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Halsin’s smile broadened at the mention of the creature.
"She does! A fine lady, Tara. I believe she likes seeing you kept on your toes by wits to challenge your own. But come, perhaps you will come back to yourself among your own possessions." And that heavy hand pushed gently, steering Gale once more toward the corner where Astarion sat rubbing oil into his leather armour and cursing under his breath. A further possibility came to Gale’s mind. If he was not in a relationship with the man, nor in any particularly intimate friendship, perhaps that tremor in Astarion’s voice and clench in his own heart was rivalry. The bracing, comradely enmity of scholars pitted against each other in the chase for knowledge. A good academic rival wasn’t something to easily give up, not when it was possible to spur each other on to greater endeavours out of that competitive instinct.
Yes. That made sense. A fellow scholar, one who had no pressing concerns with time due to his undeath and who sought his motivation through such rivalry instead. It would explain why Gale’s own bed and assorted things shared that partitioned space - books falling from one side of the space to the other, alchemical reagants spilling between side tables.
Astarion looked up as they approached.
"Well? Is he fixed yet?" he snapped.
"I thought it better to have him among familiar things before I made any attempts to restore him, but he is in fine spirits and good health beyond this affliction. Do not let us distract you from your work."
Halsin had an easy manner, confident. It was... reassuring. Gale did not like the feeling of nervousness that had been starting to develop the more he grasped the dread gulf between how much of his mind he had and how much he seemed to have lost, but Halsin’s presence steadied him. Oddly, Astarion’s did as well, despite the way the man was visibly prickling at their presence.
"Do not mind him. It seems to have been a long day and a harsh fight for you all, and I would not be surprised if tempers are frayed." The druid gestured to the little space that appeared to be Gale’s. "Tell me, what here calls to you? Perhaps something here can remind you of yourself, before we take any more drastic steps."
Books, alchemical supplies, implements both mundane and arcane. He owned a truly beautiful orrery, the world picked out in gleaming enamels, and its moon and tears of Selune in chips of white opal. A book of recipes, well-thumbed and marked with extra pages layered between its own, annotated in a fine, dense shorthand that Gale... could? could not? read. It- it was his. It was unarguably and absolutely his, and he felt that in his bones, and the shorthand was his own handwriting, but the cipher he used for it was - it was familiar and alien all at once in a way that ached.
He put it aside, and found another book. Spells. His own handwritten cipher was scribed into every page of it, but he could only seem to read it from the corner of his eye. If he studied the words they were meaningless, mere shapes, yet he understood the content of each page so long as he did not try to read it. He could understand the brief, curt illustrations that demonstrated hand gestures or delineated ritual circles to mark, and some of these were familiar enough that he could pick out the rest of the spell based on that context, but... but he remembered none of it. He knew the spells as if through rote memorisation, with no feeling or memory attached.
Gale was crying, again, and he had not realised it until dripping tears spattered into his fine handwriting and threatened to smear the ink.
It should have brought a sense of relief - was that not the purpose for which such a reflex existed? Yet it did not - it left him shuddering and heaving for breath, seeing symbols he could not understand and feeling as though he was on the brink of some far greater loss. This much of him had survived. A man, a man with knowledge so long as he did not think to carefully about where it was drawn from, a man with power so long as he did not try to read the page from which he might chant it, a man who’d been chosen by a tressym he could not recall a single feather of. Only a man. A cursed one, with a writhing, worsening headache that wanted to split his skull and a pressure in his chest that wanted to consume, to whirl as a void, to create a vacuum that might devour and devour til nothing remained.
Gale of Waterdeep, whoever he had been, had not a happy man.
Gale, whatever he now was, had inherited that much.
The druid’s hand was on his back, soothing, and the undead man said something sharp and piercing but it held that tremor again, that note that Gale wanted to cling to as though it had meaning.
The pain behind his eye shot through him, stark and violent.
He heard an answering cry from the undead man, as though proximity alone was enough for Gale to impose his suffering onto others. Perhaps it was. Perhaps that was what Gale was, a man who might cause others to suffer on his behalf. That felt familiar.
For a moment Gale was not one man but two; he was bent over his book, sobbing, and watching himself sob with a pang that was not Gale’s own.
Then Gale was himself again, whoever that was, whatever that was, and terribly, terribly conscious of how alone he was. He closed the book before his dripping face might ruin any more of Gale of Waterdeep’s fine handwriting, and stared at the sigil that marked the cover. A star, circled. He knew it. A symbol of a god.
The one that Gale of Waterdeep, whatever fool that man had been, had loved and offended and then refused the foregiveness of. He tried to recall her, to recall whether he was still in her service, whether he had any way he might still make things right - perhaps if Gale were devoted, as once Gale of Waterdeep must surely have been, perhaps she would have the mercy to restore his mind when neither cleric or druid had that ability.
It felt unlikely.
Pale hands pried the spellbook out of his lap.
"He’s getting worse," that dry voice, that tremor that Gale was starting to think only he noticed, urgently hissing at the druid, "if you can’t fix him then at least knock him out, for gods’ sakes. Look at him."
"Not yet. Find something else, something he might know - quickly."
"If you break him, and I’m left with only Wyll and Shadowheart for intelligent conversation, I’ll use every ounce of spite in my body to make it your problem."
The pale hands were gone, and Gale wanted to reach after them but no - no, this was, this was, this was- what was this? What was Astarion? Was Astarion something he might hold to, as he’d held the book? The hands were back, shoving a handful of things into his grasp. A lanceboard piece, a handmirror, a small and very tightly capped but half-empty bottle of something a sort of sludgy brown colour.
The lanceboard piece was - it was - Mystra. His goddess. Everything he had aspired to and broken and yet, somehow, now that he knew this he no longer wanted whatever she might offer - she’d spurned him! She’d left him to rot with the evidence of his hubris chewing through his flesh, threatening to destroy everything he held dear in a single violent gout if he did not devote his every moment to keeping it contained. It had been punishment for daring to try and offer a gift she hadn’t already taken for herself.
And lanceboard. He knew lanceboard. Was quite the player. Gale of Waterdeep was a wizard who was on the outs with a goddess but still liked board games. Gale was... was still only a series of tiny, bright islands of knowledge in a dark ocean of ignorance. Gale was drowning, clutching to any fact he could, anything that might be true of him and make him a whole person rather than a series of disconnected points.
The white hands were still at his, and he realised he’d taken them as well when he’d taken what they offered. Cool and smooth, long-fingered, with only a bare hint of callus. He didn’t know them as he knew the lanceboard piece, but they felt important. Their owner had gone very, very still, in a way that spoke to existence without breathing or heartbeat.
They pulled free of him, then put the mirror in his hand, wrapped his fingers about the handle and directed it toward him. It was a strange and awkward way to hold it, as though Astarion was not wholly certain of the angle at which a person was visible to themselves. Gale’s mind supplied that vampires lacked a reflection. This man had been dead so long that he no longer had even a memory of what it was to hold a mirror to himself or others.
Two centuries, said something in him, and Gale was still looking at those long, pale fingers and not at his own reflection.
He forced his eyes up, up to meet his own, the dark brown eyes of a stranger.
The man in the mirror looked scared. Small. He was... aging. Grey streaked his hair, crows feet framed his eyes, and his beard was - well, it was not yet salt and pepper, but it would surely not be long before it was. One eye was marred by a twisting line, descending from it and tracing down his throat, down to-
Down to the orb. The curse.
Everything, it seemed, came back to Mystra and the folly of Gale of Waterdeep. Even in his own reflection, the most notable thing about Gale were those ink-fine markings that outlined the path of his hubris. The reflection was bracketed by those pale hands, Astarion’s hands, which held it without any of the tremor that had been so subtle in the man’s voice.
Gale looked at the stranger a moment more, then pushed the mirror away. He did not want to be that sad, aging man, marked with mistakes. It was not his choice to make, of course, but for now he was still this unformed thing, this sapience hanging over the void where his self had been, and he could try to make himself believe that he was something other than what he was beginning to understand of Gale of Waterdeep.
Halsin’s hand was still at his back, grounding and warm. The mirror was gone, but the cold hand was still nearby, knuckles barely brushing against his own in something that was deniable but unmistakeable.
Here were the things that Gale knew about Gale of Waterdeep: He had a tressym, a library, and a cipher he could no longer read. He had been beloved of a goddess, and offended her, and now carried within himself a curse from that falling out. He spoke the languages of several planes, had a heavily annotated cookbook, and there was a pain behind his eye that twisted as though alive. He was not and never had been beloved of the dead man who sat across from him, and this seemed like an opportunity badly missed. It was more than he had known earlier; it was less than a fragment of a person.
The last item was that little bottle of sludgy brown liquid.
Gale took a breath, and another, then picked it up. When he held it to the light, the liquid within was thick and opaque. No scintillating effect danced across its surface, nor enigmatic shapes turned beneath. At a certain angle, the stuff had a distinct hint of vitriolic orange to it. The bottle itself bore a paper label hand-written, in a clear hand he recognised from the cipher, as Dekarios’ Own. Tipping it back and forth produced no effect, and shaking it led only to it coating the inside of the bottle in a layer thin enough for light to pass through and demonstrate further that it was nothing more than a thick, brownish liquid.
It did not seem to relate to anything else that Gale knew so far.
He pulled the stopper out, and a wave of heavy scent smacked him. It was sour, carrying a heat that wanted to embed itself in his sinuses and scour them from the inside out, redolent of fish and fruit without stinking of anything that might easily go off, and altogether smelled far more complex and nuanced than Gale felt at that particular moment.
Tamarind, his mind supplied and his nose confirmed. Over a dozen spices, each of which required its own careful preparation of grating or frying or slowly infusing, layering heat on heat. A splash of vinegar, a touch of something piscine. Honey and Amnian black sugar in equal parts, with just a hint of cane.
"It’s your horrible condiment," Astarion supplied. "It smells so utterly vile that for a while I thought your blood tasted of bile because of that stuff rather than your whole... orb situation."
It smelled, despite Astarion’s assertions, delightful. Gale poured a drop onto a fingertip and licked it experimentally, felt his jaw tighten at the sudden tamarind-sourness that was, he just knew, designed to cut through rich, fatty meats. Sweet, numbing heat spread from the drop on his tongue to fill his mouth, to climb up into his sinuses and down to the back of his throat and then seemed to keep going, far beyond the reach of a condiment. It felt as though it climbed into his brainstem, into his nerves, setting the pain behind his eye dancing wildly, and whatever it was doing was certainly no longer anything to do with a complex blend of over a dozen spices unless there were some serious psychoactive effects to ginger-root.
"Agh," he said, past teeth which had grit themselves shut as his body and mind fell to war with each other.
Gale of Waterdeep was crying. This was the third time today, and frankly undignified, particularly as he was doing so in an ungainly pile on the floor beside a lamentably wasted puddle of his very own family recipe for Waterdhavian Hundur sauce. The tears that streamed from his eyes had very little to do with the intense punch of lovingly crafted aromatics in the sauce and rather a lot to do with his entire brain resetting itself with such sudden and painful force that he was lucky only his eyes were wet.
He’d managed to bite his tongue, which now stung dreadfully because one really, really oughtn’t get Hundur sauce into any sort of open cut, and to his growing dismay realised he was stared at by Astarion, who would most certainly use this lapse in dignity as something to crow about for weeks to come.
Astarion was speaking, though not to him.
"It’s never done that before! No more ideas from you, you’ve made him worse!" he appeared to be saying to someone nearby. As Gale regained control over his muscles, brain winning the battle of mind versus body, he sat up and saw that Halsin was also present, and they were in the inn-room at the Elfsong. Which was odd, because last thing he knew he’d been about to unleash unholy hells upon a pack of Bhaal cultists - no.
No, the last thing he knew was someone hexing him, and then the sound of a shout.
Mens Tua Infirma.
He’d felt it wrap about him, clawing its way through his brain, tearing his thoughts down to nothing as his Contingency spell had snapped up, allowing the curse to devour his sense of self so that the rest of his mind might remain intact. Sacrificing the person that was Gale of Waterdeep so that the intelligence and knowledge of Mystra’s Chosen might survive.
But he was back. And not by Mystra’s grace, but by the secondary Contingency he’d set up after his fall from Her grace - a taste of home, instead, that would put his mind back where it had been without waiting the full natural month or more it should have taken to restore otherwise.
His mind continued to fill itself in as he sat up, supplying the missing hours in which - oh, no, that was far more embarrassing than falling over with tears streaming down his face. He’d made such a terrible, basic error as mistaking an obviously hellfire-powered tiefling for an elemental-fire generating genasi. He’d called Shadowheart "madam’. No, worse, he’d called Astarion "sir’, which the damnable man was most certainly going to hold over him for the foreseeble future.
No. Worse. Far worse.
He’d mistaken Astarion for some sort of an old flame, and had even asked Halsin - had forgotten how very sharp Astarion’s hearing was, so undoubtedly he’d have heard that, too. These were thoughts which Gale kept very strictly to himself, and were not for sharing. Nobody needed to know that he wanted more than to trade books and discuss wine with the acerbic man. That - that affection he held, that want - was something that should have been entirely between Gale and Gale and nobody else.
So why did Astarion look so concerned for him, rather than taking this chance to tease?
His brain was working. His body was working. They were not yet working in tandem. He had not expected to have an audience if he’d needed to trigger the Contingency to recover from Feeblemind, had not built in any further protective measures beyond restoring the mind itself.
He was voicing at least half his thoughts aloud.
Halsin quietly and discreetly excused himself.
Astarion stared at him.
Wet faced, Hundur sauce somehow in his hair, bloody-tongued, muttering to himself; Gale was, admittedly, quite easy to stare at.
"I’m sorry you had to see that," he said, in a vain attempt to forestall whatever was going to happen when Astarion was quite done with drinking in the scene of Gale’s lost dignity. "Or hear it. I hope we can put this momentary lapse behind us?"
"Well. At least you sound like yourself again. It would have been a pity to start over with the book club," Astarion said faintly. "Of course it took a massive head injury for you to say anything, you ridiculous man."
Then, looking almost as stunned as Gale felt, Astarion leaned across and kissed him softly on the corner of the mouth, bilious blood and horrible condiment and all.
You know the feeling when you wake up, but you keep your eyes closed because you wanted to simply enjoy the peace and silence the morning brings?
Enver Gortash can’t say that he’s too acquainted with such feelings. Being the chosen of Bane, executing his God’s decree, garnering political power within the Gate... he’s a busy man with a busy life, and most days, "waking up’ is just a matter of starting his day as quickly as possible, if he even gets a good night’s sleep, that is.
Even with his eyes closed, the lazy ray of sun beaming through the windows in his private quarters right onto his resting form indicates that, yes, the day has started, and he should get to business. And he would, if not for the fact that there’s a warm, heavy weight right on top of his chest, with his right arm wrapped around said weight. What or who could it be, other than his dear Bhaalspawn, Zal’krum?
He finally opens his eyes and takes a peek. Yep, there he is, a pair of horns — the sharp ends thankfully angled away — strands without color, dark skin to contrast his own, an arm wrapped around his waist and their legs entangling under the soft blanket, like he is his pillow... Gortash has to wonder how many mornings they have spent nestled together like this, and Gods I can’t feel my arm, he complained in his head.
The logical part of his head is telling him to nudge him awake, that they need to go on with their days, do whatever is needed of them. His heart’s saying something else though: the steady, gentle breathing right on his skin, the barely audible snoring, the tip of his tail wagging against the sheets... Oh, did he just murmur his name in his sleep? How adorable, the Baneite thinks to himself, fine, have it your way. And so he stays exactly where he is.
Ah, he could’ve been so productive, but maybe there’s nothing wrong with lazing around here and there.
Shifting around in his position, trying his best to not wake the other man up, he trails along Zal’krum’s sides with his not-numbed arm, the toned and well-trained muscles feeling so lovely under his palm, and lands on the subtle curves of his hips, the handprints — his handprints — still visible even on skin as dark as his. The way he screamed his name and rougher, please as he grabbed onto his hips the night before echoes in his ears, and he swallows dryly. He’d taken him last night over and over, of course, but he’s already thinking of going for more, especially with him being so vulnerable here, it would be so easy to just slip himself in and do whatever he wants ...
The thought is incredibly obscene, and it makes his cock stir to life, grazing against the blanket. He mentally facepalmed: what in the Hells is he thinking? His younger days are far behind him, but now he’s laying here wanting to bury himself deep in his sleeping lover... Ever since they got together, his sexual desire has gone haywire, even getting turned on by the most abhorrent things... All because Zal’krum is so eager, desperate and willing to give. He decides that he’s just going to blame it on him, and squeezes his hip to make a point.
"Ah- Enver..." As if on cue, his body shudders against his with his squeezing, moaning softly under his breath. Still asleep, though, the only movement from him is him cuddling closer, rubbing his own cock on Gortash’s side. Gortash swears he’s being tested right now, and he’s about to fail. Their skins suddenly feel too sticky and hot on each other’s, and it’s wonderful. To Hells with it, he balls up whatever sense he’s got left and tosses it out of the window, and slides down his stomach, then his crotch, to give his fully hard cock several strokes, the pleasure already muddling his head.
With a long, drawn out groan, he wills his other arm downwards — the one Zal’krum’s been blissfully dozing on — to get a handful of his ass, and tugging his tail around its base while he’s there. There’s something so deliciously taboo about this, lusting after someone who can’t do anything about it... He throws his head back onto the pillow, drinking in the sweet, little moans, before the noises become more audible, the weight on his chest lifted and he feels a wet, equally hot sensation on one side of his neck, and looks down again to see crimson staring up at him.
"Good morning, Enver," he can still hear the sleep in his voice, and then there’s a particularly harsh suck on his neck, one that’s bound to leave a mark, "you know, if you wanted me again, you could’ve just woken me up for it..." The hand that was wrapped around his waist snakes up to cup and knead on a pec, "Or do you want me unconscious? Just a bottle of sleep potion and I’ll be nice and compliant for you..."
"Is that an offer, dear?"
"Mhmm," Zal’krum hums, the vibrations delightful against his skin, "you can have me however you want, always."
Well Hells, if he’s offering... Gortash takes a mental note of that, he will have to get his men to find him a bottle, or two, or more, they’re common enough, shouldn’t be difficult. He would indulge in the idea further, if not for the lips on him slithering downwards, to his collarbones, then down to a nipple, the tip of his lover’s tongue circling around it, before giving it a generous suck. The pleasure jolts through his whole body, and reminds him just how aroused he is, his cock in his hand leaking right onto himself.
"Dear..." His voice comes out tinged with lust, the hand grabbing Zal’krum’s ass tightens, working the firm flesh underneath his palm.
"Shh, Enver..." The hand that was on his pec goes to play with the other one, his own stroking becoming faster and faster, chasing after his own climax, "let me service you." Who knew a Bhaalspawn of all people would be the best partner he ever had in bed? This man will legitimately do anything for his "beloved Enver’, and only him. He has seen how Zal’krum treats other people: sheer indifference, for the luckier ones; or a dagger sticking out of their body somewhere, for the rest.
In short, Gortash feels absolutely special. The power he holds over one man is more addicting than the one he does everyone else.
So he determined that now is the time for his dear to put his eager lips to service somewhere else. With a gentle, but firm tug on a horn, Zal’krum immediately understands his silent demand, and gets up to... Kiss him deeply, suckling on his tongue, while replacing his hand on his cock for a bigger one. This is lovely and enjoyable, but he needs release terribly, putting both his hands on each horn, hoping to get his message across.
"Enver? How unlike you to be desperate..." His lover says as he pulls away, their tongues connected with a silvery strand, "I thought I was supposed to be the impatient one." Oh Gods, even the smile on his face as he goes to slot himself between his spreading thighs is only for him. He’s already so, so damn close by the time that crimson gaze meets his own and taking him into his warm, slippery mouth — did he just graze his teeth on his cock? That felt wonderful. It does not take him long before he’s clutching on those horns, forcing him to stay there, knowing that he won’t go anywhere anyway, and comes straight down his throat.
"Lovely," when Zal’krum crawls back up, straddling his hips, opening his mouth wide to show him that he has swallowed every last drop of his spent, he has to comment on it. Nobody else gets to see this but me, and that fills him with such pride it’s almost enough to spur him into a second wind. And the fact that he’s grinding his own hard cock on his stomach, being just as needy as he was.
"Now then, it’s my turn, En—" His lecherous words are interrupted by the knocks on his door, and for a split second, he was glaring pure, unadulterated slaughter at the sounds’ general direction. If looks could kill, thank Bane that one’s not for me, Gortash mused.
"Lord Gortash? This is a reminder that you have an appointment in around forty-five minutes," it’s one of his officers, and less than an hour?! Oh he really took his sweet time lazing around with his lover. He has to start getting ready now if he wants to save face and not be late. Regretfully, he puts a hand on Zal’krum’s chest and shoves gently, and the man does get off him, but not without looking genuinely hurt. He only managed to stand up beside his bed and massaging his sore arm before a hand grasps onto his wrist.
"Getting ready’ is easy, this right here is the infinitely harder part.
"Dear, I know you understand—"
"They said you have forty-five minutes," Gods, he can only imagine the desperate look on that freckled face right now, "surely I can have ten of that? Please ...?" If he gives in now, it will definitely not just be ten minutes. This is the time for him to stand his ground, he will have make it up to him later.
"Do you still taste me?" He turns around, cupping his face, rubbing a thumb on the scarred cheek, and asks.
"...Yes," comes the answer.
"Then think of me as you do," he leans in to swipe his tongue across those lips, having to physically hold him there by the shoulders as he starts to chase after him, "I’ll be back for more. In the meantime, be a good boy for me." With that, he goes to pick out his attire for the day, and leaves for the bath — he needs to be presentable, after all, can’t be smelling like sleep and come now.
He left quickly enough that he didn’t get to hear a frustrated growl, then a desperate whimper coming from his quarters.
Zal’krum has been in and out of Wyrm’s Fortress enough that he basically has free passage. Nobody here questions his presence, and that suits him just fine, the only Baneite that matters is Enver, the rest of them are mere faceless shadows. Fools, all of them, how fortunate for them that they haven’t been made into sacrifices for both him and his Father, because they directly answer to Enver, and he’s not going to burden him with nonsense.
Besides, the last time someone did try to stand in Saer Zal’krum’s way, let’s just say he made sure it was extra grotesque and very, very ugly. He didn’t even bother to taste the blood off his blade, like he usually does. At least they show their respects now.
He prays that they keep doing the same thing today, because he’s not sure if he can stay civil, even for Enver. Realistically, he understands that they still have their common goal to work towards, that he didn’t just ditch him for no reason, but I haven’t had enough of him, yet... There’s a whining noise from his nose, him swallowing just to have a taste of Enver again, but even that’s quickly running its course. I just wanted to love on him some more... He would feel silly with how needy he gets for one man, if he cared.
Whatever he tried to do after Enver left, to help clear his head, they were of no use. The scent on his pillow didn’t help, because it wasn’t him. His own hand and fingers weren't enough, because it wasn’t him. Even when he made himself come, the last throes of pleasure rippling through him, it only made him hungrier, madder, because it wasn’t him. He actually feels even worse after, with the loneliness cherry on top.
Would he ask to go along with Enver, if he knows a lick of politics. He’s designed by his Father to be the perfect killing machine, and he’s fantastic at being that, but what else? He reads a lot, but of course so does Enver, he’s a talented genius, and, and... He’s grasping at straws here, and that frustrates him to no end, he swears he’s going to curl up and weep.