Isobel, the cleric of Selûne they meet at Last Light Inn, lays a blessing on them that lets them travel safely without a light source everywhere but the towers themselves, where the curse is strongest. Powerful enough to protect them during the harpers' ambush of the Absolutist caravan headed by none other than the drider they'd hoped to summon using Nere's lyre. A lyre they now have no use for because the harpers had already done all the hard work to find him without their help. They only needed a few more swords to pull it off, which they do, securing a pixie's blessing to protect them from the curse when they free it of the drider's moon lantern.

"FUCK!"

Astarion watches from his perch on the rooftop as Siobhan smashes the lyre against the rocks at the very edge of Isobel's enchantment where she, he assumes, had hoped to avoid an audience. Smashing it over and over again, wood splintering and exploding in all directions, strings screeching under the abuse before snapping, heaving with frustrated sobs because it had occurred to her in a moment of sickening realization, as it had occurred to all of them, that if Gale hadn't died in their efforts to discover protection from the curse from Nere, he'd still have the True Resurrection scroll. A scroll that they could have conceivably used to resurrect Gale if he ends up going through with his suicide mission.

The whole endeavor had been a colossal and devastating waste.

Siobhan will likely try to convince herself otherwise once she's cooled off. Will try and rationalize it away—that at least they'd managed to free the enslaved gnomes, but Astarion knows better. No good deed goes unpunished. No act of kindness met with anything less than cruelty. He doesn't understand how someone who's been raped for the better part of her life right under the nose of her supposed 'family' had yet to learn the lesson. He wonders if this latest setback is what it will finally take for her to learn it.

Siobhan straightens, throwing back her head to catch her breath, and then composes herself. Astarion can't make out the expression on her face from where he's sat, but he guesses it's that same martyred determination that had once infuriated him but now just makes his heart ache. That expression that says no matter what happens, she must simply keep moving, keep fighting, keep helping, keep brewing, keep gathering, keep feeding, keep comforting— keep giving, giving, giving.

Siobhan hasn't learned her lesson, and he dreads the day when she finally does.

Astarion clambers down from his place once she starts walking back to the inn. It wouldn't do to be caught spying on her. As he does, he turns over the half-baked plans he's tried to come up with to dissuade Gale from offing himself and persuade him that life is worth living. Why Siobhan thinks he is the most qualified to help with the project is beyond him.

The only thing that comes to mind is giving the sexually repressed wizard an orgasm so mind-blowing that he forgets this silly devotion to Mystra that's driving him to self-sacrifice.

Astarion has sucked enough cock in his lifetime to know he could achieve it easily enough. But aside from that plan making him nauseous to the point of pain from the humiliation it would entail (and the attendant shame to shoulder afterwards), Gale would never let Astarion get that close. At least, he doesn't think so.

Ordinary Gale certainly wouldn't have, but perhaps 'Facing Certain Death' Gale might want to make the most of his life while he's still living it.

Nevertheless, Siobhan has not asked him to do anything quite so extreme. Not yet, anyway. Astarion has yet to see her truly desperate— has yet to discover what the limits of her kindness are. He knows she regularly calculates the worth of mortal lives to guide her decisions, and he's confident that his discomfort ranks lower than Gale's life. What's more, Astarion's already presented himself as an incorrigible flirt and something of a libertine—he's even teased her about pursuing Gale himself. She'll probably think him more than willing as he's done little to dissuade her of the notion.

"Hullo!"

Astarion's foot slips, and he just manages to catch himself from falling off the roof in his shock. He swears and curses, dangling feet kicking in the air, arms aching as he swings himself over to the balcony. He lands on all fours, knees screaming in protest and wrist aching from the awkward angle with which he hits the floor.

"Hells! Are you okay?" Karlach kneels beside him, hand outstretched, and he jerks away with a hiss.

"Don't touch me!" Astarion spits. Karlach snatches her hand away, the frown on her lips half contrite and half unimpressed. Damon had repaired her infernal engine enough that she no longer burns on contact, but just because Siobhan's happy to let the tiefling manhandle her does not mean he shares the sentiment.

"Didn't mean to spook you, soldier. Noticed you'd wandered off and came looking for you. What were you doing up there?" Karlach asks, glancing at the bald spots on the roof where Astarion had kicked some of the decaying shingles free.

"Excuse me if I wanted a moment of peace and quiet for once. Didn't know I had to ask permission first." Astarion sneers, getting to his feet and brushing the dust from his trousers.

"Hey now," Karlach pouts, stung, "you don't have to be such a twat about it. I was worried about you."

"Is that so?" Astarion mocks. Karlach glares.

"Yeah, actually, I was. I could feel you thinking dark thoughts," Karlach taps her temple with one finger, scowling, "but fuck me for wanting to check in, I guess!"

Astarion feels himself go cold, his lips turning numb with abject horror, "W—what did you hear?"

Karlach's eyes widen, "Oh! Nothing specific—sorry—it was mostly the flavor of what you were feeling. I wouldn't poke around, I promise! You were just feeling kind of loud."

"Oh," Astarion replies meekly, ". . . apologies."

"Ah, it's alright. Not like you meant to," Karlach waves him off and then pauses thoughtfully, "Well, I guess if you did mean to, then that's fine, too."

Astarion crosses his arms resentfully at the insinuation, which Karlach completely disregards.

Her lips press into a grim line, "This place has a way of getting under your skin, eh? It's like even the good things can only feel so good while the bad things . . . well. Anyway," she taps her temple again, "dark thoughts."

"Indeed." Astarion allows but doesn't elaborate despite the expectant look on her face.

"Listen, I know you're not the touchy-feely kind, but if you wanna talk about it ever, you know. You're a prickly bastard, but you're our prickly bastard." Karlach shrugs with a grin and leans against the wall to look up at the shimmering dome of Isobel's protection.

Mortifyingly, Astarion feels his throat tighten at the ease with which Karlach claims their friendship. It strikes him as odd, seeing that he can count the number of times they've spoken in this manner on one hand. Yet, she seems sincere. Karlach has always been warm with the others— he just hadn't expected any of that warmth to be reserved for him. She continues to stand there silently, and Astarion realizes that she will do so until he dismisses her outright.

"I've just been thinking about—well. What do you make of Gale and this Mystra business?"

Karlach scowls and crosses her arms, "Fucking bullshit. If Mystra can't come up with a way to stop the Absolute without sacrificing Gale, then she's no goddess worth worshipping."

"Gale doesn't seem to think so."

"Yeah, well, he's a fucking wizard, isn't he? They're supposed to be so smart, but they always need help picking the simple, obvious option." Karlach says with an exasperated sigh, pushing off from the wall to pace as her temper starts to build. Fixed infernal engine or not, the tiefling's rage is always simmering just below the surface despite her otherwise cheerful disposition.

"I know what it's like to be treated like cannon fodder. Something to be thrown at somebody else's enemies, and if you make it back, great, if you don't, then eh fuck it. I didn't deserve it with Zariel. Neither does Gale with Mystra."

"So how do you think we can convince him to choose life, as it were?" Astarion asks. "What would you say to him?"

Karlach shrugs unhappily, "It's already hard to convince anyone life is worth living if they think they're worthless."

Astarion can't help but laugh a little at that. "Gale thinks himself worthless? He's one of the most arrogant men I've ever met."

Karlach frowns. "You don't see him very clearly then. But I guess you two never really got along."

"Enlighten me then, dear Karlach. What hidden depths am I missing?" Astarion rolls his eyes.

Karlach bites her lip and then looks around before stepping in closer and lowering her voice.

"I don't know if Gale ever told you, but I think you should know. He became Mystra's chosen at 17, just a kid. Imagine that. The goddess that makes it possible for you to cast magic, picking you, loving you, not because you're special to her or anything but because of how good you are at magic. And that's all you know for half your whole life. Then, one day, you go too far to keep her attention—to stay special in her eyes—now you're nothing special at all. You're worse than that because you got this thing in you, eating up all your magic. So, she throws you away."

Astarion has never had anyone in his life that he held in high enough esteem to care about their opinion of him, let alone attach his self-worth to that opinion so wholly. He does, however, understand what it's like to be treated as if your only worth is what you can get or do for others.

"How far would you go to get back that love and attention, to feel," Karlach waves her hand carelessly at the heavens, "cosmically special again, especially if you think it's your own fault for losing it in the first place?"

"I don't know . . ." Astarion answers honestly. But then he remembers how far he's willing to go—how much he's willing to lower himself— to feel safe and in control.

"So, what then? We make Gale feel special enough not to care about Mystra? How do we do that?" Astarion asks.

"Ain't that the question. Eh?" Karlach huffs, smiling sadly.

Astarion's lips begin to twist into a scowl at her unhelpfulness, but Karlach interrupts him with a sigh, "We show him what he means to us, I guess. That we value him and not what he can do."

Astarion considers this. It's not as specific as he would have hoped, but he supposes it's better than nothing. At least now he has something more to work with. The only trouble is that he doesn't really know what it is to find someone inherently valuable. If their value doesn't come from what he can get from them, then where does it come from?

"You've . . . given me quite a bit to think about." Astarion inclines his head.

"Enough to chase away the dark thoughts?" Karlach grins and Astarion smirks back.

"I think so."

They make it only an hour into their expedition to the House of Healing when the sky opens up with a clap of thunder, dumping a freezing torrent of rain over their heads. Retracing Art Cullagh's steps is their only lead to finding something to rouse him from his enchanted sleep and solving the mystery of the curse. Their progress being halted by the weather, of all things, is frustrating, to say the least. Returning to the inn thwarted and soaked to the bone only adds to their misery.

Astarion retreats to the cramped dormitory Jaeheira had put them up in and strips off his armor, waiting for his turn to bathe. Being undead, he was relegated to go last since he couldn't catch his death from sitting too long in cold, wet clothes. Gale had tried to take his place but, after almost ten minutes of arguing (which Shadowheart exploited to take the first turn), had to settle for second to last.

Siobhan and Gale join him shortly after he takes up the lone chair to wait with him. Siobhan is on the floor, sitting with her back against the trunk at the foot of the bunk she shares with Shadowheart. She doesn't want to get her mattress wet. Gale doesn't appear to care about getting his wet, however. He plops down without hesitation, still dripping. Lae'zel had taken advantage of Siobhan's goodwill and secured the turn after Shadowheart while Karlach still ran hot enough that her ambient body temperature would dry her off in under an hour. As such, they have the room to themselves.

The tension is almost unbearable. Siobhan still can't look at Gale without her face twisting with guilt, so she doesn't look at him at all. Gale, cognizant of this, does his best to avoid doing anything that might require her attention, which for him means simply not speaking. Together, they make for exceedingly dreary company.

"We should get drunk," Astarion proposes, if only just to get them going—anything to fill the silence.

Siobhan doesn't even make an effort to respond one way or the other, staring vacantly at her hands; her despondency so consumes her. Gale, however, is easy to goad into conversation.

"Is that wise?" Gale questions, pushing back his sopping hair away from his face. "We'll need our energy tomorrow if this rain lets up."

"'If' and 'tomorrow' being the operative words, darling," Astarion points out. "This is the first day off we've had for a while, and I think we're all in need of some frivolity. Don't you agree?"

Gale's continued reticence does little to deter him as the corner of Astarion's mouth lifts mischievously, "Would you change your mind if I told you I found quite the wine cellar right below our feet? It's rather well stocked if I say so myself."

At the spark of interest in Gale's eyes, Astarion continues, his smile widening, "But, you don't have to take my word for it. Shall I show you the way? You can decide once you've seen the selection yourself."

"I . . . suppose it couldn't hurt." Gale relents.

"Of course, it couldn't!" Astarion turns his gaze to Siobhan, who remains resolutely silent. "Will you join us, darling?"

She blinks up at him as if she didn't expect to be addressed directly. After a moment of consideration, she shrugs her shoulders, "Might as well."

Astarion grins triumphantly, "Excellent!"

The excursion to the basement doesn't take them long, even with Astarion and Gale each taking their time to find something expensive or rare. Siobhan settles for whatever her fingers touch first, uncorking a bottle and drinking from it deeply as they make their way back to the dormitory. Gale looks like he might chastise her for indulging so irresponsibly but seems to think better of it. Instead, he follows her lead, drinking heavily and throwing caution to the wind.

Conversation stalls again as his companions focus their efforts on getting totally and completely plastered. If Astarion didn't know better, he would think they were competing to see who could get to the end of their bottle first. But, no, they are simply trying to numb the pain as quickly as they can.

"My, for all your handwringing earlier, you two sure are eager to drink yourselves into oblivion." Astarion teases, deliberately drinking as little as he can without alerting his companions to the fact.

"In for a copper, in for a gold," Gale hiccups, half precariously perched and half leaning on the low writing desk in the corner, his cheeks already flushing from the alcohol.

"You know I was worried you might not make a good drinking companion," he tells Gale, " But I can see you haven't let your impending self-detonation dampen your spirits. I take it, then, that you've made your peace with all that?" Astarion asks mildly.

Gale, mid-sip, chokes a bit at Astarion's bluntness— dribbling wine down his chin. No one had spoken to Gale about Mystra's mission since Elminster first delivered the news. They'd all either witnessed Siobhan's admonishments firsthand or learned about them later, but they hadn't known what to say to Gale that hadn't already been said. The wizard refused to be swayed. Gale shoots Siobhan an uneasy look, but she ignores it and glares at Astarion instead.

What are you doing?

Astarion gives her the telepathic equivalent of a hand wave, the tenor of which he hopes reads as 'trust me,' but otherwise ignores the question to press Gale further. Siobhan takes another healthy swig and watches him carefully.

"Well?" Astarion asks, and Gale swallows.

"As much as one can, I suppose," Gale replies hesitantly, wiping away the spilt wine, "but perhaps this isn't the best topic of conv—"

"You must have some regrets, though. Some experiences you've yet to have? Some burning desires to sate before it's all said and done?" Astarion continues— the tension in the room growing with every word.

"Haven't you given any thought as to how you'll spend your final days?" Astarion huffs incredulously. Gale's eyes flit nervously to Siobhan again. Astarion catches the glance and shoots him a knowing smirk. He drops his voice to hum suggestively. "Or with whom?"

Siobhan springs to her feet, fist clenched tightly around the neck of the almost empty wine bottle in her hand. Her cheeks are mottled with twin spots of color. It takes her a moment to speak, but when she does, her voice comes out strained and agitated.

"I'm going to go and see if Lae'zel's finished with the bath. Excuse me."

Gale and Astarion watch her stumble out drunkenly in silence. Once the door closes behind her with a soft click, Gale turns to glare at him.

"Why must you poke at her? Don't you think she's suffered enough over all this?"

"All what?" Astarion asks innocently, playing dumb, looking at his nails. "Your little suicide mission?"

Astarion takes Gale's stony silence as confirmation, "Well, that can be remedied easily enough if it's her suffering that concerns you."

Astarion abandons his seat to approach Gale with slow swaying steps, stopping, planting his palms on the desk on either side of Gale, and leaning over him slightly so that they're almost nose to nose, "You could always not blow yourself up. A neat solution, wouldn't you say?"

Gale leans back to try and create some distance to limited success with how Astarion's trapped him, holding the bottle between them like a shield. "I'm surprised at you, Astarion. I would have thought you, of all people, would be glad to see me gone. Aren't you relieved our illithid misadventure is almost at its end?"

"Relieved." Astarion scoffs, "Tell me, when you set off this explosion, what'll happen to the rest of us, hmm?"

Gale frowns and then looks down at the floor. Astarion takes Gale's chin between his fingers and tilts his head back up, forcing Gale to look at him. Gale eyes him, wary, but his lips part ever so slightly, and Astarion can smell the wine on Gale's breath, warm as it crashes against his face.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I recall you saying that the blast from that orb would level a city the size of Waterdeep. How exactly do you plan on pulling this off without taking all of us with you?" Astarion murmurs, tapping his thumb against the divot below Gale's bottom lip.

"Ah, I should have guessed," Gale sighs. A cold, pinched smile crosses his lips as he jerks his chin out of Astarion's grip. "This isn't about Siobhan at all. I thought for a moment you might have meant how she might feel after I'm gone—but this is about you, looking out for yourself, as always."

Astarion pulls back, hand over his heart, "You wound me, Gale. I'm only asking with the best of intentions."

"Why do I doubt your sincerity?"

Astarion studies the contempt on Gale's face for a moment before dropping the theatrics and crossing his arms. Insincere? Astarion can be sincere.

"You know, two things can be true at once. Is it so hard to imagine that I might want you to reject this mission because I don't want to get caught in the crossfire and because I believe you shouldn't have to die?"

By the expression on Gale's face, Astarion gathers that, yes, it is that hard for him to imagine. Fair enough.

"Why are you so eager to throw your life away?" Astarion asks because he needs to hear it from the horse's mouth.

Gale stares at him in helpless disbelief, "Eager? You think I want to do this? You, Siobhan, everyone keeps talking about this like it's a choice. It's not! This thing?" He rips open the collar of his shirt to expose the black and purple brand seared into the flesh over his heart. "This thing is killing me— has been killing me for over a year, and I brought it upon myself through my hubris. I'm going to die anyway, eventually, but now it can mean something. My death needn't be without purpose."

"Die anyway?" Astarion scoffs, unmoved by Gale's speech, "Mystra had the power to stabilize the orb all along. If you were going to die anyway, then that's because she chose to let you die, not because it's inevitable."

This does not appear to be a great revelation to Gale, who simply looks up at him sadly and says, "What do you want me to say, Astarion? I made my bed long ago; I can hardly begrudge Mystra for the fact that I now have to lie in it."

Astarion's astonishment nearly leaves him mute, "You actually believe you deserve this."

Astarion should think this man pathetic, foolish, and small. The willingness with which he takes his beating from Mystra, a cruel master of which he's no stranger, should infuriate him. But just like Siobhan, that martyred determination simply makes his heart ache for them. A feeling he no longer thought was possible. The ability to feel anything for anyone except disdain was something he thought Cazador had beaten out of him long ago. Astarion reaches out with one trembling hand and cups Gale's cheek, thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone and down to his jaw. Gale's beard scratches gently against his palm.

Gale stiffens at the contact, face still twisted with grief for a future lost but now softened with puzzled surprise. He stares at him, searching Astarion's expression for an explanation. But Gale doesn't pull away, which surprises Astarion in return.

Once Astarion makes his decision, he leans in and kisses Gale without hesitation. Something sweet and soft and kind because Astarion is tired of harsh and cruel and bitter. Something just for Gale. Not because Astarion needs something from him or wants something from him—because he doesn't. Not because Gale needs or wants something from Astarion—because he doesn't. And isn't that novel? Something just for Gale because Gale is dying, and Astarion thinks it would be a shame for Gale not to have at least one sweet thing to take with him to the end if he can't find the will to keep on living.

Astarion breaks the kiss after only a few seconds and lets his hand fall, Gale looking up at him in a way he doesn't think he's ever seen Gale look at him— stunned, cheeks still flushed from the wine, and with none of the distaste he's grown so familiar with. Astarion sighs and turns to leave.

"What a waste."