery Night, which wasn't helpful at all, but the notes evoked memories of warmth and sweetness and care, so he'd bought it.

Astarion’s eyes closed as Gale lathered the shampoo into his curls. He brushed against the fae’s ears a few times as he worked—once or twice may have been on purpose, but most were just a byproduct of trying to be thorough. After all, he wanted Astarion to relax, not grow hard.

The sniffling stopped. The tears stopped too.

The water turned clear again, shampoo all rinsed out.

He took up soap. Working methodically, he lathered up Astarion’s arms. Chest. Down his legs and then between them. No big deal, just washing.

"Turn around," he said as he straightened up again.

Astarion did, and Gale froze, one hand lifted in the air mid reaching for his shoulder.

He'd known there would be scars. He'd known.

But this?

Long parallel lines running from his shoulders all the way down to his hips, with shorter lines crossing over or touching them in irregular intervals. Whoever had done this had carved deep and with purpose; the skin was raised. Violated.

"What ..." he murmured.

"It's just a bloody poem," Astarion snapped and glared across his shoulder. "Will you get on with it?"

Gale swallowed. He'd hesitated for too long, and Astarion’s armour had been reforged.

"Will it hurt if I touch them?"

"Does it fucking matter? I'd like my back cleaned too, thank you very much."

Oh, this wasn't good. Fire crackled in those ruby eyes.

Fire and smoke.

"Of course it matters." He ran the soap over Astarion’s right shoulder, and Astarion faced the wall again.

"I'm not made of glass."

"I know that."

Tension rippled under his touch. "Then stop treating me as if I’ll shatter!"

Gale’s hand stilled. He pressed his palm flat against the spot between the fae’s shoulder blades. "I refuse to cause you needless pain, and you’ve got nothing to prove to me. You're strong because you're standing here, alive, after everything you've been through, and that's all you need to do. Hurting yourself out of stubbornness proves nothing."

He heard Astarion drag a breath in through his teeth even past the rush of the water. His forehead thumped against the tiles, his hands balling into fits. “If you think—if you treat me like some fragile little flower—is that how you see me?”

“What?” Gale yanked his hand back. “No! I’m not treating you as if you’re fragile, I’m treating you with basic decency and kindness!”

“Fuck!” Astarion’s fist hit the tiles. “ Fuck ! Why do you say things like that? What am I meant to do with th— at ?” His voice cracked on a sob.

“Astarion—“

The fae punched the wall once again. A scream tore free off his throat, piercing and hoarse, halfway morphed into sob. 

Gale placed the soap down. He covered Astarion’s fist with his hand, his chest brushing against the fae’s back.

“I don’t think that you’re fragile. I’ve been through some shit with my ex-wife, I know what it feels like to face the truth after hiding your head in the sand. I know this is bloody hard, but it does get better. You might not know what to do with kindness, but I refuse to treat you the way everyone else seems to have done. Let me show you better.”

Tension drained out of Astarion’s shoulders, the fight out of his voice. “I don’t know what to do with better.” A pause. “Are you … Are you just … so sickeningly nice to everyone?”

Was he particularly nice? Manners were important, and Morena Dekarios hadn’t raised a bad man, or so he liked to think so. But he wasn’t the same with everyone else, was he? There was something about Astarion …

“I might be a little nicer to you,” he said against the back of the fae’s ear. “Seems only fair since we share a home, doesn’t it?”

Astarion didn’t respond right away. Water trickled away, a quiet, comforting rush.

“It shouldn’t hurt.”

“Huh?”

“The scars. Touching them shouldn’t cause pain.”

Oh. That.

“You say shouldn’t.”

A shrug that Gale more felt than saw. “They hurt sometimes, or feel tight. But it wouldn’t be because of you.”

“Is there anything that helps?”

“I don’t know.” Astarion shifted away from the wall the slightest bit; his back brushed against Gale’s chest. “Stretching, sometimes. I’ve tried rubbing it when it hurts, but it’s a bit tricky to reach.”

Gale leaned into the contact. “I’d be happy to reach it for you if you’d feel comfortable with that.”

“Can you wash it first? That … felt rather nice.”

“Of course,” he said, and he did.

He towelled Astarion dry too, because he could. Made some tea while Astarion put their wet clothes into the washing. They curled up on a sofa with a fresh cuppa and the pudding, and Astarion grumbled something about the lacking qualities of the dessert.

“They did get a little wet in the rain,” Gale said, but in truth, he didn’t mind the complaint. It had been half-hearted at best.

“It’s not that.” Astarion chewed on another mouthful. “It’s missing the emotion.”

“Emotion?” Gale’s eyebrows rose.

“Mhmm. Whenever you cook, the food makes me feel things. Good things. I thought all human food might do that.”

Heat crept up his cheeks. “Well, it can. Food is … a way to connect. My mother used to show her love through food, and I’m glad to hear my cooking has been an enjoyable experience.”

“That’s not …” Astarion shook his head. “I’m too tired to discuss the intrinsics of human hospitality with you right now.”

“That’s perfectly valid. Would you like to go to bed?”

Astarion turned towards him. “Would you come with me? I … would rather not be alone.”

 Gale smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

Besides, curling up around Astarion was quickly becoming his favourite way of falling asleep. And, as it was, his favourite way of waking up too.

Chapter Text

For the first time in weeks, Astarion slept the morning away.

Gale did his best to move about quietly as he put the laundry into the drier, fed Tara and checked on the state of the garden. Only muddy puddles remained of last night's storm; the sky was clean and calm.

He turned his face towards the sun and breathed in deeply. The longest night of the year had passed. Christmas was just around the corner, and nostalgia plucked a bittersweet melody on his heartstrings.

This would be his first Christmas away from Mystra. He was glad he wouldn't spend it alone.

•~•~•~•

He spent the next few days cooking and baking, and—one time—brushing flour out of Tara's fur after she'd jumped on the counter at an inopportune moment. To distract her, or possibly himself, Astarion began teaching her to offer him her paw with a speed that left Gale muttering about fae advantage. But he ceased to complain the instant he realised that Astarion had somehow managed to convince Tara to leave the Christmas tree alone. 

The fae deserved a reward for that. And for the lovely tablecloth that he'd made, and attaching strings to some star-shaped biscuits, so they could hang them on the tree and ... maybe for no reason at all, other than being there and keeping Gale's chest from growing too tight and the nights from feeling too cold. If Gale put extra effort into feeding him good food and rubbing the tensions out of his shoulders, who would call him out on that?

On Christmas eve, they ate dinner together to the sound of an old record and the crackling of flames in the fireplace. It was ... He lacked the words, but something in his chest swelled a little while something else settled.

At home. At peace. Who knew.

Afterwards, Astarion curled up with Tara, and Gale attended the service held at the chapel. When he returned, he found them both fast asleep on the sofa. Tara, he left where she was. Astarion, he carried to bed.

•~•~•~•

He woke up chasing pleasure before his mind even caught up with what he was doing.

Blurry memories of a dream clung to his consciousness, echoes of sensations that had been real but a moment ago and all too easy to sink back into with the darkness surrounding them. He blinked against a ray of moonlight spilling through a gap in the curtains. In his mind's eye, he could still see glimpses of Astarion laid out for him as Gale thrust into him …

Oh. He was … He was plastered against Astarion’s back, rocking against his cheeks, and he was hard, and the friction felt so good ...

No. No, what the hell was he doing? That had been a dream, and this was reality, and Astarion was asleep . How was he supposed to consent?

Shame bit at Gale as he wrestled his body under control and forced his hips to still.

Too late.

Astarion shifted against him, twisting to peer over his shoulder. Sleep clung to his lashes as he blinked slowly, so very much like a cat.

Gale felt his entire face heat up. "I'm sorry. I ... That wasn't very considerate of me. Sorry."

"Why did you stop?" Astarion murmured.

"You were asleep ..."

Another lazy blink.

"Not quite.” He pressed himself against Gale, and shit, the friction was not helping at all.

“Astarion …?” 

That can’t have been a coincidence, right? 

“Hmm?” 

Oh, the next roll of his hips was definitely deliberate, and if any blood had been left in the rest of Gale’s body, it now rushed straight to his cock.

Gale moved on instinct, rocked forward again, and tilted his hips just a tad so his erection pressed between Astarion’s cheeks. Fuck. Fuck, that felt good. Fabric dragged against him, friction and frustration all at once. He slipped one hand under Astarion’s sweatshirt, gripping his hip. His thumb rubbed little circles into pale skin even as he used the other fingers to tug Astarion closer, to thrust against him faster, harder—

He slipped the other hand under Astarion’s head and pinched his ear. 

Astarion moaned, a little breathy sound that nearly had Gale groaning in turn. So much hunger pooled inside him now. For friction, for the tight heat he’d tried not to think about before, for the feeling of skin against skin, for—for more closeness, more—

He hooked his fingers under the waistband of Astarion’s pajamas. Paused. 

“Yes,” Astarion gasped, and Gale shoved the fabric down to his knees. He wriggled his own boxers off, kicking them somewhere under the duvet. A near animalistic sound tore free of his throat as his cock pressed against Astarion, and he smashed their hips together. Skin pulled on skin; heat and friction, sweetness and burn. 

“Lube,” he ground out against Astarion’s ear. “In the drawer.”

Astarion stilled against him. 

Oh. Oh . 

He opened his mouth to speak. 

Astarion was faster. “You won’t just … fuck me, right? Without … Without …”

He brushed the curls off Astarion’s forehead. “Of course not. If we go that far, I would make sure you’re comfortable, but we don’t have to go anywhere. All I’d like to do now is this”—he rubbed himself against Astarion—“and make you feel good if you’d like me to. Would that be okay?”

Astarion stayed still for a moment longer. Then he slowly stretched over to the nightstand and fumbled through the drawer. He held the lube out.

“That would be okay,” he said softly, and Gale found himself smiling. 

He took the lube. Squeezed it out and slathered it over his cock. A little bit dribbled onto the sheets, but he couldn’t be bothered to care, not when Astarion was right there , when his cock slid between the fae’s cheeks so much more easily now. He reached for Astarion’s face again, realised his hand was still sticky with lube—

Astarion shoved a tissue his way. 

“Thank you.” He wiped his hand as best he could. “This feels amazing. You’re amazing, let me …” He brushed Astarion’s ear, up and down, traced his cheekbone to his jaw. Followed the jawline back to the ear, then slowly, oh so slowly, downwards. 

Down his neck.

Towards the scars. 

Tension locked up Astarion’s muscles, and Gale’s fingers stopped. He slipped the other hand under Astarion’s head again, pinched his ear again. Drew a soft gasp. 

“Let me know if it becomes too much.” 

The way Astarion’s lips opened, the way his head slid back—Gale ground against him, finding a rhythm that built and built, and Astarion pushed back, meeting the motions more and more. Gale rested his hand on Astarion’s shoulder, seeking a place to hold on; his thumb brushed against the scars on Astarion’s neck. 

So many scars. Could he ever erase even a fraction of the bad memories carved into that pale skin? He’d brought pleasure to Astarion through his ears, so maybe …

Slowly. 

One fingertip at the time. 

He pressed his lips against the tip of Astarion’s ear and rubbed a soft crescent over the scars with his thumb. Drove his hips forward; for a moment, his cock pressed against Astarion’s hole before it slid up. 

“Gale … Fuck, G—ale!” 

A hand reached back to claw at his side. Grasping, searching, drawing lines of pain on his skin. The sensation mixed with pleasure, churning into waves that swept over his senses.

A change in the angle, which Astarion echoed in turn. Gale’s cock pressed against his entrance, and Gale stopped moving but for the slightest roll of his hips, the twitching of his cock. Then he sucked the tip of Astarion’s ear into his mouth, grazed the skin with his teeth, nibbled on it so, so carefully. His thumb continued tracing the same semicircle over and over, back and forth, back and forth. Astarion's breathing grew more ragged still, coming in gasps, twirling around little high-pitched whines.

Touching his ears unravelled him so beautifully. It sustained something inside Gale, as if the sounds poured from Astarion’s lips straight into some gaping chasm inside him and filled it with warmth until it became whole once again.

(It terrified him too.)

He only registered the changed tilt of Astarion’s hips when he felt pressure increase against the tip of his cock, felt the twitching of tight muscles against it. Gods, how would it feel to slide inside? The tightness, the heat ... Even imagining it made the flames burn hotter at the base of his spine. Imagining the pitch of Astarion’s voice, the expression his features would assume the moment he stumbled over the precipice of true pleasure.

"Gale ... Gale ..." Fingers dug into his hip, clumsy, slipping on his skin. 

“Yes?” He nibbled on the ear again, tongue darting along the shell. 

“I don’t—Gale —”

“What do you need? Is it too much?”

Astarion tried to shake his head, or at least Gale assumed that was what the motion was meant to be. 

“Tell me,” he murmured, lips brushing his pointy ear, and Astarion’s nails dug into his hip. 

“Someth—” The word broke on a gasp. “Need something.”

“Shh.” He stopped playing with Astarion’s ears and ran a hand down his side instead. Up again. Down again. “I’ve got you. Tell me what you want.” 

“I don’t—you—Gale, please.”

Fuck. Fuck, he wanted Astarion too, wanted him so badly. Perhaps too badly. If he couldn’t figure out whether that was a plea for more or for less, how could he push for more? He needed Astarion to feel safe, and comfortable, and maybe desperately needy. But above all, safe.

He ran his hand back down Astarion’s side. 

“Hey, breathe, okay? Take a deep breath for me,” he murmured and followed it with a stroke up again.

Astarion breathed in. 

Stroke down. 

Exhaled. 

Up. Inhale. 

Down. Exhale. 

A stroke up that continued to his shoulder, to the collar of his t-shirt, right to the edge of the scars. “Astarion,” he said, and if his voice came out just a tad lower, a tad huskier, that was normal for what they were doing, right? “Do you want me to stop?”

Astarion hesitated. He dragged another breath into his lungs, shifted a little, pushed back a little bit too. Then, “No. Don’t stop.”

Gale kissed the edge of his ear again, allowed a hint of teeth. “Would you like more of that?”

“Yes.”

He pushed his hips forward again; his cock nudged at Astarion’s entrance for a moment before sliding up between his cheeks, and he moaned at the friction. “And this?”

“I—yes …”

Good, this was working. He could figure this out, he could. 

“Would you like me to take my time, or would you like me to get you off now? I promise I’ll make you feel good either way.” He pressed a light kiss to the spot behind Astarion’s ear. 

“I don't know how much ... I can take. How much pleasure."

A pang of pain shot through Gale's lungs, a hint of rage that something as wonderful as pleasure had been so twisted that Astarion didn't even know what to do with it, that all he'd ever known had been a perversion, forcing his own body to work against him. Did enjoyable touch drag up dark thoughts for him even now?

Gale wanted to wipe them all clean. Rewrite his nerve endings, paint a landscape of new sensations over the pain and the shame and whatever else the fae might have been feeding.

“We can stop at any time. Just let me know if it’s too much.” He pressed his chest against Astarion’s back; not even air remained between them. “But if it’s not too much, I would very much like to show you how much pleasure your body is capable of experiencing. There is no rush, no destination we need to get to.”

Astarion didn't respond right away, but he also did nothing to pull away from the touch.

“It does feel different, with you,” he said quietly. “I've never wanted anyone's touch the way I want yours.”

The words did odd things to Gale's insides. He was wanted. He was wanted and he wanted in turn.

"If you want to stop at any point," he said and traced the edge of the scars around Astarion’s neck with his index finger, "we stop."

"Okay."

"Good. Then let me give you more of what you wanted." He rolled his hips against Astarion's, massaged his ear with the hand still under the fae's head. Astarion met the motion halfway with a whimper. His movement grew bigger now, bolder, grinding against Gale and sending sparks through his blood.

"Do you trust me?" He kissed a spot a little lower under Astarion's ear this time.

"Yes."

Such a short, simple word, but so heavy nonetheless.

"I promise I won't hurt you." Another kiss. Then he reached down, squeezed his hand between them, and pressed the pad of his index finger against Astarion's entrance. He didn't push, didn't move it at all, just held it there, feeling the fluttering of muscles against it as Astarion sucked in a breath and then two.

Gale waited. Only when Astarion pushed back on his finger did he slip it in, slowly, up to the first knuckle and out again. Lube had gotten smeared most everywhere at this point, but he reached for the bottle anyway and covered his finger in it. He'd promised no pain, and he would damn well make sure not to cause any.

Astarion moaned when the finger breached him again. Gale saw his eyes close.

"How does this feel?"

A soft sigh. "It's nice."

"Good. Just enjoy it, okay? Just breathe and enjoy it."

Astarion hummed in response, then moaned when lips closed around the tip of his ear again. If only Gale could bottle the sound ...

He made sure not to overdo the stimulation on the ears this time, not to wind up Astarion too much; he wanted the fae relaxed and blissful, not spilling on accident. So he worked him open slowly, with one finger, then two. Sucked on his ear, then stopped. Kissed the pointy tip. Started all over again.

Astarion rocked back on his fingers with minute, lazy motions, which in turn coaxed out quiet breathy moans from his lips.

This was ... different. For all his talk, Gale had spent the majority of his life bedding Mystra (or trying to), and she had not cared much for exploring. Sex had been the thing that happened every once in a while before bed, so he'd be content, or, on occasion, she'd ride him for her pleasure and remembered him as an afterthought. So this ...

Even if Astarion wasn’t touching him at all, even if his pleasure didn't seem to be at the forefront of their minds, he found himself leaking precum against the small of Astarion’s back and relishing every motion, every breath, every sound. Perhaps because Astarion placed so much trust in him, let him explore, let him heap pleasure upon him? Because he was content in the knowledge that he was doing well, that his efforts were appreciated, wanted?

Because he enjoyed the feeling of someone melting under his touch, malleable like soft clay?

Whatever it was that made the courage to explore bud in his chest ... He could get used to this. To more than this. To feeling that he was free to take initiative because he trusted himself not to mess up, because he'd learnt how to ask questions through the years. He was no longer the person who'd feared handing divorce papers to his then wife.

He was different. Astarion was different. And this ... felt liberating.

He withdrew his fingers and wiped them on the sheets.

Astarion made a small sound, a question, perhaps, or a protest at the loss, that turned into a sigh as soon as Gale pressed the tip of his cock against him instead.

"Is this all right?"

Astarion opened his eyes a crack; they appeared almost black, his pupils blown wide. “I … I think so.”

That wasn’t a ‘yes’. 

Gale needed a ‘yes’.

“I don't intend to fuck you,” he said.

"Oh?"

Did that sound almost like ... disappointment?

“I only thought to fill you up. But only if your answer is yes.”

"Ohh." A little breathless this time. “Yes.”

He caught Astarion’s gaze. "Yes?"

Astarion swallowed; his throat bobbed. "Yes," he whispered, “yes,” and slowly, slowly, Gale pushed in.

Astarion’s lips parted of their own accord, his back arching as he pressed himself against Gale.

"Fuck, Astarion." The way his muscles clenched, the tight heat of his body ... it felt even better than Gale had imagined. A wild, primal part of him roared with the urge to thrust in, bend Astarion in half, and fuck him until he screamed. But the rest of him ... The rest of him savoured the slow, torturous descent into bliss, the twitching of muscles around him, the drag of Astarion’s fingertips over his hip once again.

He reached up to brush a stray lock of hair off Astarion’s forehead. "Does it hurt?"

Astarion shook his head. "The stretch is there. No pain though."

"Good. You're taking me so well, so good for me ..."

Where the hell had that come from? Or had it always been there, the need to praise his lover in ways Mystra had not allowed?

Astarion though, Astarion blushed to the tip of his ears as he murmured, "Do you really mean that?"

"Of course I mean it." He pushed another inch in. "I'm so proud of you for being brave and trying things, and this feels amazing. You're amazing."

"You actually mean that." Astarion’s voice was barely audible now.

"Yes." A little further still. He ran his knuckles along Astarion’s cheekbone and back to his ear. "I want to bring you pleasure such as you've never imagined. I want to see you surrender to it, and see the joy you find in it, and I want to explore all that with you."

"Gale ..." Astarion swallowed again. The flush lingered on his pale skin. "I ... Yes. That's ..."

"Can you take more? You're almost there ..."

A nod. With a final slow push, Gale bottomed out, dragging another "Nnnngh," from the fae. Then he stilled. Breathed in as his pulse throbbed through his cock in tandem with Astarion’s—or perhaps he only imagined that, pressed together as they were, joint from hip to shoulder, and if he liked to imagine some deeper symbolism, an unexplored depth to the scene, who was there to stop him?

He wrapped his arm around Astarion, his hand pressed against his sternum, and touched his lips to Astarion’s shoulder.

"There you go," he murmured; goosebumps broke out where his breath washed over pale skin. "Relax,orion mou,  you're doing do well."

"Hmmmm..." Astarion leaned his head back and peered over his shoulder. "You keep calling me that. What does it mean?"

"My Orion. After the constellation. It's easily visible on Halloween. I found you that night, under the stars.”

“That’s …”

“I can use something different if you don’t like it. Or nothing at all.”

“No, no, it’s … I do like it,” Astarion said quietly. “It’s different. No one else has used that, and they’ve used plenty of names. Made a mockery of them.”

Gale kissed the tip of his ear. “Believe me that whatever I call you, it will be meant in earnest.” 

“I know.” The slightest smile tugged at the corners of Astarion’s lips, and something stirred inside Gale’s lungs. “That’s why I don’t mind.”

Gale tugged him closer, or tried to—there was nowhere else to go, only his palm pressed more firmly against his chest, and he felt the faintest echoes of Astarion’s heartbeat under his palm. 

This. He could get lost in this. 

“Comfortable?” he asked, lips brushing against Astarion’s ear.

“Mmhmm. You’re warm. You’re … I’ve never …” 

His hips moved, and Gale slid his hand down to hold his hips in place. “No need for that.”

“But you …” Astarion twisted a little, trying to look further over his shoulder. “You won’t come like this.”

“I won’t, and that’s all right.”

A sight crease appeared between Astarion’s eyebrows. He blinked. “Is it?”

“Mmhmm. This is not about coming. If I want to find my release afterwards, I can still do that. If you wish to come, you can still do that. Right now, all that matters is whether or not this feels good. Does it?”

“Yes.” His answer was half breath, half word, and his eyes closed again. Relaxing.

“Good,” Gale murmured and started rubbing little half circles into the fae’s hip, “good, you’re being so good.”

Muscles twitched around him, and a moan rose in his throat on its own volition. 

"You know," he said and shifted his weight minutely, "this is new for me too. Not quite in the same way, but we get to explore together. I thought you might like to know that."

Astarion hummed, and Gale nibbled on his ear once more; the hum turned into a moan.

He did it again.

Astarion grabbed at the hand on his hip, fingers closing around his wrist, and Gale smiled as he sucked the tip of his ear into his mouth.

Fuck. Seeing Astarion like this, hearing Astarion like this just turned him on. Astarion turned him on. And if they could stay like this, if they could exist in ... whatever this was, this bubble, a place outside space and time where nothing else mattered …

He blinked. The moon had slid across the sky, no longer shining in through the window—when had that happened? How long had he laid here, inside Astarion, touching, caressing, drawing sounds from him with his mouth? How long had Astarion laid here, melting against him, clenching around him?

"Gale?" Soft, hesitant.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, orion mou."

"Your pleasure, huh ..." The slightest teasing edge creeped into Astarion’s voice, there and gone again. "I would like you to come."

"I might." He kissed Astarion’s neck this time, just above the collar of scars. "But I'd like to stay like this a little longer. I do enjoy the feeling of you stretched on my cock."

Astarion’s ears flushed a pale pink. With a soft sigh, he relaxed against Gale’s chest, with his hand still wrapped around Gale’s. An anchor, perhaps. Another point of connection. 

Gale found his own breathing slowing down, the exhalations lengthening. Darkness still covered the sky, would likely still do so for a while, and the warmth and the closeness relaxed him like few things ever did. His arousal dimmed from insistent throbbing to a soft hum, and he allowed his consciousness to drift. Astarion seemed content with silence. His muscles still twitched from time to time, but he didn’t move otherwise.

At last, Gale slowly pulled out. 

Astarion stirred at that and let out a questioning little sound.

“I'll have that orgasm now,” Gale murmured even as he rocked against Astarion, returning to full hardness. “Would you like to come too? Shall I touch you?”

“No need.” The words were a little drawled, softened around the edges by impending sleep. “This is nice.”

Astarion arched into the touch. Gale wrapped his arms around him and held him close while he felt his own pleasure build and build and build. He came with a gasp, thrust between Astarion’s cheeks once, twice more, before he stilled, his breaths disrupting the blissfully silence of the night. 

“Good?” he murmured against the back of Astarion's neck. 

The answering, “Mmhmm,” seemed more asleep than awake, and Gale reached for tissues as carefully as he could, so as not to jostle the fae back into alertness.

Gently, he cleaned all traces of cum and lube he could find. Then he pressed himself against Astarion’s back once more and allowed his eyes to close too. 

As far as Christmases went, this was a rather memorable way to start one. 

Chapter Text

They fell into a rhythm, or perhaps into each other. Another day, another week. A new year. Astarion drank the touches in like wine now, as if he got drunk on them too. Gale lost count of how many times the fae brushed against him in passing, or shifted on the sofa so that his feet were touching Gale’s leg, or how long it had been since they’d fallen asleep without plastering themselves to each other. Hell, he nearly forgot to leave the house to purchase food. Why would he abandon the warmth, the company? The addictively high doses of oxytocin? The sight of Astarion between his knees, with his lips stretched around his cock? Perhaps he was floating just as high as Astarion was, chasing the comfort, the touch, the pleasure, trying to fill the gaping holes Mystra had left in him. He was almost succeeding, almost, almost, as he shared his favourite records with Astarion, or showed him old photos of himself with his mother …

But they needed food, so he needed to venture outside. 

Jaheira found him when he was picking up potatoes in the market. 

“Gale Dekarios,” she said, in the same tone his mother would use when he’d brought home yet another stray cat or painted make-believe magic spells on the walls in his room. “ Where have you been?”

“Home,” he said, and he should have been able to stand his ground, speak the word firmly because he’d done nothing wrong, and yet a twinge of guilt shot through his stomach. He had spent the past weeks holed up inside, hadn’t he? And while the weather could serve as an excuse, he could hardly argue that it would have been cold or rainy in the pub, or in Jaheira’s kitchen.

She looked him up and down. “Join me for a cuppa, would you, cub?”

Once again, he recognised the tone from Morena; this kind of question had only one correct answer, so he nodded and followed her to Auntie Ethel’s tea shop. If it were possible, he’d hide behind his cup of Earl Grey and lavender scone. He knew what was coming, could almost hear the words …

“Are you doing all right, Gale?”

There it was, the concern. 

He squirmed in his chair. How many times had people asked him that when he’d been married to Mystra? How many times had he assured them all was well because he’d been too ashamed to reveal the truth?

It was okay to ask for help, it was, it was—his therapist had told him countless times. He’d told it to himself countless times. No shame in needing other people. 

No shame. 

And if he were hurting or spiralling or somesuch, he might have been able to say ‘no’ and leave it at that. But this was different. This was different because his immediate answer would have been ‘yes’, he was all right, he was doing great, thank you. Astarion clung to him like a koala bear, and it made his home feel warmer and fuller. It made him feel warmer and fuller too, and so he was clearly all right. 

Even if he was content to ignore the rest of the world and pretend it didn’t exist. 

Even if he was content to return to Astarion’s arms and keep on pretending. 

He did not want to examine why. 

Only, Jaheira had asked, so how could he reply without looking inside? 

He poked his scone to align it in the centre of the plate. “I don’t know. I think so.”

Jaheira arched her eyebrows. “You’ve been hiding away in that cottage of yours. It’s not good for you, being alone all the time. If you’re finding it hard to go out, I’d be happy to visit.”

“No!” Too fast. “I mean, no, you’re right … I’d rather come to you. Get out a little, as you said.”

“You’re welcome anytime, cub. I’m sure Jen would like to host you too. She told me the other day she missed seeing you about your garden.”

He shrugged. “It’s winter. Not that much to do …”

“Did I push too much when I tried to set you up with someone?” Jaheira asked, her cup half raised to her lips. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions, is it not?”

Was that her way of offering him an out? Or had he left her believing that she’d sent him spiralling into some sort of crisis?

“Oh, no, that’s quite all right.” He broke off a piece of the scone; it crumbled between his fingers. 

Jaheira shook her head. “I’d like to think I’m smarter than the fools in this town, but look at me, being a meddlesome old woman instead.”

“Old? You don’t look a day over forty,” Gale blurted, and she smiled, so that was good, that was great. 

“So you do know how to be charming, Mr Dekarios.” She laughed. “Though I see you did not argue the meddlesome part.” 

“My mother taught me not to lie …” He popped one of the crumbs into his mouth. “Now, what have the fools done this time?”

She sighed. “They’re buying into what that toff Lorroakan is spewing. Empty words, all, but they’re scared. Our crops are failing. Our animals keep falling sick. You’ve seen the weather yourself … He says he’d preserve the stories of the land once he develops it, but he’d build his own Disneyland and turn the fair folk into Tinkerbell given half the chance. They will not have it. They will not have any of it, mark my words. We should have chased him out of Coedpont the moment he first set foot in it. Instead, that fool of a Thorm welcomed him. He got his due, he did, but what good does that do when the rest are starting to fold?”

Gale cupped his mug with both hands to soak in the warmth. “Would it really be so bad to sell dying land? It would be a pity to see such a charming place lost to malls and what have you, but if all else is failing, what is there to do?”

Jaheira snorted. “Would you give up your way of life to the highest bidder?”

He shook his head. “Not unless I ran out of options.”

“Selling isn’t an option.” She set her cup on the table with enough force that it clattered against the saucer. “It isn’t only about us. The people here, the land, the folk—we need each other. You take one away, and the rest will fail. That’s what’s happening now. Something is out of alignment already, we just can’t figure out what.”

Did that imply …?

“Are you saying if you found out what’s behind the imbalance, you could undo what’s happening to your land?” Was there an alternative to a slow decay or Lorroakan?

“I think so. Some of the others do too, but we cannot find what it is. Perhaps we might if we ventured into the Wilds, but going there is the last resort. What I know for certain is that allowing Lorroakan to bulldoze our fields and rip out the old trees will unleash nothing but terror and rage.”

“From the villagers?” Gale frowned. “Didn’t you say more and more grow supportive of him?”

Jaheira shook her head; her hair brushed her shoulders. “No. From the folk.”

That made sense, and yet it did not. Of course the fae wouldn’t be thrilled if their land got bargained away in the process, and the thought of the old hawthorn tree ripped out by the roots made Gale’s chest ache with some indescribable sadness—how could it not hurt the fae? But what could they do? 

“They can’t fight the bulldozers either, can they?”

Jaheira threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, cub. You’ve never seen an enraged fae, have you?” 

Images of Astarion slamming the bedroom door behind himself flitted through Gale’s mind. Astarion’s fits against the bathroom tiles, the raw pain in his scream. Mad and fragile and much more alike to a human than different from them. 

Yes, he’d seen an angry fae, and his angry fae couldn’t even walk out the door without fear, much less fight a machine. But he couldn’t say that, so he shook his head. 

“Then you don’t understand yet. But you will. You will.”

Gale was fairly certain he would not, but he was also fairly certain arguing with Jaheira would make as much sense as trying to have a structured debate with the robin in his front yard. 

“If there is anything I can do to help your efforts, let me know,” he said instead. “I’m aware that I’ve only been here for a few months, but I can’t imagine returning to Oxford. I’d rather not see this town razed to the ground.”

Jaheira nodded. “Thank you. I believe we all end up here for a reason.”

It was his turn to arch a brow. “The fools too?”

“The fools too, though I have yet to learn why. Even us old-timers don’t have the answers to everything.” Jaheira sipped her tea. “Speaking of old, Halsin asked me about your biscuits the other day. He’s in charge of the equinox celebration, and he will try to rope you into helping him out. Consider yourself warned.”

A hint of heat crept up into his cheeks. “I’m sure my biscuits aren’t that amazing.”

“You’re kidding, right? Your baked goods, they’re unlike anything else. I don’t know how you do it, but I’ve never seen people reacting to food quite that much. You got some kind of magic touch, yes?”

The heat intensified. “I just follow the recipe, really.”

The way Jaheira’s eyebrows shot up towards her hairline made it clear she may not have believed him, but she did not call him out. “You know,” she said and took hold of her cup, “I’d be happy to sell your baked goods from my shop and pay you your share.”

“Oh.” He must have been the colour of beetroot by now. A nervous chuckle escaped him. “That’s quite the compliment. I’ll have to think about it.”

“You do that,” she said and drank the rest of her tea.

•~•~•~•

“You got a letter,” Astarion called from the sofa as Gale closed the front door behind him. 

“I thought I’d already paid all the bills …” Perhaps he’d forgotten one? 

“It’s not a bill. Someone wrote to you from somewhere called ‘Oxford’.”

Oxford? Was it the university? One of his old colleagues perhaps? He’d assumed they wanted nothing to do with him after the allegations that Mystra had thrown his way. What did it matter in the end that they’d been untrue? 

A fist squeezed around his lungs. What if someone had written to throw yet more mud in his face?

“Where is it?” He tried keeping his voice level. 

“On the counter.” Astarion flipped a page in the book he was reading. “Anything important?”

“I don’t know,” Gale said.

The way to the kitchen dragged far more than it had any right to. Then he saw the letter. 

He recognised the handwriting—would always recognise the handwriting—and he forgot how to breathe. With shaking hands, he tore the envelope open.

It contained a single sheet of paper, folded in thirds.

Dear Gale ...

He swallowed and reminded himself to breathe. In, two, three—

"What is it, darling?"

He hadn't heard the footsteps, but Astarion's voice was closer now. Somehow, he managed to look up. A crease had formed on the fae's brow in what was probably concern, but Gale didn't have the capacity to interpret anything more than that.

"It's from my ex wife." He couldn't tell if his voice remained steady.

"Oh. What does she want?"

"I don't know. Haven't read it yet." Breathe, breathe. Breathing was important.

Astarion was suddenly right there, his shoulder pressed against Gale's, leaning even further into his space as he peered at the paper.

"What kind of handwriting is that? Who can even read that?"

"I can, mostly." The letters on the page curved in tight, precise lines, tilting to the right. It looked so beautiful, so orderly from afar, and yet even Gale had sometimes struggled to read it. He was struggling now too, but for different reasons entirely; the words seemed to be staring back at him.

Dear Gale,

I hope you've received this. I tried getting a hold of you through other means, but you appear to have disappeared from the face of the earth.

Your name has been cleared of all accusations. You can return home now. There will be some additional paperwork, but I'm certain you'll manage.

Mystra

What ... What was he supposed to do with this? How was he even supposed to begin to unpack this? Any thread he tried to grasp unravelled between his fingertips like candy floss until all that remained in his head was a sticky yellow fog.

"What does it say?"

Astarion’s voice came from somewhere far away, floating through the fog. Gale wanted to respond, he really did.

A hand rested on his shoulder and squeezed.

Touch was good. Touch helped.

Slowly, he released the letter with one hand and brought it to his leg. Tap. Tap. Tap.

He was here.

In the present.

Tap.

In his body.

Tap.

In his home. With Astarion and Tara.

"Nothing." He folded the letter in half.

“Nothing?” Astarion withdrew his hand; Gale missed it already. “You forget how to breathe and call it nothing?”

“What else am I supposed to call it?” He found the pitch of his voice rising despite himself. “It’s just more of the usual nonsense from her. Always more. Now she thinks she can summon me back and I’ll come running like a puppy? So, yes, this has to be nothing, because I refuse to spend any more thoughts on her.”

Astarion filled in the space in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, I can see how this isn’t affecting you at all. You’re clearly over whatever happened and have no emotional reaction to it whatsoever.”

Gale grit his teeth. “What is your point, exactly?”

“My point is, whatever that woman did to you, you haven’t moved on yet.”

He clenched his fists; Mystra’s letter crinkled under the pressure. “And how is that any of your concern?” 

Something flashed through Astarion’s eyes. A lightning strike, echoes of a distant thunder. “I live with you, you turnip.”

“A what?”

“A turnip. I thought I was living with an intelligent creature, not someone who’d mistake sugar for salt.”

Something snapped inside Gale. “I’ve never mixed up sugar and salt!”

“That is completely irrelevant!”

“How is that irrelevant? Are you implying I would accidentally poison you? I would never be so careless!” How could Astarion even think that? 

Astarion shifted his weight to one foot and then the other before he leaned closer. “I’m not saying you’re careless, I’m saying you’re content to stick your head into the ground to avoid the obvious.”

A turnip … in the ground. That almost made—no, that was beside the point. The point was … The point was … What was the point again? That he had somehow ended up chest to chest with Astarion in his kitchen, anger pounding in his throat as he his breathing sped up? Mystra’s letter, crushed between his fingers and his palm as he squeezed his fists ever more tightly?  

“And what, pray tell,” he ground out, “is the obvious?”

“She’s got a hold on you still, doesn’t she?” Red eyes narrowed, the pupils blown wide. “You’d rather sweep it all under the rug than admit that you brought your past right with you when you moved here. Guess what, it will never go away unless you deal with it!”

“Oh, you’re the one to talk!” Gale bumped his index finger against Astarion’s sternum. “You won’t even say what the hell happened to you, so you don’t get to tell me that I haven’t dealt with my past, you hypocrite!”

Astarion bared his fangs; a growl rose from his throat. “It might make me a hypocrite, but I can’t deal with it, all right? I can’t. The only way I can keep going is by putting one foot in front of the other until I end up somewhere that isn’t there anymore, do you understand? Everyone I’ve ever cared about is dead . I’ve got nothing left. I’ve got no one left, except for you !”

Shit. 

Gale had known that, somewhere in the back of his mind. Of course he’d known that, and yet … 

Hearing the words from Astarion’s lips felt like an ice-cold waterfall bearing down on him, forcing the breath from his lungs. 

Had he pushed too far this time? Could he still fix it?

He opened his mouth to say something, anything , to apologise and promise to not be so obtuse in the future, to try and soothe the wounds on Astarion’s soul any way he could—

Astarion’s hands were on his collar before Gale even realised the fae had moved, and then Astarion was in his space, so impossibly close that all Gale could see was red—an entire storm in Astarion’s eyes, mirrored in his chest. The violent thump thump thump of his heart filled his ears, his mind, his lungs, and he couldn’t breathe anymore.

And then Astarion’s lips were on his.

 A hint of teeth, a drag of tongue against tongue. His heart hammered away inside the cage of his chest as he wound his arms around the back of Astarion’s neck, one hand sliding up behind his ear. He must have dropped the letter; he didn’t remember, but it didn’t matter. Mystra didn’t matter. Anything that was not Astarion’s lips against his, Astarion’s hair under his fingers, Astarion’s hands sliding to Gale’s waist did not matter. 

He pulled back a fraction to gasp for breath, stealing the air from Astarion’s lips, returning it in an exhale a moment later. He couldn’t tell who closed the distance again, but there was new air in his lungs now, liquid sunlight in his chest, in his veins, a surge of heat spiralling down his spine. His grip on Astarion’s curls tightened a fraction, and the fae moaned into his mouth. 

Fuck. 

Gale might have moaned too. What he most definitely did was walk Astarion back a few steps until his hips hit the edge of the counter, and Astarion gasped against him. His hands found their way to Gale’s neck, and he pulled Gale in again. 

This was … This might have explained ... This …

Gale couldn’t keep track of his thoughts anymore. All he knew was that he was kissing Astarion, and he wanted to keep kissing Astarion. His fingers squeezed the tip of the fae’s ear, his other hand dropped to the small of his back to hold him closer still even when no space remained between them at all. 

He slid one leg between Astarion’s; the fae's thigh pressed against his half-hard cock in turn. A groan escaped him. Whatever blood had not already done so rushed downwards now, and he ground his hips against Astarion's for that sweet, sweet friction. A twist of his fingers on a pointy ear had Astarion gasping, arching his back—and undulating his hips against Gale's thigh.

Good, that was good. Gale could feel him growing hard. This was the first time he could remember Astarion seeking out any kind of direct stimulation to his cock on his own, which must have meant something. Surely, surely it meant something.

"Fuck, 'starion." He sucked in what air he could get and dove back into the kiss. His tongue pushed into Astarion’s mouth, tangled with Astarion’s, and oh, but Gale wanted more .

He slipped the hand on Astarion’s back under his jumper, pressing his palm against the ridges of the scars to guide Astarion's hips even further into the rocking motion of his own, until they moved together, hips and lips and hands all flowing in their own strange intrinsic rhythm.

He kissed a trail from Astarion’s lips to his ear, nibbled on the lobe, rolling the pointed tip between his fingertips. Astarion’s head fell backwards and he moaned, hands clawing at Gale's shoulders, even as he kept grinding against his leg more and more desperately.

Gale dug his fingertips into the tight muscles along Astarion’s spine, slid his other hand down from his ear to cup the side of his neck—and Astarion allowed it, didn't freeze, didn't stop rutting against him. A lick along the edge of his ear had him whining, gasping, moaning, all the little sounds mixing into one long melody of pleasure that culminated in, "Fuck me. Please, fuck me," and the only thing Gale could ever say to that was, "Yes."

Where he found the strength to cup the back of Astarion's legs and lift him onto the counter as though it were nothing, he didn't know. Perhaps his body knew what to do better than his mind. Perhaps it always had, and his true problem was thinking too much. Was it?

Right now, he could barely formulate enough thought to mutter something about lube.

Astarion grabbed at his sleeve. “Oil,” he gasped. 

Okay. Oil. Oil. He had coconut oil, that was fine, right?

Gale stretched towards the cupboard, dumped a bottle or five that he didn’t need onto the counter, and finally fished out the jar. That one, he opened and placed next to Astarion’s hips. Then he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of Astarion’s tracksuit bottoms and boxers.

“Hips up.”

The fae obeyed, leaning back onto his hands as he did. The way his body stretched out had Gale’s mouth go sandpaper dry. 

 “Gods …” He pulled the clothes down the fae’s legs and tossed them in the general direction of the table. Leaned in to capture Astarion’s lips in a kiss and hooked one arm under his leg, bending it to place his foot on the edge of the counter. 

“No gods here.” The corners of Astarion’s lips twitched upwards before Gale rubbed two oiled-up fingers against his entrance and his mouth opened around a gasp.

“No gods,” Gale echoed, “but you put the stars to shame.”

A soft blush spread up to the tips of Astarion’s ears—from the words, from the fingers opening him up. His cock pressed against his jumper, hard and flushed a darker shade of that same red. 

Gale wanted to devour him, kiss him within an inch of his life. His lips found Astarion’s again, the dance of their tongues growing increasingly familiar, and they kissed and kissed until Gale’s fingers slid in and out with ease and Astarion kept rocking onto them. 

“Ready?” Gale rested his forehead against Astarion’s.

“Yes.” Astarion’s breath washed over his lips. “Yes, yes, do it.”

He reached for Gale’s crotch, fumbling with the zipper. Gale caught his wrists, guided them back to the counter, and placed them where they’d been before; the spots on the counter still radiated warmth. 

A hiss escaped him as he freed his cock, a spike of pleasure shooting through him as he oiled himself up. He found Astarion tracking the movement with wild, dark eyes. One of his fangs was poking at his lower lip, and Gale could no longer tell who hungered for whom more. He pushed in slowly, bracing against the counter. Astarion tilted his knee to the side and then back. Away again. He shifted his weight, one hand grabbing Gale’s arm, and hooked his legs around Gale waist; his heels dug into the small of Gale’s back, propelling him forward until their hips met and their groans mixed. 

Fuck. Fuck, it felt different this time. Hot and tight and delicious, yes, but wilder. Hungrier. Primal. Gale leaned forward, forward, pulling one of Astarion’s legs with him until the fae was all but laid back on the counter. The next kiss brought with it a fang that caught on his lip, a hint of blood, a sting that mixed with the molten heat in his veins.

“So good,” Gale ground out. “You’re amazing, you’re … You’re …”

The words stuck to the tip of his tongue.

Orion mou. His Orion. 

He kissed him instead, thrusting faster, faster, faster, in a mad rush towards the precipice.  His fingers played with the tip of Astarion’s ear, and he swallowed the moans he elicited. Swallowed the gasps, the whines, fucked the last of the sounds out of Astarion as the fae came. He followed perhaps a minute after to the twitching of overstimulated muscles around him and Astarion’s fingers digging into his arms. 

Panting filled the silence. Astarion shifted underneath him, and something clattered onto the floor. Perhaps Gale shouldn’t have left everything on the counter. 

He pulled out to one final soft whine from the fae. 

“I don’t have any feelings for Mystra,” he said.

Astarion blinked up at him. “Good.”

“Good,” he echoed. “I’m glad that’s clear.” He held out a hand to help Astarion off the counter, and Astarion took it. 

“Shower? I don’t suppose you want your own cum to drip all over the floor …”

Gale nodded. “Shower.”

If he kept hold of Astarion’s hand all the way to the bathroom, he couldn’t spare it any thoughts—he was too busy realising that he would never be able to look at his kitchen the same way again. 

Chapter Text

He'd kissed Astarion.

He'd fucked Astarion.

Now he was lying next to Astarion in the dark, listening to his breathing. Slow, even. An occasional hint of a snore. Astarion’s hand was resting on Gale's chest, rising and falling with his breaths. A little pocket of warmth in the night to keep him grounded while his thoughts turned to the letter that must have remained somewhere on the kitchen floor.

Who cared about Mystra now? She belonged to the past, and he belonged to the present. 

Besides, Astarion was not Mystra, and they weren't getting engaged or married or anything else. 

Gale would be fine. 

Everything would be fine. 

At last, he managed to close his eyes and slip into sleep.

•~•~•~•

It was easy, afterwards, with January howling around the garden and the cold pressing against the walls of the house, for them to seek solace in the warmth of each other’s bodies. Easy to play with Astarion’s ears before falling asleep, or pull him into his lap as they read by the fire and grind up against him. Easier still to let him sink to his knees and swallow him down. Sometimes Astarion could handle receiving pleasure in turn. Sometimes he could not, but seemed content to be held while he calmed down, and fuck if that wasn't doing something to Gale as well.

Days passed and he hardly noticed; he'd only just have visited Jaheira when the next Thursday would come around and they had tea again. He did resume social contact—visiting Jen, going to the pub only for Karlach to drink him under the table on her night off. And if he did all that without Astarion it was fine, because having a life was healthy, right? And it wasn't like Astarion was his partner or anything along those lines.

(And yet guilt reared up its ugly head, not because his life contained more than Astarion as such, but because Astarion couldn't join him even if he wanted to. For all that the fae seemed content with Gale’s comings and goings, he really did only have Gale, and that ... would not have been good in a relationship. Which this wasn't. So they were fine.)

February sneaked up on him with gentle drizzle. Following Astarion's instructions, Gale pruned the shrubs in the  yard and dug new beds. Snowdrop and daffodils pierced the soil and bloomed with the first sunny days. A few times, he found Astarion standing by the kitchen window with his hands pressed against the glass, just looking outside, but he never set foot in the yard. A heaviness settled behind Gale's sternum, and he knew he was selecting the easy way out when he wrapped his arms around the fae from behind and distracted him by kissing his ears.

The robin visited the bird house less often now. Perhaps it had found one with symmetrical walls and thought it more pleasing? Perhaps it was busy elsewhere, if birds could be busy. But if the bird visited less, Gale began seeing the mysterious disappearing child more and more until finally, he broached the subject one evening on the verge of March.

"You must know about different kinds of fae, right?" he said to Astarion, who was perched on one of the kitchen chairs, chewing the end of a pencil, and frowning at a booklet of sudoku.

"Mhm." Astarion pulled the pencil out but didn't raise his eyes from the puzzle. "Why do you ask?"

"Ever since I moved here, I've been seeing this child ... Or at least I believe so. I may be mad, but I rather think I haven't lost all my marbles yet."

Astarion did look up now. His eyes narrowed, his forehead scrunched. In the dancing light of the flames in the fireplace, his eyes appeared the colour of blood.

"A child?"

Gale nodded.

"Hmm. Could be a changeling ... Do you know them?"

"That's the thing, I can never quite see them well. As soon as I turn to look properly, they disappear. From what I could see, they don't look like any village child."

Astarion tapped the back of the pencil on the table. "That doesn't sound like a changeling ... They probably could blend into the night, but I can think of no reason why they would play hide and seek with you, and they would definitely look like one of the children from around here. Perhaps one of our young is a little too curious about the human world ... They haven't caused you harm, have they?"

Gale shook his head. "No harm, nor trouble, aside from an occasional scare."

"Hmm." Astarion's frown lessened a tad. "I don't think you need to worry about it, but I'll keep an eye out. I ..." He shook his head. "I could try to ask, but I'd need to ..."

He gestured towards the back door, a short, messy motion. Gale understood.

"I'll go with you. We'll be safe in the backyard." He hoped. They hadn't been safe in the town square for Christmas, and it had made matters worse. "You said it yourself, no one can harm you in the house."

"I know." Astarion sighed and dropped the pencil. He clenched his fists and stood up. "You know what, you're right, this is ridiculous. I'm not going to spend eternity hiding in your living room."

He strode to the back door without stopping for shoes or a jacket, and Gale hurried after him. Tara glared at him as he brushed past her, and he gave her what he hoped was an apologetic look.

He caught up with Astarion in the middle of the yard. The fae was standing by the freshly dug beds with his arms wrapped around himself, staring at the night sky. A few wispy clouds obscured the stars, but in other places, they shone bright.

Gale stopped by his side and slid an arm around his shoulders. "I wandered into your world for a bit," he said, "the night we met, and saw what seemed to me an eternal twilight. Is it truly like that?"

"Not always." Astarion’s voice was quiet, strained. "Though it often is. Sometimes, it's night. Sometimes, it's day. Time doesn't flow in a straight line." A pause. "It may sound incomprehensible to you, but it can be lovely. It was lovely once, I think. I don't remember much from long ago."

Gale tugged him a little closer, their sides pressing together. "I should like to see it. Perhaps with a guide, I'd be less likely to lose my way."

Astarion stopped staring at the sky and turned towards him instead. Their gazes met, and Gale felt himself breathing warmer air, a taste of ripe blackberries on his tongue, the freshness of mint, a hint of citrus.

"I would take you there if I could keep you safe," Astarion said, but Gale barely registered the words past the rushing of wind against his skin, a vision of trees that rose and rose and rose towards the sky—

"How do you do that?" He choked out.

Astarion blinked; the vision broke. No wind howled in the yard, and all Gale could taste was his own saliva.

"Do what?"

"That. Sometimes when you look at me, I ... see things. Hear them, smell them. I tasted fruit just now, and felt the wind, and ... How?"

A shrug. "I don't do anything. You look at me, and you see me."

That explained nothing.

"No, I see ... nature. I smell flowers that are not around, I just tasted blackberries that were definitely not in my mouth, that's some kind of magic—" He ran a hand through his hair. "The folk really are different from humans, are you not? It's not just the ears and the pointy teeth and the salt and iron and ... We're somehow completely different beings, are we not?"

"Of course we are." He felt Astarion’s arm wrap around his waist. "Does it scare you?"

Did it? Jaheira had told him to beware an angry fae, but he'd never been scared of Astarion. The strange visions that he sometimes got hadn’t harmed him. He could imagine going mad if he were to get trapped inside them, but Astarion wouldn't let that happen.

Perhaps other fae might, but Gale could handle salt and iron, so what could they do against that?

Gale shook his head. "I'm not afraid of you," he said and he meant it.

"I'm glad. I'm not afraid of you either." Astarion leaned his head on Gale's shoulder for a moment or two. Then he slipped out of his grasp and crouched, his fingers coming down to the earth. "Let me see if I can learn anything."

Gale nodded and watched as Astarion closed his eyes and went very still.

How was he doing that? Gale had heard him mention getting information from plants and the like, but surely it didn't include some actual mental dialogue? Would that make plants sentient?

He shook his head to interrupt the train of thought and wrapped his arms around himself. Going outside without a jacket had not been his brightest idea. 

A few breaths later, Astarion opened his eyes and rose back to his feet. “It’s not a child.”

“So it is a changeling?”

Astarion shook his head. “It’s not a … fae like me. More of a nature spirit.”

Nature spirit. Of course those were real too. “Do we need to worry?”

“No.”

Gale would have asked more—the scientist in him delighted in the idea of a new mystical creature—if Astarion hadn’t all but fled inside again. Instead, he followed on the fae’s heels. Astarion made a beeline for the sofa and curled up in the corner. Tara jumped onto his lap; he clutched her to his chest like a shield.

“Hey …” Gale’s throat closed up. He swallowed to get the words out and sat down on the armrest next to Astarion. “You’re okay. You’re okay, you’re safe.”

Astarion nodded. Tension remained in his shoulders, and Tara squirmed in his grip. 

Gale placed a gentle finger under his chin and tipped it upwards. “I’m proud of you for going outside.” 

Something shifted in those garnet eyes. Something softened, released. Shattered. Gale slid his palm up to cup Astarion’s cheek and leaned forward to brush their lips together. The fae leaned into it, his mouth opening as if to invite Gale in, and he accepted the invitation with pleasure. Gale’s hands wrapped around Tara and gently pried her from Astarion’s grasp. She let out an offended chirp, twisted free, and scurried away; Gale didn’t care to check where. He slid into the newly freed spot on Astarion’s lap, hands tugging at the white curls while he devoured his mouth. 

“Bed?” he gasped when they were forced to part for air. 

“Bed.”

He rose to his feet, tugging Astarion with him. On a whim, he slid his hands to the back of the fae’s thighs. His back protested as he picked him up, but that was an acceptable price to pay for the startled little sound that slipped from Astarion’s lips and the way his hands grasped at Gale’s shoulders as if they never intended to let go. 

He dropped Astarion on the bed as gently as he could. Unwrapped him like a present, exploring, caressing, nipping at the exposed skin, following goosebumps with his tongue as they broke out under his touch. Kissed his lips, his ears, a trail down his neck over the scars. Fingered him open, and then fingered him just for the pleasure of it until Astarion’s back arched off the bed and he screamed. Pressed one hand down on his collarbone, fingers glued to the side of his neck. So close, so close to wrapping his hand around that pale neck and feeling Astarion’s throat work under his palm. 

A minute, two, three, of stillness, of touch without need. He swallowed Astarion down, fingers working him into frenzy again, coaxing a hymn of moans and gasps and screams from those kiss-bruised lips, coaxing another climax from his writhing body. 

Then he bent the fae in half and fucked him until his eyes rolled back and pleasure left him unable to speak. 

•~•~•~•

It was three in the morning and someone was banging on the door.

“I’ll get it,” Gale murmured against Astarion’s shoulder.

The fae only hummed, still trembling from his third orgasm of the night, and nuzzled into him like a kitten. 

“Be right back with you, orion mou .” With a quick peck on the cheek, he forced himself to pull away from Astarion and staggered into the living room. He was still tugging his bathrobe closed as he unlocked the front door and opened it to reveal a dishevelled Jen. 

“Is something wrong?”

Did she need help? Had something happened to her parents? 

“Yeah, something’s wrong,” she snapped. An enormous black scarf was wrapped around her neck, all but swallowing her shoulders too. “I haven’t said anything before because I really don’t care what you get up to in your spare time, but you two had better keep it down.”

Heat rushed into Gale’s cheeks. “I—there isn’t—what—”

Jen rolled her eyes. “Oh please. You think I haven’t heard you and your lover before?”

She knew? She knew? Did anyone else know too? Did that put Astarion in danger?

The only thing Gale’s brain supplied was a muttered, “Sorry.”

“Good. I’m going to go to sleep, and you two are going to keep it down. You ever wake my mother up again, I will tell the whole village, got it?”

“Got it,” he repeated. 

“Good. Now, have a good fucking night. But without the—ugh—you know what I mean!” She turned on her heel and strode in the direction of her own house, leaving Gale to stare after her. His hand was still on the door handle, and he slowly closed the door. 

Well, shit. Did Jen mean it? Would she tell the village, provided she hadn’t already? Not that Gale wasn’t allowed to have a—were they lovers? At what point did the word ‘roommates’ become woefully inadequate? 

It didn’t matter what they were. All that mattered was that word spreading could put Astarion in danger, and Gale would not allow that. He would not.

He returned to the bedroom on unsteady feet and sat on the edge of the bed next to Astarion. 

“Hmm?” The tiniest sliver of red peered through the lashes. 

“It was only Jen. Everything’s all right.” He ran a hand through Astarion’s curls and watched the fae’s eyes close. The motion calmed him too, but he couldn’t sleep, so he sat there and stroked his hair again and again and again. 

•~•~•~•

Around six, he gave up on attempting to sleep and made tea instead. Tara jumped into his lap as soon as he sat down on the sofa. She sprawled on her back, so he rubbed her belly, and sipped his tea, and waited for the sky to brighten outside. Then he gave up on that too and went outside to see if the bird feed needed topping up. The bird house was still half full. He turned to return inside, but movement on the road gave him pause, so he leaned over the hedge. 

“Hello,” he called to Halsin—the silhouette was unmistakable. 

“Gale.” The man approached and smiled. “I was heading down to Francesca’s farm, but I’m glad to see you up and about. Could you spare a few minutes for me? I’d like to talk to you about the equinox.”

“The equinox?” Jaheira had mentioned something about that, hadn’t she? 

“Yes. May I come in?”

“Er ...” It should be fine, right? Astarion was still asleep, would likely stay asleep for at least a couple hours still. But what if he woke up? Gale couldn’t bring someone into his home and risk the fae getting exposed. 

On the other hand, it would probably seem even more suspicious if he refused—what reason could he have for that when Halsin had already been inside his home once? 

Damn, he was going to have to take the risk. 

“Why not,” he said and tried to smile. “Come in.”

Gravel crunched under his footsteps as he led the way to the house. He held the front door open for Halsin, who’d followed him to the doorstep but not an inch further. His gaze turned upwards. 

Upwards, to the horseshoe hanging above the door frame. 

Oh? Why would that bother Halsin? Didn’t everyone have one on their door? He tried to remember if he’d seen one when he’d visited Halsin’s farm, but his memory failed him. 

Could Halsin possibly be fae? But then he’d have the same pointed ears as Astarion, wouldn’t he? Perhaps half fae? Very strongly fae touched?

Oh well, what was one more tidbit of strangeness in the grand scheme of things?

He stepped back outside and waved for Halsin to follow him to the back door instead. This time, the man didn’t seem to have any qualms crossing the threshold. Gale showed him to the kitchen table and went about preparing a cuppa.

“Here’s the short of it,” Halsin said. “I’d like to ask you to contribute some refreshments for the equinox celebration, provided you would be genuinely happy to participate. We can’t risk your bad feelings slipping into the food, and—”

“Darling?”

Gale froze. 

Astarion walked out of the bedroom in Gale’s pyjamas, with his curls sticking every which way, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Have you seen your grey jumper? I thought it was in the last—”

He stopped.

Stared at Halsin. 

Gale turned to see Halsin’s eyes go impossibly wide. 

Astarion covered his mouth with his hands. 

Did the two know each other?

Gale sucked in a breath to speak when Halsin sank down to one knee, pressed both arms across his chest, and bowed his head. 

“My liege.”

Chapter Text

My ... My liege ?

Gale looked from Astarion to Halsin and back again.

Tears glimmered in Astarion’s eyes. "You're ... You're alive. You're alive ."

"I could say the very same thing."

Slowly, Astarion lowered his hands. "I ... Gale's been keeping me—"

The world tilted sideways. Something knocked the air out of his lungs, and all he could process was a crushing pressure on his chest, and he couldn't breathe, couldn’t, couldn't—

Somewhere in the back, Astarion screamed, "Stop! Get off him, get the fuck off him!"

The weight disappeared, and he managed to suck in a mouthful of air even as dark spots continued to dance before his eyes.

"Gale." A touch on his face—hands? Hands cupping his face? "Gale, look at me, please."

That was Astarion’s voice.

Gale blinked in an attempt to clear his vision. His chest hurt, breathing remained a struggle, but he could make out Astarion’s face above him now, the creases between his brows, his eyes still wet with unshed tears.

"'m okay," he mumbled. Then he directed his gaze to the side and saw a bear—an actual bear—in his kitchen. "How hard did I hit my head?"

"I'm sorry." Astarion rubbed his thumb softly back and forth against his cheek, and it felt soothing. Comforting. He turned to look over his shoulder. "Would you change back already?"

A strange shimmering enveloped the bear, twisting and distorting his form, until the animal disappeared and Halsin stood in its place.

Gale rubbed his eyes. He wasn't seeing things, was he? Had he really just been tackled to the ground by a shape-shifting bear? Or ... by a shape-shifting fae, more like?

Astarion’s fingers found their way to the back of Gale's head, probing, and Gale winced when they found a sore spot.

"You're not bleeding," Astarion said quietly. "Good." He slid one hand below Gale's shoulder blades. "Let's get you up."

With a groan, and leaning heavily on Astarion, Gale managed to climb on his feet and drag himself to the sofa. Only once he was safely seated did Astarion turn back to Halsin.

"You absolute knobhead! Could you not have given me two more seconds to finish? Gale's been keeping me safe, and you just nearly mauled him to shreds!"

Halsin seemed to shrink—impressive considering his size. He rubbed the back of his head. "I may have overreacted."

"You don't say." Astarion crossed his arms over his chest. Goosebumps were breaking out on his skin; he must have been cold, wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. The jumper, the one he’d been looking for … Gale had hung it in the wardrobe, hadn’t he? He tried to get back to his feet to go fetch it, but Astarion stopped him with a palm to his shoulder; his hand trembled.

“Sit. Sit … I …” His eyes flitted back and forth, then stopped on Gale. Wide, red around red.

Gale wrapped his fingers around the fae’s wrist.. Astarion allowed himself to be tugged to a spot next to Gale.

Halsin cleared his throat. "My apologies. I see I misunderstood. But by the stars and the trees, I believed you dead. I believed you all dead, so I ran, and I hid, and I did my best to keep your land alive ..." Slowly, he crossed from the kitchen to the sofa. Then his gaze suddenly narrowed, his jaw tightened, and a growl worked free from the back of his throat. "What did he do to you, Pio?"

Astarion took a breath, but when he opened his mouth, no words came out.

Gale resisted the urge to wrap an arm around him. Perhaps doing so would anger the bear. He really didn't want an angry bear.

"What exactly is happening?" he asked instead. He tried to keep his words soft as he directed them at Astarion. "What does he mean your land?"

Judging by the way Astarion seemed to shrink, he may not have succeeded. But seeing Astarion in distress made his stomach twist unpleasantly, so he decided the bear be damned and covered one of Astarion’s hands with his own.

Astarion looked at him for a moment before he directed his gaze back to his lap. "It's only technically mine," he murmured.

Technically.

"Who are you?"

"He doesn't know?" Halsin chimed in, as if that wasn't obvious.

Astarion shook his head. His hand was trembling under Gale's, from cold or otherwise, and that was enough of that. Whatever groundbreaking revelations awaited, there was no need for Astarion to keep freezing through them when the closest blanket was only steps away.

Before he could be stopped again, Gale stood up. The world didn't spin, and he remained steady as he crossed the distance to the observatory and pulled the blanket from Astarion’s favourite sunbathing spot.

In the face of a potentially life-changing conversion, the blanket remained a soothing anchor. Wrapping it around Astarion’s shoulders tethered him to normality, and the quiet look of gratitude he received calmed the startled animal in his chest.

"I may have concealed some information from you," Astarion said slowly. He grabbed the edges of the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders more tightly, as if he were trying to keep himself together. "I didn't think it would ever matter ... No, that's not quite right. I hoped it wouldn't. Now, I'm not sure where to start."

"Halsin is also fae."

"Yes."

"But he doesn't have pointy ears?"

"Sometimes I do," Halsin said, and a memory of him on Halloween arose in Gale's mind—a picture of a far older, far more powerful being. "I can conceal that form at will."

Right. Shape-shifting.

Gale turned to Astarion. "But you can't?"

A shrug. "Not right now. There are many things I can't do right now. I am ... not quite right."

Halsin growled again, and Gale got to his feet. He didn't need a bear in his living room again, and it seemed like they were in for a difficult conversation. He got a bottle of whisky out of the cupboard and placed the glasses on the counter. He poured one. Poured another.

Astarion broke the silence. "These lands, the Wilds here ... They should be mine. My parents ruled them. I would have ruled them if not for Cazador's coup."

Gale blinked, halfway to the third glass.

Astarion was ...

"You're a king?" A king of the fae? Oh gods. Fuck. What?

He abandoned the glass and took a gulp straight from the bottle.

Astarion let out a high-pitched chuckle. "Well, no. I have the right to it, but I'm quite far from sitting on the throne at the moment."

Close enough to a king that Gale felt the need to take another gulp. He was ... He was housing a would-be king of the fae. Cooking for him. Cuddling him. Oh gods—

"What happened?" Halsin derailed Gale's train of thought. "I believed Cazador killed you all, and your courtiers to boot."

"He killed my parents." Astarion’s knuckles were turning white around the blanket. "He killed most of the court, but me, he imprisoned. If I die, the land goes with me, and then what would he rule? He needed to keep me alive."

In the silence that followed, Gale brought the drinks to the coffee table.

Halsin spoke first. "The land hasn't been well regardless..."

" I haven't been well." Astarion’s words were all sharp edges and pain. 

Halsin’s face paled. His gaze lingered on the scars around Astarion’s neck while he reached for the glass and downed it.

“I’m sorry I ran.” He put the tumbler back on the table; glass clinked against glass. “I’m sorry I abandoned you.” He sank to his knees in front of Astarion. His voice sounded so small for such a large man as he reached for Astarion’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”

It should have been heartbreaking. It would have been heartbreaking, had Gale not been only able to focus on the fact that Astarion didn’t withdraw from the touch. He allowed his hand to be held, his skin so pale in contrast to Halsin’s tan that even winter hadn’t managed to erase. 

Then Astarion leaned forward, further, further still until he was leaning on Halsin, his head resting on the other’s shoulder, his free arm sliding around Halsin’s neck.

“I missed you so much,” he murmured, and something hot and acidic swirled inside Gale’s gut. 

"I missed you too," Halsin said as he wrapped his arms around Astarion.

The ugly, ugly thing in Gale's gut roared. Who was this man to show up now , when Astarion was already free, already better, and it was Gale who'd been helping him. Gale who'd been introducing him to kind touch and kind words, and now, now some fae danced info his house and thought he could just hug his Astarion, he could just—

No, no, that wasn't right, Astarion wasn't his anything, wasn't some possession to put his name on. What the hell was he thinking? But did they have to display their affection so disgustingly out in the open? In Gale's living room? In front of Tara? No, forget the cat, what was the point again? The ugly, ugly point?

"You're not dead," Astarion said. Gale could see his fingers digging into Halsin's back. "You're really not dead. He said ... He lied ... He lied ."

"I'm not dead, and I'll do whatever it takes to make up for leaving you with that monster."

Astarion straightened, slipping out of the hug. He clenched his fists. "I'm not there anymore, and I'm never going there again."

Gale swallowed, then did it again. It did little to keep the ugly feeling down, but there were more important matters to deal with than his emotions. 

"You say you were imprisoned ..." he chimed in. "How did you escape?"

Astarion shrugged. "I don't know. There was a ... disturbance, of a kind, in the fabric of the Wilds itself. For a little while, I was forgotten, and I ran for the Door. It had been sealed shut for so long, but someone must have nudged it open, and I could slip through the crack into this world. So I did, and I sought out the closest place that wasn't too heavily guarded."

"My backyard."

"Yes. And then you found me."

Something tugged at the edges of Gale's memory. He turned to Halsin.

"Didn't you say the hawthorn tree was a door between the worlds?"

A nod.

"I ... was there. On Halloween. I touched the tree."

"You did?" Astarion asked even as Halsin frowned and brought his thumb to his chin. He sat back and crossed his legs.

"That by itself should not have been capable of causing a disturbance powerful enough. Nevertheless, it must have been connected somehow."

"Gale's been seeing a nature spirit," Astarion said. "Perhaps someone has taken an interest in him ... or me."

Halsin tapped his chin once more. "What did it look like?"

"A child. A boy, I think. I never got a good look."

"It may be ... No ... I'll look into it. I will do all I can to make up for my failure. Believe me, not a day’s gone by when I haven't thought about how I've failed you, kid," Halsin said, and—wait. Kid?

Oh. Ohhh.

They weren't—

Gale felt his face heat up. That was … He’d jumped to a conclusion, hadn’t he? No need for jealousy. No need at all, because it wasn't like Astarion was his partner or anything, but—

Maybe that was the point where he needed to stop thinking himself further into a spiral. If breathing came more easily once again, he could examine that later.

"Thank you." Astarion leaned back against the sofa. The pale light of the morning hit his eyes and they shone a brilliant crimson. Like gemstones, like burning stars, like the sun itself, perhaps, if the sun were red. Entire galaxies lived and died in those eyes.

So insanely beautiful.

Gale swallowed. Should he be having these kind of thoughts about Astarion? About a king?

Oh, fuck, he'd slept with a fae king. Oh no. No no no, were the fae going to punish him for touching him? Would Halsin shift into a bear again and maul him to death? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, he hadn't hidden his affection at all, hadn't thought to, and now—now—

He brought the bottle to his lips and poured whiskey down his throat.

"Am I, err, about to be in trouble?"

Astarion turned towards him. "Whatever for?"

"Well … you know." Heat rushed into his cheeks and he made a vague gesture in the air between them. His gaze flitted towards the counter before he could stop it.

"Oh!" A spark lit up Astarion’s eyes. "Absolutely. We have a long-standing tradition of beheading anyone who meddles with the royal person, isn't that right?" He turned to Halsin, who blinked once, twice, and then nodded. The corner of his mouth twitched into a tiny smile.

"Indeed. Whosoever is the first to lie with a prince or princess is for the axe, I'm afraid."

They ... were joking. Gale was almost certain they were joking, and then it no longer mattered, because Astarion grimaced and said, in a voice that lacked all emotion, "Off with Cazador's head."

In the silence that followed, Gale held out the bottle to Halsin.

Halsin drank. Put the bottle onto the floor, shook his head, and drank again. His fingers gripped the glass so hard Gale worried it might shatter, but that was probably still a favourable outcome compared to a bear tearing his house apart. 

“He is dead.” The words were a growl, the threat of a ravenous beast breathing down someone’s neck. “I will tear him limb from limb.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Astarion said in a tone that Gale had never heard from him before. Flat, cold. Matter of fact. “You’d die trying.”

Halsin ground his teeth together. “I would die for a worthy cause.”

“I am not losing you again!” Astarion slammed his fist down on the armrest. 

The lines on Halsin’s forehead softened. His posture, his hands, everything softened. “You are right,” he said and bowed his head. “What matters is that I’m here for you now. Still, I would ask your permission to tear Cazador’s goons apart.”

“They really are snooping around the village, aren’t they?”

Halsin nodded. “There have been a few sightings. We tried to remain watchful and keep our distance, since provoking the folk without reason seemed unwise. Now I know they’ve been searching for you.”

“You say ‘we’ …” Astarion leaned forward a tad.

Halsin shook his head. “I’m the only one from the true court, but there are many who bear traces of fae blood and many more fae-touched here who know how to handle themselves.”

“Oh.” Astarion deflated. His shoulders rounded forward, and his weight fell back against the sofa. Gale reached out and took hold of his hand; Astarion offered him the tiniest of smiles. 

“I must ask this … How long have you been here? I have never noticed before …”

“You never visited me before,” Gale said. “Aside from my first day here.”

“Well …” Halsin looked at the carpet at his feet. “That is not … entirely accurate.”

What was that supposed to mean? 

“I may have been keeping an eye on you. First because you were new, and then because you told me you dreamt about the hawthorn …”

Gale frowned. Wouldn’t he have noticed Halsin lurking around? Wouldn’t Astarion have noticed someone peeking through the windows, or whatever it was that Halsin did? More than that, wouldn’t Halsin have seen Astarion before then?

His grip on Astarion’s hand tightened before he realised what he was doing and forced his fingers to relax again. “Explain.”

Halsin shrugged. “You built a bird house, so I … became a bird. But I only ever saw you coming and going, and even your cat said nothing of Astarion …”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Halsin was the strange robin? Halsin could talk to Tara? 

“Don’t worry, darling,” Astarion said, “I told Tara not to mention me to anyone. If she’d told one cat, the whole village would have known in a day.”

“Excuse me, you have both been talking to my cat?” As if that was a perfectly regular thing to do. With all the revelations of the last hour, this one shouldn’t throw him as much, but he couldn’t help the nagging feeling of betrayal. Tara was his cat. His companion. And here they were, just chatting to her as if that were nothing while Gale …

Foolish as it was, a bud of jealousy opened into a flower in his neck and forced him to swallow in an attempt to stop choking on it.  

“Of course,” Halsin said. “Had she not been shown the paths, she would have got lost in the wilds. That is no fate for a house cat.”

“You’ve been talking to Tara,” Gale repeated. “She’s … She’s my Tara …”

He felt Astrion’s thumb stroke the back of his hand. “And she cares for you more than anything, darling. The way we can communicate … Talking isn’t exactly the right word. I can’t translate your words to her one to one, nor hers to you. It’s more of a sense, really.”

“Ah.” Very eloquent, Gale. Astarion’s words had somewhat lessened the sting, but the feeling of betrayal lingered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Astarion pulled his knees up to his chest. “I thought you might be upset …”

“Of course, but …” He sighed. Perhaps that wasn’t a topic for here and now, not with Halsin still around and the fact that Gale had apparently been feeding Halsin Premium Wild Seeds Mix the whole winter. Which was a whole other can of worms. 

He shook his head and turned to Halsin. “I do keep curtains in the house for a reason, you know. I just never thought I’d have to worry about birds trying to watch me sleep.”

At least Halsin had the good grace to blush. “Apologies. It was never my intent to spy. If it puts you more at ease, I couldn’t see inside, and I never saw Astarion leaving the house …”

“That would be because I mostly didn’t leave it,” Astarion said. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t … Just …  No more lurking around.” Another sigh. “Did you need something from Gale? I think I need a moment to just …” 

He trailed off.

Gale waited a moment to see if he would continue. When no more words followed, he turned to Halsin instead. “Could we discuss the celebration some other time? I think we’ve all been given enough to process right now.”

“Of course.” Halsin nodded. “I’ll be on my way then.” He looked at Astarion. “Should I pick you up on my way back?”

Huh?

Gale stared at Halsin. Turned and stared at Astarion. 

Ah. Of course. Why would Astarion stay here if he found his … father figure? Were they related? 

“I’ll be staying here,” Astarion said quietly, “if Gale’s all right with that,” and yes, yes of course Gale was all right with that. At some point, he might have to examine why his chest expanded at the thought, as though it were trying to make space for Astarion to stay, and why that felt … comforting. Freeing. 

At some point. Now he just nodded. 

“I see.” The corners of Halsin’s lips curled downwards for a fraction of time before they rose again. “If you need anything, Pio, anything at all, I’ll be there.”

Astarion stood up. He hugged Halsin again, and then walked him to the door. Closed the door behind him. 

The silence that remained felt … tangible. Immovable, like a big boulder overgrown with moss. Astarion remained by the door, leaning against the wall with one hand. Gale remained on the sofa. 

Should he ask all the questions he hadn’t dared to voice before? 

No … No, that wasn’t …

He didn’t understand why he stood and let his feet carry him towards the fae. Except—maybe he did. Maybe he understood everything. Only a fool would try to move a boulder by force. 

Astarion might have heard him, might have developed some Gale sense by now, might have talked to the plant again or consulted the stars, or whatever there was that let him know exactly where to go to have their paths intersect. He moved like water, slipping into Gale’s arms as surely as a stream flowed into the ocean in the end. 

 A sharp inhale at the touch. 

A long exhale, melting into it. 

Gale wrapped his arms around Astarion, would wrap his entire self around Astarion if he could, because their world may have been shaken, but the foundations remained deep deep within the earth. A touch sliding up his arm. The familiarity of shared shampoo that somehow smelled differently on the both of them. Gale’s name on Astarion’s lips, Gale’s lips on Astarion’s lips, a moan that he couldn’t quite taste but would swear could sustain him nevertheless. 

He’d wanted Astarion to stay, this time and every time, and Astarion had stayed—

Fingers slipped between his own, tugged gently, so he followed. His body felt heavy, sluggish, the lack of sleep sinking in now that it had a moment of peace to do so. Lifting his arms to shed his jumper required a disproportionate amount of effort, made all the more difficult by the fact Astarion clung to him still. Gale slowly pried the fae’s hands off him, but when he shed his clothes at last, it was he who interlaced their fingers together and led Astarion all the way to bed. 

The warmth of Astarion’s body against his calmed the flurry of questions in his mind, letting them settle somewhere in the depths below like so much river mud. 

“I’m sorry,” Astarion murmured into the crook of his neck, muffled by skin and the weight of the world. “I’m sorry I hadn’t told you before. I just wanted to be ... me, even if only for a little while, instead of a failed prince. My world is dying, and there isn't anything I can do about it, so is it really so bad to wish for oblivion instead?” 

Gale ran his hand over Astarion’s curls. “No, I suppose not.”

Astarion nuzzled into his neck. If not for his white-knuckled grip on the sheets, Gale would have thought him relaxed. He gently brushed the fae’s knuckles with his thumb.

"What's the matter?"

Astarion raised his head and stared at him. "Everything, isn't it?" Moisture gathered in his eyes. "Everything is fucked, and I lied about it, and yet you let me stay."

Iron flashed before Gale's eyes as he caught Astarion’s gaze. Burned on his skin, lingered on his tongue, filled the air with its scent and weight and the ever present threat. Blood on boot-licked stone, a flaw in the shine. Roses that were more thorn than flower, a scream stuck in his throat every hour of every day, of every night, as he struggled to breathe—

Astarion blinked and a tear slid down his cheek. Another clung to his lashes.

"I ..." Gale swallowed.  "I'm glad you stayed."

"You ... are?"

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Swallowing again helped as little as it did the first time.

"Yes," he said, voice rough around the edges.

Astarion’s grip on the sheets relaxed; Gale felt the muscles loosen up under his touch. Why Astarion had chosen to stay was another matter, though somehow less relevant than the fact he had done so at all.

Perhaps Gale didn't need to know why right now. Perhaps he didn't need to know anything other than the rhythm of Astarion’s heartbeat and the path that one tear had traced down his cheek, and the flutter of his lashes against his skin, fragile and delicate like the quiet understanding between them.

"I'm glad I stayed too," Astarion murmured and rested his cheek against Gale's shoulder. "You have questions, I'm sure. I'll give you whatever answers I can, but it's ... difficult. If you ... Do you think you ..."

Gale ran his hand up Astarion’s arms and let it rest on his shoulder, the knuckle of his thumb brushing against his neck. "Whatever it is you'd ask of me, I will do it if I can."

"You shouldn't be so careless with your promises."

"I'm not careless." He just ... trusted Astarion. Some might call that careless, in hindsight of all that the morning had brought, or point out his lack of self preservation. Only, he wasn't scared. He wasn't in danger. Astarion was still Astarion. Gale might not have known who he was—but had he really not known? Was the accident of Astarion’s birth into the fae royalty a more integral part of him than his love for blankets and books, his skill with the needle? The pain he carried in his bones, the history carved into his skin? The way his lashes fluttered when Gale pinched his ears, or how high his voice could go when he moaned? Gale may not have known the title, but he'd gotten to know Astarion .

"I don't want everything to change now," Astarion said quietly. "Can we still ... Can we just carry on? I'll answer your questions, but please, don't ask them now. I can't ... I don't want to exist in the past right now. I want to be here. Now. With you."

Gale swallowed. "Of course we don't need to talk right now. Perhaps some sleep might be a better idea?"

Astarion nodded against his shoulder. "Can you make me forget?" he murmured. "Just for a little while?"

Gale could do that. He brought one hand under Astarion’s chin to tip his face up, and then he kissed him. He could do that. He could bring Astarion so much pleasure that he'd forget his own name. 

The past would still be there tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

The pub was packed. People filled every table and every foot of floor space, milling in a great buzzing hive of chatter and activity. If he didn’t have Jen following on his heels, he would have turned around. But he’d run into her when he’d gone shopping, and thought it only polite to buy her a drink after—well, after he and Astarion had … disturbed her rest during the early hours of the morning. Maybe this was his penance—a pub drowning in so much noise his ears hurt.

“What on earth is going on tonight?” Jen’s voice barely reached him through the chatter.

"I don't know." He had to raise his voice. "Should we go somewhere else?"

"Hang on, let's see if Karlach knows what's happening.” Jen started weaving through the crowd. “Maybe there's a game on that I forgot about ..." 

Gale sucked in a breath to say that he couldn’t see anyone wearing fan gear—nor did the atmosphere feel rowdy enough—but she was already too far ahead to hear him. 

Leaving now would be rude, right? With a sigh, Gale followed her to the bar and squeezed into the space next to her. At least there was a wall on the other side of him—better to be pressed against the old wallpaper than a stranger.

Karlach was pulling pints, her back turned towards them, so they waited. Gale noticed the musty scent of spilled beer, along with the ever-present aroma of sweat and air that had been in at least five pairs of lungs already. Ugh. They should have just left. They should still just leave.

He reached out towards Jen's shoulder to get her attention when Karlach turned around and grinned at them.

"Hi, soldiers!" She slid the pints towards—was it Francesca?—and sauntered over. "What can I get you?"

"What's got everyone so worked up today?" Jen asked.

Karlach leaned in closer and brought her hand to one side of her mouth. "They found one of the folk less than an hour ago. Dead."

Gale's heart crashed against his sternum. Not Astarion, surely. Gale had still been in bed with Astarion an hour ago, so he had to be fine, he had to be—

"Something all but ripped her to shreds. Wyll said it looked like claw marks."

Her.

Not Astarion then. Not Astarion.

Gale took a long breath in. An even longer breath out. Relief overshadowed all thought for a moment, and he almost missed the fact that Karlach was still talking.

“She was hung from the town sign like some kind of a warning. It’s got the whole village on edge. We don’t normally see the folk around, much less dead ones. Never seen one myself either way.”

Jen buried her face in her hands for a moment, then pushed her bangs out of the way and looked up. “This could mean trouble. We don’t fight with the folk. That’s the whole point. We work with them, never against them …”

“Do you know who killed her?” Gale interjected. He could guess easily enough, but could others? Without knowing what he knew?

Karlach shook her head; the end of her fiery red braid slipped over her shoulder. “But we can be certain the folk won’t take it lying down. Where’s Halsin when you need him …”

There was a thought. Gale should talk to Halsin before the villagers got a hold of him. Or should he talk to Astarion first?

“I have to go,” he half shouted to Jen. “Let me buy you a drink sometime when we have space enough to sit.”

He heard her call something that might have been, “Be careful!” on his way towards the door.

•~•~•~•

A moment of admiration was all he allowed himself, getting lost in the way Astarion’s hair spilled over the pillow, how his lips were parted just so, finding a strange, sad beauty even in the silver glint of his scars. Then he reached out and gently shook his shoulder.

Astarion blinked. “…me back to bed.”

Did Gale really have to do this? Ruin Astarion’s rest when he could let him sleep? Increase the weight on his shoulders even more? He didn’t want to. If he could carry the burden instead, he would have, but all he could do was rub Astarion’s shoulders when they got sore.

“Halsin killed a fae,” he said, and Astarion’s eyes snapped wide open.

“What?”

“I heard about it in the pub. They say there were claw marks all over. She was found hanging from the town sign.”

A sound crawled out of Astarion’s throat. A groan, a growl. Tired. So was Gale.

“Can you call him here?”

Gale shook his head. “Not with you around. I can go out and see if my phone will start working, though. Let me get my jacket again, I—”

Astarion pressed his index finger against Gale’s lips. He pulled his hand back just as fast, the tips of his ears turning pink, and averted his gaze. “Don’t bother, darling. We can … We should go find him.”

Gale blinked. “I can fetch him. You don’t need to go outside.”

“I know, but … I know. I thought for once …” Astarion rolled onto his side. “It would be easier. If I go with you. If you don’t need to bring him here.”

Gale’s chest constricted. He tucked a curl of pale hair behind Astrion’s ear. “Thank you. I don’t mind bringing Halsin here though.”

For a moment, Astarion just looked at him. He sat up, legs crossed under the blanket, and pressed his lips into a line. “I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t need to, orion mou .” There was no reward for pushing yourself too hard in the end. If there had been, Gale could have filled a whole trophy case by now.

“I know. I’ve been through worse though. This should be nothing. This is nothing.”

He recognised the stubborn tilt of Astarion’s eyebrows, the forcefulness in his voice.

(Two years of therapy to hand divorce papers to his ex-wife.)

“It’s not nothing.” He slipped his index finger under Astarion’s chin and guided it upwards just a tad. “It’s important.”

A blink. Red met his gaze, roses and thorns and the liveliness of summer. The sadness in fallen leaves, the peace in their surrender to the earth.

Blink. Red eyes framed with white lashes, only half open.

Blink.

A rabbit’s heart, racing in its tiny cage of bones.

Blink. Blink. Blink—

He pressed his lips to Astarion’s forehead. “We go together if that’s what you want.”

Astarion nodded.

•~•~•~•

They walked hand in hand.

Rumours would start circulating sooner rather than later, though perhaps the fae incident would keep the village distracted for long enough to overlook Gale holding hands with a stranger. Astarion’s hood was pulled low over his face, hiding his ears, but that in itself could arouse curiosity.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered because Astarion spent most of the way trembling and gripping Gale’s hand like a lifeline, and Gale wasn’t about to take it away from him. Let the gossip spread.

In the end, the fact that half the town seemed to be gathered in the pub worked in their favour—they made it to Halsin’s without getting stopped by any well-meaning acquaintances, or otherwise.

Halsin opened the door after the second knock. His eyes widened for a moment when they landed on Astarion, but his expression smoothed out quickly, and he showed them to the living room. Gale lowered himself onto an old sofa the colour of gingerbread biscuits, the leather creaking underneath him. Astarion remained standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Would you like anything? Tea? Buttenbergs? I also have—"

"Did you really tear a woman to shreds and hang her up like a trophy?"

Halsin's eyebrows drew together, carving deep creases into the skin between them. "She was looking for you on Cazador's behalf."

"You may have as well declared war."

"Or I have shown them that Coedpont is not to be trifled with. They aren't welcome here. They will come no longer."

Astarion dug his fingers into his upper arms. Gale smothered the impulse to reach for him, to guide his hands away and kiss the indentations beneath his clothes.

"You don't know what will happen. No one knows. You should have left it alone."

Halsin narrowed his eyes. "They would have hurt you if they'd found you."

"They wouldn't have found me, and even if they did, they couldn't get to me. Couldn't you have let me live my life in peace?"

"I cannot let them cast their shadows over this town! I've shown them clearly that they aren't welcome here, and they deserve to pay for what they've done."

"What about me?" Astarion’s voice shook. "Don't I deserve to live a life away from it all?"

The curve of Halsin's eyebrows softened, the lines on his face somehow shifting from severe to ... tired?

"Of course you do, Pio," he said. "But you know they would have started coming for you. They would have kept coming for you."

Astarion shook his head. "They can't follow me to Gale’s. They're not welcome, they can't ..."

"And if they followed Gale?" Halsin kept his voice soft, and yet Astarion flinched. Shook his head.

"No. No, they ... can't do that. I won't let them do that."

Oh.

Gale hadn't thought ...

Astarion started pacing. His fangs dug into his lower lip. "They'd still be unwelcome in the house, it should be fine, he should be fine ." He glanced at Gale, then back at Halsin. "Right?"

"He has to leave the house, Pio."

"No, I ... I can leave the house. I'll ... Maybe what you did will work, and they won't be able to enter the village. That's possible, isn't it?" He stopped in front of Halsin. "Isn't it?"

"It's possible. It might also drive the villagers to take some further protective measures against fae, though that may prove troublesome for us too..."

"Excuse me," Gale said. They were the fae and the experts in this case, but weren't they overlooking the obvious? "If Astarion is in danger here, can't we just go somewhere else?"

Surely Cazador wouldn't scour the whole of England for him?

Astarion looked at him. The corners of his lips curled downwards, and his shoulders rounded forwards as though some invisible weight were pulling him down.

"I'd die," he said quietly. "I am the land, and the land is me. You can't ask land to move."

"Oh." Gale's throat closed up. "I'm ... sorry."

The thought of life draining from Astarion’s eyes—his eyes that held so much —made him shudder. It had been a foolish suggestion after all. But there had to be something he could contribute anyway, right? Even if he was only a human. Something. Anything at all.

“Is there some way we extend the rules of magic? If I can declare Cazador’s fae unwelcome in my house, can I declare them unwelcome to my body and mind?”

Halsin sighed. “In theory. It may work until they force you into surrendering yourself, or lure you in with something you want.”

“What do you mean?”

Astarion walked over to the sofa and sank into it. The leather creaked again. “Magic is not straightforward. Intentions matter. Debts and favours and words and blood, they all matter. Everything has a price, and nothing is set in stone. If you go willingly, then no law of hospitality can keep you safe.”

Gale could almost grasp the true meaning behind the words, and yet it felt as though it would slip further away if he tried to close his hands around it. A will-o'-the-wisp, laughing at his efforts.

He sighed. “I presume you can’t clarify how it all works?”

“You touched the old hawthorn tree and sent ripples to my world. Could you explain that in a way that would follow your science?”

 “No, I suppose not.” He shook his head. “What do we do now?”

“I will make us tea,” Halsin said. “It won’t solve the problem, but perhaps we will be better able to think with a cuppa in hand.”

It was difficult to argue with that logic. Gale watched Halsin’s back until he disappeared through the door.

Leather creaked to his left. A moment later, he felt Astarion’s weight against his shoulder.

“They can’t have you,” the fae said quietly. “I’m sorry I got you involved in this.”

Gale wrapped his arm around Astarion’s shoulders. “I believe I’ve been told by more than one person that people are drawn here for a reason.”

Astarion barked out a laugh. “If you are to be our saviour, you could have been drawn here centuries ago.”

“I wasn’t … alive,” he mumbled.

Was he meant to be some kind of hero in this story? He didn’t even understand the rules of fae magic. If Astarion and Halsin—who could shift into a 500-kilo bear—felt powerless against Cazador, how could Gale fight him? What could he possibly do?

Perhaps the land really should have drawn somebody more capable here instead. Someone who would have lived years ago and had the capacity to cleave Astarion’s prison in half and Cazador along with it?

“It’s not your fault, darling,” Astarion murmured and leaned his head on Gale’s shoulder. “You’ve been nothing but good to me.”

Heat licked at Gale’s cheeks. “Basic kindness, remember?”

“It is still a gift, you know? I won’t forget it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Hmm?”

Gale clenched his free hand into a fist. “Don’t say it like you’re saying goodbye. Don’t …”

Words clung to the tip of his tongue, balancing on the precipice. Did he dare?

Was there anything he had to lose?

Whoever Astarion was to him, whatever this thing between them … He didn’t want to return home to an empty house ever again.

He sucked in a breath through his nose.

“Don’t leave. There’s got to be a way to fight if it comes to that. Even if we’re doomed to fail, and we’ll all be turned into turnips, or whatever it is that you people do … We can still fight together.”

Silence closed around his exhale. Astarion didn’t move. Gale didn’t dare to.

Then, “Why?” Soft, like the first light of the morning.

“Why what?"

"Why do you want to tie your fate to mine? You aren't bound to these lands." Astarion lifted his head to look at Gale. "You aren't bound to me ."

Gale looked back at him. If he got lost in some ancient forest or galaxy or an unknown time behind Astarion’s eyes, so be it. But he didn't. What met his gaze were familiar crimson eyes. A whiff of his own shampoo. A sensation of soft, worn fabric against his skin, biscuits crumbling on his tongue, lips on his lips, lips on his ears, a beating heart under his palm, so magical, so ordinary, so alive—

"Aren't I?" He was struggling to breathe. Not in a way that meant life or death. He was only cracking his chest open—what was the worst that could happen?

He blinked, but the sensations lingered, layers of memories under his skin.

"If there is a debt still,” Astarion said, “it's mine to repay. There is no contract that binds you."

It should have been easy to agree. No formal agreement kept them beholden to each other, no label. No anything. They weren't ... anything.

Maybe they were everything in spite of that. Because of that. They were they and wasn't that enough?

(Was it?)

Somewhere in the background, he heard the clanking of china.

"Truly?" Gale's lips trembled around the words. "If I am free, am I not free to choose?"

Astarion’s weight disappeared, the warmth gone with it. He shifted. His hands splayed on Gale's thigh as he leaned closer, pools of heat Gale had already started to miss. Exhale mixed with exhale.

"Gale Dekarios."

Gale could almost feel Astarion’s tongue around the syllables of his name, could almost feel that tongue on him, as though he were the name and the name were him.

"If that is the path you wish to walk, I would not see your heart stop so long as mine keeps beating. I don't know what strength might be left in me, but I won't have you suffer pain on my account for nothing."

He opened his mouth, and found that he had nothing to offer. What could he say that would compare to the words that may as well have rewritten the rules of the universe itself?

Slowly, he reached one hand towards Astarion’s cheek. Cupped it. Thoughts swirled in his mind and shattered into a thousand pieces on impact, little titbits that sounded like 'yes' and 'Orion' and 'mine'.

He kissed the breath from Astarion’s lips. Soft and gentle, a memory of gingerbread on his tongue. Deeper, deeper, his tongue welcomed in, his hand sliding further back to tangle into Astarion’s hair—

A cough made him pull back, slowly, lazily, his fingers still buried in soft white-silver locks—he was no teenager caught by a disapproving parent. Rather, it was Astarion who looked away, the tips of his ears flushing a pale pink.

Halsin set a tray on the coffee table and poured them tea from a white and blue teapot that looked so delicate in his large hands, as if it might shatter at any moment. He offered the first cup to Astarion.

"Here you go, Pio."

Astarion took it with one hand. His other palm remained firmly planted on Gale's thigh.

"Why do you call him that?" Gale asked. He lowered his hand from Astarion’s hair to let him drink.

“It’s common to use a sobriquet,” Halsin said as he poured a cup for Gale. “It’s safer.”

Gale frowned. “Safer?”

“True names have power. It is somewhat different in this realm, but even humans seem to realise that on some level. You won’t be able to do much with half a name, but it is often wise to err on the side of caution.”

“Oh.” The will-o-the-wisp feeling of elusive understanding returned. Was ‘Astarion’ part of Astarion’s true name then? He’d revealed it so readily right after they’d met … 

Gale set the thought aside for later and wrapped his hands around his mug. “I see. Actually, I was only wondering what ‘Pio’ meant …” 

"It's short for pioden ," Astarion said, then proceeded to sip his tea in silence as if that explained anything. 

Halsin cleared his throat. "You can't just say that and leave out the good parts."

Astarion’s ears turned a shade darker. "It means magpie," he mumbled, keeping his gaze on the tea. "I used to steal shiny things as a child. Because I could. Halsin was always rather amused by it. My parents, not so much … But then, Halsin was around more than them anyway. I think. I don’t … I can’t really remember anymore …”

An image of Astarion as a child assembled itself in Gale’s mind—Astarion, but a little softer, a little more wide-eyed, with patches of dirt on his knees and trinkets spilling out of his pockets.

He nudged Astarion’s shoulder. “Were you as much of a menace as a child as I think you were?”

“Probably.”

Halsin chuckled. “Probably? I still remember how you tried to trim the fur on my bear form once.”

“I have no memory of that,” Astarion muttered under his breath.

“You used to call me Teddy,” Halsin continued, a grin tugging at his lips, and Astarion covered his ears with his hands.

“I can’t hear you. I can’t even hear you.”

Laughter bubbled on Gale’s lips. Even the threat looming on the horizon couldn’t smother the moment, or the little bits of everyday humanity, could it? He’d made the right choice—this was worth fighting for.

Astarion pouted and bumped his fist against Gale's upper arm. "As if you were never a child."

"Oh, I was an absolute handful." A smile remained on Gale's lips. "I've brought home no less than three stray cats, and almost set the kitchen on fire at least twice. And that's just what comes to mind right away."

"I knew it," Astarion muttered.

"Takes one to know one, I suppose."

A light flush lingered on Astarion’s ears, and Gale fought the urge to pepper them with kisses. A hint of embarrassment was not a bad look on him. It would suit him even better if he was draped on top of their bed sheets, spread open for Gale—

Halsin cleared his throat.

Right. He was still there. Of course he was still there because they were in his house, meant to be discussing fae affairs and not daydreaming about inappropriate scenarios.

"I will call together a few people," Halsin said. He'd poured himself tea at some point—Gale hadn't noticed. "We may be able to weave some protection for the village as a whole. You two keep yourself safe. Pio, if Cazador doesn't learn that you're staying with Gale, he won't have a reason to go after Gale."

"And then?" Gale asked. Leather creaked as he shifted. "How long until Cazador gives up? Astarion's been keeping his head down the entire time, and it's worked so far, but he can't spend the rest of his life hiding in a bungalow."

That was no way to live a life.

The lines on Halsin's face deepened as he frowned; his scars somehow appeared all the more vicious for it. "No, he can't. I'll enquire in a few places. There have to be some left who are still loyal to the true lord of the land, or the land itself."

Astarion leaned back against the sofa and faced Halsin again. He put his cup down on the table without a sound.

"You mean to remove Cazador from the picture."

It wasn't a question.

Halsin nodded.

Astarion gripped the edge of the sofa. "You could have asked me first."

"Would you oppose seeing him dead?"

"I wouldn't oppose seeing him in pieces, but you can't just ... He's got all sorts of powers and servants now. I ... don't."

"Yet. That's why I'll ask around." Halsin's voice softened. "I'll be careful, Pio, I promise. No harm will come to me."

Slowly, Astarion nodded, but his fingers remained locked around the leather just as tightly.

•~•~•~•

The sun peeked through the clouds and lingered above Coedpont for the next three days. Astarion, in turn, spent most of the time curled up in a blanket in the observatory, looking outside through a crack in the curtains. A few times, Gale saw him standing by the door as though he were debating whether to go outside, perhaps tempted by the foray into town, or dreading what was lurking outside—he didn’t say. A shell had formed around him after that moment of intimacy shared on Halsin’s sofa, and even though they still slept pressed against each other, still kissed until their lips felt bruised, something about Astarion felt unreachable now.

Four days in, Astarion shook him awake in the middle of night.

“Thank you,” he said. The curtains were pulled shut, blocking all but the faintest light from the outside and shrouding Astarion’s face in darkness. “Something’s been happening. In town. In the land. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it, and I don’t … I don’t like it.”

Gale rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “What does it feel like?”

Astarion shifted; the matters moved with him. “Strange. I get a sense of … loss. It’s not mine, and yet it is because all of this”—he made a gesture in the dark that Gale couldn’t quite follow—“is part of me too. I don’t …”

A pause. Gale waited.

“I don’t want to lose anything more,” Astarion said at last, voice quiet and brittle around the edges, like fallen leaves about to crumble. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” Gale said and wrapped his arm around the fae. The world could shatter, but Astarion remained warm and solid under his touch.

•~•~•~•

He balanced a tupperware box in one hand and pushed the door open with the other. A little bell announced his arrival, and the scent of freshly-baked bread hugged him like an old friend. A moment later, Jaheira appeared behind the counter.

“Hello.” He placed the box on the counter carefully. “I’ve tried something new.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Clearly.”

Huh? Was he not supposed to have brought her a sample? She’d liked that before. She’d encouraged that before. Her eyes held something he couldn’t read—where had he gone wrong?

“What was that about not dating?” The corners of her lips twitched. Was she … amused?

“I’m … not sure what …”

Her eyebrows rose higher, both of them now. Probably amused. Right?

“A little birdie told me you’ve been holding someone’s hand. Anyone caught your eye?”

He opened his mouth, but his brain supplied nothing, so he closed it again. Of course someone had seen him with Astarion. Of course gossip had spread, as gossip was wont to do, making the small-town world go round. Now what?

A sharp inhale, as though that would provide him with answers—

The bell rang again, and the breath shuddered free of Gale’s lungs. A man in a dark grey business suit and a silk scarf around his neck slipped into the bakery. Gale might have thought him young if not for the array of lines streaking his forehead.

“Hello,” he started, then paused for a moment to catch his breath. “Can I—”

“No.” Jaheira crossed her arms. “The only thing you can do is walk yourself right out of my shop and tell your boss to fuck off to whatever hole he’s crawled from. You think you can just come in here like you own this town because Kagha sold to you?”

The man raised his hands and shook his head. His hair was just long enough to move with the motion. “I’m not here on business. Please, I just want something to eat.”

“You’re not welcome here.”

“I know! I know. Please. Let me buy a sausage roll, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Someone sold land?” Gale cut in. Had something happened to drive them to it? The weather hadn’t been disastrous, and he’d heard of no odd diseases popping up among the livestock. Not that he was keeping up with the gossip network, but …

“Yes.” Jaheira’s ‘s’ was sharp enough to cut. “Kagha folded. Cowards, the lot of them. This will only make it worse for everyone around.”

“On this, we agree.” The stranger pushed his hands into his pockets. The light shifted on his face as he rested most of his weight on one foot.

Did Gale imagine a darker patch of skin right by his hairline?

“Oh? We agree on that, yes? Then tell Lorroakan to leave .”

“I can’t tell Lorroakan anything! I don’t know what it is with this place. All I know is he shouldn’t be touching it, but he does not listen!”

A shadow settled on Jaheira’s face, the hazel of her eyes darkening—a trick of light, or a drop of fae in her blood? “You do not come into my shop and raise your voice at me. Get out.”

The man deflated, shoulders rounding forward. “I didn’t mean—can we start anew?”

Judging by the storm in Jaheira’s eyes, she might have been contemplating throwing the man onto the street with her bare hands. But he’d had a point, hadn’t he? Wasn’t he trying to side with her?

When Gale opened his mouth this time, he managed to form words just fine. “I don’t think he meant any harm …” He picked up the box from the counter, pried the lid open with a soft ‘pop’, and offered it to the man.

“Here. If you’re hungry, have one of these.”

The man’s gaze lingered on him for a bit, eyes a shade or three lighter than Jaheira’s. Slowly, he reached into the box and picked up a cupcake with two fingers, as if it might bite him instead. His nose scrunched up, and okay, maybe Gale understood why Jaheira had lost her temper. Then the man took a bite. Chewed twice. His lips curled into a smile, settling into the lines around his mouth as though it belonged there. His eyes turned to Gale again, wider, brighter, more alive.

“This …”

“Yes,” Jaheira cut in. “It’s what he does.”

"He bakes ... hope? In paper liners?"

Hope?

“Err.” Gale found himself smoothing out the sides of his trousers. "I believe the more accurate term would be lemon ginger cupcakes."

Jaheira leaned over the counter to snatch one from the box too. She chewed in silence and nodded. Swallowed. Sighed.

"Fine." Her words were directed at the stranger. "Sausage roll, Rolan?"

So that was his name. Rolan. Lorroakan’s assistant, by the sound of it.

"Please."

Jaheira didn't say anything anymore, but she packed the roll in a paper bag and placed it on the counter.

"Thank you." Rolan replaced it with a few coins. He remained on the spot, looking from Jaheira to Gale and back to Jaheira. "I don't know if this helps you any, but more sales are in preparation. I heard rumours of a mauled body—that seems to have been the final nail in the deal. But you didn't hear it from me."

"We heard nothing," Jaheira said. "Now get out."

The bell chimed as he did, then fell silent. No one moved. The only sounds came from the back of the bakery—a fan of an oven, perhaps.

Gale shifted his weight. Wiped his palms on his trousers. “So … I’ll leave the cupcakes for you …”

He moved towards the door.

“Oh, no, you don’t, Gale Dekarios. You tell me about that mystery person—”

He fled outside.

•~•~•~•

“Someone sold land,” he called out with his hand still on the door handle. “I just heard about it at Jaheira’s. I don’t know if that matters for us, but I thought I’d let you know.”

Only silence answered him. Nothing from Astarion. No sight of Tara.

“Astarion?” He toed his shoes off and headed for the bedroom. He lowered his voice. “Are you having a nap?”

No response still, so he strode into the room—

Astarion lay prone on the floor, a spray of blood soaking into the carpet next to his face.

Chapter Text

His knees hit the floor hard. His heart thrummed behind his ribs.

Shit.

Shit .

He rolled Astarion onto his side; a trail of blood led from his nose past his lips. 

"Astarion." Gale cupped his cheek. "Wake up. Wake up. Please. You need to wake up, you need to be okay, please ..."

Nothing.

Gale tried to wipe away the blood under Astarion's nose. It smudged, but the breath he felt on his fingers stopped him from spiralling completely.

He wasn't a medical professional, nor an expert on the fae. A quick glance told him Astarion had suffered no visible injuries, so at least there was that.

He still needed help.

Gale picked him up and managed to move him onto the bed.

"Hang in there, I'll be back soon," he promised. Then he returned outside and ran up the road.

•~•~•~•

Halsin wasn't home.

He wasn't in the field behind his house.

He wasn't in the market.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit .

What now? Gale couldn't very well keep running around town in hopes of bumping into the fae, and he didn't have Halsin's number.

But he knew someone who might.

He took a deep breath, two, and broke into a run again. At this point, it was more of a desperate shuffle, his stamina being what it was, but what was a little stabbing pain between his ribs when Astarion was lying on his bed, unconscious?

Sweat dripped down his back, his lungs ached, his calves burned. To say he entered Jaheira's bakery would be generous. In truth, he staggered into it, bent in half, and struggled to gulp down air.

"Gale?" Jaheira appeared behind the counter. "What is the matter?"

"Do you"—gasp—"have—"

"For the love of all the stars in the sky, breathe."

Gale tried.

"Do you have," he started again, sucked in another sharp breath, and struggled to the end, "Halsin's number?"

Jaheira nodded.

"I need him."

"What can be so—"

"Please." He pressed one hand to the small of his back and straightened. "Call him."

For a moment, Jaheira regarded him with narrowed eyes. Then she pulled her phone out of her back pocket, scrolled through something, and placed it on top of the counter.

Gale heard the first ring.

The second.

The third.

Fifth.

Tenth.

He twisted the edge of his jacket between his fingertips.

Fifteenth.

Twentieth.

He stopped counting. The phone rang, and then stopped ringing.

Shit.

Jaheira picked it up. "What's the matter, cub?"

How could he explain? Could he say anything at all?

He shouldn't.

But Astarion was unwell, could be dying for all he knew, and Jaheira used to be a ranger. She'd have some degree of medical knowledge, right?

"You know how you asked me about my mystery companion?"

A nod.

"Well. You get to meet him. Right now. Please."

•~•~•~•

To Jaheira's credit, she didn't ask questions where no questions were necessary, so Gale could forgive the stare she directed at Astarion, her mouth frozen open in an "o".

"That's a fae," she said—Gale had never heard her sound so uncertain.

"Yes." He sat down on the edge of the bed. More blood had trickled from Astarion’s nose and he wiped it away with his sleeve, his jumper be damned.

"That's a fae," Jaheira repeated. Then she shook her head, pressed her lips together, and leaned over Astarion. "What happened?"

"I don't know. I found him on the floor when I got back from yours earlier. I ... Can you tell what's wrong with him?

Jaheira's eyes roamed over Astarion for a few moments.

"I can try," she said. "Move over."

Gale did. She took his place and pressed two fingers against the pulse point on Astarion’s neck. Gently tugged his eyelids open and checked his eyes. Pressed her ear to his chest.

"It'd be easier to tell with the right tools, but his vitals seem fine. His heartbeat is a little erratic, but I hardly know what's normal for fae ..."

"Anything we can do?" At least Astarion wasn't on the verge of dying, right?

"If the stories contain enough truth, honey milk might help. Or ... When was the last time he fed?"

Fed? That was a rather odd way of phrasing it ...

"He ate earlier ..." Had there been something wrong with the food? There can’t have been too much salt, Gale had made them pasta before, and it had always been fine.

Jaheira arched her brows a tad. "Not food."

Huh?

"What else would he ...?"

Her eyebrows rose higher. "You know they drink blood, right?"

"No, I—ah." Heat rushed into his cheeks. Of course. O f course . Had he not wondered about Astarion’s fangs before? Had he not understood on some deep, implicit level that those were not just for show?

"I haven't seen him do that." Had Astarion left the house and hunted down some animals? Possible, but unlikely. And if not, then he hadn't had any blood in months. Was that bad? Was it normal?

"How often are they supposed to feed?"

Jaheira shrugged. "We're talking stories here, not an instruction manual."

"So you're not sure it will help?"

"Do you have anything to lose, cub?"

In theory, the answer was, of course, yes. Yes, the blood in his veins.

And yet he was halfway to the kitchen before he could even respond to Jaheira.

Would he bleed for Astarion?

Yes. Always, yes.

He grabbed the disinfectant and plasters from the bathroom on the way back and wiped the blade clean when he sat back down at Astarion’s side—Jaheira stood to give him space.

His hand trembled around the handle of the knife.

"Need help with that, cub?"

Gale shook his head.

"All right." She squeezed his shoulder.

He took a breath and sliced.

A thin line of red welled up on his forearm, the pain following almost like an afterthought. He pressed down to coax the blood out. Then he pried Astarion’s jaw open and pressed the cut between his lips.

Nothing.

His chest tightened.

Perhaps the fae didn't actually drink blood. Perhaps they did, and there wasn't enough blood. If he could get a syringe ... Maybe he could make a deeper cut. Open a vein, if that was what it took.

He went to pull his arm away.

Astarion's eyes snapped open, a deep crimson, and pain hit in earnest. A vice-like grip on his wrist, two sharp points, shards of ice in his veins, creeping further, further, further, until they melted into something almost pleasurable. He felt the pull, the suction, as Astarion drank, and drank, and—

Gale yanked his arm away. Skin tore, blood splattered on the sheets, on Astarion's cheek.

He stared at Astarion. Astarion’s stared back, eyes wide and wild and filled with brimstone and smoke, heavy feet on stone, on forest paths. The sweetness of summer warm nights, the caress of silk and dew on the inside of his thighs. Hunger in his belly, in his loins, in his gums–

Blink.

A heartbeat exploding on his tongue, the pleasure, the rightness —

Blink—

Wet moss, a newborn robin crying in its nest, hot tears, deep roots, deep deep dying—

"What are you doing to him?"

Jaheira blocked his view, suddenly there, half on Astarion’s chest. Metal glinted as she pressed Gale's kitchen knife against Astarion's throat.

"Don't!" Gale grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her out of the way; the knife left the thinnest imprint of pink on Astarion’s skin. No blood welled forth, but Gale still examined the spot, his fingertips gentle on its sides as if he were handling spun sugar.

"Are you all right?"

Astarion blinked. "Are you?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I ..." Oh, his wrist. He peeled a plaster open and covered the cut with it. "There, now it'll be fine. What happened to you?" He cupped Astarion’s cheek with his hand and gently ran the pad of his thumb along the bone.

"I don't know." Astarion leaned into the touch much like Tara was wont to.

(Where was Tara anyway?)

"Something is wrong," he continued. "Something is very wrong, I ..."

A cough wrecked his body, a splatter of blood painting his lips, and his face scrunched up.

Gale felt his chest constrict, an odd heavy pain curling up at the bottom of his lungs.

“What can I do?” There had to be something, right? “Did the blood wake you up? Would drinking more help?”

“It might, but I couldn’t—I hurt you already—”

“Do you want to explain,” Jaheira cut in, and Gale could swear he heard a frown in her tone, “why you have a fae in your bed?”

“Not particularly.”

“Serves me right for asking this way. You’re not in danger, are you?”

Gale peered at her over his shoulder. His gaze lingered on her crossed arms, the furrowed brow, the thin line of her lips.

“Not from him. Jaheira, this is Astarion. Astarion, Jaheira.”

Astarion turned his head towards her slowly. Too slowly. “You hear things in dreams,” he said, a hint of hoarseness in his voice. “You care well for the little ones.”

She blinked, her expression suspended in time for a fraction of eternity. Then her features softened. “Damn folk always knowing too much.”

“Believe me,” Astarion said, “I don’t know nearly enough.”

Jaheira took a breath to respond when a loud banging came from the backdoor. Gale felt Astarion tense against him. Had they been found? Was this one of Cazador’s people?

Before Gale even began to consider their options, Jaheira was already heading for the door. The most he could do was place himself even more squarely between Astarion and the entrance to the bedroom. Could he do anything if someone tried to harm either of them? He should be able to chase an intruder from his own home, right? Astarion had said no one could follow him here if they were unwelcome, so the advantage should be Gale’s …

“I need to see Gale,” a familiar voice said from the doorway, and Gale couldn’t tell his own relief from Astarion’s as tension drained from them both.

“Halsin!”

As Gale moved to stand, Astarion caught the edge of his sleeve. He refused to meet Gale’s eyes, but the message was clear. Gale sat back down.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a small familiar shape in shades of brown slink into the bedroom. It scurried to the bed, jumped onto it with a soft chirp, and curled up against Astarion's ribs.

"Hey, Tara." Gale scratched under her chin. "Where have you been?"

"She came looking for me." Halsin followed into the room, his footsteps heavy where Tara had moved on silent paws. He stopped a couple feet from the bed.

"I'm ... not even surprised anymore." Gale's fingers moved up to the cat's cheek. "Thank you, Tara."

Did he imagine a smile on her muzzle? Probably not. He got no more time to ponder it—Halsin spoke again.

"We have a problem that we didn't foresee. Kagha sold her land, that much we knew, but I believe this removed any protection on it. Without someone to care, someone to call it their own, Cazador could do whatever he wished with it, and he’s done something ."

"The land isn't no one's though, right?" How did that work? "Lorroakan bought it, so it has an owner still."

Halsin shook his head. "On paper only, my friend. Lorroakan cares nothing for it. He wants it not for the life in the soil, but for the profit he stands to gain if he builds his chain on it. That kind of possession offers no protection. It does not matter to him if the land succumbs to poison, and so Cazador has found a way to poison it somehow. Curse it, perhaps. I haven't been able to tell."

"So that's what it is," Astarion murmured. His fingers remained locked around the edge of Gale's sleeve.

Halsin's gaze lingered on Astarion’s pallor, on the blood. His face fell, a shadow settling in his eyes. "How bad is it?"

"I must have collapsed,” Astarion said, “but I'm better now. Gale saw to it."

A nod, towards Gale. "You have my thanks."

Gale found himself mirroring the motion. Gently, he pried his sleeve from Astarion’s fingers and squeezed his hand instead.

"How do we fix the situation with the land?"

Halsin sighed. "I don't know."

Gale twisted to the side further, frowning. "We have to do something. Otherwise we're just letting Cazador believe he's bested us. We're letting him best us, and Astarion will continue to be in pain."

"He said he was better—"

"Better isn't good—"

"I'm right here," Astarion chimed in, even as Halsin continued, "If you have a solution, I'm eager to hear it."

"Well, no, but we should consider our options and—"

"I appreciate all you've done, but you are an outsider in our affairs. This doesn't—"

" Shut up! " Gale's hand got crushed in Astarion’s grip as the fae struggled to sit up; the motion jostled Tara away. Gale didn't turn to him fast enough to catch whatever expression might have crossed his face. What he did see was Halsin's eyes going wide, Halsin closing his lips so quickly they made a sound. Halsin sinking to one knee, blowing his head, crossing one arm over his chest.

"Better," Astarion murmured.

Gale looked at him now, but he found nothing fearsome, only dark eyes, bright around the edges with pain, and blood-specked lips. The same smile lines he'd come to adore, the same gentle curve of his mouth. Perhaps something had flashed through Astarion’s eyes. Whatever it may have been, it was gone.

Halsin bowed his head lower. "Apologies."

"It's fine." Astarion swayed and Gale leaned closer to support his weight. "Get up, you fool."

"I don't know what's happening here, but 'fine' isn't the word you're looking for." Jaheira leaned against the doorway, looking from one of them to another. "Gale Dekarios, you have some explaining to do, and this time, I'm not asking."

•~•~•~•

To Jaheira’s credit, she took the explanation without a word of complaint. Still, she accepted a glass of whisky from Gale quite readily.

They'd moved to the kitchen—except for Astarion, who'd remained in bed with Tara curled up on his legs.

"This will split the town in half," Jaheira concluded and knocked the whisky back. "If the reason for all that's been going wrong with the land and the weather is the incorrect person in charge of the Wilds, then of course we should try to see the rightful ruler restored. We should get rid of Lorroakan once and for all, so Cazador can't gain a further foothold."

Deep lines formed on her forehead.

"But that would mean risking harm. Some folks have had enough already—they would sooner hand Astarion over to Cazador than fight."

"That more or less summarises it, yes." Gale poured another finger worth of whisky for her.

"I don't see how we can prevent a conflict," Halsin said. "If there is a way, I would do it. But I will stand with Astarion, always, and I welcome any who will stand with me."

"I'll think about what to say to whom," Jaheira said. "Speak to the dream visitors. There must be a way, and we'll find it."

The lines on her forehead remained.

•~•~•~•

By the time Jaheira and Halsin left, dusk had begun to settle outside. Gale filled up the largest mug he owned with honey milk and brought it to Astarion, who didn't do much as stir. Only Tara opened one eye halfway.

"Astarion." Gale sat down on the edge of the bed. He brushed the hair off the fae's forehead; it was burning hot. " Orion mou . I got you something."

Red eyes opened a sliver, dark crimson in the fading light.

"Here, let me help you."

Gale slid one arm beneath Astarion’s shoulder blades and slipped another pillow under his head. When he offered the mug, Astarion took it with unsteady hands and drank a few sips.

"Please tell me honestly," Gale started, "how bad it is. I gathered you didn't want Halsin to see, and I suspect there are parts of your past you don't wish him to know either. I understand if you want to keep some from me too. All I want is to help you, and for that, I ask you to be honest."

Astarion slurped a little more milk. Then he placed the mug on the nightstand.

"You knew I was in pain."

It wasn’t a question, but Gale nodded anyway.

"I don't think I could hide much from you now. I don't think I want to. But you must know I've done things that are ... Things I don't want people to know."

He cupped Astarion’s cheek. "We can start with how you're feeling right now."

Fever would be Gale's first guess. He didn't know if human medicine would work on fae, but there was no good reason not to try.

"Everything aches," Astarion said softly. "Moving feels difficult. Something is broken inside me and I can't find the issue."

“It’s the land—"

“I know that.” Irritation flitted through his eyes, there and gone the next moment, as though it required too much energy, or perhaps he didn’t want to be irritated in the first place.

“It just feels wrong.” He sank back against the pillow.

A thin smear of blood had remained on his chin. Gale ran his thumb over it. Memories swirled in the back of his head—how had his mother eased his discomfort when he used to be sick? A ghost of gentle hands on his forehead, the sweet aroma of honeyed tea, the sour sting of vinegar compresses.

“Let’s get you more comfortable.”

He helped Astarion shower first, cleaned any remaining blood from his skin. Brushed the tangles out of his curls while they were wet. The heat from the water had fogged up the mirror and the walls, and still Astarion shivered against him. Gale guided him back to bed and draped another duvet over him. He brought more milk and a bowl of porridge with honey and medicine to go with it.

While Astarion ate, he took a quick shower too, and then climbed into bed, pressed against Astarion’s side.

Even through his pyjamas, he could feel the heat from the fae's body.

"You're burning up," he said softly, a palm pressed to Astarion’s forehead.

Astarion didn't reply, only snuggled closer as though he could absorb more heat from Gale that way, or perhaps find a different kind of comfort in the closeness. On instinct, Gale wrapped an arm around him and tugged him closer still, until there was nowhere left to go.

Warm light shone through the crack by the door—Gale had left a lamp on in the living room and the door ajar. Even so, Astarion looked pale as snow where the light hit his face, the scars high up on his neck glistening silver.

For a moment, Gale stared at him, listening to his breathing slow, his gaze settling on the little imperfections on Astarion’s face. The little spot on his cheek. The lines around his mouth. The tiniest of scars right by his upper lip, tugging the symmetry out of balance.

He was beautiful. He was so damn beautiful it made Gale's chest ache.

Softly, as though the fae could shatter under anything more than the most careful of touches, Gale traced the line of his cheekbone with his fingertips.

The rhythm of Astarion’s breathing broke, the only warning that he was awake before he spoke.

"I was his toy, you know."

Gale froze for but a moment and continued the caress in the next, and maybe that was the right thing to do.

"He fucked me. Lent me out as a party favour to others. Sometimes he'd watch, sometimes not. If I got lucky, all he'd want would be for me to sit by his feet like a dog. If I didn't, he'd take his frustration out on me and beat me half to death, and when he grew bored of it all, he'd lock me away to rot in silence and solitude."

Gale found himself holding his breath, ice paralysing his lungs, even as he continued stroking Astarion’s cheek.

"Why are you telling me this?" he managed.

Astarion opened his eyes; he directed his gaze somewhere into the middle distance.

"Because you were right. I don't want Halsin to know any of this. He was more of a father to me than my own parents, and I... don't want him to know of that side of me."

Gale could understand that, a little, the shame that scorched places inside him that no one else could see.

"What about me?"

“You’re …” He thought Astarion looked up at him, but the darkness made it hard to read his eyes. “You won’t think less of me. Will you?”

The words may as well have been a punch to his gut.

“No,” he managed past the phantom blade lodged in his flesh. “Of course not. I don’t think Halsin would either.”

“I’ve let him down. I’ve let everyone down. I should have fought harder, I should have tried to kill Cazador or escaped, or, or, stopped him from killing my parents—”

“Astarion. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I’m sure you did what you could.”

“I was a coward, so I didn’t fight them when they came. I didn’t know they wouldn’t kill me, and I just wanted to live. If I’d known all that would happen, I might have tried to take as many with me as I could.” Darkness swallowed Astarion’s face as he turned away. “I just wanted to live.”

Gale pressed his palm against Astarion’s cheek and gently guided his head back until he could see the darkest shade of red in his eyes. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, clumsy in a way that was becoming increasingly familiar.

“I’m glad you did whatever it took to survive,” he said. “I’m glad you’re alive. Here, with me.”

His lips were on Astarion’s a blink later, feather light; he felt the heat, somehow tasted the fever that burned within the fae, smelled remnants of ripe strawberries that neither of them had eaten in months. Astarion opened his mouth, brought a hand to Gale’s nape—

Tara left out the most indignant meow before she jumped from the bed. Gale could almost hear her saying ‘ Not where I can see you, thank you very much.’

Blood crept into his cheeks, but Astarion only chuckled. “Don’t stop now, darling. Your hands feel so wonderfully cool.” His fingers tangled deeper into Gale’s hair, tugging him back, and Gale found himself smiling against those pale lips as he dove back for another kiss. And if the kiss continued and continued, who could blame him? If he rolled Astarion onto his back to ease the strain on his neck, to plunge his tongue deeper, if he hooked his leg around Astarion’s?

His hands found burning hot skin, pushing up the fabric to trace a path around Astarion’s sides, up his stomach, ghosting over his nipples.

“Yes?” he asked through a gasp pulled from Astarion’s lips.

A nod. “Yes, yes —mmm!”

Gale rolled a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then did it again. He pressed a kiss to the tip of Astarion’s collar bone, nipped at the skin ever so gently, licked the sting away. If he could, he'd banish the pain from Astarion’s bones, Astarion’s soul, and if he couldn’t do that, then he would wrap every last one of Astarion’s nerve endings in so much pleasure that they could no longer perceive the pain underneath it at all.

"Where does it hurt?"

He felt more than he saw Astarion’s chest move with his breath.

"My head." Astarion’s voice came out rough around the edges, raspy and breathless and a tad lower than usual. "My chest. Everywhere."

"Then I shall have to kiss you everywhere."

And he tried, starting atop messy white curls, working his way down to one sensitive ear that drew the loveliest sounds from Astarion. Along the column of his neck, the scars smooth under his lips, the touch not only allowed now but welcomed with a tilt of the head to ensure easier access.

Barely past the collarbone he felt hands tug at his shoulders, at his hair, to pull him back up for a kiss, so he obliged. After what might have been a minute or five, he gently pried Astarion’s grip off him, rested the fae’s hands on the pillow either side of his head, and murmured against those kiss-bruised lips, "Keep them there."

Then he proceeded to kiss the rest, drawing a trail with his lips, following it with his fingertips. Astarion shivered under the touch and the weight of the fever, squirmed and whimpered softly, and hardened before Gale got as far as his thighs. His fingers dug into the pillow, his back arched, but he didn’t object, didn’t try to rush the process along.

Gods, Gale could barely resist palming himself at the sight. Perhaps the kisses he peppered down Astarion’s legs were a little briefer, planted a little bit faster, until he nudged the fae’s thighs apart, settled between them, and kissed his way up from the knee so very slowly.

“Please, Gale …”

He looked up to see Astarion sinking his fangs into his lower lip, his cheeks flushed almost as much as his cock.

“What do you need, love?” His breath washed over Astarion’s skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. Without waiting for the answer, Gale slowly licked up a stripe from the base to the tip of Astarion’s cock.

Astarion’s mouth fell open with a silent cry, his back, his neck arching, one hand reaching down towards Gale; Gale caught it by the wrist and swallowed Astarion down.

“Nn—aaaaah! Gale—I—ah—”

How long had it been since Gale had gone down on a man? He wouldn’t be able to relax his throat right, but that probably didn’t matter. Astarion’s arm twitched in his grip as he swirled his tongue around the tip of the fae’s cock. Astarion twitched, his hips pushing up, chasing more, and Gale gave the best he could for a minute, two, three, before he came up for air. The whimper that escaped Astarion at the loss of touch felt like gasoline on an open flame—Gale pulled himself up to swallow it with a kiss. His tongue brushed against one of the fangs that had been buried into his wrist only hours ago.

Not for honey milk indeed.

He rolled to the left, coming to rest against Astarion’s side, their bodies pressed together shoulder to toe. Astarion turned his head to face him, seeking more contact still, and Gale cupped his cheek, ran the pad of his index finger as far up Astarion’s ear as he could reach.

“How are you feeling, Orion mou ?”

“Good.” The word was carried on an exhale, fragile as a morning breeze. “I think you might have kissed me better. Only …”

“Yes?” He rubbed Astarion’s ear more firmly and drew a gasp from his lips.

The blush on the fae’s face was visible even in the dim light as he murmured, “My cock aches too.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Gale leaned forward, letting his lips ghost over Astarion’s ear even as he moved his hand down, down, wrapping his fingers loosely around him. “Let me make it better.”

Even if he tried his best, could he ever touch Astarion with such reverence as the fae had touched him that first night? And he tried, he did, keeping the touch gentle, slow, exploring every inch, drinking in every gasp that spilled from Astarion’s lips, the way he threw his head back, the way he blinked as he tried and failed to keep his eyes open. 

It was his touch that Astarion allowed, welcomed, perhaps craved as much as Gale craved him. His touch that undid the king of fae . Stars above, Gale would heap all the pleasures of the world upon him, would make him sing, make him melt like ice under the first caress of spring.

“Gale.”

He could listen to the sound of his name from those lips forever, until he grew as old as the bones of the earth, and it still wouldn’t be enough. His fingers ghosted down Astarion’s length and up again, circled the head, and his name spilled free between a gasp and a moan.

“Gale. Gale, I—mmmmn, Gale!”

“I’m here.” He nibbled on the tip of Astarion’s ear. “I’m here, I got you.”

"Gaaaale," Astarion whined. "Can't ... Can't come like this."

"You don’t need to come.” Gale pressed the pad of his thumb against the underside of Astarion’s cock, right under the head, and rubbed the spot gently, so gently. “Breathe, my star. We just want to override the pain with pleasure."

Astarion’s hips shifted, chasing pleasure, but Gale moved his hand with the motion.

"It’s aching more now ..."

"What is?"

"You know what …"

Gale's lips ghosted against the shell of Astarion’s ear as he whispered, " Do you want me to stop?"

"No! No, please ..."

"Very well." He pressed down lightly on the slit, then smeared the precum all over the head. Rubbed little circles on the frenulum again. Astarion’s cock pulsed under the ministrations, his hips twitching as though he fought and failed to keep them still.

A kiss to the tip of his ear made him moan, made him squirm harder.

"Shhh..." Gale felt the fae shiver as his breath washed over the edge of his ear. "Breathe, Orion mou , breathe. Try to relax."

That earned him a whine. Astarion’s fingers dug into his leg.

"Rela—ah! Nnnhh, Gale!"

Was he pushing Astarion too hard? The flush in his cheeks, the little sound, the way his body tried to chase more pressure, always more—they seemed signs of enjoyment. But perhaps it was too exhausting trying to process everything?

"Tell me ‘stop’, and I’ll stop," he murmured into Astarion’s ear. "Tell me to make you come, and I'll do it. Or you can refrain from either of those, and we’ll keep going, just”—a loose stroke up and down his cock—“like”—another—“that.”

The only sound that emerged from Astarion’s throat was a high-pitched mewl.

Gale pressed his own erection against Astrion’s hip, rocked into it to find a measure of relief while his fingers drifted lower, over the taint, and lower still. Teasing, alluding to pleasures they wouldn’t grant, before they retreated back again.

Astarion gripped his pillow like a lifeline, buried his face into Gale’s neck as much as he could, but his hands remained above his head, and he said nothing.

Fuck. Perhaps Gale should have just flipped him around and fucked him into that pillow instead. Next time, next time—he needed to keep Astarion comfortable right now, or as comfortable as he could be while Gale’s fingers played him like a violin.

Without thought, he began rutting against Astarion in earnest, his own gasps mixing with Astarion’s high-pitched whimpers. He grasped one of Astarion’s hands and slowly guided it inside his boxers, around his cock. Astarion wrapped his fingers around it, and Gale sank into the heat, into the sensation of another’s touch on his skin, relishing Astarion’s soft pliability. By gods, he would return the pleasure tenfold.

“So good,” he murmured, thrusting into Astarion’s grip, “you’re so good for me. Make me come, Orion mine.”

Astarion gasped into Gale’s neck. The angle of his grip changed, coaxing a groan from Gale, and then another, another—how was he so close, how could anyone’s hand feel so good—

Gale spilled, his groan muffled by Astarion’s hair. He kissed a trail towards his ear while he found his breath and tried to get his thoughts under control. 

“That was great,” he said against the tip of Astarion’s ear; the fae shuddered against him. “Would you like to come now?”

“Yes, yes, please”—

Gale’s grip tightened, providing proper friction at last, and Astarion whimpered. He clenched his fists around the pillow even tighter, arched his back, thrust into Gale’s hand with desperation. Tension coiled in his muscles, the pitch of his voice rose higher, higher still—

“Bite me,” Gale whispered.

Astarion's head snapped back, red eyes wide.

“Bite me,” Gale repeated. “Bite me when you come. Yes?”

Astarion sucked in a breath that turned into a whine halfway through. His eyelids fluttered shut, and he seemed to lose himself in pleasure for a moment. Something shifted when his eyes opened again, the red suddenly darker, ageless, once more a portal into the unknown. His fangs flashed in the dim light.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Please, Gale, Gale —”

His back arched, and Gale barely had the time to cradle Astarion’s head with his free hand before ice cold pain bloomed in his neck. It knocked a sound out of him, a gasp, perhaps, or perhaps he was hearing Astarion. The sensation in his neck bled into pleasure, the suction only registering at the very edges of his awareness. He moved his hand lazily still, and Astarion shuddered in his grasp, his sounds lost in Gale's neck.

A quiet weight settled in Gale’s limbs. Peaceful. Sated. His head swam, but he felt the heat of Astarion’s body pressed against him, so it was all right. Everything was all right.

“Gale …”

“Yes, love?”

Astarion's lips lingered on the skin even as his fangs withdrew.

“Is it all right? Did I take too much?”

Gale blinked. A heaviness held his limbs down, but he could move still, could think still. Could pull Astarion close and hold him tight.

“I am well.” He pressed a kiss to the messy white curls. “And you?”

He felt Astarion nod. “Thank you. For all of it.”

“You're very welcome, Orion mou ,” he murmured and let himself sink into the pleasure of simply holding his lover close.

Chapter Text

By the time morning licked the rooftops of Coedpont, Astarion's fever had yet to break.

Gale had spent the night between drifting into fitful sleep and pressing a cold cloth to the fae's forehead. He rose with the dawn to make more tea and soup in the hopes that any of it would provide at least a measure of comfort.

The first look outside the window gave him pause. Angry grey clouds swirled above, carried this way and that on violent bursts of wind. A few blackberry leaves stuck to the window for a moment before another gust tore them away.

All this strange weather ... It must be connected to Astarion somehow, right? The snow, the storms ... The land wasn't right because Astarion wasn't right, and Astarion wasn't right because of whatever Cazador had done.

But Astarion hadn't been quite right this entire time, long before Kagha had sold her land. Why? Did it all go back to the abuse he'd suffered in captivity, or was there something more?

Perhaps Halsin had discovered something.

Wrapped in his coat, Gale braved the weather in search of signal. He had to walk all the way to the gate of Jen's garden to finally get his phone working.

Halsin picked up on the third ring.

"How is he?" he said in place of a greeting.

"Poorly. He's resting. Tell me you found something." Anything.

"Yes and no. A curse clings to the land, but I haven't been able—oh, Isobel, hello. One moment, Gale, let me call you back."

Gale wrapped his free hand around himself, as if that could keep the wind away. "My phone won't work. Would you be able to come over?"

"Of course. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Even though he couldn't be seen, Gale nodded in thanks before he hung up. With a heavy heart, he put the phone back into his pocket and turned to leave.

"Saying your phone doesn’t work while you’re talking on that phone is a pretty lazy lie, you know?"

He snapped his head to the right.

Jen was standing a few paces away from her front door, wrapped in a long coat, while her hair twirled in the wind.

Gale swallowed. "It's... finicky.”

"Is it?" Her eyes narrowed. "I think I've been more than fair to you, haven't I? I've ignored your mystery lover, and the strange chats your cat's been having with Scratch, and the disappearing child in your backyard. I've—”

"So you've seen him too?" Perhaps she'd noticed something that Gale and Astarion had both missed?

"That is so far beside the point right now, Dekarios. I value privacy, and so I've let you have yours, but this"—she let go of her coat with one arm to gesture around them—"is insanity. Things have been getting stranger and stranger ever since you got here. I don't know what you've done, but it's got something to do with you. Maybe you did step on the roots back then, or you insulted the folk somehow, or, or—”

“Yes, it’s insanity,” he snapped, “and I can’t do anything about it!” His voice broke, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I’m just trying to fix things, but it’s not like … This is … Do you know why there’s been so much trouble? Because the Wilds are falling apart.”

Jen stared at him. "What exactly are you saying?"

"I'm saying they’re ruled by an upstart who shouldn’t have touched the throne with a ten-foot pole and who can't keep the land alive, so he's trying to siphon the power from—"

Shit.

Shit shit shit, Cazador was trying to flush Astarion out, wasn't he? Because keeping Astarion alive was the key to getting something out of the land, but perhaps alive wasn’t enough. Perhaps Cazador needed him there .

"I need to go."

He turned to leave, or tried to—Jen grabbed the edge of his coat.

"This is because of the fae?" She frowned at him, her bangs beating her cheeks in the wind.

"Yes, and Lorroakan, and Kagha, and everyone else who's thinking of selling. Look, I have to go —"

"Can we do something?"

Huh? Oh. Was Jen ... trying to help?

He stopped pulling away. "Is that why you asked what’s happening?"

“No, I asked because you were being weird even for Coedpont's standard, and usually when people go weird, it’s for a very good reason. But to my knowledge, you haven’t done anything bad. As for stupid …” Jen released his sleeve. “I suppose I’d be sorry if you went mad too.”

“Too?” Was she referring to Ketheric, or were there multiple villagers whose dealings with the fae had ended poorly?

She opened her mouth and closed it. Waved her hand in dismissal. “Doesn’t matter. So what’s the deal, is there anything we can do?”

“Maybe. I'm … not sure what can be done, and ..."

Was it acceptable for him to give instructions to anyone when he himself was so uncertain? What if he said all the wrong things? What if Jen turned on Astarion? Halsin would stop her, surely, but Gale had promised to protect Astarion, and he couldn't afford to mess that up even by accident. So what should he do? What could he—

"Gale!" Jen snapped her fingers in front of his face, and he jerked backwards. "Get a grip and tell me what to do."

He blinked, then did it again.

Right, spiralling.

He took a deep breath in through the nose and sighed it out.

"I think you'd better come with me."

•~•~•~•

Gale was running out of chairs.

Halsin, Jen, Isobel, and Aylin were huddled around the kitchen table while Jaheira rummaged through the cupboards for mugs.

“One more to the left.” Gale pointed at the correct door and leaned against the counter with a sigh. From the corner of his eye, he caught Astarion looking at him, curled up on the sofa under layers of blankets and a snoozing Tara, and he found his lips curling into a tired smile despite himself.

This was all for Astarion. If Gale opening up his home to half the village helped, then he would suffer the crowd any day. Especially if said crowd proved willing to aid a fae king on the run.

(How much of that willingness stemmed from the innate desire to preserve their own cosy situation, Gale didn’t have time to examine.)

“Here.” Jen slid a piece paper across the desk to Halsin. “That’s my contribution. Present company excluded, of course.”

Gale leaned over Halsin’s shoulder. “Karlach’s on top of the list?”

He felt everyone’s gazes bore into him, and heat rose into his cheeks.

“Right,” he murmured, turning his eyes back to the paper.

Francesca.

Alfira

Lakrissa

Dammon

Minsc

“Did you include Wyll?” Isobel asked.

Rath

Okta

“I didn’t know if Gale would be all right with that.”

Huh?

“Why would I not be?” Gale tore his gaze away from the list to blink at Jen, who arched her eyebrows and threw a pointed look in Astarion’s direction. 

Why would Astarion—

Ah.

“I don’t mind,” he started to mutter even as Astarion chimed in from the back, “Was he the reason you were about to die in the snow?”

“ Die in the snow?” Jaheira. “You left that part out.”

If Gale could will the ground to open up and swallow him, he would have done so.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t—I’m fine now, so that’s …” He cleared his throat, hoping his cheeks weren’t as bright red as they felt. “Can we focus on the matter at hand please?”

Astarion chuckled. Then the sound turned into a cough, and whatever mirth may have remained on the faces around the table faded away.

“Add Wyll to the list,” Jaheira said as she began placing tea in front of everyone. “We might end up needing everyone we can get.”

“I have a feeling we will.” Isobel sighed and wrapped her hands around her mug; she’d been given a purple one with ‘cat dad’ written on it in cursive. “I caught Lorroakan by our front door just earlier. I don’t know what he was up to, but I can tell it was no good.”

Alyin balled her fists. “If he so much as looks at you the wrong way—”

“You’ll do nothing, my love. I will not have you arrested because of someone like him. Besides”—Isobel reached out and found Alyin’s hand—“all he cares about is our land, and I will never sell it.”

Halsin nodded. “If you can talk to everyone we’ve listed and convince them not to relinquish their properties, that will prevent Cazador from gaining further footholds in this world. As for the current blight …” He shook his head. “We will have to handle that.”

“We?” Jen turned towards him.

A nod. “Astarion and I. And Gale, although lifting the curse is not exactly human expertise. No offence.”

Gale sucked in a breath to ensure him none was taken, but Jen spoke faster.

“You and Astarion? Astarion I can understand, since he’s meant to be, you know, the king of folk, but …”

Recognition flashed through her eyes, and her features shifted into something more tired. “Oh, come on! You’re one of them too? Of course. Of course you’re one of them.” She shook her head, then looked around the room. “Anyone else? Is half the village fae? Or—or, something? Does Karlach only look so hot because she’s a devil? Is Ethel secretly a hag? Is Gale a vampire?”

“Don’t be silly,” Astarion said from the sofa, his voice far weaker than Gale would have liked. “Vampires aren’t real.”

Jen threw her hands up and shook her head, but she didn’t comment. It was Halsin who spoke instead.

"Many in Coedpont are fae-touched, but if there is another true fae among them, they are well hidden. I would know a thing or two about that, seeing as I've lived in this town for the last two hundred years."

Gale might have been the only one whose jaw didn't drop even the slightest bit, though, to be fair, his other guests were taking all this rather well. He couldn't tell if that had more to do with some hidden strength of character or the overwhelming weirdness of this town and its skewed perspective on what constituted normality. Either way, acceptance was the preferred response.

"We'll talk to the others," Isobel said, "keep as many as we can from giving in. And you will ...?"

"Find a way to restore Astarion’s health, and after that, restore him to the throne." Halsin touched his index finger to his chin. "But Kagha's land must be dealt with first."

"And how will you do that?" Jaheira sipped her tea, standing with her hip against the counter much like Gale.

"I am unsure. As much as it pains me, I've done all I could, and still I was unable to discover the precise nature of the curse upon that land. The only way for us to do so would be for Astarion to examine it himself. No one else has the same connection to the land."

And that was the problem, wasn't it? Cazador must have known it would come to that.

"No," Gale said, "absolutely not. It's a trap."

"There is a good chance that it is, yes." Halsin interlaced his fingers and rested his chin onto his hands. "We will have to be careful."

Gale sucked in a breath to argue, the words already half-formed on the tip of his tongue—but who was he to speak when Astarion was right there?

His lungs deflated and he turned to face the fae.

"You know it's a trap, right?"

Slowly, Astarion nodded. His fingers found Tara’s ear and scratched behind it.

"I know. But I am not getting better, darling. I won't get better so long as whatever is causing this isn’t dealt with. We have no choice.”

Gale crossed the room to sit next to Astarion. His voice dropped to barely audible in a futile attempt not to be overheard by everyone else.

“No matter what happens, he won’t kill you, right? He needs you alive.”

“He needs me alive,” Astaron confirmed, and it should have been comforting. It would have been comforting had his eyes not glazed over, focused on something too far away to see. Had he not gone still as a statue, barely moving to draw breath.

“I believe we can adjourn this meeting,” Jaheira said into the heavy silence.

A chorus of hummed confirmation followed—and a shriek that pierced through it.

“There!” Isobel jumped to her feet, pointing at the kitchen windows. Gale followed her finger with his gaze, but all he could see were leaves tossed to and fro.

“I saw a face,” she managed. “It—it just disappeared.”

Ah. That sounded familiar enough by now.

“Was it a child?”

Isobel nodded. “A boy. Only, he didn’t look … right. He had … antlers, I believe? And half of his face looked so dark …”

Gale waved his hand. “He’s been about before, no need to worry.”

Isobel shook her head, but a shadow of a smile crossed her face as she said, “You keep strange company, Gale Dekarios.”

•~•~•~•

He found the letter after the ladies had decided to clear out, pressed between an advertisement for Domino’s and the power bill.

Ice encrusted his lungs before he could draw another breath, much less consider why Mystra might write again. His inhales turned shallow, uneven, his muscles locked up and yet his legs felt as unreliable as the weather.

What … What did she want?

With shaking hands, he pried one corner of the envelope open.

Took a breath, and pressed the corner back down.

Did he even have time to think about her now? Whatever she wanted from him wouldn’t change in a day or five. Meanwhile, he and Astarion and Halsin had to prepare for what was clearly a trap as best they could, because Astarion had been right—he wouldn’t get better. Which meant Gale would fill his pockets with salt and pray to any higher power that might listen, so that they might return home unharmed.

Taking time to deal with the letter was a luxury he couldn’t afford right now.

He threw it onto the kitchen table along with the rest of the post, and if he laid the Domino’s flyer on top of it, well, there was no need to stress Astarion out with this too.

•~•~•~•

The wind hadn’t eased up.

Gale threw one arm across his face to shield his skin from the tempest. His other hand remained tightly around Astarion’s as they trudged after Halsin all the way up High Street and then to the south towards the fields. At least in this weather, no one would even blink if they saw someone with their hood pulled low, so Astarion could hide his ears without arousing suspicion.

It also meant anyone else could hide their face without risking being recognised as a stranger in a small town, but there was nothing they could do about that.

The field that Halsin led them towards would have seemed like any other but for the strange aura that hung above it like winter smog on the Thames. Gale couldn’t quite describe it, and yet something in him perceived the difference well enough to set him on edge—a sense of rot and decay, the natural urge to run in the face of danger. Wind ripped at the hedge on their left, filled his ears and whipped his face, and he found himself clutching Astarion’s hand more tightly as his eyes darted this way and that. 

He couldn’t see anyone, but did that really mean anything? Did the hornbeam in the hedge sway from the wind or something more sinister? Could anyone be hiding in the growth, or was Gale being paranoid? Surely, surely, his skin was crawling for a reason?

He saw the tension in Halsin’s shoulders too, saw the apprehension in the way he looked about, the way even his ears seemed to twitch in an effort to catch anything over the wind. Perhaps he really could hear better—was that a fae ability? Gale should have asked Astarion …

The next gust of wind carried the sweetness of some unfamiliar flower with it—strange, that it could be smelled in this maelstrom … But the wind was no longer filling up all his senses, was it? He could hear something past its hungry howling. A … melody? Almost too soft to catch, as though someone was playing just out of reach, or perhaps it was merely hidden under the cacophony of the storm.

Why would someone play music out here?

Oh, but it was lovely, was it not? A moment of beauty amongst the terrors piling up on them, so it must have be all right to close his eyes and enjoy it …

“Gale!”

His name came from somewhere far, far away.

Who needed him now? Could he not enjoy the music in peace?

He found himself swaying with the melody, limbs moving almost on their own accord, as if he’d known the song in his bones already and remembered it at last. If he could only find the source, he could listen to it forever, stay happy forever …

“ Gale !”

Someone pulled at his hand, sending a shooting pain up his arm.

Who …? Why …?

He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt so heavy. That was … That wasn’t right, was it? The last time he’d been so exhausted, he’d nearly frozen outside and had woken up in bed with Astarion …

Astarion.

Where was Astarion? Hadn’t he been right there? With Gale?

Wasn’t that his hand he’d been holding?

His hand …

But the pain was fading away now, and Gale didn’t think anyone was holding his hand anymore.

If only he found the source of the music, everything would be—

No.

No, that wasn’t right.

The music he enjoyed was what he played on the old turntable in his and Astarion’s kitchen while they read by the fire. The music he enjoyed was the laughter that bloomed on Astarion’s lips, the moans that spilled from them as he arched his back in pleasure. Gale’s name from those lips, over and over and over, and this wasn’t right.

His eyes snapped open, and he found himself face to face with a mouth full of pointy teeth and glinting red eyes. A woman, a fae woman, stood mere feet from him, holding a flute to her mouth.

He blinked.

Where had she come from? How had they come to stand … in the middle of the field?

Before he managed to look around, something—someone—tackled him from behind. Pain shot through his knees as they hit the soil, and the air fled his lungs, forcing him to gasp. At least he could turn now, at least he could see …

Halsin in his bear shape tearing into two men—until a third managed to drive what looked like a spear into his side.

Astarion forced onto the ground, with a blade at his throat, bleeding into the dirt again as he’d done on the Halloween night that felt so long ago.

No, fuck, no, this wasn’t happening. Where had all these fae come from?

He reached into his pocket and grabbed a fistful of salt. Heedless of the pain, he tossed it over his shoulder—a scream rose behind him, the grip on his coat disappeared. He threw another handful towards the man behind Astarion, but the wind whipped it back into his face. The sting caused his eyes to water, and he rubbed at them on instinct.

Shit.

He heard Astarion’s voice, too muffled to make out the words.

Shit.

Maybe if he could stop the music … Maybe that was the root of all this …

Half-blind, he grabbed more salt and turned to face the woman—

Her lips moved. The melody moved with them, reaching out, caressing him—it was helping? Something wasn’t right, but what?

No, no, the music wasn’t—

But it soothed him, whispered comfort to him. He’d be all right if he only listened. If he just rested for a moment to gather his thoughts, then he could approach this with a clear head and figure it out …

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the wind had stilled. Halsin was bleeding into the earth back in his fae form, and Astarion was gone.

Chapter Text

A burn gathered behind Gale’s eyes. He blinked in a futile effort to chase it away, but it only made a tear trickle down his cheek.

He was lying prone on the ground, blinded by dirt and salt and tears, but he saw enough to understand that everything had gone very, very wrong.

Astarion was gone.

Shit. Shit .

His fist came down on the mud; the dull pain in his hand brought no relief, not when his chest felt as though it had caved in.

Astarion was gone .

Almost in slow motion, Gale felt his face twist, muscles moulded by the pressure he could no longer contain. A sob broke free, one long, agonising sound. Then it was gone, and some indescribable part of Gale with it.

He struggled onto his knees. Onto his feet. He staggered more than walked over to Halsin, fell back to his knees all too easily, and shook the fae by the shoulder.

“Halsin. Halsin!”

It earned him no response. One half of Halsin’s face was covered in blood and dirt, and his clothes were torn on his right side, the edges painted dark red.

Shit.

Gale tore away at the cloth, trying to assess the damage, but there was so much blood, too much blood … He tore the scarf from his neck instead, pushed against Halsin’s weight to get the fabric under him, and wrapped it around his torso. Blood smeared over his clothes as he dug his phone from his pocket, smeared over the screen as he unlocked it with clumsy fingers.

He needed help. There was no way he could get them both home on his own. His legs felt as reliable as candy floss, and Halsin …

Should he call an ambulance? Halsin looked human, at least, so a hospital might be best—

A grunt pulled his attention back to the fae.

Halsin blinked his eyes open. His head lolled from side to side, and he blinked again.

“Where …?”

Gale shook his head. “Gone.”

Halsin squeezed his eyes shut.

“Hold on,” Gale said, “I’ll call you an ambulance.”

“No … need.” The laboured breath Halsin sucked in through his nose undermined the words, as did his wince, and the hand flying to his side. Still he continued, “It’s nothing that won’t heal. Just need to get home.”

“And …” Gale swallowed. A knot had lodged itself in his throat, and he could barely breathe past it. “And Astarion? Where did they take him? Where do I find him?”

Halsin sighed; his breath hitched halfway. “You don’t.”

“But—I have to, I—we can’t leave him to that—that monster!”

“We won’t. But … we can’t go—nh—running after them without … a …”

Gale’s hands shook as he clutched the phone.

Damn it! Halsin was right, wasn’t he? Gale couldn’t do anything at the moment. If he went charging into the Wilds—if he could even enter the Wilds—he’d just lose his way and wander around until his mind failed him.

With a sigh, he unlocked the screen and dialled Jaheira.

•~•~•~•

“What the hell were you thinking?” Jaheira paced a trail in front of Gale’s sofa, one hand wrapped around herself as though she was trying to hold the emotions in. With the other, she gestured through the air. “Any number of us could have come with you.”

“Then you would have been at risk as well,” Halsin all but growled from the sofa where he was stretched out under one of Gale’s blankets. Jaheira had cleaned and bandaged his wound, and decided that, as Halsin was in no immediate danger of dying, he could now be told off.

“We would have outnumbered them.”

“Or you would have fallen prey to the music. What if they’d decided to take someone else too? Would you enjoy being a slave to the whims of a monster?”

Jaheira flung both hands out. “I could handle a fae!”

“You couldn’t handle Cazador! I couldn’t handle Cazador!”

The words hovered in the air for a moment before the reality of them came crashing down, and Gale found himself curling up even further on the kitchen chair.

If Halsin couldn’t go against Cazador …

“Then how are we going to rescue Astarion?”

Jaheira and Halsin turned to look at him almost in unison. The weight of their gazes—the pity in their eyes—made him look at his knees instead.

“I don’t know,” Halsin said quietly, all strength gone from his voice.

Gale’s stomach sank even further. There was no hope, was there? After all his talk, after all his attempts to keep Astarion safe, he’d proved himself useless and allowed Astarion to be dragged back to what may well be an eternity of abuse.

This couldn’t be how it ended. It wasn’t …

It just wasn’t fair.

And oh, he could have laughed at his own folly. Since when had life cared about fair? Had Mystra been fair to him? Had the University of Oxford been fair when they’d believed false accusations of plagiarism? Had it been fair of the universe to bring Astarion to his back yard, only to snatch him away so soon?

Had Astarion’s life been fair ?

He was a fool, and now he would spend the rest of his life wondering what Astarion was going through at any given moment. Was he locked away somewhere in the dark? Or forced to his knees at somebody’s feet? Had they replaced that horrible collar around his neck yet? Wrapped him in chains that bit at his skin and—

A hand on his shoulder made him jerk.

When had Jaheira walked over to him? He didn’t remember seeing her move, and he didn’t remember closing his eyes, but she was here now, and she opened her arms, and he found himself leaning into the hug.

“There’s got to be a way, cub,” she said as she stroked his hair. “Nobody is invincible.”

“I suppose,” he murmured, but it felt empty.

He felt empty.

“We’ll find a way.” Jaheira pulled back, and he missed the touch, missed the warmth, missed the option to get lost in Astarion’s arms.

Gods, could he not finish a single thought in his head without returning to Astarion?

“But whatever it is, it’ll probably be in the Wilds,” she continued and began rummaging through his cupboards. “Which means we need Halsin here to recover, so he can be the guide. I believe some blood should do it. Why don’t you let me take care of that and cook something that will aid his recovery in the meantime?”

He blinked. “Like … medicine? All I have is painkillers.”

Halsin threw him a look that he couldn't interpret, which usually meant he’d done something wrong.

(He’d let Astarion be taken.)

“Not medicine. Just something that you can cook.”

“Are you … hungry?” Because he could work with that. He could be useful.

“No, I’m—Gale?” The frown on Halsin’s face did not look promising. “You do know what I’m asking of you, correct?”

All right, he was missing something. But that didn’t matter. The heat creeping into his cheeks didn’t matter, any potential embarrassment didn’t matter so long he could figure it out in the end, and help Halsin get better, and somehow rescue Astarion—

He had to stop thinking about Astarion for one bloody second—

“Gale?”

“No.” He swallowed; it did nothing to make speaking easier. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Your cooking, cub,” Jaheira said.

Huh?

He heard the kettle click on behind him.

“What about my cooking?”

“It’s your kind of magic,” Halsin replied, at the same time as Jaheira said, “It makes people feel things.”

Gale felt himself frown. "Of course food can make people feel things, that's the point of good cuisine. It's supposed to do that."

A soft thump of mugs against the counter. "Not like that, cub. No one else can make a scone that will inspire people to find a job, or embark on an adventure. No one else can make food that tastes of joy."

"Your food carries intentions," Halsin said. "From what I’ve been able to piece together, it amplifies in the recipient that which you pour into it when you're making it. Which is why it's paramount that you wouldn't help out at a festival or another occasion if you didn't feel comfortable."

"I ..." Words refused to come forth, and Gale closed his mouth. Had that been the reason Astarion had enjoyed his food so much? He'd even mentioned that the food from the festival hadn't felt the same—had that been why?

"It's the fae in you," Halsin said, but that much Gale already understood.

Before he could stop himself, he found his hand rising to his chest, to his heart, held together by powers he did not understand. This magic, such as it was ... If it could instil emotion, could it meddle in the affairs of the heart? Had he ...

Had he somehow manipulated Astarion into everything?

No. No ...

But he'd been providing food since the beginning. Most meals the fae'd consumed in months had been prepared by Gale. Gods, what if Astarion wouldn't even have wanted to stay otherwise? What if Gale had lured him into his bed, and ... And ...

Bile rose in his throat.

That couldn't be, right? Gale hadn't ...

His heart hammered behind his breastbone.

“Have I …” He swallowed and tried again. “Have I made Astarion …?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Halsin said.

Gale snapped his gaze towards him. “How would you know? It’s vague fae magic, you can’t bloody know how it works!”

“I can feel its power working when I eat your food. It feels … kind. Natural. The sensation may be difficult to describe, but there is a difference between power that would seek to ensnare you or manipulate you and one that encourages you to feel what’s already there, much like a good friend.” Halsin sighed. “Could you use this ability for ill? Most certainly. And yet it would still only draw out what is already in someone’s heart.”

“Then how would I heal you?” Health was not an emotion .

“My body is already trying to heal.”

“That’s not …”

It wasn’t what? Logical? Perhaps not, but what part of fae was? It was all warped logic, things that almost made sense but remained stubbornly out of reach, like an itch he could only attempt to alleviate by scratching around it. And yet he’d managed to work with it—with the laws of hospitality and protection, with the entire world hiding in Astarion’s eyes. Perhaps he couldn’t figure this out by looking for logical fallacies, but he could trust Halsin, couldn’t he?

After all, he’d never cooked Astarion food in an attempt to provide an aphrodisiac. He'd just wanted Astarion to feel better, safer. Happier.

Slowly, he released his shirt and let his hand come to rest on his leg.

“All right,” he said. “All right. Suppose I have to trust you on this for now.” Because really, even if he had manipulated Astarion, his care for the fae was genuine. What mattered right now was rescuing him. If Gale was in the wrong, he could always let Astarion berate him after.

Even if Astarion chose to walk away when he found the truth, Gale couldn’t abandon him to Cazador.

“What do you need me to make?”

Halsin shifted, rolling a tad more to the side in what might have been an attempt to make looking at Gale easier. “Cook something. It does not matter what, so long as you wish for it to heal.”

With a nod, Gale rose from the chair. His body may as well have belonged to someone else; moving felt … strange. Distant. Then Jaheira was there, pushing a steaming cup of tea into his hands, and he felt the warmth seep into his palms and thought that, perhaps, he could do this.

For Astarion, he could do this.

•~•~•~•

The familiarity of the motions and scents steadied him. Cutting vegetables, pouring stock over sizzling onions, ensuring the heat didn’t go too high, those were all part and parcel of his life. Cooking for someone had become a joy. It had let him heal parts of himself that he’d buried in the past, and maybe it could heal someone else too.

It could heal.

In the background, he heard Jaheira and Halsin’s voices, hushed as she bled a little into a cup for the fae to drink, but that was not Gale’s concern. It may as well have been only him and the food, and his food would heal .

By the time he handed Halsin a bowl of chicken soup—the same his mother always made him when he’d fallen sick as a child—his hands had steadied. He returned to the kitchen chair while Halsin ate. Jaheira sat next to him, sharing the silence.

One spoonful. Two. Three. Ten.

Halsin placed the bowl in his lap and leaned back against the sofa with a sigh. A shudder passed through him.

“And?” Jaheira stood. “Is it working?”

“It is working.”

She crossed the room to Halsin. “How are you feeling?”

“It’s working.” There may have been a tad more colour in his cheeks. “I’ll be well soon.”

“How can you tell?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Let me try it.”

“It may be … a little strong for you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Jaheira said, plucked the bowl from Halsin’s hand, and brought a spoonful to her mouth.

Halsin looked at her. Gale turned to look at her too.

She blinked. Slowly, one corner of her lips curved upwards. “Well, I’ll be damned if that didn’t just alleviate my back pain better than half of Boots combined. That’s some strong fae magic you got there, cub.”

“Oh.” Gale crossed one leg over the other, then uncrossed them again. Fae power? Him? He’d never considered himself to have any kind of power, his intellectual capabilities aside. To think he could make medicine just by wanting to … Did that mark him as stranger than the rest of Coedpont, or would his talent be considered within the realms of normality? It seemed … dangerous. Powerful. Could he harm people if he wasn’t careful? Had he harmed people by being unaware of his fae magic?

He wanted to ask Astarion.

Wait. Perhaps …

“Could I use it somehow to help Astarion?” Not that he had any idea how a thermos filled with healing soup could get them past Cazador, but it might aid Astarion once they got to him. If they—

No, no, he had to believe they would find him. He had to.

“Perhaps.” Halsin slowly pushed himself into an upright position and held out a hand towards Jaheira to get the bowl. She returned it. “Astarion will most likely be somewhere in the castle. I should be able to enter it concealed in a wildshape, but leaving undetected with Astarion would be another thing entirely. Concealing a human may be a challenge as well.”

Gale’s heart sank. “I’m a liability.”

Because of course he was. Just a vulnerable human with no fae healing, no combat experience, and no powers that might actually prove helpful for infiltration.

“You’d be better off going on your own,” he added, even though the words tasted bitter on his tongue.

Halsin’s brows knit together. He touched the side of his chin with his thumb. “You may not be a fighter, but don’t write yourself off too quickly.”

Gale tried to believe him, tried to nod and smile, too, but he probably failed at all of those.

“I think …” he started, but he trailed off. What did he think? Picking the thoughts apart was becoming more and more difficult. Now that Halsin was no longer in danger of bleeding out, Gale just felt … exhausted.

Perhaps it was better this way. The fog settling over his senses dulled the sharp edges of loss and numbed the pulsing anxiety in his chest.

“I need to lie down for a bit,” he finished. Without much care for the nods he received in response, he dragged himself to the bedroom and closed the door. Tara was curled up at the foot of the bed; she raised her head at the interruption. The last of Gale’s strength drained from his limbs, and he collapsed onto the mattress like a stone plunging deep into a well.

The water closed above him.

•~•~•~•

Sleep refused to take him.

He lay motionless, as though tendrils of fog had crept in from the forest and wrapped around his limbs, his eyelids lowered enough to blur the room around him. He couldn’t move. Not that he wanted to—what would be the point? What could he do?

Nothing, that was what. He could do nothing.

Against the powers of the Wilds, he was nothing.

A tear slid down the side of his face; he could barely feel it drawing a path towards his temple. The mattress shifted next to him then, as Tara padded up to his side. She rested her front paws on his chest—the two spots of pressure felt like the first sensation he’d experienced in forever.

How much time had passed while he’d been lying here? The light had dimmed, the day tipping into twilight. It can’t have been long at all, and yet he might have sunk to the bottom of his own mind and rotted there for half a decade.

Tara nudged his chin with her nose, and he lifted his hand slowly to scratch her cheek with his knuckle.

“I’ve been a fool, haven’t I?” His voice felt too quiet, his bedroom too empty in Astarion’s absence. “Such a fool, tangling with the fae.”

From the first moment he’d laid eyes on that sad tree, he’d been a fool. Everyone else in Coedpont had managed to follow traditions—for a good reason. And there he’d gone, touching the untouchable, nearly eating the offerings, straying onto unknown paths after dark. If he’d watched himself in a movie, he would have screamed at himself to turn around, or at least berated his own folly.

But had it been folly to feel compassion for a dying land? Had it been folly to open his home to a hurt stranger?

Perhaps.

And yet, how could he not have? What good would it have done to pour cider on the ground in respect when the land personified laid bleeding in the dirt?

Who would he have been if he’d turned away?

He ran his hand down Tara’s back in one long stroke, and the next, and the next. A soft purr rumbled through her  chest. Gale could almost feel it travel up his arm; the sensation soothed him. His next breath came more easily, his lungs giving way as if they remembered they were meant to expand.

He could not have done anything differently. This was who he was—too curious for his own good, perhaps too trusting, too fast to care. If he could do it all over again, he would have retraced his steps exactly where he had left  footsteps the first time around. Whether he was useless or not, he could not stay at home while Astarion suffered, and perhaps that was the point. Perhaps it wasn’t about what he felt qualified to do, but what he chose to do anyway. 

“What do you think?” He brought his fingers under Tara’s chin. “This might be my most reckless idea yet.”

To the left.

He blinked. Why had he just thought that? What had …

Tara bumped his finger with her muzzle, and he scratched her chin again. Starting in the middle. Moving towards …

The left.

A louder purr rumbled in his ears. That was the spot, he somehow knew that.

He blinked at Tara.

Tara blinked at him.

It wasn’t quite that he heard the voice, at least not with his ears. It wasn’t quite that he could make out the words as such, but he knew, somehow, what they were meant to convey regardless.

Mr Dekarios, they seemed to communicate. A sense of approval, apparent enjoyment at the efforts of his fingers, and something more. Approval of … him?

Was he … Was Tara … talking to him?

How?

A wave of warmth washed over him. If a tear or two welled in his eyes, that was to be expected, considering he’d just been able to feel Tara’s affection for him. After everything they’d been through—his later years with Mystra, his divorce, his foolish, foolish foray into the Wilds—did she still think him enough?

Yes , he heard—felt—sensed, yes, and the tears slid down his temples and disappeared into his hair even as he wrapped his arms around Tara’s slender shape and held her close. Her purrs reverberated through his chest, melting the unfeeling ice, soothing pain in places he hadn’t even been able to feel. She pressed herself into him, shifted a little when he rolled onto his side and started to cry the tears that had been gathering in him for far too long.

No more words came to him, and yet he felt the comfort of her presence more acutely than ever before. Whatever strange fae magic was at work here, whether he had changed or Tara, words could not express how grateful he was for it.

Slowly, something softened—perhaps his muscles unlocked or his heart thawed, or perhaps it was something else. All he knew was that he’d ended up curled around Tara and he could breathe again and move if wished to. He could think again, and now that he could do that, he could no longer avoid the reality that he was, in fact, willing to do something incredibly foolish and dangerous to help Astarion.

Because …

Because he …

Well. Because he loved Astarion. Only … if he admitted that, then … Then that meant he and Astarion had been … in a relationship of a kind. It meant that he wanted to be in a relationship with Astarion, and—what if it became like his marriage with Mystra? What if he drowned in it?

His breathing sped up.

Shit.

No, no, he was no longer trapped in Oxford with her.

And yet, he was afraid.

Not of Astarion. Not even of Mystra, no, but of how easily she'd convinced him of his worthlessness. How easily he'd let himself be convinced. The thoughts he'd allowed himself to develop had left deep chasms in his mind, and slipping into them still occurred all too quickly.

He'd failed to recognise the slow descent into toxicity once—how could he be certain not to overlook it again?

Astarion was not Mystra, was nothing like Mystra, but even Mystra had been kind, once upon a time, or that was what he'd told himself. Who knew if he remembered things as they'd actually occurred or if he'd constructed the happy memories in his darkest times, so that he'd have something to hold on to.

How could he be sure of anything? Hadn’t he already isolated himself for a time, getting so lost in Astarion that he would have happily forgotten the rest of the world? But it was normal to fixate on a new love at the start, wasn’t it? And he’d noticed the isolation, he had , and he’d kept seeing other people still, and Astarion hadn’t so much as tried to stop him …

Astarion wasn’t Mystra. Astarion wasn’t Mystra.

Astarion wasn’t Mystra.

But Astarion had been right. Gale hadn’t dealt with the past so much as … moved away from it. Tried to put the miles between him and the shadows, tried to disappear so they could no longer reach him. He was better, of course he was better now—he’d worked on himself after all—but the thought of another commitment terrified him still.

If he acknowledged Astarion as his partner, then he acknowledged everything that could go wrong between them, and that wasn’t even counting all the complications that Astarion’s fae nature would introduce.

Would .

Oh gods, Gale still wanted this. Of course he wanted this. He was willing to risk his life for his messed up, skittish, magical fae prince, and if that didn’t scare him enough to stop him, could he really not get past his relationship-related fears?

Tara nudged his cheek, and he exhaled in a startled huff.

“You’re right.” He stroked between her ears. “I’m overthinking everything again, aren’t I?”

He felt a vague sense of confusion. Served him right for asking—what would Tara know of overthinking? What would any cat know? Were they not all instincts and focused on the present moment?

Perhaps that attitude would serve him better too. What mattered right now was finding a way to help Astarion. And … And to do so, to be able to direct his attention where it mattered, he needed to face the past once and for all, did he not? 

Yes, he was afraid. Yes, he worried about his future with Astarion, but none of that would improve if he continued to act like the turnip Astarion had accused him of being. It was time to pull his head out of the dirt.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Tara chirped quietly as he slipped from under her; she nudged his elbow with her forehead once before she curled up on his pillow instead. Of course. Of course she chose the pillow.

Halsin was still lying on the sofa when Gale emerged from the bedroom. His eyes were closed now, his chest rising and falling evenly.

“Feeling better, cub?” Jaheira looked up from the kitchen table. A book lay in front of her; she must have helped herself to Gale’s bookshelf.

“Mm-hmm.” He looked at where he’d left the pile of post earlier, but the table was empty except for Jaheira’s book, a half-full mug of tea, and the power bill. “Have you moved the rest of the post? It was right there before.”

“Oh, that. I spilled some tea over the top, so I threw it into recycling.” Wrinkles emerged between Jaheira’s eyebrows. “It was just ads, right?”

Had she not seen there was a letter? It should have been obvious, even with the Dominos ad over it, if she’s just looked —

He sighed. No point in getting upset, was there? He’d been the one to try and hide it among other things.

“There was a letter,” he said. “I’ll find it.”

 His back protested as he bent over the bag by the door and started rummaging through recycling. It didn’t take long; today’s post was right on top, paper sticking to paper. Careful not to tear anything, he pried the Domino leaflet from the envelope. 

A knot formed in his throat.

He had to deal with this, didn’t he? But it felt no easier this time. If only Astarion were here to—to—

But that was precisely why he had to face this. So he could have a future with Astarion without running away from the past all the time.

He took a deep breath, tore the envelope open, and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

The wetness had made ink bleed—in some places, he could see Mystra’s sharp cursive without unfolding the page, bits and pieces like home and you wouldn’t dare and backwater.

He swallowed, but the knot remained lodged in his throat. There was no possible reality where the contents of this letter were kind, was there? Even if Mystra had meant well, what she considered kindness, what she considered forgiveness, was not really kindness, nor forgiveness. And until she saw that, nothing would ever change. Gale would never return to her, and he would never want her to become part of his life again.

Did it really matter, then, what she’d written?

He may not have processed everything that she’d inflicted on him in the past, and he would have to accept that and work through it, but he did not have to deal with further bullshit from her anymore.

The invisible vice around his lungs loosened.

He was scared of messing up, and maybe that was okay. Surely Astarion was scared too, so maybe they could just be … scared together. Besides, Gale had managed to be brave before when he’d left Mystra. He could choose to be brave once more. Wasn’t the first step to conquering fear being able to name it?

Wait. 

What had Halsin told him the other day …?

The letter crumpled in his hand. With barely a thought to spare, he tossed the paper back into recycling and rushed to the sofa to shake Halsin awake.

Chapter Text

“Could we use someone’s name against them?”

Halsin blinked. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, then blinked again as his gaze focused on Gale’s face.

“What do you mean?” His voice was still rough around the edges from sleep.

“You said true names had power, right?” Gale straightened from where he’d been shaking Halsin’s arm to wake him up. A newfound bout of energy compelled him to move, so he began pacing in front of the sofa. “Could we use Cazador’s true name to defeat him?”

“That’s not …”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Halsin push himself upright.

“It’s not that simple.”

“But it could be done?”

Halsin sighed. “Theoretically.”

Gale stopped and turned to stare at the fae, taking in the frown on his face, the tight line of his lips—a very lukewarm response to a potential solution. He was missing something, wasn’t he?

“And in practice?”

“You must understand that such a thing is unheard of. Our true names are something we’re born with and we do not share them even with our families.”

“So no one knows Cazador’s name except Cazador himself?” That would indeed render the idea useless …

“The spirits of the Wilds know, but they do not hand them out like sweets. To seek another’s name—to gain such power over someone else—it is all but unthinkable amongst the fae.”

“And yet there are plenty of stories teaching mortals to beware of revealing their name to a fae,” Jaheira said from the kitchen table. Her torso tilted towards them slightly, and her forehead creased.

 “You are correct, of course.” Halsin bowed his head. “It is taboo among fae, but perhaps in this case … Considering what Cazador has done …” His hands clenched into fists. “If anyone deserves it, it is he.”

Gale swallowed. “We just need to restore Astarion to the throne, yes? If we can use Cazador’s true name to make him withdraw his claim, we should take advantage of that.”

Perhaps that way, they would avoid needless casualties as well. Oh gods, what if it turned into a bloodbath? Gale didn’t want to kill anyone. He didn’t want Astarion or Halsin or anyone to cause more deaths. Halsin had already murdered a fae, and no matter how much Gale tried to compartmentalise and justify it as a fae matter that didn’t concern humans, he couldn’t support any more violence than absolutely necessary.

He shook his head to dismiss the thought. Getting caught up in internal debates on morality wouldn’t help Astarion, and it wouldn’t help Gale himself. All he had to do was somehow get through this without committing acts that wouldn’t let him live with himself later. Everything else meant he was overthinking while he should be focusing on how , exactly, to obtain Cazador’s name in the first place. Besides, it wasn’t like he was physically capable of inflicting harm on anyone anyway.

“We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves,” Halsin said. “Cazador certainly won’t tell us his true name.”

“You said spirits knew.” Jaheira came to stand beside Gale. “I will ask the dream visitors.”

Halsin shook his head. “They won’t know. Only the spirits of the land itself, the ancient ones, have been around long enough to possess this knowledge.”

“Like the one I’ve been seeing?” Gale asked.

Halsin nodded once, slowly. “...Like the one you’ve been seeing.”

“Hmm.” Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. It seemed almost too convenient that a spirit they now needed had been appearing in his backyard for months. His belief in coincidences had been thoroughly shaken by this town—there must have been something more to it than mere chance. “Have you ever discovered who he is?”

“I have a theory. It will be impossible to know for certain unless we interact with him, but he may be the missing spirit of the Wilds themselves.”

Gale frowned. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jaheira wearing a similar expression. “Is there only one?”

“No, no, there are many, but there is one that is a … personification of the Wilds, so to say. Thaniel is his name, and he has been rather absent in the last century or so.”

“So why is he here now?” Jaheira asked, and wasn’t that the question?

•~•~•~•

Gale dug his hands into his coat pockets and focused on the candles flickering in the night. Halsin knelt in the dirt in front of them, placing an array of things in a circle: a bowl filled with water from a stream in the forest, sweetened with sugar and honey; a bouquet of daffodils and the earliest of bluebells; a small bottle of elderberry wine; a snow-white feather that could have well belonged to a bird of the Wilds.

For a moment, Gale wondered what his neighbours would think if they observed what looked like some kind of a summoning ritual—what was a summoning ritual—in his backyard. Then reality caught up with him, and he shook his head. Jen would sooner join him than judge, though perhaps she would remark upon the misalignment of flowers or somesuch.

He heard Halsin murmuring in a language that he didn’t understand. The candles flickered in a non-existent breeze, and then a shape flickered with them, barely more than a ripple on the air.

Gale found himself holding his breath.

The silhouette flickered into view again, more solid this time—a boy who almost seemed made of two halves. One half with white hair, one with dark. One half with a curved horn, one with an antler. A strange decay marred his cheek.

“Are you Thaniel?” Gale asked.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Halsin snap his head towards him, as though speaking out of turn was a breach of protocol—and perhaps it was. The boy turned to him, pinned him down with eyes, one brown, the other glowing a pale blue. They felt too ancient for his childlike form, and so piercing they may have well seen straight to the depths of Gale’s very being.

Slowly, the boy nodded.

“We’re …” Gale’s voice faded to nothing. He found himself trembling and struggling to move his tongue, which suddenly felt far too heavy in his mouth. Was he afraid? Perhaps, but far more than that he felt … awe. Those eyes held more than Astarion’s, more than he could comprehend, and he felt himself reduced to a child who’d foolishly tried to hold the whole world in his hands.

“We seek aid,” Halsin said. “We would save these lands by reinstating their chosen ruler to the throne, but we are outmatched.”

Thaniel looked at Halsin for a moment before he turned back to Gale. His mouth opened; no sound came out. Instead, he flickered like an old television, and Gale found himself reaching out on instinct, as if that could prevent the spirit from slipping away with its answers. His hand passed through Thaniel’s elbow. Panic clawed at his throat—if Thaniel disappeared, any hopes of finding Cazador’s name would slip through his fingers as well, and then how was he supposed to help Astarion?

The image of Thaniel’s body reformed, his fingers reaching towards Gale’s outstretched hand only to pass right through it. A shadow passed his mismatched eyes as he pressed his lips together in a tight line. For a moment, he seemed frozen. Then his gaze bored into Gale with an intensity that knocked the breath out of his lungs.

The world faded around Gale. He may as well have been pinned down under a microscope, unable to hide, unable to do so much as move a muscle. Was this what it felt like to be truly seen? To be known so completely that nothing remained hidden, not his innermost thoughts, not his insecurities, not even the memories he himself had half forgotten?

Thaniel’s lips moved again, shaping what may have been an ‘aah’ sound.

“I can’t hear you,” Gale whispered; he barely heard his own words, but his vocal chords could not manage anything louder than that. His throat felt too tight. Useless.

Thaniel tried again, again, until his brow wrinkled, and his lips pursed, and he shook his head. Slowly, he raised his hand, his index finger extended, and began to draw in the air. A line upwards, a curve to the right …

He flickered.

Gale reached out on instinct, futility be damned, but Thaniel did not reappear.

Stillness released Gale from its iron grip, and he sank onto his knees. He registered Halsin at his side, his large hands preventing him from tipping forward, but more than that, he was busy breathing again. The world felt suddenly alive—the quiet rustling of leaves, a dog barking somewhere in the distance, a faint scent of wet leaves on the breeze.

"Gale, are you well?"

He nodded. His eyes managed to focus on Halsin again.

"Well enough," he said. "That was ... an experience. I'd thought looking into Astarion’s eyes was intense, but Thaniel ... He felt ancient. All consuming."

"The spirit is as old as the Wilds." Halsin withdrew his hands. "Anyone would find an encounter with him intense. However, he appears to be weakened."

"You mean the flickering?"

"Everything. The inability to speak, that sense of decay... That's not the Thaniel I know."

Gale pressed his palms against his thighs and slowly rose to his feet. "Is it connected to Astarion and his land dying? Is that why I've been seeing Thaniel this entire time?"

"I can only guess." Halsin began to pick up the offerings and place them into a basket. "It very well could be, although I cannot tell why he's chosen to show himself to you in particular."

A shrug. Perhaps that wasn't even true. Jen had noticed Thaniel before, so for all Gale knew, the spirit could have been appearing elsewhere in town and gone ignored—staying out of fae business seemed to be the preferred approach. In any case, he had more important matters to worry about.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"There is but one thing I can think of." Halsin's words carried a gravity that set Gale on edge. "We head to the Wilds and hope that Thaniel will be stronger on the other side. I believe that's what he tried to tell us by drawing a tree."

A tree. Of course ...

"The hawthorn is a doorway," Gale murmured, mostly to himself, but Halsin nodded anyway.

"The hawthorn is a doorway."

•~•~•~•

They gathered around the table, mugs of steaming tea clasped in their hands. It was becoming a habit, Gale supposed. Not that it solved anything, but at least it gave him something to do instead of sitting in silence and staring at his companions. Jaheira might have thought the same, seeing as that had been the third time today she’d put the kettle on.

Outside, heavy clouds obscured the stars. Had it really only been this morning that Astarion’s hand had been clasped in Gale’s? It felt far longer than that, as though Gale had stepped into some strange portal and emerged into a different reality.

He rested his elbows onto the table and buried his face into his hands.

The Wilds. They were going to the Wilds … Six months ago, he hadn’t believed in fae at all. Six months ago, he had been a different person. Gods, who would have thought he’d ever—

A loud banging yanked him from his thoughts, and he snapped towards the door. Beside him, Halsin and Jaheira stilled.

Slowly, Gale rose to his feet, eyes darting back and forth to find anything that could double as a weapon. He settled on the poker by the fireplace.

Iron. Good.

Halsin nodded, and Gale crossed the room to grab the weapon—it dug into his skin, his knuckles paling. With his heart hammering away in his chest, he crept towards the door as quietly as he could. His hand trembled as he reached for the knob, the poker raised high.

One last breath.

He pulled the door open and froze mid-swing, staring at a pair of wide eyes.

“Please don’t hurt me!” The man at the door staggered backwards.

“Oh.” Gale let his arm drop; the poker came to rest against the doorstep. “It’s you.”

The man from Jaheira’s bakery. What had been his name again? Ronald?

“It’s me.” His eyes flitted to the poker and back to Gale’s face. He wrung his hands. “We met the other day, and … Look, I’ve got news that someone should hear, but I couldn’t find Jaheira, and I didn’t know who else to turn to. I can see that you’re busy though”—another glance at the poker—“so I’ll just … wait for her to open up tomorrow …”

"Oh, stay put, Rolan." Jaheira’s voice came from behind Gale's back. A moment later, she slipped into the spot next to him. "The poker isn't for you."

Rolan—of course, that was his name—shook his head. "I don't even want to know."

"That is a coward's way out. If your boss keeps doing what he's doing, it will be your problem too."

"Do you think I don't know that? I never should have taken this job ..." Rolan dragged a hand through his hair. "Listen, you need to hear this. Lorroakan signed a contract with Thorm. He wants to make a point—I overheard him talking on the phone about ripping out some tree."

"That's impossible." Gale could hear the frown in Jaheira's voice. "Isobel wouldn't sell."

"Maybe not, but her father did."

Gale frowned and turned to Jaheira and back to Rolan. "Isn't he ... not quite right in the head? Is that legal?"

Rolan shrugged. "I'm sure Isobel can get it revoked," he said, at the same time as Jaheira remarked, "Try explaining to the government that your father's been taken by the fairies and you need to become his carer now."

Rolan gestured at her with an open hand. "The point is, by the time the legal knot gets untangled, your tree will be gone and the land half-covered in concrete. I gather the hawthorn is important."

Gale nodded. If Lorroakan had it destroyed, could anyone still cross into the Wilds? Surely there had to be other doorways, but where? How far away?

"How much time do we have?" Halsin's voice came from the back.

Rolan rubbed the back of his head. "Normally, months. Lorroakan still needs the surrounding land, and then he'd need to obtain a permit to build. But he's grown obsessed with this place. Not that he was a nice man before, but I’ve never seen him like this. He's ... Well, I reckon he's not used to being rejected quite so fiercely and doesn't know how to take no for an answer."

"Do you really think he'd waste his time on chopping down a tree?" Gale asked. Surely Lorroakan had better things to do.

Rolan shrugged. "If he knows it's important? He'd do it out of spite."

The cold evening air was beginning to nip painfully at Gale's skin; he let the poker rest against the door frame and wrapped his arms about himself. Perhaps he should invite Rolan inside to avoid letting the cold in, but he didn't trust the man yet, and opening up his house to anyone who could pose a danger to Astarion was not an idea he was willing to entertain.

"You don't like him very much, do you?" he said instead.

"No." A corner of Rolan's lips twitched upwards, but his eyes held no traces of humour. "No, I don't like him much at all."

“Can you help us?”

“I suppose I …” He trailed off, lips still parted around the last sound. Something shifted in his eyes, and he took a deep breath—Gale could see his chest rise even through the coat. “I’ll have a look at the contract when I can, but it may take time.”

“Bugger.” Gale noticed Jaheira move from the corner of his eye. A few seconds later, she reappeared, wrapping her jacket around herself. “I need to talk to Isobel. If no one sells to Lorroakan, we can pry this land from his grasp in time, but the only way to truly convince everyone is to ensure the land prospers again. And for that …”

“We need Astarion on the throne in the Gate,” Halsin finished.

Jaheira nodded. The light from the living room cast stark shadows on her face as she found Halsin’s gaze. “You two go find him. I’ll make sure the hawthorn tree remains standing if it’s the last thing I do.”

A strange expression passed Halsin’s eyes, and Gale felt the sudden urge to look away.

“I’d rather it wasn’t,” the fae said.

“So would I.” Jaheira zipped her jacket and tugged the collar up. “Come back soon.”

Halsin took a step towards her, then halted. “Give us two days. If we’re not back by then, try to keep everyone from harm as best you can.” A pause. “That includes you too.”

A shadow of a smile appeared on Jaheira’s face. “It’ll take more than a knobhead with an overinflated ego to keep this old woman down.”

Halsin opened his mouth, but she turned and disappeared into the darkness before any words came out. He closed it again, his lips settling in a grim line.

Gale broke the silence. “I take it we’re leaving soon,” he said; a knot had formed in his throat, reducing the volume of his words to something small and fearful. No matter. He could be scared and still see this through.

Halsin nodded. “Let’s get some sleep. We’re leaving before dawn.”

“Leaving where?” Rolan asked.

Gale turned towards him. “The Wilds,” he said, picked up the poker, and closed the door in the other man’s face.

He’d let in enough cold air already.

•~•~•~•

 Isobel was pacing in front of the hawthorn tree, a slight shadow against the coming dawn. The crispness of the air that cut into Gale’s skin had turned her cheeks apple red above her thick woollen scarf. The harsh wind from the day before had picked up again, whipping her hair back and forth. Aylin was standing by the tree, too, a picture of stillness in contrast to Isobel’s motion. At their approach, she raised her hand in greeting.

“What are you doing here?” Gale yelled over the howling of the wind. He stopped a few steps away, with Halsin at his side.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” She stopped pacing and turned to face them. “Jaheira told me what happened. I cannot believe that my father did this. I cannot believe it! He should know not to mess with the fae.”

“Perhaps he sought revenge of some kind,” Halsin said.

“I’ll have words with him.” Isobel shook her head—Aylin placed a hand on her shoulder. “So many words. But first, we’ll make sure to keep this doorway standing for the both of you, so you can put the Wilds to rights.”

Gale felt his throat seize up; it had been happening too often to count in the last two days.

“Thank you,” he managed.

Isobel took a step towards him, and then another. She slipped her hands from her pockets and took hold of Gale’s. “Astarion seemed lovely, so I hope for his sake that you succeed. But I know, too, that this concerns all of us. The very equilibrium between our two worlds might be at stake. I cannot help you in the Wilds, but know that my blessing goes with you. All of our hearts go with you.”

What could he say to that? The right words eluded him, so he nodded. When she squeezed his hands, he squeezed back. Then her grip disappeared, replaced by Halsin’s hand on his forearm that tugged him towards the tree.

He swallowed. A gust of wind blew in his face, forcing him to blink as his eyes watered. With his free hand, he adjusted the straps of his backpack—Halsin had told him to pack light, and he’d tried, but the weight was still more than he was used to carrying.

The fae pressed his large palm flat against the trunk of the tree. One of the branches tangled into his hair.

“Ready?” he asked.

Gale didn’t feel ready, but he nodded anyway. “What do we do?”

“Normally, a human would have to fall asleep under the tree to cross over.”

He blinked. “You want me to lie down and have a nap?”

Halsin shook his head. “We don’t have the time for that. Luckily, I can pass into the Wilds whenever I want. Close your eyes and try to breathe. And whatever you do, don’t try to pull your hand free. There are many paths in the In-between where you could get lost.”

Close eyes, don’t let go.

“Got it.” He could do that. He could. If his hand shook in Halsin’s grip, nobody could tell it wasn’t from the cold.

With a deep breath, he closed his eyes.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then he felt himself pulled forward slowly while pressure closed around his body, as if he were being dragged through honey. Instinct had him hold his breath. He didn’t dare to open his eyes even if he risked tripping and falling. It was all he could do to keep moving. Halsin’s pull on him made an ache bloom in his shoulder, in his arm, in his lungs as they began to burn—

The pressure disappeared.

“Breathe,” he heard, and he gasped for air; it seemed somehow sweeter, richer, as though he’d been feeding his lungs porridge his whole life and finally granted them a taste of rich, buttered croissants.

“You can open your eyes now.” Halsin’s voice came from his right.

Gale did. He found himself standing on a gravel path that had ceded sizeable chunks to vibrant green grasses. Their long blades swayed in a gentle breeze and bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Gale found himself tilting his face towards its light, its gentle warmth—it felt so much like a lover’s caress. If he did nothing but bask in its light and breathe this clear, nurturing air for eternity, he would still spend his days content.

Halsin tugged him forward. “Come. We must keep moving.”

“Is this the Wilds?” It was so lovely here, so lovely …

“Yes and no. It’s not your world, but it’s not any of the fae realms either. Think of it as an In-Between—a hallway, if you will.”

Halsin’s voice seemed to float on the breeze, dancing with the grasses. Gale found himself reaching out as if the words were a butterfly he could catch—

“Focus!” Halsin’s grip tightened around his hand.

Gale shook his head and blinked. What had he been doing, chasing imaginary butterflies? His thoughts had transformed into a hazy, swirling mass, and grasping at the right threads required effort, but grasp it he did.

“Is this some kind of magic?”

“Some kind,” Halsin echoed. “This is the place where all paths meet. You’ll feel better once we cross into the realm proper.”

“This place … could lead us to anywhere in the Wilds? And anywhere in my world?”

“In theory. But not all paths lead true, and some may take too long to be worthwhile. If the hawthorn tree falls, we can make use of other doors, but we may not be back in time for it to matter. Worse still, tearing down a doorway may cause a rift.” He paused. “No good will come of dwelling on such grim possibilities. Come. The sooner we leave here the better.”

Gale nodded even though Halsin had already turned and began to lead the way. Where they would find all those paths the fae had just mentioned, he didn’t know—there was only one gravel road as far as the eye could see, only blankets of grass on gently rolling hills. Still he said nothing. The more he talked, the more they might delay, and any delay kept him from Astarion longer and longer. Asking questions with no answers was certainly not worth it.

There was a road, and grass on either side, and then there were trees that he didn’t remember seeing from the distance, with a trail emerging from the right, and another from the left, and another from somewhere he was pretty sure was not a direction at all.

Halsin chose a path Gale hadn’t noticed at all, a narrow strip of worn dirt between proud tangles of brambles that bore an uncanny resemblance to the bushes in Gale’s backyard. They sought their footing among thorns, following the winding trail ever closer to a thick bush of rowan trees that loomed in the distance, poised to swallow them. A shudder ran down Gale’s spine, and he forced himself to take a deep breath and roll his shoulders back as much as he could with his hand still firmly in Halsin’s grasp.

He could deal with worse than eerie woods. For Astarion, he could.

He released the breath, and something shifted—the land breathing out with him, or an inexplicable change in the currents of time and space. He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. The brambles seemed to pull back, relinquishing their grip on the trail. The rowans straightened, or perhaps they shifted their leaves to allow the ever-setting sun to filter through.

Halsin’s grip disappeared, and blood came rushing back into Gale’s hand.

“Welcome to the Wilds,” the fae said, and Gale nodded as he took it all in.

It was the same path. It was an entirely different path.

It was the path that he chose.

Chapter Text

Dirt compressed under the soles of Gale’s shoes, over and over and over, following Halsin’s trail. The rowan trees had swallowed them what felt like months ago, closing in above them.

Time flowed differently in the Wilds, Astarion had said, and perhaps space did too. Gale counted the distance in colours: golden rays of the setting sun piercing the canopy as though it were following the travellers; vibrant greens darkening to an odd, sun-lit night; the palette of different hues sucked away to reveal a world of green-tinged greyscale.

“Charming place.” He lifted one leg and then the other to step over a large, crooked root crossing the path.

Halsin stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. His expression darkened much like the forest around them—his brows drew closer, lips pressed together, the lines around his mouth growing deeper. For a moment, Gale thought his ears had lengthened and tapered to a point. Then he blinked, and Halsin appeared just as human as he had been in Coedpont.

But that was an illusion, wasn’t it?

“You don’t have to hide, you know?” Gale gestured in the general direction of Halsin’s face. “You can just be … you.”

“I’ve worn many shapes. They are all me.” Halsin turned and continued on, stepping over another root with ease. Gale would swear the plants had been becoming more obstinate since the colour had begun to fade.

“I mean the ears and the pointy teeth and all that. Wouldn’t it be better if you look like a fae? In case we encounter someone?”

“Worry not, no one would mistake me for a human. Besides, I doubt we’ll run into anyone here.”

“Ah. And where is here?” Another root. Gale had to lean onto the bark with his hands to climb over it; the bark shivered under his touch, and he withdrew, stumbling in his rush to get away.

Halsin caught him by the elbow. “We’re going to Thaniel’s grove. I’d imagined the lands around here would be abandoned, but I hadn't thought they’d be so …”

“Spooky?” Gale found his balance again.

“Drained. And yet, they are alive.” Halsin paused.

Gale followed his gaze to a snaggle of roots in their path. They reached as high as his shoulders.

“This can’t be normal,” he muttered. “I swear these weren’t here before when I looked ahead at the path.”

Halsin shook his head. “No, they were not. This way.” He turned to the left and started pushing his way through thick roots and thorny leafless brambles.

With a sigh, Gale adjusted the straps of his backpack, and followed on aching feet. That was the price he paid for his sedentary lifestyle filled with homemade scones. Although he supposed even seasoned walkers wouldn’t be trained for roots that did their best to trip them up, and brambles tearing at their clothes.

“How long have we been at this?” His voice sounded distant to his ears, as if it were coming from outside him.

“We’ll know when we’ve finished.” Was Halsin as far away as he sounded? “It feels long now, but it will probably feel like less afterwards.”

Gale blinked.

Right. Time flowed strangely. The paths flowed strangely. He had been fine minutes ago, and now he could barely keep himself upright. A heaviness had settled in his limbs and pulled them down down down—if he just rested for a moment, he could carry on more easily afterwards …

The vegetation forced them to take another sharp left, as if …

“Are we going in circles?” he mumbled.

“Yes.” Still so far away … “Normally I can find old paths without too much trouble, but this … The woods seem … angry. Starving. They do not listen.”

“Okay. I just need to … We’ve been walking and walking, I just need to sit down for a moment.”

Only a few paces away he spotted an opening in the brambles. Great, that was great, he could sit without getting shredded in the process. How convenient of the woods to grant him a moment of reprieve …

“We should keep moving.”

Halsin’s voice floated on the air as Gale lowered himself slowly to stop the ache in his back from worsening. A sigh escaped him. That was better already. He stretched his legs out—had the brambles retreated further? The spot had not been this large …

“Gale!”

A strong grip forced his face to tilt upwards.

He blinked. Halsin’s scars came into focus for a moment.

“I’m not feeling so well,” he said, or tried to say—the sounds blurred together.

“Try to stay awake.” Halsin’s hands withdrew, which was a pity. Staying upright felt so much more difficult without support, but some remaining part of his reason understood that this wasn’t normal. It was the Wilds playing a trick on him. Just a trick, and it would all be all right if he could only persevere. It had to all be all right …

“Release him!” he heard Halsin speak, low and dangerous, a bear growling before a fight. “He is under my protection. Release him!”

Was it because he was human? Did the trees move at the will of some sinister master behind them, or were they  themselves trying to entrap him, recognising an intruder? It would be almost poetic, wouldn’t it? A forest showing a human who truly was the mightier.

He tried to blink again, and found he could clear his vision now and keep his eyes open.

“Whatever you’re doing”—he turned around to find Halsin—“it’s work … ing … Oh.”

He found the fae with ease, but he found a wall of roots too, weaving higher even as he looked. No, not a wall. A cage. Halsin stood with his hands against it. His lips were moving still, but Gale couldn’t hear a sound.

“What now?” he asked.

At first, he thought Halsin wouldn’t respond. Then he turned with a sigh. “We rest. Eat, drink, just don’t sleep. I will try to bargain a way out.”

Gale nodded. His joints would appreciate a reprieve, at least. And what then? If Halsin failed … No. No. No use catastrophising. All he could really do was follow the suggestions, so he unwrapped a sandwich, but the food felt bland. Faded. He put it back in the pack and downed some water instead.

How long until they ran out of their rations?

No, no, present moment. Present moment. He closed his eyes and slowly dragged air into his lungs. In, two, three, four.

A quick peek told him Halsin had gone back to standing unmoving by the roots.

Out, two, three, four.

In.

Out.

In.

That was better.

Out.

A sound caught his attention—a crunch of a cracked twig?

His eyes snapped open, but Halsin hadn’t moved. Perhaps he’d imagined it.

Another crunch. Was he hearing ... footsteps?

"Ahh." A rich timbre floated from … behind him? Beside him? "A pair of sneaking mice, trapped in a snare."

Gale spun around, but all he could see were Halsin and the tangled roots all around them. Somehow, the voice seeped through the gaps, engulfing them both.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My, my, so bold of you to ask my name. But how you have grown."

Right. He'd been foolish in voicing that thought, but this newcomer ... Did he know Gale?

"I believe you have me at a disadvantage." He threw what he hoped was a questioning look at Halsin, but the latter only shook his head.

The stranger chuckled—soft, rhythmic sounds that came slowly, as though he meant to enjoy every second of them.

"How astute of you to notice," he said. "You are a human trapped in the Wilds."

Gale dug his fingernails into his palms. If Halsin didn't know this man, he couldn't be Cazador, but any number of fae might be working for him and keeping them from Astarion.

"Is this your doing, then?" he ground out through his teeth.

“Oh my, no.  I have no taste for such crude methods of attracting company.  But life pulses in your thundering heart, and the land is hungry … Though I must admit, this predicament of yours has been rather entertaining.  So I chose to put you out of your scrabbling misery and grant an audience, lest you wander even deeper into shadow and strife.”

That ... That person couldn't be Thaniel, could he? But then ... why would he think Gale desired an audience? If they were an envoy from Cazador, did that mean they knew what Gale and Halsin had come to do and had been sent to intercept them?

Halsin spoke before Gale could decide on the best course of action.

"We seek nothing from you. We want nothing from you, so you cannot take anything from us."

"Has no one taught you not to barge into a conversation like a bear in heat?" The stranger’s voice felt so close now that Gale twitched and spun around again, trying to spy the source in a hopeless game of hide and seek.

"Let the human speak. Gale, is it not?"

A sliver of ice lodged itself in Gale's lungs. Who was this man, this ... predator, to know his name?

He swallowed. "It is." A pause. "Should you not tell me your name in return?"

"Ah, ah, ah! It was not you who revealed your name to me, and it is not my name that you have come to seek."

Gale's nails dug little crescents of pain into his palms. "No."

"You speak with honesty, at least. But let us cut right to the chase—a bargain struck, not even I can nullify. A life to save a life, that was the deal, and I do not possess the power to return it. Go home now, little mouse. Go home and live.”

“What bargain? Who are you?”

For a moment, the forest remained silent. Then came the voice, soft as the steps of a cat on the prowl.

“Could it be that I have misjudged your purpose? You have not come to learn about your father?”

His father?

“What?” The sound was more an exhale than a word. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Halsin shaking his head, but his lips were already moving. “What do you know of my father?”

“Oh my.” A chuckle. Heat burst through Gale’s chest. “You know even less than I imagined. I possess the answers to the questions that wouldn’t let you sleep when you were young. What happened to him? Did he ever love you? Why did your mother never speak a word of him?”

Pressure built in his throat. He found his hand rubbing at his chest before he could stop himself.

“Gale, don’t say anything.” Halsin’s palm rested on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. 

His fingers dug into his own sternum. “This power, this magic … Is it yours?”

“You could say so. But even I cannot grant life from nothing. Your father understood that.”

Half-formed thoughts swirled at the edges of his awareness, pieces ready to slide into place. If only he didn’t feel so … so crushed. Pressure in his chest, pressure in throat, in his mind. His heartbeat throbbed through his entire being.

Thud. Thud.

His tongue stuck to his palate.

Thud .

He saw Halsin’s hand close around his forearm, but he couldn’t feel it.

“You're lying.” He wanted to shout, but his throat barely gave voice to his words. “I would have remembered you. I would have remembered.”

A chuckle slipped through the roots, smooth and yet abrasive like sandpaper against his ears. “You were yet to be born, little mouse.”

“You’re lying.” Thud thud thud. “My father didn’t die before I was born. I remember his funeral. You’re lying, you’re lying, you’re lying—”

That same chuckle floated around him for a moment longer—was it a moment? He couldn’t tell anymore, he couldn’t tell—before the gaping maw of silence closed around it, and Gale was left with nothing but the beating of his own patched-up heart.

Thud. Thud thud.

“Gale?”

He shook his head, or he thought he did. He meant to.

Strong hands gripped him and guided him onto the ground. A water bottle appeared in front of his face—he took it and drank. Cold rushed down his throat, flushing away something invisible.

“He was lying.” His tongue moved slowly, too clumsy, too heavy for its job. “He was lying, right?”

“I don’t believe he was,” Halsin said. “I’m sorry.”

“So …” Gale clutched at his sternum, digging his fingertips in as if he could reach past skin and bone and pluck out that magic that had changed his life so. “...My father died to save my life?”

The image of his mother crying rose unbidden. Smudged mascara under her eyes. Gale’s tiny hand clutched in hers. He couldn’t remember feeling any pain for the person they’d lost, but the sadness he’d seen in his mother’s face had made his chest ache.

It was all his fault, wasn’t it?

He was the reason for the sorrow that had left his mother’s shoulders bent.

He was the reason his father had died.

He and his useless heart.

“I should have died.” His voice cracked. “I should be dead. Gods, I should be dead.”

“That’s not—”

“No wonder my mother never told me.” Distantly, he realised he was swaying back and forth, but what did it matter if Halsin thought him odd? What was a little strangeness compared to the weight of his father’s life? And his mother? Had she truly succumbed to a heart attack? Her death couldn’t have been some belated price to pay, right? Right?

“Breathe with me,” Halsin said, and his voice sounded so calm and soothing that, for a moment, Gale wanted to cut his knuckles on his teeth. Fuck breathing, fuck Halsin—Gale was supposed to be six feet under, and here he was, living a stolen life, and he was supposed to breathe?

“ Fuck!” His nails dug into his palms; the burn reached all the way to the back of his eyes. “Fuuuuuck!”

“Will you permit me to hold you for a moment?”

He snapped his head up, his lips already curling around a ‘no’, but … What did he want right now? He wanted Astarion, wanted to feel Astarion’s arms holding him, wanted to smell his own shampoo on Astarion’s hair.

He just wanted Astarion, so he had to go get Astarion, and for that, he had to pull himself together.

Slowly, he nodded.

Halsin hugged the way Gale imagined a bear might, size and warmth and all. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Breathe,” came the instruction again, and this time he did.

“We don’t have time for this,” he muttered as soon as his lungs stopped constricting. “We have to find Astarion.”

Halsin sighed and pulled back. “We have nothing but time. I still need to find a way to bargain with the forest.”

In Gale’s opinion, that proved that their current predicament should take priority over an emotional meltdown, but he didn’t voice the sentiment. What would be the point? At least solving the mystery of the obstinate roots would give him something to focus on, so that he could postpone questioning his entire existence until some undetermined time in the future.

“Could we summon Thaniel here to help us?”

“No.” Halsin shook his head as he got to his feet. “Summoning a spirit across the boundary can be done easily enough. Requesting their presence on this side, where they truly exist, is a different story. We need to get to the Grove where he resides.”

There went that idea then.

Gale stood as well. He reached out to touch the roots at his side. “I don’t suppose they’d let us climb out?”

“Hmm.” Halsin tapped his chin with his index finger. “I could assume a wildshape and fly out, but that would still leave you trapped.”

Right. “I told you I was a liability, didn’t I?” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. Why had nobody listened? Halsin could have gone alone and reached the city by now. Instead, he was stuck here with Gale, who’d just found he should have died long ago.

All right, perhaps he hadn’t quite managed to store that topic into a neat little box to unpack it later.

“You are not a liability, Gale. I possess certain qualities, and you possess others—”

Halsin cut off, staring at a point behind Gale’s shoulder. Gale followed his gaze all the way to a small opening where his fingers had made contact with the wall; the roots were slowly retreating.

He let out a small huff. “All I had to do was get mad?”

Halsin shook his head. His brow wrinkled. “I do not like this. Some power is commanding the forest to release us, and I cannot tell you who or why.”

“Could it be that fae from before? Perhaps he lied and he’d been the one to trap us.”

“Perhaps … Though questioning our luck is a luxury we can’t afford. We must keep moving.”

Gritting his teeth against the soreness in his back, Gale swung his backpack over his shoulder and squeezed through the rapidly growing opening.

•~•~•~•

The next stretch of their journey differed from the first as night from day. Where the forest had hindered them at every step before, the paths now seemed to straighten and widen for them. Brambles retreated instead of clawing at their ankles. Once, Gale thought he caught a speck of true green from the corner of his eye, though when he turned to look, the scene remained just as washed out as before.

A growing sense of unease clawed at Gale’s breastbone. The Wilds were strange, he’d understood that rationally from the beginning, but this … The sensation pervaded his bones now. And yet all he could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other as the landscape unfolded around them. Was he still walking or was the forest shifting now? Did he step through a cave into a lifeless grove or did it spring up around him? Perhaps if he were the one to bend these lands just so, it would have felt like magic …

“We’re here.”

He blinked. Halsin was standing beside him, in the centre of a circular opening amid bare, crooked trees—the golden glow of twilight that had greeted them upon arrival into the Wilds had long diminished into a strange, bluegreen light. 

“Now what?” Gale asked. Directly in front of them, a set of crumbling stairs rose from the ground and led to waist-high stone overgrown with vines. It may have been some kind of altar once. Now, cracks bloomed where the invading plant snaked over the surface. “Do we need to perform some kind of a ritual?”

“In a sense.” Halsin began to ascend the stairs.

Swallowing, Gale followed in his footsteps. A strange aura enveloped him, wrapping itself around him thicker and thicker with every step. He remembered Thaniel’s otherworldly gaze, the awareness of his own insignificance, and found himself fighting the impulse to shrink in on himself. Not now.

At the top, Halsin dropped onto one knee before the stone. A quick glance from him told Gale to follow suit; a pang of pain shot through his knee as it hit the ground in his haste to acquiesce. He waited for the fae to do something—chant, call out, even bleed onto the altar—but there was nothing. Halsin remained as still as the stone before them, and with a sigh, Gale resigned himself to wait. He bowed his head, eyes trained on a vine in front of him. It looked as withered as the rest of the forest, and yet … A little greener, perhaps? A tad more … alive?

“You’ve come,” a voice said, and Gale snapped his head upward. He found himself staring at those same eyes that had pinned him down in his own backyard, found himself face to face with all the ages of the world—

He blinked. Thaniel’s eyes didn’t change the way Astarion’s did, but Gale managed to move his gaze to the boy’s lips, and he could breathe again.

"Yes,” he said. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Halsin nod. Whether echoing the confirmation or expressing approval, he could not tell.

Thaneil’s form appeared more solid in this world; he didn’t flicker, and the decay on his cheek seemed almost a living, breathing thing.

Did it hurt?

“I heard you struggling to find me.” Thaniel’s voice curled in the air like velvety petals on a breeze. “I could not reach out to you. I feel the pain of every root boring deeper and deeper, desperate to sustain itself while its life is siphoned away. I hear the echoes of the life that was.”

Gale could only nod. A burn rose behind his eyelids, from Thaniel’s grief, perhaps, or for his own.

The lines around Thaniel’s lips softened. “Then I felt the world breathing in. It’s waking. He’s waking. But until the blight is uprooted, there can be no rebirth. For the land to heal, Cazador must die.”

“Yes.” Gale felt a shift deep inside him—the sorrow sliding into place, a piece of something bigger. “We intend to stop him, and for that, we need his true name. Halsin told me a spirit of the Wild, such as yourself, may know it. Can you help us?”

“Perhaps.” Thaniel cocked his head. “Rise. There is no need for you to kneel. I have been waiting for you.”

Slowly, Gale pushed himself back to upright. He couldn’t tear his gaze from Thaniel’s face, but from the corner of his eye, he noticed Halsin stand as well.

“Why? Is that the reason I’ve been seeing you for months?” Even before he’d met Astarion … Had Thaniel known Gale would get sucked into the heart of it all? “Is this some kind destiny? Am I some kind of … chosen?”

Thaniel blinked. Then the corners of his lips curled upwards. “None are wise enough to speak of destiny. No, you did not arrive to these parts with some predestined path to walk. You were no more meant to save the Wilds than any other resident of Coedpont.”

Oh. Was the wooziness in his chest relief? Disappointment?

“Then why were you watching me?”

“I had placed my hopes in you.”

Gale frowned. If he wasn’t special, if he wasn’t meant to somehow save anyone or anything, then … “But … why?”

Thaniel’s smile reached his brown eye; even the ice of his blue one melded a little. “Choice after choice, you stepped away from paths others trod. Each time you could have turned away, you decided not to. You mourned for the dying tree when others mourned for themselves. You dared to touch it when others did not. You left your house unguarded, for lack of fear or lack of belief, when others did not.”

Gale swallowed. “As simple as that?”

“It could have been anyone, but it was not. It was you who knocked on the doorway loud enough for the Wilds to hear. I had been waiting a long time to aid the one you call Astarion, and you granted me the means to do so.”

Oh. That was … He wasn’t special then. And still, he was, wasn’t he? Not because of some accident of birth, not even for the magic that he could pour into food, but for making the right decisions. Perhaps he didn’t have destiny on his side, perhaps he didn’t have some prophecy to fulfil like the heroes in his favourite childhood stories, perhaps no higher force watched over him to ensure he’d survive. But he’d got this far being who he was, hadn’t he? And that seemed to count for something.

It had to.

He glanced at Halsin. The fae nodded.

“All right,” Gale said, and then louder, “All right. Can you help us?”

Thaniel’s smile faded. “That depends on you.”

“What does that mean?” Surely Thaniel wouldn’t turn them away now after confirming that he’d helped Astarion before?

“Everything comes with a price,” Halsin said, and Thaniel nodded.

“Such is the nature of the Wilds. Give and take. I can no more go against it than you can cease to be mortal. I would give you what you seek, but I must take something of equal value in return.”

No.

Gale’s heart sank. What could possibly be the price for Cazador’s true name? He didn’t possess anything truly valuable at home, much less carry anything of such value on his person. Perhaps Thaniel would accept a name for a name? But a spirit ancient and powerful enough to know Cazador’s true name would surely know Gale’s as well?

He swallowed. “What would be an acceptable price to pay?”

For a moment, Thaniel hesitated. His mouth curved downwards, and both of his eyes softened as he gestured towards Gale’s chest.

“It takes a life to save a life. It takes forgetting something to learn something new.”

 It sounded so simple, and yet …

“Something of equal value, I presume?”

Gale didn’t even possess any knowledge as powerful as a true name. Compared to a single word that could bend a life to its will, what could he hope to offer?

"Something of equal value to you . To me, cleansing the lands of Cazador’s corruption will represent new life. It is admirable to assist in the revival of a dying land, but your true motivation is more personal.”

Oh. “I want to save Astarion.”

“Love is what you stand to gain.”

A sharp cold bloomed in his chest. “You want me to give up someone I love?”

What was he meant to do? Of all the connections he’d made, none could compare to Astarion. None, save perhaps Tara …

He found himself shaking his head before the thought fully formed in his mind. “No. No, I am not—I am not killing Tara. I could never! There has to be another—”

Thaniel places his hand on Gale’s forearm. “Peace. Knowledge gained demands knowledge lost. Memories will suffice.”

The touch did little to inspire calm; Gale stepped backwards on instinct.

The ice crept further and further until he could no longer feel the pain.

It made sense, didn’t it? Knowledge for knowledge, love for love.

A knot formed in his throat, a burn settled behind his eyes. He understood—there had always been only one person whose memory he held as dearly as he loved Astarion—but could he go through with this? What fairness was to be found in a deal if he was forced to choose between his past and his future? Hadn’t he given up enough to get where he was now? Why was he asked to give up more, always more, always more? Why he? Why—why not Halsin? Wouldn’t it be fair for a fae to pay the price for saving a fae land?

He must have glanced at Halsin or betrayed his thought otherwise; Thaniel shook his head.

“You wonder why must I demand this price of you?”

Heat rushed into Gale’s cheeks as he nodded. It was the coward’s way, perhaps, but surely it didn’t all rest on him?

“You’re driven by love,” Thaniel said, his voice as soft as ever. “Halsin is driven by shame. He failed Astarion once—he must not fail him again.”

For someone of Halsin’s stature, the fae seemed to shrink in on himself to a remarkable extent.

“I can give you what you desire, and you can provide a thing of equal value. But I cannot erase shame. What could he possibly pay for with his shame?”

“I …” Gale thought he might have flushed harder, but keeping track of his body was becoming a struggle. Too many sensations warred inside him—the burn, the ice, the tightness in places he could no longer determine. He was standing at a precipice, his toes already over the edge, and all he understood was that a single breeze would send him plummeting into the depths. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “Is there nothing else I can give?”

“Do you hold as much love in your heart for anyone else?”

The knot in his throat robbed him of his voice. He shook his head.

“It is your decision,” Thaniel said quietly. Perhaps he meant to sound compassionate. Perhaps he was an uncaring nature spirit gifted with a kind voice.

Once more, Gale glanced at Halsin, but the fae refused to meet his gaze. He looked back at Thaniel, but there would be no answers to find in those ancient eyes.

Gods, how could he choose?

“One—” His voice cracked, and he tried again. “One memory. Could I keep one memory of her?”

The tilt of Thaniel’s eyebrows, the pity in the curve of his lips, told him all he needed to know.

How could he choose?

Fuck.

Fuck.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to weigh the dead against the living, but life wasn’t fair. He could give up the best of his past for a chance at a future, or he could sacrifice the future and cling to memories for the rest of his life. How could he? How could he? If he was living on stolen time, could he really waste it on reminiscing on the past? Could he live with Astarion’s blood on his hands?

An illusion of a choice, that was all he had.

He swallowed. “I agree.”

“Very well.” Thaniel nodded and held out his hands with his palms facing the sky.

Slowly, Gale reached out. His hands trembled as they hovered above Thaniel’s.

Gods. Gods.

He took a deep breath, as if that would help. As if anything would help. As if anything could prepare him for losing the memories of his mother forever. He thought of her voice in the morning, waking him from sleep. Her hands, covered in flour, teaching him to work dough. Her laugh. Her eyes. Her arms enveloping him.

Then he closed his eyes and dropped his hands onto Thaniel’s.

Chapter Text

A single word engulfed his mind.

A word, and yet not.

Any other word, he could break into components: a collection of sounds, a sequence of letters, and the concept they described. A neat little triangle of linguistics. This? This word had no components. It was the sound, the shape, the meaning all at once. He could taste its power at the tip of his tongue, could see the colours of its vowels, feel the whispers of things long forgotten in its consonants. His mind struggled under the sheer weight of its meaning—

The name was the thing and the thing was the name, and he could no more tell where one ended and the other began than he could decide to stop breathing and expect to live.

A word. A name.

A truth.

Szarr.

Air rushed into his lungs in a gasp, and his eyes flew open. Where was he? What had just—

His eyes darted from the top of Thaniel's head to the crooked trees in the background. To Halsin, still standing to the side, his brows drawn together in some deep emotion that Gale could only guess at. Sorrow? Shame?

No matter. Gale's gaze settled on his own hands, still clasped in Thaniel's, and he took a step back without thought.

The deal was done. His mind was already beginning to settle around the enormity of the newly acquired information, which meant ...

He tried to think of his mother and found nothing. The conditions of the deal remained fresh in his mind, so he must have had a mother, at least, but try as he might, he couldn’t recall anything. And try he did.

He remembered bringing home a stray cat and keeping it, so she must have allowed it. He remembered the sun streaming into the kitchen of his childhood home, could almost smell fresh rosemary and lavender, but the room was empty. He remembered his father's funeral, remembered feeling sorrow enough for two, but he stood by the grave alone.

What had her voice sounded like?  What colour were her eyes?  What had made her laugh?. Any nicknames she might have called him, the jokes she might have told him over and over again, the songs she might have sung in the shower—gone.

Had she loved him? Had he loved her? He must have. The ache in his chest, the longing, confirmed as much, and he realised there was a single thing he still knew about his mother.

She was dead.

Small mercy, perhaps. At least he wouldn't break anyone's heart by not recognising his own mother.

A heaviness settled in his limbs, in the empty spaces between his ribs. If only he could succumb to it. Rest against the cracked altar or return home.

He couldn’t. The deal was done, but this was only the first step of their journey, so he blinked his eyes dry, and forced his spine to straighten, and sucked in a deep breath.

"That is all?"

Thaniel nodded. "I wish you luck. Your path should be smoother from here."

Gale nodded. "Thank you," he forced himself to say, even though he felt nothing resembling gratitude. He felt very little, right then, as he descended the stairs and turned back to the forest.

Which way had they come from? Which direction to the city?

He began to turn towards Halsin to ask when the trees to his left ... shifted. 'Welcome', they seemed to say as a path opened for him, and he walked towards it. Halsin didn’t try to stop him, so it must have been all right. A few moments later, he heard the fae’s footsteps behind him and caught a glimpse of Halsin from the corner of his eye.

"I see now why you were so eager to take me along," he said. "Different qualities indeed."

There was a moment of silence. Then, "I'm sorry."

No denial, at least.

"It doesn't matter," Gale said. Some day, he would forgive this—that was who he was. But he couldn't process everything now. The forest beckoned and this time, he didn't need Halsin to show him the way.

•~•~•~•

The Gate perched on an estuary, and used to be the jewel of what was then the reign of Astarion’s parents.

That was what Halsin had told Gale. All he could see now was a portcullis and a section of a wall. A hood pulled low over his face obscured the rest, and he lowered his head, gaze focused on the back of Halsin's boots.

If he looked up, he would see a stranger—or an illusion of one. A slimmer, more delicate build, with prominent canines and hair the colour of wheat, slicked back to display long, pointed ears.

The queue moved, and they shuffled along. Gale didn't even have to pretend to drag his feet—the day had lasted forever, and it was all twilight, though the setting sun no longer painted the sky, surrendering instead to the half dark just before nightfall. The heaviness in his limbs had refused to dissipate. If he was to play the part of some poor mortal soul caught in a web of fae magic, at least maintaining a vacant expression wouldn't be a struggle.

Another shuffle. Three more fae separated them from the checkpoint at the gate now.

Perhaps the plan would fail. Perhaps the guards would see through Halsin's disguise, or Gale would fail to act the part, and they would end up in a cell somewhere, or in the ditch. Perhaps, perhaps. The worries floated around his head like wispy clouds, blocking out the sun and yet too far away to touch. All that still felt real was the promise of a bed once they entered the city.

Shuffle forward.

At first, he'd assumed that Halsin would bind his hands, keep him in chains—something. He should have known better. Fae didn't need rope to ensnare anyone. Hadn't he been lured in by their music? If he'd stumbled into the Wilds and couldn’t find his way out,  wouldn't he eat any food offered to him? Wouldn't someone enthralled by magic surrender willingly, or to gain something through a bargain struck?

Shuffle. One more person in front of them. The guards didn't seem to linger on anyone too long, but what if they made an exception? Performed a more thorough search on a few random travellers?

No, no, this wasn't an airport.

He tried to unfocus his gaze, stare into the middle distance. Leaning into his exhaustion should do it. If he focused on the aches he'd been trying to ignore ...

Three more steps, and they stopped in front of the guard. Gale didn't dare to look them in the face.

"Purpose?" The guard sounded female, and perhaps a tad bored.

"I found this one wandering in the wrong woods," Halsin said. His voice had remained unchanged.

"That so?" Heavy boots on stone. "What business in the Gate?"

"Family in the Lower City."

"Name?"

"Cullagh."

Gale lifted his gaze just enough to see the guard scribble something on a notepad.

"All right." She waved a hand towards the door. "Keep your pet out of trouble."

"Yes, ma'am," Halsin said. Then they were moving and slipped through the gate.

They may as well have ventured into a labyrinth. All Gale could tell for certain was that they kept descending. Walls of pale stone that loomed around them, imposing in a vaguely neo-romanesque way, yielded to simplicity as the streets grew narrower and the buildings began to share the walls with their neighbours. Domed roofs gave way to rust-coloured shingles that he could imagine glinting in the sun, if only the sun ever shone.

He forced himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, one foot, the other, one foot, the other. The cobblestones felt slick beneath his soles, polished under the weight of countless feet.

A group of fae passed them, and Gale felt gazes bore into him. He tugged his hood lower to make sure it covered his ears—no need for word of a human to spread. The streets Halsin took seemed rather empty, even when they were forced to cross a wider road here and there. Most fae they encountered hurried on their way with lowered heads. Gale spotted a group of people huddled up in the shadow of an alleyway before he followed Halsin around another corner.

"Why is everything so quiet?" His own voice seemed too loud in the strange silence of the city.

"These are hard times to live in," Halsin said. He didn't elaborate, and Gale didn't need to ask. Cazador's rule aside, if the rest of the world fared like the forest, how could they grow food?

Something had to be done. Yes, Astarion was what drove him, but the rest of his world needed saving too.

He smelled the docks before he saw them. The scent of fish, tar, and resin hung in the air, carried on a gentle draught, and at last, they emerged onto the dock itself. Ships bobbed on the water, but most appeared empty. Only one was a bustle of activity still, dock workers and the crew using a pulley to unload cargo onto the dock.

"This way."

Halsin tugged him into a narrow passage between two buildings. Gale sucked in a breath to protest the touch, but they stopped in front of a narrow front door, plain and unassuming. Halsin knocked—once, twice, and then twice again after a short pause. No one called out inside, no footsteps could be heard, and Gale was just beginning to wonder whether they would have to find a different place to sleep when the door opened a crack at last to reveal a man with dark curls and skin the colour of toffee. He squinted through the gap.

"Yes?"

"I would have brought some lavender," Halsin said, "but they were all out."

Gale blinked, looking from Halsin to the door and back again, but the words must have meant something to the other man. The creases on his face smoothed, and he opened the door all the way.

"It's you. Welcome back."

•~•~•~•

The rest of the night—it must have been night—passed in a haze. Gale ate his stale sandwich by the fire, trying and failing to follow the conversation. Halsin had assured him that the food on the table was safe to consume, but after Thaniel, Gale wasn't inclined to put too much trust in the fae. He was already dependent on him in this unfamiliar land—he itched to keep what little control he could.

He hadn't been given their host's name, nor had he been asked to share his in turn. Again he found himself depending on Halsin to navigate the situation, though at least neither fae seemed to be paying much attention to Gale at the moment. Good. After the journey here, keeping himself upright took all the effort he could spare. It must have shown—soon, their host turned his way, waved for Gale to follow, and led him up a narrow staircase to a small room with an equally small bed in the corner.

Gale didn't care. He dropped his pack on the floor, dropped his weight onto the mattress, and fell asleep seconds after his head hit the pillow.

•~•~•~•

For a moment, he couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or closed. Then his eyes adjusted, revealing the contours of an unfamiliar room, and he looked around.

What had woken him up? The house rested around him, silent, and, apart from aching, his body wasn't protesting any unmet needs. The world outside was dark, the dark of a true night—that seemed unusual for the wilds, didn't it? Astarion had told him once that it wasn't always twilight, so perhaps tonight was one of those times. Still, he rose and peered through the small window into the night.

Stars hung above him, shining all the brighter for the absence of a moon, and reflected in what little of the river he could see. The night was quiet, peaceful. So what had lured him from sleep? Why did he feel as if something was happening? A subtle shift of some kind, the pause before a deep breath. His skin prickled with anticipation, with rightness, with life—

A breeze swept up the narrow street outside, breaking the silence with its quiet whisper. It soothed him, somehow. Loosened the tightness of exhaustion and worry inside him.

He took a deep breath in, let it out on a sigh, and returned to bed. Against all odds, sleep wasted no time claiming him once more.

•~•~•~•

The next time he woke, someone was shaking him by the shoulder. The night hung on the cusp of dawn—how long would it last?—and Halsin towered over him. Gale pushed the hand away with a sigh and pushed himself upright. The aches in his muscles had settled somewhat.

"What time is it?" His tongue peeled off his palate, sandpaper-dry, and he coughed.

"Early morning," Halsin said.

Gale had figured as much. He reached for his pack and emptied the last remains of his water down his throat.

"I packed some salt for you." Halsin held out a pouch. "There is no iron in this house, but perhaps we'll come across some in the palace."

Gale nodded. Any other time, he might have enquired what they used in place of iron—what were their pokers, horseshoes, skillets made of? Now, nerves were beginning to twist in his stomach.

"All right. All right." At least his voice remained steady. "Time to become your charmed silly human again.  And then all we need to do is somehow waltz past the guard and take Cazador hostage."

What could possibly go wrong?

•~•~•~•

The darkness had yet to recede by the time they set out. And yet, the city felt different than it had before. It didn't look different, but Gale could have sworn everything buzzed with some kind of restlessness. The forms huddled in the alleys appeared less resigned, the occasional passerby walked with a slight pep in their step, the shadows themselves seemed to move at the edges of his vision.

He must be imagining things. How could anything have changed? His nerves were finally getting the better of him, that was all ...

They emerged into a square, complete with a statue in the middle and the spidery remains of what must have been a mighty ash, and Halsin drew in a sharp breath next to him—

Gale whipped around, looking for danger, but he found none. Only Halsin, with the face of a stranger, staring at the dead ash tree as though he'd seen a ghost or a miracle. Gale tried to follow his gaze. At first, he couldn't detect anything of note. Spindly branches reached for the dark sky, twigs spread like fingers with too many knuckles—and there, cradled among them, sat a small, unassuming cluster of white buds.

Gale turned back to Halsin. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know.”

“Something feels different though, doesn’t it?”

Halsin’s forehead wrinkled as he nodded. “It does.”

“At least I’m not imagining things.” Gale let out a sigh. “Let’s keep going.”

With a slow nod, Halsin moved, and Gale fell into step with him again.

The palace came into view in snippets—a glimpse at a turret through a gap between two houses, the teeth of a parapet rising above a roof, spires rising above the city. It loomed above the other buildings like a vulture ready to eclipse the sun, and Gale’s stomach turned into a knot that grew ever tighter.

He balled his hands into fists. Almost there. He could do this.

He could do this .

Halsin caught his elbow. “Not that way.”

Gale frowned. The palace was very clearly in the direction he’d been heading just seconds ago. Instead, Halsin tugged him into a street that veered off to the right.

“Where are we going then?”

“You’ll see.”

“No.” He dug his heels into the ground and pulled his arm free. “No more surprises.”

Halsin's gaze bored into him, as though the fae was trying to see straight into his mind. Or perhaps he didn't have to. Perhaps Gale's thoughts were written on his face for all to read.

"You're angry with me," Halsin said, and Gale felt something inside him snap.

"Of course I'm angry." He spread his arms. "How could I not be?"

"I apologise."

He huffed. Did that undo the loss he'd suffered? How could it? He could love again a thousand times, and he would still only ever have one mother. But at least he saw guilt in the lines of Halsin's borrowed face. At least Halsin acknowledged that he'd done Gale wrong. Mystra never ...

Well, Mystra no longer mattered nearly as much as she used to.

"Look," he grumbled, "a little warning would have been nice, so I would have known what I was getting myself into."

Halsin shifted his weight to one leg, then back again. His eyes, so determined moments ago, now refused to meet Gale’s.

"I was worried you wouldn't have come. If you'd know what Thaniel might ask of you."

Gale waved his hand through the air. A heat bubbled under his skin, forcing him into motion, into speech.

"Do you think so little of me?" His voice filled the alley around them. "Do you really think I would abandon Astarion to Cazador and the  Wilds to their fate? Surrender my home to Lorroakan and gods only know what might follow?"

He got no reply, so he sucked in a breath. "Nothing would have changed," he said and felt the truth of it settle in his bones. "I would have chosen the same."

It hadn't felt like a choice, because he wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he'd elected to cling to his memories instead. It hadn't felt a choice, not really, though it might have if he were someone else, and that meant he'd still had some agency in the matter. There were many things in life he could not change no matter how much he tried, but there were just as many where he'd merely considered himself helpless—had been taught to believe himself helpless. This?

No matter how backed into a corner he'd felt when his hands trembled above Thaniel's, he was not powerless here. Perhaps Halsin's insistence of his worth had carried truth after all.

Anger slipped from his shoulders like ribbons of silk, and a sigh flowed from his lungs.

"Nothing would have changed," he repeated, "but I would have maintained my respect for you."

"You are right," Halsin said, and Gale found himself wishing he were looking at the fae’s true face. "I should have trusted you. You've proven yourself time and again. More than anything, you possess Astarion’s trust. That alone should be enough for me."

“So what is the plan?”

“We’re taking a way through the Undercity. It leads into the sewers and was considered a secret escape route, though I have no doubt that Cazador knows of it. Let us hope he still believes it secret enough to avoid placing too many guards in its vicinity and inadvertently alerting people to its presence.”

“Let us hope,” Gale echoed and tried to consign himself to wading through piss.

It did not quite work.

•~•~•~•

Mercifully, the passage did not lead through the sewage itself. Instead, Halsin guided Gale along the narrow walkways that lined the canals—would the smell ever wash out—and then through narrower passageways that twisted and turned so much that whoever found their way into the palace surely deserved it. In contrast to the sewers, these passages were dark as a nightmare, and only Halsin's hand on his wrist kept him slowly moving in the right direction.

Gale kept his steps quiet on the hard stone beneath his soles as he tried not to stumble; it seemed unlikely that anyone could hear them through the walls, but extra precautions couldn't hurt.

If he weren't paying attention to the sound, he may not have noticed that it became softer. That the ground became softer.

"Halsin, what...?"

"It's plants."

"What?"

"Shhh, we're close to the exit."

True to his word, Halsin stopped only a few steps later; Gale bumped into him. The fae continued to stand there, quiet if not still—it was too dark to see. Perhaps he was listening for sounds from the other side? Or was there some mechanism that needed to be triggered?

A soft click, followed by a sliver of light. A wall parted, and with it the darkness. From what Gale could see past Halsin, the fae was holding aside a ... tapestry? A curtain?

He didn't get the chance to figure it out.

"Chhk," someone said, the sound pushed through their teeth. "Took you long enough."

"It's been a while." Halsin didn't move from the spot. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I'm sure you didn't. Now move. Astarion said you'd come through here, but he didn't say yours be stupid enough to keep standing in the doorway to a secret tunnel."

Astarion had said that?

"Is he okay?" Gale squeezed himself past Halsin and stumbled into a corridor of pale stone, nearly tripping over a vine-like plant that seemed to be creeping along the floor. Was that normal? He glanced down the hallway to find more flora sprouting through stone, and then back to a lanky woman with copper hair and a scowl on her face.

"Well enough." She scrunched up her pointed nose as if Gale stank—perhaps the odour of sewage lingered on him? "I'll take you to him."

"How will we avoid being seen?" Halsin had emerged from behind the tapestry as well.

"We won't. If you're with me, you can be seen."

Who was she? Gale couldn't just ask, but she must have been important, right? From Halsin's tone, he couldn't quite surmise whether he should trust her, but at least the two fae seemed to know each other, and nobody had held a blade to anyone's throat yet.

As they started down the corridor, he lagged a step behind and tried to steal glances at their guide. Sinewy muscle was visible on her bare arms, the kind that Gale would never train enough to develop, and yet her appearance suggested a lady. A dark crimson dress hugged her body, and her hair was twisted into a knot at the back of her nape. Thin silvery hoops hung from her ears.

For a moment, Gale saw Astarion’s ears, the tiny scars that lined their curve. He blinked. Surely this was different. They must have been made of silver or white gold or something else entirely—who knew what fae used.

Too soon, he had to redirect his attention to the floor. Plants sprung up from seemingly impossible places, clawing through gaps between the flagstones, pushing gloomy paintings off the walls, and tripping up guards and servants who were trying to catch them.

This couldn't be normal.

"Put that back, quickly now!" A guard they passed gestured wildly to another, who was trying to hang a portrait of a pale old lady onto what was becoming a wall of ivy.

"Put that back," the latter echoed under his breath. "You put that back if you're so clever."

Definitely not normal. Even without a guide Gale and Halsin may have gone unnoticed under the circumstances. Or was this their guide's doing?

Gale looked at Halsin, but he found no answers in the fae's expression, only deepening wrinkles on his forehead and a downcast curve of his lips. A moment later, Halsin shook his head ever so slightly.

Hmm.

Gale pushed his right hand into his pocket where a pouch of salt sat, waiting to be used. He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

Somewhere behind him, the guards muttered that the higher ups could deal with this themselves. Then the fae woman turned a corner, and Gale couldn't hear their voices anymore.

The corridor that opened around them was draped in grandeur. Shadows danced on the ceiling far above them, brought to life by the flickering braziers below. Gilded frames made sombre paintings appear larger, gold leaf clung to the floral swirls on the massive doors at the end. Two guards stood there, motionless despite the vines creeping around their boots. Only when the guide came close enough did they step aside and pulled the doors open.

The chamber behind them might have been an extension of the corridor, with the same decor, the same braziers reflecting off the same gold leaf on … the throne. That was the throne. In it sat a tall man with dark hair and an expression of self-importance that rivalled Lorroakan’s, and next to him …

Gale sucked in a sharp breath.

On the ground next to him knelt Astarion, with a dark gossamer robe draped over his shoulders and a collar clamped around his neck.

“Well done, Lae’zel.” The man on the throne held up his hand as if he were inspecting his nails. He rested one ankle on the opposite knee, then slowly looked up and spread his arms wide. “Welcome. Or shall I say, welcome home, Halsin of the Emerald Grove.”

With what little focus Gale could spare for anything other than Astarion, he noticed Halsin bare his teeth as he turned towards Lae’zel.

“It's a trap,” he growled.

The woman stretched her lips into a smile. “Indeed it is,” she said and pulled a dagger from between the folds of her dress.

Chapter Text

Astarion wakes to the familiar bite of iron around his neck.

No.

This cannot be happening.

Not again.

This isn't happening. In a moment, he'll wake up, safe in Gale's bed like so many nights before, will roll over and seek solace in the only touch that doesn't ruin, doesn't scorch—

No.

That was the dream. A little cottage on the other side, the scent of freshly baked bread, a soft smile that reaches those big puppy eyes every time.

Just a dream. This? This is real. The cold, the bite, the burn. He was a fool to think there was anything else for him.

With a sigh, he closes his eyes and sinks into the pain, and it embraces him like a lover who’s been waiting to welcome him home.

•~•~•~•

Darkness wraps around him like manacles, stillness grips his heart and slowly crushes it in its fist. No one comes and nothing moves.

Astarion doesn't move either.

Violent hands force him into the ground, and he feels himself freeze. Shrink. Retreat somewhere deep deep down, to a bottom of a well that sunlight cannot reach.

He can't move. Sometimes, when he can almost form thoughts, he wonders why. Aside from the collar and the door, no restraints have been put on him.

Then he sinks again, and there is nothing.

•~•~•~•

He dreams.

Images come to him in half-remembered fragments, imprints of a world where the stars are bright and time flows differently, ghosts of a friendly touch.

No one comes, so he curls up tighter and dreams of somewhere not there.

•~•~•~•

Time passes without count. His mouth dries out. His stomach twists into a knot until the hunger gnaws at him, and all he cannot move.

He is back. He is back in this hell, lost in darkness, lost in solitude. In the silence around him, even his own breath is too loud, his own heartbeat, but he can't silence that, so long as he lives.

Stars above, this is worse. He almost wishes Cazador would drag him to a feast or another,  even if he served him up as the main event. There would be light. There would be sound. There would be people there, even if they made him bleed and scream and—

He screams anyway. So loud, too loud, but he screams again and again and again. It echoes in his head long after he covers his ears, but at least he can hear himself. At least he knows that he still exists, even if he might as well not. And there, with the void like a vice around his chest, he understands the lesson he'd been so foolishly eager to reject.

He is nothing.

•~•~•~•

Doors open. Doors close.

A grip on his jaw forces his face upwards, and cold water fills his mouth. He drinks. Rivulets run down the side of his chin still.

Rough hands haul him upright and drag him out of the darkness. The light burns his eyes. Stone scrapes his skin.

A bath.

That's what he's lifted into in the end. To be drowned? To be fucked?

The hands that wash him aren't unkind, but an ache blooms inside him nevertheless. They scrub him clean, they brush his hair, they clad him into cold, uncaring silk.

They lead him to the bedroom he knows all too well, and he sinks into the darkness inside him as soon as Cazador reaches for him.

•~•~•~•

Familiar boots stop in front of him. Soldier's boots.

He doesn't look up. Doesn't say anything.

"Tchk."

What does she want?

"You are pathetic."

Better pathetic than a traitor.

"I heard you were back, but I wanted to see for myself."

Come to gloat? At least he's never willingly changed his uniform for skin-tight dresses, so that Cazador and his esteemed guests could gawk at him better.

"I thought you'd be different now." The boots remain planted before him, her weight evenly distributed as though she's still a general. "You're worse," she hisses. Somewhere behind layers of numbness, the words still scrape against his bones. "When I heard you fled, I felt a sliver of excitement. I thought you'd found your spine at last and left, yet here you are again, licking the feet of your master like a mutt."

A crack in her voice coaxes his gaze upwards at last, to her fists, clenched at her side, to her mouth, pressed into a thin line, to the tension in her jaw. She's angry. Why? Should it not please her to see him bow to the man she now serves?

"What is wrong with you?" Her voice fills up his chamber, lavish in a grand display of mockery. "Why do you kiss their feet? Why don't you leave?”

He blinks. Why doesn't she? She doesn't wear a collar that keeps burning off her skin. She's not a prisoner.

"I hate you!" she throws at him, and then, more quietly, "I hate you."

He meets her eyes and says, "I hate you too."

For a moment, they stare at each other. The yellow of her eyes burns bright in the candlelight.

"Good." She brings one fist to her sternum. "At least there is something still burning inside you."

Then she turns, fabric swaying around her ankles. Time drags as the soles of her boots fall on the carpet—one step, two, three. Time often drags here. It will continue to drag, and somewhere far away, Gale will grow old and die, and Astarion will never see him again.

Something claws at the back of his throat, a pressure that usually lives in his chest, words he's no longer used to shaping—

"This isn't a choice!"

She stops.

Good, good—why is that good?

"I would never choose this!"

His throat hurts, inside and out. The outside always hurts, he's accustomed to that, he can take some more pain.

"Just because you did it doesn't mean anyone else would!"

He might be heard if he keeps on screaming. Might be punished. It shan't matter, though, does it? He'll be hurt either way. There is no 'good enough' here, and perhaps Lae'zel being here means the guards got dismissed.

Her footsteps stop. Turn around.

She stops too close for comfort and crouches, her face now level with his.

"Tchk!" How does she make it sound like an insult? "Are you stupid? I had no choice."

What?

That can’t be right. She’s not bound by a collar or shackled to a wall like he is. She’s doesn’t get loaned out like a piece of meat and—

She doesn’t, right? All she does is dance and hold drinks and—and—

“You had no choice?” So much pain, so much rage inside him, and Lae’zel is right there , after years and years and years of watching her, hating her, she’s right there, and he bares his teeth and growls and then he screams at her, “I had no choice!” He grips his collar with his hands—the bite of metal adds to the fire within. “Let’s see you wear this! Let’s see you used and tossed about like a dirty rag, let’s see you cut off from your powers and any last scraps of hope! Then come talk to me of choice!”

His chest is heaving, he’s trembling, but for the first time since he got here, he’s not completely numb. Is that good? Is it better to feel the pain than nothing?

He can’t think straight right now.

Lae’zel keeps standing above him, fists clenched at her sides. She sucks a breath in through her teeth.

“Kainyank.”

Is she going to strike him for his insolence? Does it matter? His chest is already on fire with … something. Something that keeps pushing against his ribcage, demanding more space where he wants to curl in on himself and just … Just …

“You don’t get it, do you?” Her voice is a blade, but it’s too dull to cut. “No collar can keep the world contained.”

He says nothing because he doesn't understand, and this way, he can at least pretend that he does.

Perhaps she sees through him. Perhaps she began talking at last and now she can't stop.

"The power at your fingertips," she says, "is more than any of us can even dream of. No matter what Cazador does, no matter how he tries to wring it from you or the land, he will never have it."

Astarion pulls his knees to his chest and cradles his palms to his sternum. They sting. "I don't have it either."

A storm gathers in her eyes. "You believe you don't have it, and so you don't. That's why I hate you. You've given up before you ever even tried."

"What of you then?" His head is starting to feel so heavy. "Why do you prance to his tune? I see no shackles on you—why do you serve him?"

"I swore to serve the throne."

He frowns. "So you chose this."

"No. I took an oath when I became the general for your parents. I swore allegiance, not to them by name, but to the throne of the Gate. I was meant to serve you after they were gone. Cazador found out."

That ...

"You can't go back on your word."

"No." She shakes her head. "I cannot. For centuries, I have watched you at his feet and wondered—would it have been better to serve you?  If you sat on that throne, I would kill for you. I would die for you. And you've never even tried."

Stars. He curls up even tighter. He hasn't just failed himself, or his parents, or Gale. He's failed Halsin. He's failed Lae'zel. He's failed his people, has been failing them every day since.

When he opens his mouth, his voice comes out as weak as he feels.

"How do I fix it?"

"I don't know. It's your power, not mine. You figure it out."

He wants to disappear. He wants to hide in Gale's arms and remain there until the world falls away.

"I don't know if I can," he murmurs and lowers his eyes. No need to see the disgust in hers.

•~•~•~•

Some thing or another angers Cazador. Probably. Perhaps he's bored or feeling whatever approximation of other feelings he's capable of.

It ends with Astarion bleeding onto the floor through haphazardly applied bandages. Dalyria must have been in a hurry. Or scared.

Perhaps they're all scared.

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

Blood seeps onto the floor.

His room is shrouded in darkness. He can feel the plush carpet under his fingertips, close enough to place his hand on, far enough that dragging himself onto it would require effort he doesn't think he can spare.

He breathes in. He breathes out. It hurts, but he does it anyway, because he can, because his body refuses to stop even when he wishes for nothing more than a respite from pain.

But ...

Gale is still alive, somewhere in another world.

Gale is still alive, so Astarion must be too.

Tears rise unbidden. He will never see Gale again, never hold Gale again, never …

He presses his palms to the ground. It’s just him again, forever. Him, and the darkness, and if that’s all there is, he might as well sink so far down that they become one. 

His eyes close. 

He breathes in—his ribcage resists the expansion, the lacerations on his back screaming where the whip tore flesh asunder. 

He breathes out—a collapse, a diminishment of self, as he feels the night engulf him.  

He breathes until he no longer feels the pain because he no longer feels himself. Perhaps he’s let everyone down, but what can he do about it? How can Lae’zel—how can anyone—expect him to do more? Yes, he’s failed them, but haven’t they failed him too? Gale was the only one who gave in a world that took and took and took. And now? Astarion has nothing left to give now. He has nothing. He is nothing. 

 Let the world try and take now. 

Though … the world itself isn’t faring any better, is it? The land is exhausted, he can feel that in his bones. But what is he meant to do about it? If he could heal it, if he had anything to give it still—

The world is dying, and no one can fix it. Astarion might be dying this time. He shouldn’t be, not from the wounds, but something seems different now. He feels … faint, feels stretched so thin.  If he dies … What would happen to the land? Or is he feeling this way because the land cannot take anymore? He always thought he would live because the land would always live and they can’t be separated, but if the land died? Could he die too?

If the land died, wouldn’t everyone else die too?

He curls up in a ball. Yes, he’s failed his people before, but at least they are alive. If … if … 

The back of his eyes burns. He can’t let that happen. He can’t. If it comes down to him or the land, at least the land can do some good for the people. He’s never felt that the land was his, never felt that the people were his, because Cazador has claimed everything. But Cazador has certainly not done them any good, and there was no one to take care of them now. 

Why is he thinking of them? 

He shifts; his cheek comes to rest against the stone floor, the cold a pleasant contrast to his heated skin. Oh. That's probably not a good sign.

He breathes in. Breathes out. The world breathes with him. He can feel its heartbeat fluttering away weakly. He can always feel it, but most of the time, he tunes it out—he has his own life to live, his own issues to suffer through. No need to carry another burden. Now, he finds himself sinking into it, unable to shut it out any longer. The familiarity offers comfort if nothing else, and he’s too tired to resist. Too lonely. Even if all the world can give him now is a heartbeat to accompany his own, he would crawl into its arms if he could. Would hold the dying world in his arms if he could. 

Breathe in, breathe out. 

Thud, thud. 

He sinks deeper.

Thud, thud. 

Life drains from the old roots, far below the earth. 

Thud, thud.