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There was something rather endearing about Gale’s attraction to him, even if it was embarrassingly obvious.
Their companions were currently playing host to the tieflings from the grove. They were a rowdy bunch, drinking and dancing without a care in the world. It made for quite a spectacle, yet the wizard’s gaze kept returning to him.
Astarion could recognise a man’s interest a mile away. It was apparent in Gale’s nervous sips of wine, his desperation for liquid courage.
He wasn’t opposed to sleeping with Gale. He needed to pick someone, after all, and given Wyll’s nauseating moral compass and the ladies’ various abilities to break Astarion in half, Gale was a logical choice. He was spurned by a goddess, likely looking for a rebound, and he apparently had a weakness for forbidden fruit. It would be simple enough to take advantage of him, and wizards made for powerful allies.
Besides, Gale seemed like the kind of man to throw himself at the feet of his lover, and Astarion wasn’t opposed to a bit of worship now and then.
As the party started to wind down, Gale’s eyes strayed to Astarion more frequently. Astarion angled himself just so, cocking his hip to show off the elegant lines of his body. He knew how to preen; how to lure a victim with barely a thought.
Finally, Gale downed the last of his wine before striding over, his chest puffed out with false confidence. Once within earshot, Gale greeted him with a warm, “Good evening, Astarion.”
“I was wondering when you’d finally come to talk,” Astarion purred. “Something on your mind, darling?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Gale said. At least he wasn’t slurring his words. “I have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition?” Astarion smirked. “How… forward.”
Gale’s eyes widened. “Perhaps that’s, ah, not quite the right word. Forgive me, the wine has… addled me.” He clapped his hands together as if to realign his thoughts. “Allow me to try again: Astarion, I have a question for you.”
Astarion smiled coyly as he examined his nails. “Very well. Ask away.”
“This is perhaps a bit forward, as you said, but I cannot deny my curiosity any longer.”
“Go on…”
“How do you maintain such a meticulous hairstyle?”
A pause. Astarion blinked up at him. “Come again?”
“Your hair!” Gale exclaimed. “It is perfectly coiffed, not a strand out of place, yet you cannot even see your reflection! You are not gifted in the realms of the arcane, so you mustn’t be using the Mirror Image spell. You simply must tell me how you manage it!”
Astarion stared at him for a long while. Gale’s eyes were brimming with intrigue.
“Just to be clear,” Astarion said eventually, “this isn’t some sort of atrocious pick-up line, is it? You really want to know?”
“I — what? A pick-up line?” Gale’s cheeks turned a ruddy shade of red. “If this is about my proposition comment, I genuinely misspoke, so I can only apologise. Although… well, I would be a fool to not see how beautiful you are. I would have to be blind, which I certainly am not.” Gale grew more flustered by the second. “Nevertheless! I come to you with completely innocent intentions.”
“You just want to know about my hair,” Astarion said, unable to mask his disbelief.
“Indeed! And perhaps, if you’re amenable, you could give me advice on my own luscious locks.” Gale swept a hand through his hair for emphasis. “I fear it will become increasingly unruly in the coming months, what with our irregular bathing schedules. If you have any tips, or — or tricks…”
Astarion had truly believed this night would end on his back with Gale between his legs. He’d been counting on it, in fact, to secure an ally; to recruit further protection against Cazador.
Still, there was a certain appeal in not using his body tonight. Perhaps he could humour Gale; to slip into his good graces through other means.
Such as humouring this strange request.
“Very well,” Astarion said with an airy wave of his hand. “You want my advice? Then take a seat, dear. Let’s have a look.”
Moments later, Gale sat cross-legged on one of the many cushions Astarion had pilfered from the blighted village. Astarion pulled up a stool and took a seat behind Gale, his legs planted on either side of him. Astarion ran his fingers through long dark locks. He wrinkled his nose slightly in disapproval.
“When did you last wash your hair?” Astarion asked.
“About a tenday ago. I have heard that the natural oils of the scalp can help to—”
“Natural oils? Oh, gods below…” Astarion huffed. “No, no, this will not do. We can use far better products to style this mop. Prestidgiate the oil away at once.”
“Oh, uh… sure.” With a sheepish incantation, Gale’s hair was perfectly clean.
“Thank goodness for that,” Astarion said primly.
He continued to comb his nails through Gale’s hair, considering it with a thoughtful furrow. He then dug through his nearby backpack to find a jar filled with his homemade conditioner. He twisted off the lid and held it close to Gale’s nose.
“Oh my, that smells incredible,” Gale said appreciatively.
“Do me a favour, darling, and start using this.”
“Is it a shampoo?”
“No, this comes after. You will want to leave it in for a few minutes and then rinse it out.” Astarion leaned in to purr in his ear, “Then, with hair that smells this good, you’ll be fighting off lovers left and right.”
Gale tried not to squirm. “Duly noted.”
“Anyway,” Astarion said in a sing-song voice, “I think we want to go with a simple style for you. No need to overcomplicate it.”
“I am a quick study, Astarion. Explain your process to me and I am sure I can follow.”
“And I’m sure even one as gifted as you began with Firebolts over Fireballs,” Astarion said with a mischievous smile. “Trust the process, darling. I am sure you will look quite dashing.”
“Very well,” Gale said, straightening his spine. “I trust you.”
Astarion smirked. “Good. Now, let me see…”
He began with combing out Gale’s hair with his favourite brush, slightly awed by how straight it fell, so different to his own. He then sprayed a mix of lavender and rosewater into his palms and ran it through his tresses, enjoying the scent and the extra sheen it left behind.
“You never answered my question,” Gale said eventually. “About your own hair, I mean.”
“It takes practice, mostly, not to mention talented fingers,” he said with a quirk of his lips. “I never particularly cared for hairstyling before I was turned. Ironic, really — a mirror would make things far simpler.”
“And yet you manage. It’s an impressive feat.”
“Why thank you, darling,” Astarion said, who would never turn down shallow praise. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to continue, “I have… siblings back in Baldur’s Gate. They share my affliction. Given that none of us could use a mirror, my sisters and I had no choice but to practise on one another.”
He recalled Violet’s eccentric curls, Aurelia’s neat braids, and even Dalyria’s boring ponytail. Their signature styles had been shaped by Astarion’s clever hands over the years.
“Ah! I see. Truly fascinating,” Gale said, and it was remarkably earnest.
“‘Fascinating’ might be a bit of stretch,” Astarion teased. He tied off Gale’s hair and said, “All done.”
He’d swept part of Gale’s locks into a half-bun, the rest of it falling loose around his shoulders. Gale held up the hand mirror, angling his head this way and that. A pleased smile lifted his cheeks.
“I quite like it! Although, I’m afraid I was a little too distracted to pay proper attention to your process…”
“So much for a quick learner, hm?”
“Once more,” Gale said with a sheepish grin. “If you would.”
A small, genuine smile curved over Astarion’s lips.
“Alright. From the top.”
With the aid of mage hand and multiple mirrors, Gale mastered the half-bun soon enough. He did not ask for Astarion to style it again, but Gale occasionally visited his tent for a top up on his conditioner.
They began to discuss other subjects, too. Their mutual interest in fiction, for one, and their impassioned opinions on popular titles. Gale also regaled him with grandiose tales of Waterdeep, and Astarion had to explain ad nauseum why a vampire needed to learn how to lockpick.
Astarion was increasingly drawn to Gale in the early evenings, engaging with him before heading off to hunt. Gale was apparently enthralled by all things vampiric. It was terribly inconvenient that Gale’s blood was necrotic, because he seemed like the only one who might allow Astarion to feed from him. The two of them would probably find the experience most insightful.
As the adventure wore on, their dynamic bloomed into friendship. Astarion couldn’t say if he’d ever had a gods’ honest friend before. The entire tadpole situation was much easier to navigate with Gale around to share the burden. All in all, things were going rather well.
Until the Sage of Shadowdale showed up.
Gale wasn’t quite the same after that.
His orb had been contained at the very least, but the weight on his shoulders was immense. Their companions all tried to dissuade him from his divine mission, but Gale had apparently given up entirely. He was so desperate for Mystra’s forgiveness that he would doom himself and everyone around him.
It was selfish, Astarion thought bitterly, but he knew better than to voice such a thing. All he could do was hope that their companions would talk him down from the precipice. Astarion would rather Gale alive, after all — for his inevitable confrontation with Cazador. He would need the wizard’s power when the time came.
And, well… Gale deserved better than a gruesome death, especially in Mystra’s name.
Presently, Astarion and Gale had both been relegated to camp duties. The Shadow-Cursed Lands were oppressive and food was terribly scarce. Astarion was living off his mediocre reserves of blood, the chilled fluid almost sour in his mouth. He was weakened for the time being so he’d offered to stay behind. The others, meanwhile, had gone scavenging for supplies.
And then there was Gale, tucked away in his tent. The camp was still illuminated by dancing lights, so Astarion knew that Gale was at least conscious, but he spent most of his time alone these days.
Unfortunately for Gale, Astarion was restless. He needed a distraction and there was little else to do but pester the wizard.
“Come out, darling,” Astarion said, swatting impatiently at Gale’s tent flap. “I want to borrow your company.”
A weary sigh followed. Soon enough, Gale poked his head out, gazing up at Astarion with tired eyes. “I’m afraid I make for terrible company right now.”
“Nonsense!” Astarion said cheerfully. “I am sure you are quite charming compared to the undead beasts haunting these lands.”
“I…” Gale’s lips quirked. “I suppose I cannot argue with that.”
Gale slowly rose from his tent. He raised his arms high above his head, stretching the kinks from his spine. He was paler than normal, what with the absence of sunlight in this place, but more than that, he seemed sickly. Not from a physical ailment, Astarion knew, but a mental one.
Astarion regarded Gale’s hair with a disapproving frown. It was longer than before, not to mention tangled. “Tsk, tsk. Look at this rat’s nest,” he said, flicking the strands off Gale’s cheeks. “Unkempt as ever.”
“Ah, forgive me,” Gale said. “My hair has not been a priority of late.”
“It needs a cut,” Astarion said decisively. “I can help with that.”
Gale hesitated. “Can I trust you with a pair of scissors?”
“You trust me with knives, don’t you?” Astarion challenged. “Hells, don’t tell me that the infamous ‘Wizard of Waterdeep’ is a coward of all things.”
Gale’s brow furrowed at that. The comment stung in more ways than one. Astarion sighed, mostly at himself.
“Come on,” Astarion said, gesturing to his tent. “It’s a simple trim. Not exactly a complicated affair.”
“You have done this before, right?”
“Of course,” Astarion said smoothly. “I wouldn’t offer otherwise. The last thing you need is a botched haircut at a time like this.”
Finally, Gale relented. The two of them sat outside Astarion’s tent, making themselves comfortable on the cushions. Astarion pulled his grey blanket from the depths of his bedroll and tossed it over Gale’s lap.
“What’s this for?” Gale asked. “To catch the trimmings?”
“Warmth, darling.”
“Ah.” Gale pulled the blanket higher up, slipping his arms beneath it. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“This chill is relentless. You’ll catch your death out here if we aren’t careful,” Astarion said as he began combing out the knots. “And nobody wants that. I mean, whatever would we do without you?”
A weighted pause. “You would manage,” Gale said softly.
Astarion ignored the comment for the time being. Gale’s hair really did require his full attention. He ran his hand down the strands, capturing them between his fingers. Astarion retrieved his scissors from the ground beside him.
“Not too short, please,” Gale said nervously.
“Oh, but I’m sure you would look hilarious with a bob. Gods, what a vision that would be…”
“Astarion.”
Astarion chuckled as he set to work. “Not to worry. I am not as monstrous as some might believe.”
They both fell silent as Astarion focused on his task. Gale seemed to be wrestling with whatever was swirling around that enormous brain of his.
“I have never thought you monstrous,” Gale said finally. “Barely a monster at all, in fact — fangs notwithstanding.”
“Then you are a fool,” Astarion said simply.
“Ha. I am, but not because of that.” Gale tried to angle back to face him, but Astarion tutted and forced him to stay still. “I… see the good in you, Astarion. I think we all do.”
“Are you getting sentimental on me, wizard?”
“I suppose so, but please humour me. I… feel compelled to speak.” Gale fisted the blanket, his knuckles turning white. “No matter what happens in the coming days, I… I need you to understand how much I have cherished these moments between us. They have meant more to me than you could ever know.”
Something heavy settled in Astarion’s gut. “Are you saying goodbye to me, Gale?”
Gale did not respond. There was pain evident in the hard line of Gale’s shoulders.
Astarion shook his head. “Idiot,” he muttered.
“I only wanted you to know —”
“Stop.”
“— that I care about you a great deal, Astarion.”
“Enough.”
“And the others do, too.”
Astarion sighed. “But not like you.”
Gale bowed his head. “I wish things were different, but I cannot defy Mystra.”
“Mystra does not deserve your fealty. I do,” Astarion said fiercely. “If you blow up this — this Heart of the Absolute, what in the hells is going to happen to me? It’s this cursed tadpole that protects me from Cazador’s control, in case you’ve forgotten. Would you really doom me to become his thrall once more?”
“I have no choice,” Gale said thickly, begging him to understand. “My sacrifice, it’s — it’s for the greater good.”
Astarion barked a laugh. “There is nothing good about blowing yourself up, Gale. Nothing good at all.”
“I have been living on borrowed time —”
“And yet Mystra could have stopped the orb at any moment!” Astarion spat. “She could have cured you a year ago, so to hells with her, Gale. There must be another way.”
Gale sighed deeply. “And if there is no other way?” he asked.
Astarion considered the defeated man before him, recognising that his response could very well shape Gale’s future.
“I want you to live,” Astarion said quietly. “And I think you do, too.”
Gale released a shuddering exhale. He reached blindly behind him, his hand coming to wrap around Astarion’s wrist. Astarion had never been one for physical comfort — not when touch was so tainted — but Gale’s grip was desperate. Astarion hesitated for a long moment before curling forward to envelop him, his chin coming to rest on Gale’s shoulder.
Silence reigned for a minute or two. Astarion held on, soaking up Gale’s warmth. At this proximity, Astarion could hear the irregular beat of Gale’s heart.
“I don’t want to die,” Gale whispered at last.
Astarion squeezed his shoulders. “Then that’s your answer,” he said.
He relinquished Gale slowly, his body heat seeping out of Astarion. To distract from the ache in his chest, Astarion picked up his scissors.
“Alright, that’s enough misery for one night. I need to finish this or you will have the worst haircut in Faerun.”
“Apologies for the interruption,” Gale said wryly.
“Thank you,” Astarion said brusquely. “Now sit still. We’re almost done.”
An illithid army was marching on Baldur’s Gate, but Gale was alive. He was alive.
Something had irrevocably changed between the two of them. A delicate thing existed now, filling up the ventricles of Astarion’s undead heart.
He cared about Gale. Yearned for him, even. It was a weakness he couldn’t afford, but gods was he powerless to stop it.
Realistically, Astarion should keep his distance from Gale; to bury any feelings that threatened to cloud his judgement. Then again, did he not have enough to fret over? The looming threat of Cazador for one, not to mention the Absolute. His affections for Gale were decidedly lower on his list of problems.
So, he chose to indulge.
He sought out the wizard every evening. If Gale was reading a novel, Astarion requested he read it aloud. If Gale was researching the Crown, Astarion distracted him with a game of lanceboard. If Gale had retreated to his tent for the night, Astarion lured him back out with the promise of red wine. His constant badgering must be driving Gale mental, yet the wizard seemed perfectly content.
Gale had taken to styling his hair more frequently. He tied it up in the manner Astarion taught him all those months ago, but with a few welcome embellishments. He added a braid here and there, weaving them across his scalp until they fell loose around his shoulders. It was masterfully executed — not to mention terribly handsome.
Their companions eventually secured a room at the Elfsong Tavern. Privacy was harder to come by given the shared space, but it was better than sleeping on bedrolls. Astarion made sure to snag the bed beside Gale, who was positively delighted with the arrangement. The soft smile Gale gifted him was imprinted in Astarion’s mind — he revisited the memory as often as he dared.
Every night, as the two of them laid in their respective beds, Gale would stay up into the early hours of the morning. He kept a book in hand, a glass of wine on his bedside, and Astarion would trance to the sound of turning pages. It felt intimate to have Gale only an arm’s length away — so close, yet just out of reach.
He wondered what it would be like to seek out Gale’s hand; to bridge the gap between them and tangle their fingers together.
Perhaps it was this sentimentality, this weakness, that stopped him from completing Cazador’s ritual. After all, when he’d passed through the dark, familiar halls of the Szarr Palace, he’d had every intention of seizing the power of the Vampire Ascendant.
But when his moment finally came, when Cazador begged for his life, Astarion made the grave mistake of glancing at Gale.
“You are better than him, Astarion!” Gale cried out desperately. “Please. Don’t become him.”
And so Astarion plunged the dagger into Cazador’s heart, striking him again and again. He butchered his former master until he was nothing but a pile of gore, then cast the blade aside and his dreams of sunlight along with it.
Astarion was barely cognisant as he was led back to the tavern. He knew Karlach was beside him, that Wyll was speaking to him, but everything around him was a colourless blur. There was a hand in his own, warm and reassuring, and he knew it to be Gale through instinct alone.
He found himself in a bathtub shortly after. Astarion wasn’t sure who ran it or who stripped him of his clothes. Steaming water came up to his shoulders, the surface becoming tainted with Cazador’s blood.
A familiar voice came from close by. “Do you want to be alone?”
Astarion could only shake his head.
“Is it my company you seek?”
Astarion closed his eyes. “Always, Gale.”
As Gale crouched beside him, the scent of lavender tickled his nose. Two fingers traced the surface of the water, clearing away the blood with a whisper of magic. There was a careful hand at the base of Astarion’s neck as Gale toyed with his hair.
“These curls of yours could do with a wash,” Gale said softly. “Would you like some assistance?”
Astarion stiffly nodded his assent. Clever fingers then massaged shampoo into his scalp, scrubbing away the remnants of Cazador’s existence. Gale was thorough yet gentle, moving silently until he’d rinsed the last of the soap from Astarion’s hair.
“It was a brave thing you did,” Gale told him.
“I am not so sure,” Astarion said numbly. “All that power was ripe for the taking, and instead I just… threw it away.”
“You took back your life. You remained true to yourself,” Gale said. “You don’t need ascension to prove your worth.”
Astarion huffed quietly. “A touch hypocritical, don’t you think? You have chartered a course for godhood, after all.”
Gale’s hands stilled in his hair. Astarion almost wept.
“With that kind of power, I could cure your affliction,” Gale whispered. “You could stand in the sunlight, no tadpole required.”
“But you would be forever changed.”
“Changed for the better,” Gale argued.
Astarion angled towards Gale, seeking out his gaze. He took in Gale’s stricken expression, his eyes wide and pleading.
“Gale Dekarios would cease to exist,” Astarion said. “And there’s nothing in this world that’s worth more to me than him.”
Gale’s lower lip trembled. “Astarion, please, I am not worth —”
Astarion kissed him, silencing him completely. Gale stiffened, his mouth parting in surprise. A moment passed before he melted against Astarion, a serene sigh escaping his lips. He succumbed to Astarion entirely, the tension in his body leaving him all at once.
Astarion pulled away slowly, their lips clinging together. He placed a hand over Gale’s chest, palm flat against the orb.
“I want you to be free of this,” Astarion said. “Free of this burden.”
Gale sighed shakily, his eyes unusually bright. “You… want me to return the Crown to Mystra?”
“Mystra does not deserve it, but you deserve to be cured,” Astarion said. “So, if that’s what it takes…”
Gale covered Astarion’s hand with his own, holding him in place. “Then it shall be done,” he vowed. “I will deliver the Crown to Mystra and rid myself of this blight.”
“Good.” Astarion smiled wryly. “If only I’d known that a kiss could make you so agreeable… I would have done it far sooner.”
Gale’s eyes crinkled with joy. “A dangerous power you hold over me, Astarion.”
“One that I intend to take full advantage of,” Astarion purred.
He kissed his wizard again, smiling against his lips. Gale moulded his hands to the curve of Astarion’s neck, holding him lovingly as their kiss deepened. Astarion should feel exposed like this — his skin bare, his heart raw — but Gale touched him with a reverence that was akin to salvation.
When they finally pulled apart, it was only to press their foreheads together. Water had spilled over the edge of the tub, drenching Gale’s robes, but he didn’t seem to mind. Astarion released a shuddering breath as he took Gale’s hands in his own.
“No more gods and no more masters. Just you and me… and whatever comes next.”