thirsted | SALTBURNT

Now it seems as though Tim Laughlin is circling you.

[ a light haired spade. a male spade. an arrowhead found at the scene.

and yet he flips the coin: a dark-haired heart. a male heart. the scent of the weave — his magic, not that of the hells which so many serve here — at the scene. ]

[ There’s a long pause — uncharacteristic in their exchanges — before Astarion answers. He walks hand in hand with death but abhors the idea of the cage, as he had last year, except now— ]

If anything else points to me, will you say my name?
I’d rather be accused by you than by a stranger.

[ Another hesitation. His fingers tremble. The evidence that might point to Gale is one thing, when he’s known of his beloved’s role since nearly the start. But he has no alibi, as he’d confessed early on, and on top of that— ]

I possess the ability to compel another. You and I both do.

Astarion.
You would ask me to lay your head at my feet.

[ but, ah yes, there is their erstwhile companion — the tadpole. a power he had so rarely made use before coming here, and that he hasn’t invoked once, in the near year since he arrived.

willfully ignored, despite his morals. ]

It is still not enough to be you. There are others that remain unchecked.

[ thinning out one by one. ]

Are you home?

[ because he’s already on the way. ]

Edited 2025-10-20 16:13 (UTC)

I was led into my first death by a man who wished only to see me suffer.

[ But he leaves it at that, for now, when he sees the rest of the message. ]

I am.

[ And he is, as promised — seated, fidgeting, on the foot of their bed. He's not sure if he believes it — not sure if that's purely because he doesn't want to — but there's no certainty in him as there was last year, not when he's spent the intervening time seeing just how much the powers that control this place (this place, the house and the commune both) can bend the rules to their liking, and when more points to him than just could have. As soon as Gale enters, he jumps to his feet, a wavering smile first to his features despite the worry that sends pinpricks over his skin.

He says nothing as he crosses the scant distance between them, reaching out in the hopes of being taken in, of being held. ]

[ As soon as sees Astarion, his lashes wet, vision blurring by the time they embrace. It isn’t enough to surround him on all sides, to press kiss after kiss to his brow, the moonspun soft of his curls. To have been able to protect him from one threat and not another. ]

[ hushed, ] I don’t believe it’s you, no more than I thought it August, when the evidence stacked against him.

[ And now the numbers have borne out his innocence. Gale’s vote has been true twice, though it surely counts for little. A teenage girl is dead. His beloved has three chances of being marched to her resting place by the crowd, who cast aspersions on vampires still. ]

But I’ll not let another speak of you, if you wish it. I’d let no other look at you ever again, if you asked if of me.

[ Once, maybe, the sight of tears upon another would have made him laugh, less out of malice and joy but the relief that whatever misery that caused them had not been visited upon him. But there's no separating the two things, not with Gale, not anymore. With his face buried in Gale's shoulder, he can't help the way his features crumple, his thoughts spinning through each death and his potential culpability in it. ]

I wish—

[ That they weren't here. That they were back in Faerûn, the Netherbrain no more, safely ensconced in a beautiful tower in Waterdeep. ]

If it's going to happen, I'd rather it be you.

[ He falters, a trembling breath escaping his lips. I don't believe it's you. A small comfort, amidst all this, though he feels a pang as he wonders how he'll feel, if they're both proven wrong. ]

I'm sorry.

[ Astarion needn’t finish his thought for Gale to know it and share it. A wish that they were safe. That they were home. It nearly flattens him, with all the force of a hurricane’s gust.

And yet Gale composes himself enough to take Astarion’s face in his hands, thumbs arcing over his defined cheekbones. Beautiful. Perfect. The whole of his world, distilled into a person. ]

You’ve done nothing wrong. [ an assurance easily offered, no hint of uncertainty. ] Even if, against all logic and rightness, it is you they seek, you have done nothing wrong. I know your heart. I love it as if it were my own, when it is the only reason my pulse still thrums in my veins.

[ A text from the first day: I love you I love you I love you. ]

This is not you. [ The cruelty. The bloodshed. ] And yet, if I am to speak, I must ask that you allow me to name myself with you. In this, the final round, it is those accused and jailed who are like to suffer the most at the hands of the crowd or the Alpha.

[ Even that is a gamble, he knows. More could die, if this game continues its twisting and turning into unholy shapes. ]

My pupil, Dom, he — he has as much evidence stacked against him as you or I — but if it is us, a Spade and Heart, an archer and a spellcaster, it cannot be him. Caged or beheaded. And he is a child.

[ Like Melissa. Like Shauna. ]

We can protect one person, more deserving of it than most, even if we cannot guard each other.

[ It's almost enough to hear Gale say it, when he knows firsthand that to have had his hand forced, if he is indeed responsible, won't be enough when all is said and done. Those who'd been present last year still bear grudges and scars. His life in the sunlight, here, will shift irrevocably, back toward the existence he'd spent in the shadows, called monster purely on the basis of his undead nature.

It's almost enough, and then it's nothing, unimportant, as Gale comes to his next thought. Astarion's eyes widen as he listens, the knit in his brow shifting from confusion to understanding to— an overwhelming wave of affection for doing what he knows he himself could not. ]

You must have someone else do it.

[ Despite the fragile state of his expression, his voice emerges sharp and clear. ]

You saw what happened to the other martyrs. And it cannot—

[ It cannot be me, when August and Buffy's counteraccusations only served to dissuade the crowd from their intention. But he doesn't say no, doesn't try to turn Gale away from the path when he understands why he's taking it. ]

I was selfish, to ask you first.

[ Gale shakes his head, swift and certain in this alone. ]

I’ll not be a martyr tonight, Astarion. [ Despite his months to year desiring that role. ] I’ll speak for us both. Calmly. Rationally. I do not need to lie, when I say that I wish we were innocent. I do, with the whole of my being. More than anything.

[ with surety, ]

For as long as I have had you in true, since you told me you loved me in the Spring, I have not wanted for death. I do not want for it now. I have parted from Mystra and Armand, who would both ask it of me. And I have chosen you. I will keep choosing you, every day I’m given the chance to do so.

[ Whether that means accusing him before the mob, facing a vampire lord and all-powerful goddess, or finding peace, at last, in Waterdeep. ]

Edited 2025-10-20 20:00 (UTC)

[ It's more than anyone else has ever given him. Will ever give him. So much, to have and to hold, that it stoppers Astarion's last protest, though the faint glint of it — that a self-nomination threatens to make the one offering he knows to be a sacrifice to be made in vain — holds in the shine of his gaze. ]

I loved you before then, [ he murmurs, as though from the depths of a dream. ]

Before I told you. When I look back, I think it must have been long before.

[ His hands settle on Gale's chest, over the fabric covering the mark on his skin. ]

I still love you. I will always love you. And only you, like this.

[ I have chosen you. ]

Kiss me, quick. And let's go see those devils in the town square.

[ Always and only. More than anyone has ever — could ever give him. A goddess has many Chosen, but a Chosen may have only one goddess. Not so, with Astarion, who shares his all-consuming, undivided affection.

It does not erase the fear in his heart, but it does quiet it. A dull thud, at the back of his mind. A jittering in his human heart. ]

Before? [ an awed whisper, as if it’s some grand surprise. Maybe it always will be, for one cast aside. ] Gosh. I feel dizzy, just thinking of it.

[ The when of it all. Astarion looking at him and loving him and him not knowing it — ]

I love you, my dear.

[ Smiling small and soft. Words hushed as he leans in quick, though he’s unable to stop himself from lingering in the kiss, fingers threaded through his lovely curls. Straying, as always, to the pointed tip of one ear, when they part. ]

To the devils, then. It seems a magistrate’s work is never done.

[ His plan solidifies in his mind, in service of multiple aims. Those who accused themselves and each other poorly were not armed with evidence. They lacked conviction. They wanted for self-flagellation — not to protect something precious. They did not present whole of the data, only what damned them. Gale will not make the same mistakes. He couldn’t, when he thinks the world of the accused.

It is one thing to stand behind someone as they are named, and another entirely to place yourself beside them, sharing the glares and splitting the barbs that will invariably come.

Three will go to the gaol tonight. Gale would rather he takes a spot from Astarion and Dom both. Failing that, despite all his lofty talk of truth, the waters will soon be too muddied for his boyish pupil to be called forward. To spare one the cage, to spare another a crueler trial. These things, to Gale, are worth it. ]

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