He's dreaming of Mystra, as he so often does, even after everything, when Scratch's frantic whine in his ear wakes him. Gale sits up quickly upon processing the dog's distress, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Between whimpers, Scratch yawns and licks his lips, pacing anxiously by the entrance of the tent.
"Scratch? What's wrong, boy?" Scratch doesn't usually seek out Gale's company, favoring Siobhan and Shadowheart above all others. Why hadn't he gone to either of them first? Scratch bites down on his sleeve and tugs, huffing noisily.
"Okay, all right, I'm coming." The dog darts away, only pausing to look back to make sure Gale is still following. Scratch stops in front of Siobhan's tent with another whine, ears flat against his skull, and as Gale approaches, the smell of blood, heavy in the air, floods his nose. The fear is instant, clammy and cold around his throat. He shoos Scratch away from the entrance and rips open the tent flap to find Astarion crouched over a half-dressed Siobhan. The wood elf blood soaked from the waist down.
Astarion spins to face him, eyes wild but unsurprised at his presence, "The wounds closed—potion—but she's lost too much. She won't wake up."
Gale notices many things at once. First, Astarion's mouth and face are pristine; the only blood on him is on his hands. Second, those same hands are swiping along Siobhan's thighs. More specifically, over the wounds he had referred to. Over and over again as if to reassure himself that they had indeed closed. Not bite wounds, but long red and puckered slashes. Gale understands what's happened even before his eyes find the dagger held loosely in Siobhan's left hand. Gods .
"Don't just stand there, you moron! Do something!" Astarion snarls under his breath.
"I— Shadowheart—" Gale turns to leave, but Astarion snatches his wrist and yanks him down.
"No. She can't know. No one can know!"
Gale balks, "Have you lost your mind? She needs medical attention!"
"Keep your voice down," Astarion hisses, "Siobhan doesn't want anyone to find out about— it's private. She'll loathe me for all eternity if everyone— just fix her!"
"I'm not a cleric. I cast evocation spells, not healing spells. What is it you want me to— Oh!"
Gale leaps to his feet, mind racing, trying to recall where he stored it, an amulet enchanted with the lesser restoration spell. Siobhan gave it to him the other day to feed the netherese orb,, seeing no other use for it. They have Shadowheart, after all. Besides, whoever had laid the enchantment had done so clumsily. The amulet was only good for one use. Gale had been saving it for tomorrow so he could have his full strength before confronting the cultists, and thank Mystra he had.
"Wait here." He doesn't give the vampire a chance to respond. Gale races back to his tent and searches frantically through his belongings. Where had he put the bloody thing? In a fit of frustration, Gale upends his pack, scrolls, spell components, provisions, and more, tumbling to the ground in a disorganized pile. The amulet bounces out last. Gale tosses the empty pack to the side, grabs it, and sprints back to Siobhan's tent.
"What is that?" Astarion demands, still hunched over Siobhan. Gale shoves him aside, Astarion falling away without resistance, save an irritated huff, then puts on the amulet. The second it's around his neck, he's struck with the understanding of how to cast the spell and given access to a part of the Weave that is ordinarily closed off to him, exclusive to clerics of Mystra. He lays his hands over their unconscious companion and recites the verbal component.
" Reparatio Minima ."
There's a flash of purple light, and for a moment, he feels the presence of his goddess—the gentle caress of her power dancing around them. Siobhan's blanched lips begin to pink, and her labored breaths even out. The Weave evaporates, and the amulet lays inert against his chest, the air cold and lonesome once more.
Astarion rights himself and watches as Siobhan's color continues to improve. It's slow but steady. She'll wake tomorrow with little more than a headache, if that. With the crisis evaded, and Siobhan's health secured, the atmosphere in the tent quickly becomes uncomfortable. It's evident that Astarion has no intention of speaking to him, so Gale takes it upon himself to initiate.
"Are you going to explain what happened, or are we just going to sit here all night?"
Astarion sneers at him. "There is a third option. You could fuck off to bed and forget this all happened."
"And why would I do that?" Gale asks, endeavoring to remain polite. He won't sink to Astarion's level, not if he can help it.
"Because it's none of your business." Astarion's attempt to menace him, bared fangs and back straight as he looms over him, falls flat. He's disheveled, off balance, trembling, and flushed with adrenaline. His usually meticulously coiffed curls are unkempt, sticking out at odd angles as if he had been tugging at them all through the night. He's about as intimidating as a declawed house cat. All hissing and bluster but ultimately harmless. With one hand, Gale pushes his chest and Astarion falls back on his haunches so that he's no longer hanging over him. Astarion doesn't resist, just as Gale expected.
"That may have been true before. However, you asked for my assistance, which I provided. You've made it my business. Now, you can continue being difficult and drag this out all night, or you can answer my questions."
"And if I refuse?" Astarion asks.
Gale's jaw clenches, "We'll do it the hard way."
Astarion blanks for a moment and then changes tactics. A sultry smile forms on his lips, and he stretches out languidly by Siobhan's feet, propped up by his left arm while dropping his right shoulder. Then, he looks up at Gale from under his eyelashes.
"Mmm, bossy, bossy. I think I'm starting to see the appeal. She never told me you had this side to you."
"I—I beg your pardon?" Gale splutters, heat traveling up his neck. She talks about him to Astarion? What does she say? What has she told him? They've discussed his . . . appeal ?
Astarion chuckles. "Wouldn't that be a treat? Seeing you beg. But you had questions for me, darling, no?"
Gale narrows his eyes. "Stop that. This isn't a game, you know. She almost died— again. You were the only one with her— again. There seems to be a pattern forming here. If I were you, I'd be a little more worried about how all this looks."
Astarion stiffens. "And how does it look? Surely you aren't blaming me? I sent for help as soon as I found her."
Oh?
"So you did send the dog to come fetch me. Why? You said she wouldn't want anyone to know. Why would you show me?"
Astarion's smile falters and then falls. A flash of confusion crosses his face. "I'm . . . not following. You . . . ? Surely you noticed her scars during your little tryst, or are you that unobservant?"
Gale blinks, bewildered. Astarion thinks—? What has Siobhan been telling him?
"You needn't deny it, darling. You two disappear for gods know how long and then come back freshly bathed and blushing like naughty children. It's nothing to be ashamed of . . ." The mean smirk comes back. "Unless it is. Don't tell me, did you fail to satisfy our little wood elf?"
"She bumped into a myconid, and the spores interfered with her sense of balance. I helped her wash it off. I did notice the scars while I helped her bathe. We did not have sex."
Astarion quirks an eyebrow. Gale frowns.
"I'm not being coy, Astarion. I don't know what she told you, but nothing happened. She seemed upset at the time but made it clear that she didn't want to talk about it, so I didn't push the issue."
Astarion straightens, eyes furrowed in disbelief and then anger. "She allowed you to see decades' worth of self-inflicted wounds, and you— a man known for his insufferable curiosity— didn't think to inquire further?"
"I asked her if she was okay!" Gale protests indignantly.
"Well, clearly, she wasn't! Isn't!"
"And why is that do you think?" Gale glowers. "You two were thick as thieves, and suddenly, you hardly talk except to berate and poke at her. Your incessant glee at her misery is difficult enough to stomach on a good day, let alone after you nearly drain her dry. She looked half-dead all day, and you couldn't even muster up the effort to pretend to care until after she gave you the what for."
"Don't talk about things you know nothing about," Astarion snaps. Siobhan stirs and they both fall silent. Gale reaches out to touch her but Astarion stops him, grabbing his sleeve and yanking him back. The vampire's glare speaks volumes. Don't.
Gale can only guess at his motives. It's possible he wants Siobhan to rest and, in turn, doesn't want Gale to disturb that rest. But, it's more likely that Astarion wishes to defer the inevitable confrontation until the morning when he has a better chance of doing so without Gale's presence. Despite enlisting Gale, Astarion obviously takes no pleasure in Gale's ability to help where he could not. Astarion releases him once Siobhan settles, and Gale asks his next question in a whisper.
"Was she trying to kill herself?"
Astarion looks offended at the very idea, "Of course not. She got carried away. And, for your information, she's been doing this long before we met. Her reasons have nothing to do with me; I can promise you that."
Gale recalls Siobhan's reaction to his ideations and decides Astarion is being honest. However, his honesty in this moment doesn't change Gale's opinion of him.
"I don't like you, Astarion,"
"No? Aw." Astarion pouts.
"I think you're a selfish, self-serving, cruel person who delights in the unhappiness of others. I think you're taking advantage of Siobhan's kindness, kindness you've done little to show you deserve."
"Deserve." Astarion repeats, turning the word over in his mouth. "That's interesting, isn't it?"
Gale pauses, "How so?" There's something dangerous about the way Astarion's posture has shifted.
"You forget, Gale," his name is bitter poison on Astarion's lips, "that I've been alive almost two and a half centuries. You're barely middle-aged. I have rather a bit more experience in the ways of the world than you, so listen to me when I say this,"
Before he knows it, Gale is falling out of the tent and lands on his back— Astarion's hand around his throat. Gale brings up a hand to shock Astarion with a fistful of lighting, but the vampire pins his wrist beneath his knee and, with his free hand, pins the other to the ground next to his head.
"You have no idea what I do or don't deserve, what I have or haven't lived through, what I care or don't care about." Astarion hisses and digs his nails into Gale's throat when he wriggles beneath him.
"Astarion—" Gale chokes out. Restrained and out of breath, he cannot cast spells. He is at Astarion's mercy.
"You dare judge me? My arrangement with Siobhan has been mutually agreed upon. An exchange of services, if you will. The terms of which are none of your bloody business. If, at some point, she wishes to terminate that arrangement, she's free to do so. Correct me if I'm mistaken, but I believe you two have come to a similar arrangement. So, it seems to me that you and I—we're not so different. Next time, you'll do me the favor of not sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." The pressure around his throat becomes almost too much to bear as Astarion leans in to whisper in his ear. "Are. We. Understood?"
Gale nods as best he can, head already beginning to swim from the lack of air.
"Hmm, good." Astarion releases him and stands while Gale rolls to his side and sucks in a ragged breath. "And, darling, I'll have you know, I'm not opposed to sharing if it comes to it. You need only ask. Thanks for all the help. I'm sure Siobhan will be oh so grateful. Ta."
Astarion ducks back into Siobhan's tent without a backward glance. Scratch settles down next to Gale and gives him a gentle lick across the back of his hand until Gale manages to catch his breath. He should be furious and humiliated by how easily Astarion had overpowered him, and he is, somewhat. But with the glut of new information, there really isn't space for it in his head. The ache in his lungs eases and he sits up with a groan. His throat throbs. Gale wonders if he'll wake with a bruise. Scratch plops his head on Gale's lap, and he scratches the dog idly behind the ear.
Astarion's reaction to him was extreme but not surprising when he thinks about it. The man is terrified. Of what, he's not sure, but clearly, he's hung all his hopes on Siobhan. There's not anything he won't do to keep her close, which makes him very dangerous indeed. And yet, in his own twisted way, Astarion does appear to care for her. Gale stands, still a little unsteady on his feet, and brushes the dust from his clothes. Astarion isn't one to make idle threats, but even so, he's limited in what he can actually do to him. It might antagonize Astarion, but Gale needs to find a moment to speak to Siobhan alone. This incident cannot go unaddressed. They need Siobhan focused. Astarion isn't the only one who's pinned their hopes on her.
It's not until he's lying back in his bed, Scratch at his side, that it sinks in.
"Hold on, did he say share?"
Getting Siobhan alone is a struggle. He doesn't know what Astarion's said to her, but the moment Siobhan spots him leaving his tent, she hurries away and busies herself with preparations for their expedition to the Grymforge. Gale expects Astarion to look smug at that, but he's paying him no mind, and Gale quickly realizes why. Siobhan is avoiding him, too. Every attempt to strike up a conversation is rebuffed, leaving the vampire with a frustrated, thwarted look on his face.
The arrival of an injured deep gnome in their camp makes the possibility of pulling her aside vanish completely. She collapses just inside the boundary of the village and flinches away from Shadowheart when she tries to asses her.
"Don't."
"You've been poisoned. If you don't let us help you . . ." Shadowheart trails off.
"You'll die." Siobhan cuts in bluntly, kneeling next to them. "Who did this to you?"
The deep gnome whimpers, sweat trickling down her temple, "Duergar . . . slashed me . . . I escaped."
"Lae'zel," the githyanki is at Siobhan's side in an instant, "get my potions case."
"What is your name, little one?" Halsin asks gently. While the gnome is distracted, he subtly directs Gale to fetch some water. Gale summons a mage hand and the ghostly appendage floats off to his tent before returning with his waterskin.
". . .Thulla."
Halsin plucks the waterskin out of the mage hand's grasp and brings it to Thulla's lips. She drinks greedily. The mage hand dissipates and Gale rubs at the gnawing, hungry ache in his chest, sweat beading on his brow. He had not planned on going so long without feeding the netherese orb in his chest, and now that he's used up the magic amulet to heal Siobhan, he'll have to go a little longer. Does she realize what he sacrificed last night to keep her from slipping away? Surely not, or she wouldn't be avoiding him so. Not without providing another artifact first. Lae'zel returns with the case in hand. Siobhan rifles through it and produces a gray ceramic vial which she offers Thulla.
"It's an antidote. Drink, then tell us what happened."
Thulla complies without hesitation, too desperate to refuse. The effect is immediate. She sits up with a slight wince, but her eyes are no longer glazed with pain.
"Why . . . why are you helping me?"
"Are you one of the ironhand gnomes?" Siobhan asks, ignoring her question. There's an urgency to her tone that Gale finds odd. Siobhan has always stopped their quest to help anyone they've encountered along the way if they needed it. This time, however, her help feels incidental—a means to an end.
Thulla nods. "We were taken. The greys . . . they have us digging up some old ruin across the lake. Looking for something. But there was an accident. Beldron and that cunt Nere got trapped in a cave-in. I escaped in the commotion." Her face crumples as tears skate down her face. "You have to help my people!"
"We'll try, but—" Siobhan raises one hand and cuts Wyll off.
"How did you cross the lake?" Siobhan asks.
"Nicked a boat, didn't I?" Thulla frowns. "How else?"
Siobhan nods with grim satisfaction, "Then you know how to pilot one?"
Thulla's eyes narrow, "Swear to help and I'll teach you."
"Deal."
"We need to talk."
Siobhan adjusts the quiver hanging at her hip. The others are already on the boat. "Not now, Gale."
"I'm afraid it can't wait." Gale insists. "Your . . . activities last night almost killed you."
Siobhan stiffens, her eyes flitting to their companions. "Lower your voice," she whispers and pulls him aside.
"Look, Astarion told me what happened last night, and I appreciate your help, but I don't need you prying into things that don't concern you. I'm officially absolving you of responsibility in the matter. All right?" Siobhan nods, smiling up at him sweetly, and gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. Thank you, but don't worry. I'm fine.
Gale frowns. She can't be serious, can she?
"I can't just forget what happened. You're struggling. We can all see that. The others might not know how much you're struggling, but they're not blind. Sooner or later, whatever it is that's weighing on you is going to be too much. I don't want to see you hurt yourself. And, gods, If the others find out how bad it is . . ."
Siobhan's expression turns stony and cold. "Don't patronize me. I can handle myself." The change in her mood gives him whiplash. What is her problem? Doesn't she see that he cares?
"Handle—? Oh, sure, because you handled yourself so well last night." Gale regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. The effect is immediate. Siobhan's jaw drops, indignation flooding her face.
"Wait. That's not what I—" Gale fumbles.
"Stop. Don't speak." Siobhan shushes him, holding up one finger. "I told you, now is not the time for this. We're about to liberate the deep gnomes and figure out a way to travel safely through the shadow curse from Nere. This? This is not a priority."
Gale swallows, feeling like a chastened schoolboy under the intensity of her glare. Her whole body shakes with anger. From over her shoulder, Gale catches Astarion watching them, a self-satisfied smirk dancing on his lips.
"I know you like to feel important, powerful, and like you have all the answers," she hisses and Gale's focus returns to her, "but I need you to get over yourself and focus on the problem at hand. Do you think you can do that?"
"That's not fair." Gale protests weakly. He's just trying to help. Why can't she see that?
"Life isn't fair!" She snaps, her voice echoing around them. They both freeze as their companions fall silent.
". . . Everything alright?" Wyll calls out and Siobhan winces before waving him off.
"Give us a minute. We'll be right there!" She tries to make her voice light but there's an unmistakable edge to it.
"Siobhan, please—" Gale tries but she cuts him off.
"Later." Her tone leaves no room for further discussion. She stalks off and Gales realizes with a sinking stomach that he's forgotten to ask for another artifact. The orb pulses in his chest, draining more of his strength than ever before. He shouldn't have pushed so hard. Not when he needed something from her. Damn it all.
Gale keeps to himself on the boat ride over, trying to disguise his worsening condition to the best of his abilities. Thankfully, nobody pays him too much attention, sufficiently distracted with piloting the vessel and then the group of Duergar that intercept them on their way to the dock of the Grymforge. Once Siobhan reveals they're True Souls the Duergar escort them to their leader, Thrinn, who enlists them into her service on threat of violence. Nere has debts to pay and any True Soul will do if he finds himself permanently incapacitated.
"Siobhan," Shadowheart's eyes are wide, glimmering with awed tears as she takes in the architecture of the ruins, "this temple . . ."
But Siobhan is distracted, speaking in hushed tones to a deep gnome they'd rescued in Moonhaven, Barcus Wroot.
". . . Philomeen . . . runepowder . . ."
The heat by the excavation site is intense with great rivers of lava pouring off deep into the ruins. It's suffocating, sapping Gale of energy. His robes cling to him, wet with sweat— sweat that drips down his forehead and stings his eyes. This is the worst he's felt. The longest he's gone without feeding the orb. The emptiness makes his head swim and the heat only makes it worse. Karlach is the only one who seems unfazed, rocking on her heels and fidgeting impatiently for an opportunity to make herself useful.
Siobhan finishes with Barcus and she peels away from the group with Shadowheart, Karlach, and Astarion in tow to retrieve the explosives. They have to get Nere out now, and taking everyone would only slow them down. Despite Astarion's inclusion in the hunting party, Gale is quietly relieved at being left out. He needs to catch his breath.
"Stand up straight," Lae'zel scolds him under her breath. Gale had slumped against one of the onyx columns. "You must not telegraph weakness in an enemy stronghold. They will exploit your fragility if it comes to a battle."
"Ah yes," Gale's sarcastic chuckle sounds frail even to his own ears. Mystra preserve him; he feels he might be sick, "because that was my intention."
Lae'zel's eyes narrow dangerously, "If you are lying for comedic effect, then you should cease at once. It is neither funny nor productive. Now explain yourself. Why has your complexion turned that shade of green?"
Gale doesn't know how much he should reveal to her, especially while in mixed company. He notices a nosy duergar blacksmith inspecting the edge of a blade for a few seconds too long and opts for vagueness.
"I'm fine. It's just the heat. It'll pass."
Lae'zel clucks her tongue and pulls the waterskin off her hip before shoving it into his hands. "Drink. The others should return soon."
Gale complies, drinking until Lae'zel is satisfied. In truth, the water does help some. He no longer feels as faint. True to Lae'zel's prediction, the others return only twenty minutes later. If Siobhan notices his deteriorating condition, she doesn't acknowledge it with anything more than a frown. They're on a tight schedule. Nere and the Ironhand Gnomes' leader, Beldron, have been trapped for almost two days now.
Siobhan sets the explosives, and everyone, Duergar and deep gnome alike, scurries away to find cover. The blast is concussive, with bits of stone and debris flying through the air. A plume of noxious gas billows from the newly formed opening, and in its wake stumbles a tall male drow with once flowing white hair that's now matted with sweat and dust alongside an equally ragged deep gnome.
The bastard hardly draws two breaths of fresh air before flinging one of the gnomes into the river of lava.
"No!" Siobhan chokes, reaching out fruitlessly. Her horror gives her away, Nere turns on them while thanking them for the rescue in the same breath. They are beset by combatants on all sides but aside from Gale, the party is well-rested and magically augmented. Nere and the duergar are weak from the heat, fumes, and excavation efforts. Gale thinks they might actually prevail without too much trouble but the orb's hunger has taken too much. In a moment of inattention, he misses his target and as a reward, the duergar flings his battle-axe straight at him. The blade buries itself in his chest. The last thing he hears before he hits the ground is Siobhan's anguished cry, and then nothing.
Thank Mystra for contingency plans.