Gale can't stop touching his lips. He doesn't know how many times he's caught himself in the middle of the act, but anytime he loses himself in his thoughts, invariably, he'll notice the pads of his fingertips brushing along the curve of his mouth and freeze.
Astarion kissed him. Astarion. Kissed. Him . Astarion kissed him?
Astarion despises him, and yet Astarion kissed him.
It had happened so very quickly that in the aftermath, Gale thought maybe he had imagined it, but no. One minute, Astarion was being his usual thorny self—prone to theatrics, self-involved, and, yes, flirtatious but performatively so with no genuine interest behind his eyes, done simply for what Gale has always assumed was for his own entertainment. Then suddenly, all that had fallen away for a moment, like a music box stuttering, skipping a note, and in that gap was something real, and timid, and sad.
Astarion kissed him—no heat behind it. No lust. No desire. But not nothing, either.
And then it was over. Astarion was back, as was his disdain.
What a waste .
That's what Astarion had said to him before sauntering off. What a waste .
What did he mean? Gale's death is a waste? The kiss? Siobhan's suffering over Gale? Gale himself? All of the above? Or something else entirely?
Gale wants to ask him—wants Astarion to explain his actions but can't find a moment to pull him aside. Astarion doesn't avoid him, per se, but he's never alone, seemingly attached to Siobhan by the hip. Even if he does manage to pull him aside for an explanation, what is it he hopes to hear? What is it he hopes to happen?
Gale doesn't know. He's sure Astarion doesn't feel for him or want him. Gale certainly doesn't. It's Siobhan who he wants and feels for. She's beautiful and selfless and kind, and he longs for her so painfully that it takes his breath away, but he doesn't know if she feels the same way.
There's something there between them; he's sure of it. There's also something between her and Astarion. But Astarion kissed him . Why?
Gale knows very little about Astarion and understands even less. That never bothered him before, but the lack frustrates him now. Is sex a tool for him? A game? A distraction? Astarion cares, he forms attachments, but does he love? Does he love Siobhan? What does Astarion possibly stand to gain from kissing him? What had Astarion been trying to achieve, and what, if anything, did that have to do with Siobhan?
Astarion had spoken to him as if Gale was the interloper that night before the Grymforge, but what is it precisely that Gale has supposedly inserted himself into? Astarion doesn't seem to mind if Siobhan becomes involved with Gale. Which begs the question, what are Siobhan's thoughts on all this? Does she even know about the kiss? Would she even care?
Gale recalls how Astarion had offered to share her as if she was no less than a bauble to be passed around, a loaf of bread to be divvied up at supper time. Gale is rather old-fashioned in the ways of the heart. Some might call him selfish or hopelessly romantic, but he's always believed that two people should dedicate themselves to each other and no one else. But it occurs to him that he's never asked if Siobhan feels the same way. Astarion must not, or he wouldn't have kissed him. Would he?
A million questions bounce around his skull with no answers in sight. It's maddening. It's—
Gale rips his hand away from his face, lips still tingling from where his fingertips had been rubbing. He needs to focus. The rain had indeed abated come the morning if one could call it that—the sky barely lighter during the day than at night—and they set off to the House of Healing once more. It would hardly do to let this interaction distract him so.
It's just that Gale hasn't been touched in that manner—hasn't been kissed—in a long time. At least his body hasn't. Coupling with a goddess, as gods do, negates the need for a physical form and its attendant limitations. While Mystra could have adopted a corpus had she wished, she did not do so even once during their affair. Gale hadn't thought it had bothered him at the time, but after his fall from her grace, it was simply another reminder of his inadequacy.
Neither Gale nor his body had ever been enough for her. Once he'd poisoned himself with the Karsic weave, it was no good to anyone or for anything except to destroy the Absolute— corrupted and tainted as he is.
But then Astarion kissed him.
It's physiology. His body is simply responding to stimuli the way it ought to; it's only natural. Astarion, being the first in a very long time, is just that—the first in a long time. Gale won't deny the man is handsome despite the ugliness of Astarion's personality, but his body doesn't know what his mind does—the root of all this confusion.
Gale looks to the two elves at the head of the procession, Astarion's hair a white beacon in the shadows trailing just behind Siobhan. Gale's fingers find his lips once more.
There's so much he wants to do and so little time left to do it. Perhaps it means nothing at all, and he's a fool for thinking it more. Perhaps Astarion is right, and he should put more thought into living what's left of his life before it's over. Perhaps he should abandon his attachment to monogamy altogether. What good would it do to demand such a thing from Siobhan when he'd be dead and gone so soon?
His thoughts are consumed totally by the prospect until they come to a sudden stop in front of a crumbling façade.
The House of Healing is a thing of nightmares. A backwards, twisted hospital full of suffering and death—the sprawling cemetery that abuts the building, littered with half-finished mass graves piled high with the dead, indicative of the horrors contained therein.
They find Arabella using her nascent sorcery abilities to toy with a pair of shadow blights at the gate, apparently in search of her parents. Gale ordinarily would be overjoyed at the opportunity to coach a young spellcaster, but this is no place for a child. Wyll volunteers to escort her back to Last Light so she isn't there when Siobhan discovers the bodies. They had long since been killed by the ghoulish nurses roaming the facility under the guise of care.
"Not dead, merely medicated. To ease the pain," The undead woman, who introduces herself as Sister Lidwin, dreamily corrects when Shadowheart demands to know why she's tending to the corpses.
"Ah, yes," Siobhan swallows, "I see now, merely sleeping. I—I think your work here is already done."
Siobhan's tone is measured—respectful, but with a hint of caution meant for their party to hear only and reinforced telepathically.
Don't provoke. Not hostile . . . yet. Stay alert.
Sister Lidwin's smile of relief reveals a row of broken, rotted teeth and black gums, "Yes! I knew these hands would not fail me. The patients are soon to recover."
"Sister . . . may I ask, to what order do you belong?" Gale asks.
"The Lady of Sorrows, my dear. I am a Darkcloak of Shar." Sister Lidwin bows politely but then pauses, "Although that was a long time ago . . . I think . . ."
Sister Lidwin stays frozen and silent mid-bow long enough for Gale to feel his gut twist with dread before suddenly animating again.
"Hello, are you in need of the doctor? If you're feeling poorly, please speak to Sister Sinda at reception. This is the children's ward, and my patients need tending." Lidwin informs them kindly before fussing over the corpses again. She doesn't remember them. Gale and the others move to leave, but Siobhan's focus narrows greedily to the small wooden cart laden with potion bottles next to the soiled cots.
"Might I purchase some supplies, Sister?" She asks, already unfastening the tie to her coin purse.
"Not much left now, but you're welcome to look." Lidwin gestures to the cart and then to a small collections box perched on the windowsill beside it before returning to her task. Siobhan drops a gold piece in the box and begins rifling through the cart.
"You've just paid a talking corpse. Forgive me, but I don't think she'll have much use for our coin." Astarion scowls. Shadowheart shushes him, but it appears she needn't have bothered. Lidwin pays them no mind, humming tunelessly as she 'tends' to her patients.
"It's a single gold piece, Astarion." Siobhan leaves it at that as she stows her finds in the bag of holding they'd taken off Nere's corpse. Siobhan's developed a sort of cold finality in the way she speaks ever since the Underdark that leaves no room for challenge. It's highly effective. Where Shadowheart's rebuke failed to curb him, Siobhan's directness renders him silent.
While Gale can appreciate the pragmatic efficiency of Siobhan's shift in attitude, he can't help but mourn the loss of the open and warm, if a little unsure, woman she had once been. He hopes the change is temporary. He hopes his death won't push her further down that path than it already has.
Sister Sinda at reception proves to be more of a hindrance than a help, refusing to let them pass until Gale steps in, mind buzzing with every fact about necrotic maladies he can recall. Necromancy is a field of study Gale spent little time exploring, but he had taken a survey course on the topic while at the academy. He had never had the opportunity to make use of his brief study until now.
"Forgive us for the confusion. The doctor hired us—we're experts in maladaptive necromantic malaise. We're not patients."
That does the trick. Sister Sinda directs them to the operating theatre, and once out of earshot, Karlach claps him on the back in congratulations with enough force it makes him stumble.
"Well done, you! I thought we were gonna have to fight our way through."
"Don't count your chickens till they've hatched, darling. I fear there's ample time for that yet." Astarion quietly warns as they come to a halt at the end of the ramp at the well of the theatre.
Malus Thorm is, in the kindest terms Gale can think of, a psychopathic sadist masquerading as a religious fanatic. The cold detachment with which he lectures to the gaggle of nurses huddled around him while their 'patient' shrieks and writhes in agony sends a frisson of disgust and horror through him.
Astarion, at his side, bristles instantly, drawing his weapons and hissing under his breath, "He's just like Cazador—utterly insane."
Gale notes the name and how Astarion's voice wavers as it falls from his lips. He's heard Cazador spoken of once before and remembers that he's the vampire lord that sired Astarion. He recalls little else by way of detail except that he had been a cruel master. Judging by Astarion's reaction, perhaps crueler than he had previously imagined.
Shadowheart is the one who makes meaning of his lecture for the rest of them, with the caveat that Malus has twisted her lady's teachings almost beyond recognition. Her thoughts are colored with outrage as they echo in their skulls. Gale doesn't know if it's the pique, plain on her face, or the Sharran insignia emblazoned on her breastplate, but Malus addresses her directly once he takes notice of them.
"Go forth and sow doubt, but do not compel it—for only the willing may know the Lady's embrace," Shadowheart recites. Malus regards her blankly, and the slight curl of his lip is the only hint of emotion— intrigue.
"Your subject is tainted. Shar's succor must only be granted to the willing." Shadowheart spits. Siobhan stiffens at her side.
Careful!
But it's too late to recover; Shadowheart's antagonism towards Malus in defense of her divinity gives him the perfect opening to label her a heretic and set his acolytes on them like a pack of dogs brandishing rusty surgical implements with frightening dexterity. If they hadn't been battle-hardened from the trials of the past two months, Gale doesn't think they would have made it. Fighting together all this time has turned their once disorganized band ruthlessly efficient, bolstering each other's strengths while covering each other's weaknesses.
They don't come out the other side unscathed, every one of them sporting injuries of varying degrees of severity, but they're all still standing. Gale, for one, is buzzing with a battle high. He feels more alive than he has in weeks, doubly so since receiving Mystra's mission.
"It's quite thrilling, is it not? To fight off such grim creatures that this region throws at us," Gale prattles breathlessly, adrenaline pounding through his veins. His companions barely acknowledge him, too busy looting the surgeon and his acolytes for anything of use.
"Most invigorating! You know, I read a book once," Gale continues rambling to no one in particular, deep in his own thoughts, fingers dancing across his lips, "that explained in some detail the effect a brush with danger has on one's desires for other forms of stimuli—"
Gale realizes what's come out of his mouth at about the same time as everyone else and freezes mid-sentence, face burning with heat—snatching his hand away from his lips for what seems like the thousandth time.
Shadowheart looks scandalized, Siobhan stunned, and Astarion openly delighted in the wake of Gale's mortification.
"I know that feeling," Karlach snorts loudly at his thoughtless candor.
"Perhaps we should move on," Astarion leers at Gale, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely controlled mirth, "before the excitement gets to him."
Astarion looks as if he would like nothing more than to see the excitement get to Gale, if only because of how humiliating it would be. Gale's blush intensifies—the memory of Astarion's lips burns against his own.
"Ah— I'll go draw the teleportation sigil in case we—excuse me—apologies." Gale stutters before fleeing. What an imbecile. Gale finds an abandoned office and busies himself preparing the spell components, wishing all the while that the earth would open up and swallow him whole, but the earth apparently knows he still has one last task to complete and ignores his pleas.
He's putting the finishing touches on the sigil when the door to the office opens quietly. Gale turns to find Siobhan standing in the entryway, and his heart jumps traitorously at her presence, reminding him once more of how few beats it has left.
"I hope you haven't come to mock; you could hardly hope to outdo Astarion, I fear. Although, it appears there's no limit to the humiliation I'm able to bring upon myself, so perhaps there's opportunity yet." Gale tries and fails to joke, sounding more sour than he intended. But, Siobhan, ever the good sport, indulges him with a half-smile that eases the tension in his shoulders.
"I'll leave the mockery to him. As you said, my wit could never compare, so I won't even try."
Gale cringes, "I—sorry. I don't mean to suggest you lack wit; I merely meant—"
She cuts him off with a soft laugh, "It's all right. I know what you meant."
"Ah . . . good." Gale shuffles nervously. This is the first time they've spoken, just the two of them, since Elminster. This is the first time she's been able to speak to him at all without looking as if she's about to shatter into a thousand pieces.
"I just wanted to check in with you, make sure you're . . ." Siobhan trails off with a frown.
"Okay? Fine? Well?" Gale lists helpfully. Siobhan nods.
Gale chuckles cheerlessly, "One of the upsides of having been infected with terrible purpose is I now have purpose—clear and unambiguous. Rather a relief to know the path ahead and the steps one must take to get there. I'd venture a guess and say that few mortals ever receive such a luxury."
Siobhan's face falls, and Gale thinks he ought never to open his stupid mouth again.
"You meant because I made a total ass of myself, not my mission," Gale sighs. Siobhan nods.
"Right." Gale sits down heavily in the empty desk chair and buries his face in his palms, elbows propped up against his knees. He hears rustling and then the clack of Siobhan's bow against the floor as she sets it down by his seat. She takes his wrists in her hands and pulls them down. His sight restored, revealing that she'd knelt at his feet to look up at him.
"I haven't been very fair to you, Gale. I want to apologize if you'll let me."
Siobhan's expression is a mix of grief and guilt underneath the bone weariness that's become a permanent fixture on her face, dark circles so pronounced he's almost forgotten what she looks like without them.
"Apologize," Gale repeats, appalled, "whatever for?"
"You've been made to carry yet another terrible burden, and I—" her voice cracks, and Gale feels as if someone has driven a lance through his heart, "I abandoned you. I don't want you to do this to yourself, and I'll fight for you, but whatever your choice, I shouldn't have left you to suffer alone."
Gale's throat closes, and his eyes suddenly blur as tears flood his vision.
"I—ah—will admit it has been . . . difficult," Gale clears his throat, blinking rapidly, "excuse me. I seem to have gotten some dust in my eyes."
Gale laughs weakly, hoping to disguise his blubbering, and looks away, pulling his wrists out of her hands. Buck up now , Gale .
"You have nothing to apologize for. As you pointed out, this is my burden to bear. I wouldn't—it's not your responsibility to shoulder any part of it—or me, for that matter. But . . ."
Gale hates the way his voice breaks, "I appreciate the companionship you've shown me all the same. I hardly know how I shall ever repay you for that alone."
Siobhan is silent long enough that Gale has to look back at her. She has one trembling hand hiding her eyes while the other rests clenched in her lap, and Gale's heart breaks all over again. Gods, he can do nothing right, can he?
"Siobhan?"
She drags the hand over her eyes down her face, scrubbing away unshed tears with the motion, and sighs.
"We never did discuss my cutting; after everything, did we? I believe I owe you an explanation, or at least as close to an explanation as I can manage. There are still some things about it I don't fully understand myself," Siobhan sniffles; this time, it's she who looks away, "Sorry, again, for snapping at you and not replacing the artifact. If I hadn't—well, it's too late for all that now."
"I—you—" Gale shakes his head helplessly, "you're forgiven if that's what you need to hear, but you must know I don't hold that against you. I don't blame you for any of it—hey," Gale takes her hand in his and presses it to his chest, gently squeezing until she looks at him, "Please, don't blame yourself for how any of that unfolded. Nere—the scroll—none of it is your fault."
A bitter smile flashes across her lips and then vanishes, "Hardly matters now. But, I did want to explain—I know what it's like to hate oneself, to value oneself so little, to think you're better off not existing at all. Choosing that, taking that way out, was never an option for me so I found other ways to—but those feelings—it's not as simple . . . sometimes the punishment feels like a reward. It's so easy for it to get all mixed up in your head."
Gale stiffens because, yes, Mystra's mission is like a punishment and a reward all wrapped up in one. Release and annihilation. Forgiveness and penance. Exile and redemption. No more uncertainty but no more possibility. An end to the suffering but also an end to everything good in his life.
"I just wanted to—I'm begging you, don't do this for those reasons. If you decide to go through with it," tears begin to slide down her cheeks, and her breath stutters, "Only do it because it's the absolute last resort, not because you think you deserve this because you don't ."
Gale doesn't know how to respond; he's all twisted up inside. He needs time to think.
Siobhan stands, "Just . . . think about it. Please?"
Gale nods and releases Siobhan's hand when she pulls away.
"I'll go with you to the very end. I promise. No matter what happens."