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A year in Waterdeep blurs by in the spaces between lectures and meetings and late nights reading by the fire. Gale returns as if he hadn’t left at all. He settles into the well-worn grooves of mundane existence, carries on living until the library dusts off its disuse and the garden bears fruit again, until the orb becomes a dead weight that slumbers in his chest. His waist grows a bit fuller. He sleeps in a warm bed. The crown rots in its watery grave, and he doesn't think of Mystra before closing his eyes anymore.
Gale of Waterdeep becomes Gale Dekarios and then just Gale. He takes strolls on languid mornings, stops at every market stall to joke with the vendors who greet him by name and ask how his mother is. He buys far too much produce to eat by himself. He whiles the hours away and looks out the window with the view that won't change tomorrow or the day after that or maybe ever. He wakes and sleeps and repeats.
Teaching suits him, his mother says. On the first day of term, he leaves the top button of his shirt undone and lets the rumors take care of the rest. He makes small-talk with colleagues in the hall. Later, he'll go out drinking with them and laugh at jokes that aren't all that funny. He'll catch a flash of something familiar in the crush of the crowd — silver curls, perhaps a horn — a trick of the light. He'll take a few sips and leave at a reasonable hour. Tara will greet him at the door that swallows them both into an empty room.
A year in Waterdeep, and Gale lies awake. The City of Splendors bustles outside. It's inexhaustible, alight with magic, alive with sound, buzzing with the force of a hundred thousand people who never heed the time. He might have loved them, once; but the drone of white noise is too loud tonight. The bed is too soft for dreaming.
In a cupboard near the kitchen, there hangs a cloak, a staff, a dirty old satchel he couldn't bring himself to throw away. Something deeper than the orb stirs in his chest.
#
The first ship out leaves at dawn. Gale bids Tara farewell and tells his mother he’ll write. He watches from the deck as the city gets smaller, blurrier, until it becomes a drop in the pouring rain.
He doesn't ask where he's going. When he disembarks a tenday later, green with seasickness and in dire need of a bath, he doesn't recognize Reithwin Town.
He walks the fresh-paved streets under a canopy of rainbow, marvels at the verdant leaves and vibrant blooms and fresh, budding things that spring up on every corner. Busy strangers walk through crowded streets. The weight of humanity hangs thick in the air.
He’s spent many hours wandering these lands, but all of them wishing for elsewhere. The dregs of the blight look different after daybreak. There’s a half-collapsed statue still standing near the center of town, overgrown now with all manner of flowers more precious than its subject. He once huddled there with his companions by the Moon Lantern’s tenuous light, making idle chatter to stave off a silent, crushing void. Now, a clamor of voices rings out under the midday sun. Children scurry past him in a game of tag.
Mad laughter bubbles up within him. He’s going to run and cartwheel through the square. He’s going to tell Halsin that —
Except that he turns to speak, but Halsin’s not there to hear it. There’s no one there to hear it, and Halsin's busy building a future.
An angry-looking man bumps into him and snaps to get out of the way.
#
Last Light Inn still has the same name. Gale takes a room and doesn’t sleep; he stares up at the ceiling and longs for the open sky.
#
“So you’re an adventurer?” asks the woman at the bar. Her hand creeps closer to his thigh. “Looking for some company?”
A memory of: banter, firelight, clean air on the mountainside, a walk with good conversation, meals for a crowd, the stillness of dawn, a bottle of wine shared among friends.
He finishes his drink alone, and orders another.
#
Gale climbs the mountains and crosses the rivers, digs up the treasure, braves the shadowy dungeons and all the horrors within. He helps mothers and babies and stray unfortunate souls who cross his path. He travels the land and searches for something to search for.
One day, six moons into his journey, he finds a door: a grungy flat grate in the earth, any writing on it long gnawed away by the elements and the destructive passage of time. He opens it with a forceful tug and picks off the plants burrowing a home on its surface. The long tunnel inside greets him with a wind of warning. He breathes its familiar cloying scent of mildew and rot.
Soon enough ― and against all good sense ― he’s in the Underdark. Branches of fluorescent moss light his way down, past the rainbow of mushrooms and the knife’s-edge crystal gleaming in the wall. It’s a slippery tiring journey, and he doesn’t have nearly enough camp supplies for it. Some hundry damp abomination probably awaits him at the bottom. He goes forth anyway. He marvels at it all like he did the first time.
When his knee can’t take it anymore, Gale sets up camp and eats alone. He doesn’t bother to find out what time it is. If he stares up at the vast dark ceiling, he can’t tell the difference when he closes his eyes or not, and he likes that. It’s easy to get tired of stars.
#
A loud crash jolts him out of sleep. The wards he placed around the campsite are blaring, and there’s pressure and light, fingers, someone tearing through the fabric of the tent.
He shoots off a firebolt, two, three, but he’s too drowsy and too taken by surprise for proper concentration. It misses, and all he gets in return is a livid hiss. A pale hand claws at the front of his shirt and drags him from safety with superhuman strength. He sees pointed fangs and red eyes, red as the hot sting lighting up his body when something sharp pierces his neck. Red as his blood.
His vision grows cloudy, and there's a spreading warmth, a hazy numbness that engulfs him. It sings to him. Stop resisting, it says. Give in. Embrace the sweet slumber that follows. He tries to cast a spell, but his arms are so, so heavy. Someone, somewhere, is screaming. It might be him.
Then he's on the ground. His assailant crumples down with a shriek — and a dagger firmly lodged in the jugular.
“See how you like it, you bastard,” says another voice.
Gale snaps his head up as soon as he hears the first syllable. It can’t be.
“Astarion!”
“Wizard.” Astarion yanks the dagger from the other vampire’s neck with a horrible gurgle. Blood spurts out in fat streams and spills all over Gale’s boots. “I see you still insist on getting yourself killed.”
“I — what? Who is that? How did you find me here?”
“That was one of my dear brethren. And as for your other question, I could smell a human the moment you set foot in this place. All of us can. You’ve got them salivating all the way to Grymforge.”
There’s a body on the floor to prove it, and Gale’s certain he’s still bleeding where it bit him. His sleep-addled brain tries to digest the warning, but all it can process is that it’s Astarion saying it.
“So you came to help me, then? How uncharacteristically charitable of you.”
“Don’t delude yourself. I just thought it might be funny to see them get a little taste. None of them would’ve had enough to harm you, let alone kill you. A glass of swamp-water’s more nourishing than that swill you call blood.”
“And here I was, fully delusional, thinking you might have wanted to see me.”
“I suppose I'm not displeased,” Astarion says, not quite looking at him. “Gods. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I… I’m investigating the magic-neutralizing properties of the Sussur bloom.”
“And I’m the Archduke of Baldur’s Gate.”
“I’m serious! An advanced understanding of the flower could prove invaluable to those studying the arcane arts. As you know, Blackstaff Academy has a high rate of magic-related accidents every term — because really it's quite difficult to make those first-years understand the importance of proper safety procedures — and such a tool on a widespread scale could facilitate…”
Astarion rolls his eyes.
“Fine,” says Gale. “So perhaps I find myself currently unoccupied. I’m adventuring. On a temporary leave from my professorial duties. Let us move on to another subject. How have you been? You look well.”
Astarion’s styled his hair in that artfully disheveled way of his that makes it look like he didn’t. His pristine clothes sparkle with spite at the myriad grimy things that thrive in the Underdark. He even looks well-rested, somehow, as if it were even possible for a vampire.
“Of course I look great, darling. Perpetual darkness is fabulous for the skin. You, on the other hand…”
So maybe he let the beard get a little long during his travels, and perhaps he hadn't been the best at mending clothes. What did it matter, anyway? Some old adage about trees making sounds in a forest comes to mind. Gale tries to straighten out his hair, only to get his hand caught in a stubborn tangle. “Well, I do admit —”
“I mean, what in the Hells is going on in Waterdeep? Is Elminster setting the fashion trends now?”
“Astarion.”
“... And what’s with the beard? Were you exiled, or something?”
“Astarion!”
Astarion stops mid-sentence, and there’s something fragile there, tucked behind the disaffected veneer of his face. He keeps fidgeting with the dagger like it’s a toothpick. Gale is tempted to take it from him, lest he nick a finger.
“I’m sorry. I’m quite bad at second meetings. Not much practice, you see.”
“How about something like, ‘Gale, my dear friend! So pleased to see you. How have you been? How is your mother?’”
Astarion says nothing.
“How is your research, Gale? How do you like Blackstaff? I sure hope everything is going alright in Waterdeep ―”
“I thought you were dead.”
“You might’ve even asked about Ta ―” Gale blinks. “Wait, what?”
Astarion’s just staring at him. His eyes bore straight through Gale’s own, an unspoken question of his permanence. Gale recalls with sudden clarity a certain night in a forest clearing, when they sat together and watched the stars until dawn.
“By the Gods, you're actually serious.”
“Word gets around down here,” Astarion says. “I’d been — You could say I’d been keeping tabs on you. On all of you. Just a little, you know. I’d ask whenever someone came down. I just wanted to be informed ― keep abreast of the news, so to speak. Anyway, some months ago I stopped hearing about you at all. I wasn’t too worried, at first, but then I found out it wasn’t just me.”
“But you could have written,” Gale says.
Their last night in camp, they all gathered by the fire and spoke of the future. They reminisced over a bottle of wine, professed their gratitude for each other as it emptied. They laughed at Shadowheart’s ardent, drunken promises to keep in touch. Gale gave all of them his address.
For all the good it did, anyway. A year in Waterdeep, and not a single letter.
Astarion, however, sputters at him so indignantly his cheeks even flush a spot of red. “Did that vampire not leave enough blood for your brain? Do you think I didn’t? I did! We all did. You never answered.”
“That’s impossible. I’ll have you know I waited by that mailbox every morning, and not once did I receive anything other than the broadsheet and a package from my mother.”
“Oh, that’s rich! I didn’t take you for the type, you know.”
“You would really assume the worst of me?”
“And you would really claim you never received our letters in the first place? Not a one?” Astarion says. “What then, are the mailmen in Waterdeep directionally challenged? Did your cat eat them? Neighbor steal them?”
“No, but ―”
“Oh, I know! Surely Mystra magicked them away! That must explain things. Or ― oh, here’s a good one ― did your mailbox swallow them?”
Mailbox.
Astarion keeps ranting, but Gale stills at that. A dusty cog in the depths of his head clicks into place.
Suddenly, his face is hot, and his ears are ringing. He might just kick the nearest object. He might be sick. “Oh, dear.”
A year in Waterdeep, and who knows how many more it might have been?
Astarion must notice his face, because the speech stops midway through its most impassioned segment. “What is it?”
“Astarion, the mailbox!”
“... What?”
“Back when I was Chosen, I had it enchanted to get rid of letters from names it didn’t recognize. Anyone with a legitimate need to contact me would have been added to a list, or maybe they’d have written directly to Blackstaff… I...” Gale shakes his head. “With everything that happened, I’d forgotten. I’m so sorry.”
Astarion doesn't respond immediately. He waits, searching Gale’s face for a punchline that doesn’t come. When at last he speaks, it’s in the low, mild-mannered tone reserved only for when he’s absolutely fuming. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am perfectly ― and regrettably ― serious.”
“So, you're telling me… your magical mailbox thought my letters were fan-mail?”
Gale cringes. “More like an arcane curse, really. You’d be surprised what nastiness a determined wizard can send through the post. There was one time —”
“I thought you were dead!” Astarion shouts. It’s loud enough that the word “dead” echoes off the cavern walls, and there’s a crack in his voice that has Gale swallowing whatever nonsense he’d been about to say. “Do you even understand what that means? Not a peep about you for the past half a year, and it turns out you’d been, what, wandering Faerûn like some sort of vagabond? I thought you’d been killed. I thought the orb had done you in.”
“I —”
“Do you understand what it’s like to be trapped in this dark, odious hole with only a vague idea that your friends are up there somewhere? Do you know what you put everyone else through? That idiot Minsc was about to set off looking for you, you fool! You’re telling me this is all because of some spell you forgot about?”
Astarion stands there and glares. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to: his eyes blaze, redder than ever. His hands come to land on his hips as he waits to see how Gale digs himself out of this one. Gale hesitates to speak for what might be the first time in his life. There’s a real possibility he’s getting a dagger to the face.
“I’m sorr—”
“Shut up. Don’t you dare say that to me right now.”
“I’m so sorry. I truly am. It was a most foolish error. An abominable oversight. I spent so many days waiting, every morning, and it never once occurred to me this was the source of the problem. It was never my intention to cause our friends such worry. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, I would in a heartbeat.”
“Stop it. Groveling doesn’t suit you.”
“What, then? Tell me.”
“I don’t know! Don’t you see I’m trying to be angry at you? ― Fuck!”
Astarion decapitates a nearby mushroom with a violent kick. Its green entrails sizzle when it splatters against a rock, oozing corrosive goop into the mouth of the abyss. They both watch in silence as it leaves a scorched trail on the way down. Astarion does not need to breathe, though he does it anyway.
“Do you feel better now?” Gale asks.
“I do. A fine substitute for your head.”
And then Gale can’t help the grin spreading over his face. He can't help it when he blurts out, “Astarion, may I hug you? It’s been a long time since I saw you last, and I’d very much like to hug you.”
“I’m armed.”
“I’m not sure if that was a no or a pun.”
Astarion’s squeezing him for dear life before he even gets a reply.