thirsted | SALTBURNT

Are you alright?

[ Not that he can really do anything about it. ]

[ A pang, at the response, unrelated to his smarting wound. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have waited until they were together again, proof that everything is as fine as ever (flesh rotting, magic dwindling, dying but not dead) for Gale.

And yet, in predictable Gale fashion, he manages to avoid answering the question directly: ]

I was once an archmage, you know. Survived all sorts of scrapes by my lonesome.

[ Albeit with the guiding hand of a goddess at his back, and the entire tapestry of the Weave at his fingertips. The Chosen are so named for being set apart from others. How fitting, then, that the Chosen of another should best him in his unworthy state. ]

I’m just popping by the infirmary for a touch up — I fear I’ve taken Shadowheart for granted, and my own reparative handiwork is subpar — then I’m all yours.

[ A beat. ]

Or perhaps you could meet me there? If you happen to be nearby.

[ A few responses are half-typed and then thought better of (not least for a flotilla of typos) as Astarion near-instantly begins making his way to the infirmary.

He feels— dizzy, almost. The house being a source of danger is one thing, but to find that danger redefined, and to find himself unwilling to confront one of the other guests, has him feeling as though he's been turned on an axis, a toy whipped one way and then the other for some higher power's amusement.

And he hates that, has always hated that — to be in service to another.

He arrives at the infirmary not too long after Gale does, his hands held in fists at his sides, and a knit seemingly permanently installed in the set of his brow.

In a tone that falls halfway between relief and aimless frustration: ] Gods, it's a miracle you're not dead.

[ In the time between Gale’s pathetic entreaty — he really shouldn’t have said anything, let alone all but asked Astarion to come — and Astarion’s arrival, Gale reaches the infirmary, bypassing the luxurious entranceway to sit atop a raised cot. A member of staff has already started seeing to him, right arm held aloft and wizard’s robes pooled at his waist so clever hands can assess his botched mending job. The slash along his gut was a shallow thing, in the first place (by Orin’s standards), like to bleed more than wound. It’s more of a jagged stitch now, skin tender and red where it sewed itself shut. Dried blood flecks across the flat of his stomach.

The attendant’s clipped admonishment (Whatever it is you’ve done to yourself, don’t do it again) lands moments before Astarion’s washes over him. Gale still looks to Astarion first, helpless but to offer a surprised-then-pleased quirk of his mouth, that he came at all. Eyes bright and appreciative, even as he notes Astarion combative posture. It must be him, when Orin would feign kindness. ]

[ somewhat chastened, ] Miracle seems a stretch. [ Does it? comes the ducked head at his side. ] She likely favours playing with her food, besides, as Bhaalspawn are wont.

[ A pause, in which Gale visibly considers his role as the “food” in this metaphor. Hm. The attendant wisely uses this distraction to apply antiseptic, and Gale winces. ]

Edited 2024-11-19 11:43 (UTC)

[ The clinician's interjection gets a pointed gesture of agreement from Astarion — see? unspoken in the flat of his hand. ]

And I'm supposed to, what, relish seeing you batted about the metaphorical plate before she sees fit to eat you?

[ Which he thinks has about as much chance of happening literally as metaphorically, considering the propensity for violence and depravity she's displayed. (Plus, the number of times that cannibalism has transpired here, while still able to be counted on one hand, is still more than one.) It also isn't as if, being attended like this, Gale can hide the extent to which he was wounded. Just the slightest bit more pressure, Astarion thinks, and Gale's guts would have decorated the ground.

The thought, proving surprisingly upsetting, is one Astarion quickly pushes from his mind, though a pinch of displeasure remains on his features.

(There's also the matter of what's inside Gale's chest, of what would happen should Gale die, even if the rules around death are somewhat different here. Everyone's been affected in one way or another, reduced from their full capacity, so perhaps—) ]

What happened?

No — I don’t mean to —

[ Always trying and failing to find the words, Gale starts to gesture his way out of this but the clinician tuts as he lowers his arm in the process. A frustrated little breath, and he lifts it again, tossing a plaintive look at Astarion. He’s misstepped somehow, as ever. ]

I’ve no intention of being eaten — or of prostrating myself before another altar, for that matter. [ He twists to regard Astarion properly, only to be admonished and adjusted again. His nose wrinkles, elevated hand twitching, for want of an emphatic flourish. He knows how Bhaal’s ilk worship, even if he’s yet to see their gory displays first-hand. Best not to partake in life or death. ]

Orin is more than Bhaal’s child, Astarion, she is His Chosen. [ At once reverent and envious. Folly after folly. ] And a changeling in her own right. She appeared to me as Shadowheart in the woods. And in all my cleverness, [ derogatory. ] I failed to notice the ruse until she was within striking distance.

[ Gale splays both hands and, inevitably, pushes the attendant to his limits. With an exasperated huff, he drops a roll of bandages in Gale’s lap, the message clear: If you can’t sit still, you can do it yourself. ]

I gave her a shock, [ offhand, as he unrolls the bandages. How quaint, to have to await healing over time. ] made her aware my death would crater the manor, and was thus granted a stay of execution.

Oh, goody. Shall we set a date for your execution? A little feast, beforehand?

[ As the staff member walks away, Astarion snatches the bandages from Gale's hands even as he's in the middle of unrolling them, nudging his arm to indicate he ought to keep it held up. ]

You should have driven a knife into her chest and left her in the woods.

[ "Where would he get a knife, Astarion?" Shut up.

If Gale notices, as Astarion hovers by his side, he's worrying his lip, the points of his fangs pinching into his skin as he begins applying the bandages. The vampire, for his part, understands that enviousness in Gale's voice, even if he himself can only rebuff the idea of being Chosen.

He knows how young Gale had been when Mystra had first turned her attention upon him, sees his ordeal as a trap, just as much as Cazador's deal had been. But his sniping, here, won't move Gale to see things the same way. ]

What did she do, then? Bat her eyelashes and attempt to seduce you in Shar's name?

[ The best he can do at lightening the mood, given the circumstances. ]

Edited (grammar) 2024-11-20 23:35 (UTC)

[ Another flicker of surprise, as Astarion takes over in the attendant’s stead. Immediately, Gale complies, re-lifting his arm and actually endeavouring to keep it still, this time. A herculean effort, particularly given the now deepened crease in Astarion’s brow that Gale itches to smooth out.

For the last year, he’s only had Tara to fuss over him. Even before that, he can’t think of many who would do this for him, even with insults rolling off their tongue. He flushes, at the joke, and clears his throat. ]

You jest, but it was a rather forward entreaty that tipped me off.

[ He quite literally did not fall for that, hah!!! It’s strange enough that Astarion seems perturbed by his injury; he can’t imagine Shadowheart missing him enough to proposition him on arrival. Or, uh, ever. ]

[ sobering, ] I have no intention of dying, Astarion. [ Not like that, not yet caught in his throat, when it offers so little comfort. It shows on his face all the same, conflict apparent on his taut features. It’s just the two of them here. Perhaps that’s why Astarion seems so — off-kilter, about all this. ] I’ll set wards to keep us safe in our rooms, and we’ll think of a way to always know whether the other is indeed themselves. As a start.

[ It's for the best that he has something to do — that he can play off his frown as an expression of concentration as he applies a stretch of bandage to Gale's side, fingers as sure and deft as they are with any lock or trap; that he can hide his face behind Gale's raised arm.

I have no intention of dying — except, he does. Just not here, not now. What Astarion knows of his future, that he could be talked out of once more prostrating himself at Mystra's feet, is one he also knows is not his place to share. Even then, he'd felt the precariousness of it all — one false word, one hint of misplaced trust, and he'd have gone through with detonating the netherese orb.

It was his choice to make, will be his choice to make. Astarion has shared too much already, in saying that they were about to arrive at Baldur's Gate. ]

Is there anything she's incapable of replicating?

[ Not that he necessarily expects Gale to have a comprehensive answer, but it's a starting point. ]

[ By not acknowledging Gale’ s promise, Astarion conveys that he knows the truth of it. A conditional, fragile thing. And Gale feels — more than he’d like, always. As though disappointing (hurting) Astarion and the others has begun to matter as much as Mystra’s forgiveness. Astarion spoke of a world where he did not die, yet their troupe survived long enough to reach the Gate. A glimmer of hope, despite how it churns his stomach. Impossible not to think of all Orin said, on the divergence of their lots, My father does not punish me for being as he taught me to be.

He can only observe the shifting of Astarion’s silver curls from this angle, but he does so, anyway. The bandages press against his tender skin, a strange comfort to one who once magicked away any hurt (until the orb showed him true pain, throbbing under his skin at this very moment). Humming in initial answer, Gale watches as a curl falls out of place. Can’t help but lower his hand to tuck it back behind Astarion’s pointed ear. What little he can do to assist, in his pathetic state.

He raises his arm again and looks askance. ]

Even in taking our form, she does not gain access to our interiority or memory. [ jaw setting, his course of action firming as he tilts his head. ] Something as simple as a code phrase might do.

[ There are stages to acclimating a creature that has been in the wilderness too long to anything gentler than what it's been used to. For all that Astarion may not trust this house, he has come to trust some of the people within it, come to allow some small measures of touch, though none that have stepped into the more intimate territory the place seems to encourage.

He trusts Gale, has for a little while now, but his touch is— unfamiliar. Especially like this, the relative smallness of it — as though it's only natural, as though it's nothing — somehow magnifying it instead. They hadn't attended to each other like this at camp, not least because they hadn't had to. He doesn't flinch, doesn't pause, but his head shifts slightly, one red eye briefly visible, the brow above it arched but not pinched, assessing but not— fearful, angry, unwilling. And then, as quickly as it had appeared, his gaze is gone, as he uses one hand to steady Gale's torso and the other, his fingers briefly twisting, to tear the bandage off from the rest of the roll.

(The phantom of warmth remains, there by the slant of his ear. An urge bubbles up within him to ask if he should take this to mean that he's been attending to Orin in Gale's form, but it subsides soon enough. He knows better than to take such a thing for granted.) ]

A greeting, then? [ he wonders, blissfully oblivious to the idea of secret handshakes. ] Or something that could naturally follow asking after one's health. I doubt any greeting is so perfectly common that its use would go unnoticed, yet not so ubiquitous that one might not stumble upon it inadvertently.

[ Astarion glances at him, momentarily, as if Gale has done something strange — or at the very lest, interesting — and Gale looks back, blinking. Perhaps he has, though he can’t think what, in this scenario, would be more unthinkable than Astarion ducking his head to tend his wounds unasked. They’re closer than he’s been with anyone since, well — and even back then, Gale had been rather more familiar with incorporeal intimacy than this, which sits a step above helping a down companion in the field.

It’s a fundamentally changed world, isn’t it, this party of two — Orin and Tilanus at the fringes, unknown variables. Gale splays his hand over the place where Astarion’s fingers were last, feeling the tidy bandages. Ever dexterous, their rogue. Proof of their bond now weighing down his pockets (a timepiece broken but accepted) and easing Gale’s newest pain. They made for a capable team, with the rest of the party; they ought to do well on their own, too. ]

Would that we had Jaheira and her Harpers to guide us.

[ Another audible hm as Gale tugs his robes back up, slipping his arms through the sleeves. ]

You’re right. [ hold to appreciate him admitting that. ] Why not a simple question and answer to follow any greeting? [ tipping his head to one side and then the other, for effect. ] “Do you know if the café has moved again?” “Yes, it’s still on the second floor.” Or the like, if it’s too plain.

[ Astarion very graciously does not contort his features into an exaggerated expression of shock at Gale's admission that he's made a good point, instead nodding his head just the once as straightens up, tucking in the bandage's loose end and placing it on the seat next to the wizard. ]

Any landmark we so please; the second floor, at the far end of the east wing.

[ A garbled sentence in any other context, but an answer, here, spoken as he shifts his weight to his back foot and crosses his arms over his chest. ]

It'll allow for a little variation, in case the repetition causes any suspicion.

[ He frowns slightly even as he speaks the words aloud, as if worried he's sounding too paranoid. (Like he cares too much, one might have said, but he's not the same vampire who'd been carefully feigning helplessness by the wreckage of the Nautiloid.) But it's ultimately warranted, he thinks — everything about this place, even without Tilanus and Orin's respective presences, seems designed to lull them into a false sense of security, only to spring some terrible trap once their guards are down.

(A thought springs to mind, an invisible blade in his own ribs: Could he have prevented this from happening? Was there something he could have done to better prepare Gale for this place? That he wonders it at all is progress, considering its inevitable conclusion, strangely fond: No, it was the wizard's own damn fault.) ]

Are you fit to walk? [ One presumes he'd walked his way to the infirmary, but nevertheless ... ]

[ It takes Gale another moment to fasten his robes, fussing over the lay of his usual vee, knuckles lingering on the mark of the orb. He was lucky, in the end, that Orin did not damage him enough to activate its destructive power. Unbidden, he recalls the roundabout praise on her sharp tongue, her every word now rattling about his skull. Do you feel powerful, Gale? Do you like it? He has met so few other Chosen before. Even in his disgraceful state, the mere presence of another intrigues him. ]

Then it’s settled. We’ll not be tricked again. [ Gale straightens his neckline and cards a hand back through his hair, freeing it from his collar. ]

Oh, [ amusement sparking in his eyes, ] are you offering to carry me? I’ve height and weight on you, I should think. [ said as he dismounts the raised cot too enthusiastically and (unintentionally) wobbles on landing, one hand back at his side, feeling for tears in the skin. The unsure-then-relieved look on his face suggests he doesn’t find any damage. His dodgy spellwork (and Astarion’s careful bandaging) holds. He splays both hands, as if to acknowledge this miracle. ]

Just a little lightheadedness. [ what with the blood loss. ] I’ll recover shortly, thanks in no small part to your fine handiwork. [ A beat. Gale glances elsewhere, then walks his eyes back to Astarion’s face. ] Thank you for coming to my aid, Astarion.

I was offering to leave you here, [ Astarion mumbles under his breath, though he bites back any further comments as Gale continues to speak, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches the wizard get to his feet.

Whatever self-flattery he has prepared in response to Gale's mention of his bandaging skills are immediately curtailed by that unexpected expression of sincerity. He's never known what to do with it, less so now, following the strange up-and-down of worry and the mere fact of physical closeness. His brow pinches, and he looks away— then back, as if to confirm to himself that any of this had happened at all. ]

Don't get yourself killed, [ is what he manages, unwilling to take that thanks head-on but unwilling, too, to let it simply slip by or otherwise dismiss it (to let Gale think, truly, that he doesn't want it at all). The words hang on their own for long enough that the following, ] For all our sakes, [ doesn't discount it entirely, even as he turns toward the door for fear of giving away any more of his hand.

Though, even then, he opens the door— and holds it open, rather than sweeping through on his own. ]

[ Again, Gale wonders if he’s misstepped — but no, he thinks, this is just the way of Astarion (and Shadowheart and Lae’zel). Not so tactile as Wyll, who might place a hand on his shoulder, or encouraging as Karlach, who would rouse him with a word. The cat that edges forward, only to leap back (lingering all the same, not yet darting out of sight).

Gale recalls, too, the way Astarion kept glancing back at him while they roamed the faire, as if he might disappear. Today, he hasn’t done much to dissuade him of that concern. A poor showing. One he resolves to improve upon, for Astarion’s sake more than his own. It’s always been easier, for Gale, to do something for another. ]

You’ve my word, [ a hand over his heart, as he catches Astarion’s eye before clasping them at his back and walking through the door. ] particularly when I’m told the menu for tonight is rather more substantial than potatoes and vinegared wine.

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