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He returns Gale’s nod of thanks, wipes the blood-smear from his face, and busies himself with searching through the shelves and chests left behind by the goblin horde. Much of it is nothing save moldering books and empty potion bottles, but there are some trinkets Astarion wastes no time in salvaging - handfuls of gold... |
He does not watch as his vampiric companion gleefully loots the weaponry and jewelry from Minthara’s body. |
As he nears the place where she’d stood and schemed, worked her plans to attack the Grove, the last presence he’d expected in a defiled temple murmurs to him through the dark. |
He would know Selûne’s magic in the blind depths of the Underdark or the furthest reaches of the skies above. |
Almost unbidden, his feet carry him across the floor to its source - the cluttered surface of Minthara’s war-table. |
Amid the scrolls and battle-plans lies a length of silver chain, hung with a mesh of moonstone and pearls. They shape the constellations around a hanging crescent. It’s a masterwork, to be certain, but he doesn’t even need to look to tell that its worth lies far beyond monetary value. |
He can feel it in the air, whispering like moonlit trees, silvered magic that rises to twine against his senses in recognition. The necklace holds Selûne’s own magic, divinity entwined with silver. |
When he takes it into his hands, the rush of power shocks a gasp from his lips. He can taste it, like water on rock. |
Gale casts a wondering glance his way. Astarion doesn’t even look up from rifling through a dead goblin’s pockets. |
"It’s Selûnite," he says, halfway to Gale and halfway to himself. He smooths a thumb over the pendant, feels the impression of sand-grain pearls set into fine silver. "This place is still hers, in some way." |
In the wake of another heresy, in the silence after the spilling of Baenre blood, the presence of a kinder goddess makes itself known. |
Even a daughter of House Baenre could not drive Selûne from her temple. She dwells in the shadows beneath the vaulted ceilings, in every mote of dust dancing in the torchlight, in stones the goblins had tried to desecrate. The watchful eyes of the Weaver seem to close, leaving him with the same hallowed presence he fee... |
His unquiet heart settles. The silver warms beneath his hands, that familiar magic echoing within. From touch alone, he can tell it carries his goddess’ healing. |
The peace it brings him is near as valuable as the moonspun magic. |
"Let us drive the rest of the horde from this place," he says, almost absently. He traces the outline of each star lining the chain, mapping a familiar star-pattern - the Shard of Selûne, one he’s mapped time and again from his balcony back at the Sanctum. The amulet is cold when he slips it about his neck, woven frost... |
"Still feeling bloodthirsty, are we?" Astarion's hand is quick at the hilt of his rapier, one lacquered nail tracing the basket-hilt. "Far be it from me to deny you." |
"Come. We've goblins to fell." Head high, Elendar steps over the spreading pool of crimson seeping from the daughter of House Baenre, his sin and triumph alike in the Weaver's eyes. He plucks his morningstar from the ground, stained the same red, and turns his back on the Nightwarden. |
He does not look back. |
Gale is quiet on their way back to camp. |
It’s far enough from his usual self that even Lae’zel asks if he’s been struck on the head. He brushes it off, of course, but his dismissal is strained. Affected, as is his bearing, fraying at the seams. Still, he holds his composure, as though his hands don’t tremble when he prepares their stew for the evening, as tho... |
Endurance, as fine as any drow could hope for. It rattles Elendar to his core. |
Still, he does not speak of it in front of the others. He picks at his meal, watching how Gale steals glances at him from across the fire. In between taut laughter at Karlach’s jokes and a half-there interest in Wyll’s stories, there lies a rising tension, frenetic and nervous. Nothing settles it. Even the knowledge th... |
Why should it, when the thing in his chest is teetering on the edge of cataclysm? |
As soon as they’ve cleaned up after their meal, Elendar hurries the others off to rest early. His excuse is their journey to the Grove at first light. His true reason watches him from behind guarded eyes. |
As the night darkens and a shroud of silence falls over the camp, the others settling into their tents for the evening, Elendar comes to Gale. |
He sits, alone, by the campfire. The slump of his shoulders says defeat , carried in every line of his body, and yet there’s a presence to him that Elendar cannot name. Something watchful, waiting. |
Hope, murmurs some corner of his mind. He still has hope. |
The devil had called hope a tease, when he’d whisked them away to gods-know-where. Elendar has taken it upon himself to ensure it's anything but. |
He seats himself on a log halfway stripped of its bark, opposite from the weary mage at the fireside. There is something brighter than the campfire crackling between them. |
Gale’s hands are folded in his lap, as though it’s taking everything he has to keep them from shaking. It’s hardly unusual for him and Elendar to end up alone together, but of late, their conversations have taken a darker turn. |
Elendar knew, from the moment Gale asked to speak with him alone, from the dull defeat in his eyes, that this evening would be no different. |
"It’s worsening," comes the confession, spilled from lips bitten raw with worry. "Loathe as I am to ask this of you, I need the strongest wellspring of magic you can spare. Please. " |
He does not know the name of the curse that wracks Gale, but he knows its severity - ravenous Weave snared behind his ribcage, the force to level a city woven into his very bones. His eyes are bloodshot, tired. The firelight casts his face with a sickly pall, throws stark contrast between his sudden pallor and the dark... |
"I can search through our packs," Elendar says, voice low. "It’s of no concern - well, wresting Lae’zel’s from her may prove...challenging. But I’ll see that you have what you need." |
Gale swallows hard, throat bobbing. "There’ll be no need to disturb the others on my account. My best chance is already in your possession." |
Elendar frowns, even as something cold drops into the pit of his stomach. "What do you..."He knows. He knows, even before Gale says it. The weaving of divine magic, caught in silver and gemstones settled about his neck, flutters in time with his pulse. The tiny star-gems feel fragile, suddenly, one touch from crumbling... |
"That necklace we found in that goblin nest." There’s something hollow in Gale’s voice and something feverish in his eyes. "A thing of beauty - exceptional, really, given the rather unpleasant circumstances of its discovery. And it just so happens to be brimming with Weave." |
Elendar feels his hand fly to the pendant - a silvered crescent, studded with tiny pearls, alive with divinity. "Would it be enough?" |
"Trust me, I’ve grown far, far more skilled than I ever wanted to be at feeling out sources of magic. It’s pooled exceptionally strong in that relic of yours. Like a much-needed downpour in the middle of the desert." Gale lets slip a shaky breath. He brushes off the sweat beaded at his brow - goddess, he’s grown so pal... |
"I know." Elendar stares into the oak logs stacked on the fire, watching their edges crumble to ash shot through with crimson embers. They turn to nothingness so easily, gray dust that lines the fire-ring. When he’d found it, the necklace had felt so sturdy. A fragment of his goddess’ blessing, finding him even in her ... |
A fool he’d been, to let it become a source of safety. |
"I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t of vital importance." Gale’s hands twist in the skirt of his robe, white at the knuckles. "I cannot let the Orb lose what little stability remains to it." |
He hates the way his voice shakes when he speaks. "Will nothing else suffice?" |
"I’ve kept my eye on the trinkets we find - not that it’s a trinket, mind you. It’s much more. But, of course, I hardly need to tell you that. Nothing else in our possession can rival it." |
Dark eyes meet his, pleading, mournful. The markings creeping up the side of his neck have darkened to the hue of a particularly nasty bruise. Elendar can all but envision the curse spreading through his veins, like the poisons he himself had once wielded. Death, slipping insidious beneath the surface of one’s skin. |
He’s dealt that death so many times. Gale’s curse lies far beyond the ken of even Menzoberranzan’s most skilled poisoners. |
"If it must be this..." He lets his voice trail off. The High Initiate’s voice is booming in his memory - he knows what he’d say. A relic of their faith has greater value than men can put into words. |
Gale’s breath catches. He doesn’t speak - perhaps he doesn’t dare to. |
The clasp is warm beneath his fingertips. Silver and moonstone pool in his palms. Something of Elendar’s own magic dances in the metalwork. |
It’s not his magic. Not really. It belongs to the Moonmaiden, of course - as does the artifact, wrought in silver as bright as her starlight and as pure as the magic she grants her clerics. Clerics like him, who do not own the magic they channel. |
Not the way the man sitting across the campfire does. |
Gale of Waterdeep, who calls rippling thunder and blinding light as easily as he breathes, whose deft hands coax the Weave into shimmering illusions or devastating fire-flashes. Stars, he’d even met him stumbling from a portal crackling with the magic he loves, nearly falling atop Elendar as he hauled him from the mias... |
Strange, how unendurable the thought of losing him has become. |
"I’m tempted to call this a test from my goddess. The Weaver...that is all her people pray for. The chance to face her trials. I’ve never been certain if Selûne is all that different in that regard." He’s staring into the moonglow caught in the relic, running the strands between his fingers. The divine magic flickers, ... |
Can that be Elendar’s to decide? |
"You flinch when you cast," Gale points out. "Is that...?" |
"The light burns me no less when conjured by my own hand." Elendar’s shoulders rise and fall. "It is of no matter. Not when you’re faced with...this. The Orb." |
In his years at the Sanctum of the Moon, Elendar has seen illness after illness, from common coughs to rarer diseases of the heart or lungs or mind. Never in his life has he heard of a condition such as Gale’s. Never in his life has he held a remedy so impossible to part with. |
That does not relieve him of his duty as a healer. |
He swallows hard as he stands - stars, when did his mouth go dry? The moonlight has never felt so much like a pair of watchful eyes. His next move will weigh on his heart. In the starry eyes of his goddess, he will be judged. |
He circles the campfire and sinks to perch on the log at Gale's side. |
The death of a Baenre was his first heresy of the day - another to add to his crimes against the Spider Queen, crimes that would once have seen him flayed alive by her priestesses. He stands at the precipice of committing a second, against a far more forgiving goddess. |
He draws a breath and leaps from the edge. |
It’s such a simple thing, pressing the necklace into Gale’s outstretched hands. His palms are warm. Elendar lingers there, hands cupped to his, feeling the moon-magic mingling with the heat of his skin. It’s the softest touch he’s ever known. |
"This is yours. I hope it’s enough." It’s almost a stranger’s voice issuing from his lips - too calm, too quiet, for the gravity of the choice he’s making. |
Gale’s sigh of relief eases the burden on his soul. "Thank you. I swear to you, this wasn’t in vain." He bows his head. "At least, I pray it won’t be." |
Elendar’s eyes linger on the pendant, bobbing as Gale takes the necklace and stretches it out before his chest. The gems picking out the Shard of Selûne dance in the firelight. Already, his own well of divine power feels deprived, a riverbed left to run dry. |
He closes his eyes. |
He feels the moment the divinity begins to seep from the metal, like blood from a wound - at first a small laceration, and then an arterial gash, spilling Weave into the open air. When he opens his eyes, it’s to a pulse of amethyst light as the orb is kindled by the touch of magic. Gale’s head tilts back, eyes closed, ... |
The bleeding of Weave lasts only a few moments, but Elendar feels the loss as keenly as though his own powers are being drained from him. He bites his lip as he watches the hypnotic glow of the orb-marking ripple before fading back to its usual dull violet. |
"Did it work?" He scarcely dares to ask. |
Gale’s eyes open slowly. "It’s only bought me time. Not as much as I’d wished for, but time nonetheless." He looses a shaky breath. "Though I suppose that’s all I’ve been doing this past year, isn’t it? Buying myself time." |
"We’ll keep doing whatever we can. You aren’t alone in this, you know." He sighs, stares at the earth, not daring to turn his gaze to the stars. "I’ll pray that’s enough." |
Gale smiles with sad eyes. "I think we’re beyond prayer’s reach." |
"Then I will act." |
Some wild, dreaming part of him had hoped that a sacrifice of his goddess’ magic could see the curse come undone. The rational part of him knows that, no matter how the loss of the artifact might tear at him, it was no more capable of curing Gale than any other source of magic he’s absorbed. The futility of the loss sh... |
"Thank you." Gale clasps Elendar’s hand - just for a moment, just enough to make his heart ache. "You’ve been good to me, you know. Better than I deserve. Someday, I’ll pay off that debt - as many times over as I can." |
The sacrifice does not hurt quite the way he thought it would. |
Elendar slips his holy symbol from his belt. He almost doesn’t dare to touch it, running his fingers along the well-worn wheel of stars. The gesture has always brought him comfort, before. |
"It was no more than metal and magic. Another can be forged." Elendar turns the holy symbol over in his hands - seven stars dancing a ring around a pair of watchful opal eyes. It seems such a mundane thing, all of a sudden. Fragile. He dares a glance at Gale. "You...there is only one such as you." |
"Not that I’m ungrateful - the perfect opposite, in fact - but artifacts of that caliber aren't exactly sold on every corner." There's a curious lilt to his voice - by the moon, he never stops wondering. "You'd be hard pressed to find something rarer if it's uniquity you seek to preserve." |
"But...it's not," he says, realizing in a rush the truth of his own words. The leaden weight on his chest eases. "It's life. I preserve life." |
Gale hesitates, something uncertain flickering in his dark eyes like a minnow to the surface. "Even so, I...understand how it feels, to part with such a rare gift from a goddess." |
"I have her greatest gift still," Elendar murmurs. For a terrifying moment, he wonders if he's lied. He's almost scared to reach for the core of moonlight that dwells within him - scared his searching grasp will be met only with the darkness that once lay in its place. |
Beneath Gale's steady regard, he cannot quite remember fear. |
He curls his fingers tighter around the delicately wrought metal in his hand, a wordless prayer in his heart. Sure enough, the light of a distant star flickers to life, plays in ripples through the silver. It rises to Elendar's touch, brushing itself against his palm like the mousing cat back at the Sanctum. He lets th... |
She is still at his side. The relief could send him to his knees. |
"By her grace, I am a healer," he says, raising his chin to the gathering night. "She grants me the power to save lives, not mend jewelry." |
Something in the air quickens. When he meets Gale's eyes, the moon burns a little brighter. |
"And for that, you have my gratitude. I won't forget this." He bows his head once, in thanks. "Most clerics I know would not be so hasty in offering up a relic of their deity." |
Elendar allows himself a tiny, bitter smile. "Met many clerics, have you?" |
Gale’s gaze meets his. "None quite like you." |
"Thus is the hand fate has dealt me." Elendar spreads his hands, the motion setting the campfire’s spark-stream rippling. "I’ve always been at odds with my fellows, even as all of the Moonmaiden’s followers are taught the same songs and prayers, the same creeds by which to live. I suppose there are many ways to carry o... |
That familiar, heartfelt curiosity creeps into Gale’s voice as he leans closer. "And what is it you believe?" |
He’s always wondered which way is truth beyond question. He’s heard as many interpretations as he’s heard sermons, read of as many paths to follow as he's read scrolls from the Sanctum’s overflowing library shelves. Before, truth was an abstraction which haunted his every waking hour. |
Now, walking the world as humans do, it comes to him as clear as starlight. |
"My goddess is life. She is presence and living and being. She is the waxing moon and the first star in the evening. To let another slip into shadow for the sake of a necklace...that is not what she believes. That is not what I believe." Elendar draws a breath, lets his gaze linger on the necklace draped in Gale’s ha... |
Gale’s eyes are bright, the color of earth warmed by the sun, and Elendar knows he chose well. |
"I’ll thank my stars for that." |
They're so close, now, no more than a hand's span between them. The trees murmur wordless in the breeze. Moonlight tangles silver in Gale's hair, the stitching of his robes. He smells of lavender. |
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