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Oh, but she'd never expected this.
Maeve knew, realistically, that she had so much to be thankful for—the pinnacle of those blessings standing beside her now. Yet it nevertheless felt like the last month had been nothing but one long string of horrors, beginning with her kidnapping and ending, just this morning, with another tense encounter against the Steel Watch. Horrible, murderous goblins that had hounded them for weeks. Sentient shadows reaching for their throats. The knowledge that—Ellistraee help them—they were up against Chosen of the Dead Three themselves, puppeteering an Elder Brain of all Gods-abandoned things. Blast and Hells, but sometimes it was hard not to just curl into a ball and cower her future away.
So Maeve took her joy where she could find it and dammit, if that wasn't a sea's worth of joy rising up behind those gates, she was the next Archduke of Baldur's Gate.
"Am I to take it you like the circus?" Gale asked. His tone was distinctly teasing, but Maeve couldn't bring herself to care. She was practically vibrating in her boots as the cry of children carried over the doors; as she caught the scent of sweet and salty treats wafting through the air, fresh hay for the animals, the crackle of magic. Before her was undoubtedly the best thing they'd found since entering this coarse, piss-drenched city.
"We have to go," she breathed, gripping tight to Gale's hand.
"Oh, Hells yes!"
Karlach didn't wait for anyone else's agreement. She snagged Maeve by the wrist and dragged them both towards the entrance, Astarion lagging behind. He was shouting something about their investigation, but it drowned in Karlach's laughter. Maeve was more than happy to let herself be pulled along and Gale, as always, followed.
"Circus of the Last Days," he read once they'd secured a place in line. "A rather melancholy name for something meant to bring cheer and entertainment to the masses, don't you think?"
"Rather apt though, especially with you going inside." Astarion was cleaning his nails with a knife, seemingly unperturbed, but Maeve caught him cocking one ear towards the merry shrieking. "Feeling explosive today, Gale?"
"Not in the least."
"How reassuring."
She didn't want to think about the orb though, not today. Maeve bounced on her toes as they inched closer to the entrance, Karlach doing her own little dance beside her. The tiefling couple directly in front of them finally slipped inside and—Maeve recoiled.
There was as a ghoul guarding the door.
"Ugh." Karlach took a step back. "Talk about cheap labor."
"Not at all, Miss! I can assure you, The Circus of the Last Days remains a financially lucrative endeavor, despite the hardship that faces us all."
An elf dressed in green bowed deeply before the four of them, wielding the smile of someone looking to sell. "Benji here is the creation of our very own ringleader, the phenomenally powerful Madame Lucretious, Bringer of the Night, and she has endowed him with the precious gift of insight."
"I SMELL MEAT," Benji shrieked, releasing fetid breath into the air.
"Meaning, he's our security," the elf said, dropping the boisterous tone. "Like recognizes like, yeah? If he clears you, you're in. If he thinks you're some creepy cult murderer, feel free to come back on a day when I'm not working."
"Absurd." Gale muttered. "No ghoul possesses the intellect to decide what to eat for breakfast, let alone make a moral judgment about what would clearly be a hidden agenda—"
Maeve squeezed his hand, silencing the tirade. Fighting her instinct to smite the creature, she leaned forward and allowed Benji a good sniff of her hair, pink locks brushing against a blood-crusted nose—or the lack of one, really. His breath reeked with the same vile scent that permeated the battlefields they'd crossed and his tongue, when it suddenly shot out for a taste, was encrusted with filth.
"Gods!" Maeve leapt back, rubbing furiously at her skin. Karlach had one arm slung around Gale as his hands began to spark, pulling them both sideways. Even Astarion's lip curled and Maeve felt, more than saw, one hand reaching for his dagger.
"Now, now, no need to get riled!" The elf gestured for peace. "Benji admittedly lacks some social graces, but I assure you, he's completely harmless—"
Benji let out a guttural hack. "DISGUSTING. TASTES LIKE PISS AND IRON. DON'T LIKE. DON'T. LIKE."
Excuse you. Gale says I taste exquisite, was the first thought to flit through Maeve's mind and she blushed, hard enough that she darkened even with half-Drow coloring. It felt like steam had started seeping from her cheeks. Giving herself a hard shake, she ignored the elf's demands that they vacate the premises, as well as Gale and Karlach's yelling to snatch, deep from the reserves of her purse, a handful of coins.
"Are you sure you won't let us in?" she asked, angling the gold so that it glinted in the sun. Even Benji paused his screaming, sniffing with renewed interest.
"…Ah. Well… that is... Welcome to the Circus of the Last Days!" The elf gamely made the pile disappear. "And it had better not be my last days with you inside. Understood?"
"Oh, indubitably." Gale made a dismissive gesture before ushering them inside.
And the inside? It was worth it.
Oh Gods, was it worth it.
Maeve felt a grin splitting her face. Surrounding them was nothing but… fun. Games to one side, animals to another, and between performers of every color, tossing ribbons and fire and cheer into the air. The smell of sweets had intensified and Maeve lifted her face, basking in the nostalgic aroma. Back in Waterdeep, it was a rare day indeed that she'd have been able to afford food and boarding, but there was always just enough coin for a single sweet at the market. It was an indulgence Maeve hadn't been able to deny herself and she had no intention of trying just now. This was a beautiful day in a surprisingly beautiful place. The circus, more than anything else they'd seen so far, convinced her that Baldur's Gate was worth saving.
…okay, maybe that wasn't literally true, but she could pretend, couldn't she?
"Oh, darling?" Astarion sidled over, draping one arm across her shoulders.
Maeve locked eyes with Gale. "Yes?" He chuckled as Astarion huffed in frustration.
"Very well: associate, precisely how much of our gold did you just hand over to that badly dressed cretin?"
"No idea."
"No idea—"
"Who cares!" Karlach barged between them, an avalanche of energy aimed at the food stalls. "Holy shit I want to see everything and eat everything and LIVE HERE FOREVER."
Maeve couldn't agree more.
They hadn't made it ten steps before they found a mummy hawking face paints. She was shockingly nice considering that Maeve couldn't understand a word she said and she happily purchased one of the smaller kits, admiring the colors. It was only after she had it in hand that she realized she didn't know what to do with it.
"They never taught painting at the temple," she said, more muttering to herself than truly speaking aloud. Luckily, Gale had the ears of a bat. At least when it came to her.
"Nor did my own educational institute. However, you are in the presence of a would-be artisan. I cannot promise that my efforts shall be as successful as my poetry, but I am more than willing to make the attempt." He ended the little speech with a gallant, and overly formal bow.
Maeve just cocked an eyebrow. "I've never read your poetry."
"Well then…" Gale cleared this throat. "My dearest maiden, fine and fair / Bearing locks of pinkish hair / Tell me now and tell me true: / Does my poetry move-ith you?"
The laugh that bubbled up nearly choked her. "You did not write that."
"But of course I did. Just now. Are you impressed?"
"That you can rhyme that quickly? Yes. That you can write that badly? Also yes."
Far from being insulted, Gale knelt beside her with an indulgent smile. "I take both compliments in the spirit that they were given… and I'll let you read my real poetry someday. Provided you promise not to laugh."
"If it's anything like that I promise to try."
"Very well. And I promise that your beauty is fierce enough that I cannot possibly mess this up."
It took Maeve a long moment to school her features into something neutral for him to work with. When she had, she found she was able to relax into the sensations, closing her eyes and just floating, relaxed, for the first time in what felt like years. The pinprick brush was cool, almost ticklish against her cheeks, eyes, chin, near the tips of her ears, and soon Maeve found herself squirming delightfully.
"Keep still," Gale admonished.
"Hurry up," she shot back.
"Perfection takes time."
"I thought I was already perfect?"
"Hmm. A fair rebuttal. Nevertheless, if you don't want to look like that ghoul out there stop moving."
Maeve did as she was told, focusing on the sounds she could hear with her eyes closed. Gale's breathing was close at hand, but the tenor of the circus had changed as well. There was an additional dose of excitement in the air and when Maeve picked out specific voices in the crowd she caught the same name again and again: Dribbles. An act? A specific performer? She couldn't tell, but whoever—or whatever—it was had sent the children into a tizzy.
"Damn, solider! Lookin' good!"
Maeve's eyes snapped open at Karlach's arrival. She held a bag of salted peanuts in one hand and some sort of ice cream in the other. Behind her Astarion was licking a cone of his own, dyed deep red, with the same attention he'd give one of his midnight drinks. Karlach juggled her snacks a moment until she had a hand free to pull Maeve back to her feet, dragging her towards a trough of water.
Gale had done a really good job.
Keeping to just the black, white, and red, he'd gifted her an exaggerated smile and an intricate, flame-like design over her right eye. Long stripes to mimic a collar down her throat, tiny pinpricks like the bells of a performer… she looked marvelous and felt twice as grand.
"Satisfied?" he asked, all confidence and cheek.
"Luckily for you, yes." Maeve threw her arms around his neck in a hug, refraining from a kiss only because the paint was still drying. "Karlach, do you want him to do you too?"
"Aww, thanks. But even with the tune-up I think I'm a little hot for it, y'know? Would probably melt the paint right off."
"Hmm. Yeah. Astarion?"
"You're joking, right? And ruin the perfection that is this face?"
"Alright, alright. Well, what about you, my love?"
Arms looped around Gale's neck, Maeve privately thought that if there was any perfection here, it stood before her now.
"Oh… I think you're the only one capable of pulling off that particular look."
"...I'm magnanimously choosing to take that as a compliment," Maeve sniffed, slinking away.
"It was!"
"Uh huh."
They wandered off to fill the rest of their bellies, taking in the sights as they went. After snacks were in all their hands Maeve spotted some sort of djinn who was clearly running a scam and had to keep Astarion from confronting him out of professional pride. They saw a necromancer using her skills to make skeletons dance, a woman juggling flames of every color, beasts under the thrall of spells who would stand on their hind legs and pose with you for an artist's sketch, two very strange creatures, married, who agreed to sell them a commissioned statue… that seemed a tad excessive, even if they'd had the funds for it.
Speaking of, the coin purse was feeling a bit light. Maeve grimaced, hoping that Astarion wouldn't notice. If there was anything he hated more than spending money on the innocent, it was spending money on frivolities. That is, the frivolities of others, not him. The Gods knew he'd picked up enough pillows and perfumes since this journey began.
It was fine though. They had more than one contract lined up as they searched for a way to stop the Elder Brain. They had plenty of food stocked at camp and would no doubt replenish their coffers soon enough. Still, it would probably be prudent to cut back now…
Can't believe I'm even thinking that.
Maeve bit hard into her lower lip, suppressing a smile. No, the half-Drow of years past would have never thought of saving her coin, only because she didn't have any coin to save. Growing up on the streets of Waterdeep, every day was an exercise in survival, filching from those who had more than enough to spare and, unfortunately, sometimes taking from others who were just as desperate as she was, because they tried to take from her first. The streets had trained her early, preparing her body and mind to receive Eilistraee's grace. They had also—thank all the Gods—failed to harden her heart. If those trials had, she never would have been able to master the art of healing.
Hells, she never would have been able to accept Gale. The Wizard of Waterdeep was no longer a shadowy figure lording his wealth and power over the masses; he was Gale: tired and brilliant and flawed and brimming with love, love in spades, love for her. The thought of doing without that left a real, sizable ache in the center of her chest.
Yet no sooner had the pain began than something helped it dissipate. Like a soft sea breeze that would cool her on a humid day, or the pungent scent of grass after wading through a city's fog. Maeve turned towards the sensation instinctively, half expecting to see another servant of Eilistraee in the crowd. Whatever the power was, it held a similar essence to her Goddess' connection with nature: the sturdy leaf that protects sister spider from the rain, no matter how many times it has been bitten.
There was no cleric nearby, but there was a dryad.
"Let's check that out," she said, not waiting to see if her companions followed.
There was something… familiar about the dryad. Maeve was sure she'd never seen her before, but she followed the pull nonetheless, having long ago learned to respect her instincts. As they drew close the vines that surrounded her stage crept close and the scent of dew came into sharp focus. Karlach laughed as a cloud of fireflies danced about her head.
Like all the performers, there was a hand-carved sign stationed nearby.
"Zethino," Gale read. "Curator of Love?"
The dryad bowed. "Indeed, little one. I find, I observe, and I evaluate relationships as a scholar might their dry and hefty tomes. Though of course, the pieces of my collection are living, breathing, overflowing with the possibility of growth… or death. Not all relationships are meant to flourish and weather the storm, after all. Is yours?"
Her voice was husky, the kind of tenor Maeve would have expected to find in the pleasure houses down by the docks. The outfit she wore, made primarily out of leaves, didn't leave much to the imagination either. Despite this, Maeve didn't doubt that she was powerful. This Zethino clearly knew what she was talking about.
… or at least was excellent at faking it.
Astarion scoffed, just barely keeping his voice at a whisper. "A con artist, darling. I would know."
"You know little." Zethino turned her strange, green-lit eyes Astarion's way. "One whose heart is closed off cannot possibly understand the depths that others might reach within their own. Your past has harmed you greatly, young one. It has severed your ability to love. Not permanently—I hope—but for now, those scars hold you back."
Karlach let out a low whistle. "Oh damn. Spooky. How'd you know he had a rough past?"
"Because I see it."
"Because you're a scam artist!" Astarion threw up his hands. "I'm not exactly Mr. Sunshine over here and, frankly, I'm insulted that you went for such an obvious read." He paused. "Also, I'm older than you!"
She just stared at him placidly though, a simple smile gracing her face that nevertheless conveyed, 'Go ahead and think that.'
"He's not entirely wrong," Gale said, doing a far better job of keeping the comment private. He leaned into Maeve's space and she instinctively leaned back to meet him. When Gale's hand trailed the small of her back she felt the same, electrifying tingle as when she'd first connected to Eilistraee. She wondered, cheekily, if that meant Gale was just magical, or a little divine too.
"Go elsewhere?" she murmured back.
"… not necessarily. Scam or not, I find myself intrigued by this supposedly scholarly attempt at analyzing love. Intrigued, and skeptical."
"Well, skeptical or not, I wouldn't want to stifle your curiosity."
"Perish the thought."
Zethino spread her arms to encompass them. "You speak with the intimacy of lovers. Will you test that bond? Please, allow me to make visual the tether between you, so that you may see its strength. Will it carry the weight of you both into the future…or fray, perhaps even snap under the strain?"
Karlach was bouncing on her toes, muttering "Do it, do it, do it…" with gleeful abandon. Astarion pointedly looked away to read the sundial across the path.
They locked eyes, nodded as one, and Maeve handed over what was left of their coin purse.
"Wonderful. Then close your eyes, little ones, but keep your hearts open…"
Maeve did as she was told, remembering suddenly as she did that her face was still covered in paint. It made her giggle: the thought of conducting this super serious love test looking like a clown—of dubious quality no less. But she schooled her features, determined not to insult Zethino, or disappoint Gale. She could do this. Easy peasy, especially after all they'd been through. Maeve simply needed to breath deeply, release the tension from her shoulders, focus on the sound of—
Water?
There wasn't any running water here.
With a jerk she snapped her eyes open, looking out on an unfamiliar landscape. It was a forest somewhere with a waterfall directly to her left. Before her was a log that crossed the river and… Gale, dressed simply in the first set of purple robes she'd ever seen him in. Looking down, Maeve found that she too was dressed in the armor she'd been kidnapped in, a simple chain-mail set they'd sold back in the Grove. Whatever this was, it clearly wasn't reality.
Instinctively, she moved towards Gale, but some invisible force barred her way. It should have been horrifying, an unknown magic taking away what little agency she'd managed to snatch back since that Gods'-forsaken worm was shoved into her eye, but surprisingly she felt only a calm resignation. They had been transported somewhere, stripped of their weapons, imprisoned within some invisible force… yet Maeve knew she'd be able to reach him, provided she proved herself.
Zethino stepped out of the forest. Whether she'd suddenly appeared, or had been there the whole time, Maeve couldn't be sure. Again, it should have sent alarm bells ringing in the back of her head; a cacophony reminding her to beware anyone—anything—that could hide itself so thoroughly. But this was the circus. They were here to have fun… and Gale, just like her, was smiling across the way.
"Oh," Maeve breathed out. He looked handsome in the dappled light.
"How sweet you both are," Zethino purred. "I can sense your love for one another in the very air, settling among the dew. How fragrant. How potent. But how long will it last? You have been through many trials together, haven't you? Vicious goblins. Duergar hunts. Even a curse, its night-touched tentacles snuffing out the light. These trials have brought you closer, but do you truly know one another? After all, love cannot bloom through hardship alone."
How does she know all that? The thought was fleeting though. Who cared? Because Zethino was right. They'd been through the Hells and back lately—a truth even if it wasn't literal—and Maeve suddenly had a fire in her chest to prove that they were more than the trauma that had unexpectedly brought them together. She may not have known Gale for long, but she still knew him. She wanted to prove it.
"Then what are we waiting for?" she called, loving the grin that broke out over Gale's face.
Zethino inclined her head.
"As you wish. We will begin... Maeve. Answer true, if you are able: There are times when it is worth viewing someone not as what they are, but as what they could be. Tell us then, if Gale were to be a food, what food would he be?"
Huh?
For a long moment she just stood, staring dumbly across the log. What food would he be? What kind of question was that? She'd expected something more along the lines of promising to die for him, or... she didn't actually know. Something dramatic and romantic though. Not talk of consumption.
No sooner had that word come to mind though than Maeve was thinking back to the last time they'd spent a night away from the others, camping out—with magically summoned amenities, of course—down by the docks. Gale had surprised her by producing a whole basket of delicacies he'd been saving on the sly and the fresh grapes, more than anything, had tempted Maeve in the late hours. She could clearly picture the expression that had crossed Gale's face when she'd bitten into the tight skin, a droplet of juice escaping down her chin...
Right. Food could be quite sensual, actually.
"Alright then," she murmured. Did this test have a time limit? She hoped not, that made her nervous, and there were already a hundred adjectives flitting through her mind. Gale was sweet, but also tart, complex, and simple in all the best ways. Suddenly, rather than wondering why on earth she was choosing a food to represent him, Maeve found that she had too many options.
And then it came to her: their very first night together as a party, when Gale had rolled up the sleeves of his robe, surveyed the strange collection of foodstuffs they'd picked up on their travels, and announced that he'd be making them a meal fit for a king. Of course, by then he'd already announced his expertise in magic, literature, and every other topic that had arisen on the road, so no one had put much stock in the assertions of the arrogant man, least of all Maeve. After all, she'd grown up in the shadow of his tower. What the Hells did the Wizard of Waterdeep know about cooking, let alone cooking from a hodge-podge collection of half-molding scraps?
Not that any of them had had the energy to challenge him, of course. Maeve could easily recall sinking into the grass—they hadn't even found bedrolls yet—her muscles screaming from the fight on the Nautiloid and the strange series of violent acts that had lead her to these people. Lae'zel leveling a sword at her throat. Shadowheart pounding at the door of her cage until her skin split. Astarion, thinking he could get one over on her and landing with a grunt in the dirt. The crackling, searing pull of magic as Maeve leveraged Gale out of that portal. They hadn't met the others yet, but she had no doubt they'd been suffering in similar ways: Wyll with head in hands over the plight of the tieflings, Karlach running for her life, even Halsin, Jaheira, and Minsc, fighting battles Maeve knew nothing of yet. Across distance and backgrounds and even intent, they'd nevertheless been bonded through those shared hardships.
Then had come Gale, carrying steaming bowls of stew.
It was, without a doubt, the best thing Maeve had ever tasted. Sure, everything tasted good after two days without food, but Maeve was familiar with the seasoning of hunger and this was far more than that. Gale could cook, damn well too, though why a privileged little rich boy had ever bothered to learn she still couldn't say. Rather than suffering for any longer, that night had been filled with warmth, pleasure, and eventually the beginnings of conversation. Maeve had shoveled spoonfuls of the meal into her mouth, heedless of what was in it, knowing only that it was giving her both the physical and the spiritual strength to carry on.
"How'd you do that?" she'd asked, mouth still half full as her fingers sought every drop. Gale had blinked at the implied compliment before that familiar, self-satisfied air settled back around his shoulders.
"Unfortunately, if I give away my secrets you won't need me as a cook anymore," he'd said, "and I'd regret the loss of that opportunity most keenly. Besides, what's life without a bit of mystery, hmm?"
He'd winked across the fire and for the first time Maeve's heart skipped a beat. The start of something, though she couldn't have possibly known what.
Now, here they were.
She smiled softly across the river. "There's only one answer as far as I'm concerned. Gale is a mystery stew," and she winked, just as he once had at her.
Gale's face fell.
"Oh," he muttered. "Well, I suppose I'm not opposed to some mysterious pot concoction when the need arises, but do I identify as one? Honestly, I'd hoped you'd see me as something a bit more refined." He smoothed the front of his robes, fingers catching on the many pulled threads and scorched patches he'd accumulated on their journey. "Despite present appearances."
A sharp of ice lodged itself in the middle of Maeve's chest. The damned thing made it difficult to breathe. "No wait. That's not what I—"
"How unfortunate." Zethino cut right over her. Though she didn't raise her voice, it felt to Maeve like the sound of the waterfall had caught her own words and carried them away. Across the way, Gale continued to do an admirable impression of someone who'd bitten into lemon. "Perhaps I misjudged your bond? ... but no, let us not despair just yet. What is love if not a long and at times arduous trek, characterized by nearly as many valleys as peaks? Let us continue climbing together. I do not doubt that our next stop will prove soothing to you both."
Right. No need to get upset. It was just one question and what did any of this mean anyway? Absolutely nothing. It was a silly, probably rigged game at the circus. They were supposed to be having fun.
...So why did she feel like she'd failed something far more significant?
Maeve literally shook the feeling out of her limbs, hopping as much as she could on her tiny patch of grass. She still wasn't allowed to move forward, probably because Gale hadn't liked her answer, but now it was his turn and Maeve couldn't imagine anything coming out of his mouth that she wouldn't like. Well... okay, that wasn't true. Gale said things all the time that made her cast him a sideways glance, but here? Now? She was going in with no expectations and, just in case, a permanent smile on her face.
"The next question then," Zethino said, voice nearly indistinguishable from the wind. "Maeve—"
She blinked. Hold on.
"—though there is no doubt that Gale possesses courage aplenty, we are all weak when it comes to certain objects... people... events. Tell us, what does the great wizard of Waterdeep fear? When the lights dim and he is alone, what chills his blood?"
For a moment Maeve's mind went blank. Not because she didn't have an answer, but because how in the Hells was this fair? Why was she answering again? All at once she was under an invisible spotlight, Gale and Zethino staring her down. Although their expressions were neutral, Maeve could feel the judgment coming off them in waves. She knew she wasn't just imagining it when Gale crossed his arms—a sure sign of displeasure in a man who otherwise couldn't stand still.
When had this gone from a test of their love to a test of Maeve proving her worth?
She opened her mouth to ask just that, but something stopped her. Just as the magic wouldn't let her move forward without speaking an answer Gale liked, it also seemed to keep her from speaking out of turn. Maeve swallowed the bitter words and turned her attention back to the question at hand. She might not like it, but this was an old and familiar teaching of Eilistraee's: put your energy only towards what you can control.
Alright then. Fear. Easy, right? Gale—and the rest of the party, she'd wager—was afraid of a whole slew of nasty things—and with damn good reason. They could become mind flayer slaves at any moment. They could be killed by an army of mind flayers the old-fashioned way. Have their wits curdled by the Elder Brain. Beheaded by Githyanki devotees. Stomped to death by the Steel Watch. Hells, they'd waded through so many rancid areas and eaten who knows how many questionable supplies that Maeve wouldn't be surprised if she dropped dead of a parasite, the non-alien kind. Or maybe the stress would kill them. Keep it simple, you know?
So yeah, plenty to be afraid of, but was that really what it was asking? These questions were supposed to be about Gale and, as such, unique to him. Once again a flurry of potential answers flooded her mind: about his orb, Mystra, his own, presumed failures. But were those too... heavy? Maeve tried to picture herself airing Gale's deepest fears to this Zethino and, quite possibly, a slew of others standing nearby if only their perception of the environment had changed. They were at a circus. Taking a stupid love test. It was supposed to be fun.
When had this stopped being fun?
But Maeve mustered up a smile—she was good at that—and said with some confidence, "Caterpillars. When it's dark out and Gale is alone in his tent, he fears them crawling all over him."
There was distance between them and the spray of the waterfall too, but Maeve couldn't miss the furious blush that now stained his cheeks.
"I do not," Gale muttered.
Maeve's mouth sagged open. "What? Yes you do. You told me!"
"No I didn't!"
"Okay, not in so many words, but when Wyll found that one and started teasing Lae'zel for being the same color, you all but ran from it. Looked like you were going to hurl too—"
"I did no such thing." Gale swept her words aside with a wave of his hand, sniffing in disgust. "I was ill because the potatoes you had brought back were rotten! It's bad enough you want to lie, but would you at least do me the courtesy of maintaining my pride in that lie? Caterpillars, honestly. Out of all the horrors we've faced you think I'm afraid of some bug?" His voice suddenly softened. "Do you truly think so little of me?"
Of course not and I was trying to lighten the mood and I actually think it's really cute that they scare you, particularly as you first made me think of a butterfly: emerging into my world as something beautiful, yet deceptively fragile, all crawled up Maeve's throat together, but of course whatever spell Zethino had cast wouldn't let her say any of it. Even if it had, Maeve had the awful feeling that any of it would turn sour, somehow, someway, as if she'd been cursed to continuously fail in this simple, stupid task. She looked desperately towards Zethino herself, but was met only with a pitying glance.
"How sad," she murmured. "I truly thought that your bond was something unshakable, but if this alone causes strife..." Zethino shook her head, oozing condensation. "I do hesitate to prematurely give my decree, but the leaves whisper and the water moans... your love is incomplete, my dear."
Who are you to judge our relationship? Maeve thought, anger creeping up the back of her neck. And why is my love 'incomplete'? What about Mr. Disagreeable over there?
Gale was outright scowling now and when he met her eyes, he scoffed.
"Don't be too surprised, Zethino. Maeve isn't exactly from fine stock. Feral and uneducated as a gnoll... but you can't expect anything better from the slums of Waterdeep."
What. The. Hells.
The roar of the waterfall rose up and filled Maeve's mind until nothing but turmoil remained. She didn't see the brief flicker of regret—and then confusion—that crossed Gale's face. She barely heard Zethino's last question. She had sunk into a quicksand and although hurt made up the foundation deep below, it was anger that made her twitch. Maeve was sure that if she'd had her staff in hand and Zethinohad allowed it, she would have blown a crater where Gale now stood.
As it was, Maeve did pick up the words "Gale" and "happiest." Unthinking, she spit the one answer that she knew would hurt him the most.
"Oh, he's happiest on his knees before Mystra. It's certainly not with me."
Across the river Gale's expression shattered and with it the illusion.
Maeve stumbled forward, gasping as if she'd been holding her breath the whole while. Cold, pale arms encircled her shoulders and then gave her a vicious shake.
"Are you dead?" Astarion barked. "We've got a situation on our hands!"
Weary in body and mind, Maeve just managed to lift her head. The environment was unrecognizable to her, as the beautiful circus had transformed into a nightmare. Civilians screamed and ran for the doors, but were blocked by something from the outside, resulting in a quickly growing stampede that many fell beneath, crushed. Across the way a group of animals had escaped their cages and—Maeve stared in horror—one of them had grabbed a child by their neck, shaking with abandon. Between the two awful sights was a stage and on the stage stood a... clown?
She'd seen him before. Or maybe heard others speak of him. A poster? Her mind felt clouded, but after a moment the name came to her.
"Dribbles?" she muttered.
Though he couldn't have possibly heard her, he still whipped his head Maeve's way, a sharp, lopsided grin staining his face. "All hail the Absolute!" he chortled right before aiming a wickedly spiked bat at Karlach's leg.
That woke her up. Maeve didn't know what was going on or how they'd reached this point, but her friends were in danger. She could now feel the sticky blood as Astarion pulled away, cursing as he dodged a strike and planted his knife in the neck of his assailant. With an unnatural shudder the man's flesh melted away and the golem-like creature twitched a moment before falling, turning to dust at their feet. Shit. Shit. This was bad. The panicked look Astarion sent her said the same. If those things were here than any civilian might be an enemy, the chaos hiding their true intent, and skilled as she was, Karlach couldn't handle that damned clown on her own, and Gale—
Maeve's head whipped up, scanning. Where was Gale? She hadn't seen him since the vision...
"Maeve!"
Of course he found her first.
She turned to find him leaning against a nearby stand, looking as pale and as weak as she felt. Maeve couldn't help but smile in relief. He smiled back, shakily, and for a moment the world wasn't burning around them.
Then Zethino slid up behind him. Maeve watched as her skin rippled, sloshed off, and the red carcass of Orin was left in its place.
No. It was a single, useless thought.
"Sever the bond," Orin giggled and slashed deep into Gale's throat.
"You have to bring him back. Please."
Maeve sat in the dirt with her back to the rest of camp, forehead braced on her knees. She knew she looked ridiculous—childish—but she just couldn't bring herself to move. She'd been talking to the bony feet she could just make out for the last half hour, voice growing more raw with every word.
Withers, however, seemed to be an endless font of patience.
"I will, child... once thee have secured the proper payment."
Wrong word choice. Maeve found the strength to snap her head up and glare, wiping at her eyes. "I'm not a child."
"Thee most certainly are." Withers didn't have much of an expression, but then, how could he without a face? "But time and age and even maturity... these are all relative things. Compared to me, thou art unfathomably young. This is truth. So why does thou take offense?"
Because you’re an asshole. Maeve knew better than to say it though. Besides—some niggling, awfully logical part of her insisted—he wasn’t wrong. None of them knew who, or what, Withers precisely was, but he wasn’t young… and he wasn’t powerless, either. They’d be fools to get on his bad side, not just for the potential loss of the resurrections he’d been granting them, but for everything he might do to them should they prove themselves his enemy.
Then again, it was hard to live with a guy for weeks on end and not get a little comfortable.
“But why?” she whined. Yes, Maeve heard it in her voice. Couldn’t stop herself though. “We’ve paid you for resurrections plenty of times before. You know we’re good for it. Here—I swear on my Goddess, Eilistraee, The Lady of the Dance, that I will pay you in full, with interest, if you just resurrect my love now, right now, please. Surely that’s good enough? Aren’t we owed a little grace? We’re trying to save the world.”
Withers simply gazed down at her, unmoving. “No.”
“But why?”
“Because that is not the way of things.”
“Fuck the way of things!”
Her cry echoed throughout the camp and Maeve winced, knowing that everyone had heard her. No one had truly yelled at Withers before and she half-expected some awful curse to now befall her—the perfect ending to what had turned into a Hells-tainted day. However, all she felt was a cold, bony hand lighting atop her hair.
“Order caries on whether thee understands it or not, child,” he said. “Be at peace.”
Easy for him to say. Still, the gesture settled something in the center of Maeve’s chest and she took a breath, letting it out in one, great shudder.
“You.”
Lae’zel had stepped into the soft light of the moon, arms crossed over her leather top. Like Withers, her expression gave nothing away, but she jerked her head behind her and marched off. The order was clear.
Maeve sighed. “Well, thanks for something I guess.”
“Fate spins along—”
“—as it should. Yeah, so you keep saying.”
Wiping her eyes, Maeve followed Lae’zel through the camp, smiling sheepishly at the others. By now they’d all heard the story of how she and Gale had fallen into some sort of trance at the circus, courtesy of an unexpectedly powerful performer. That the rest of their party had gone from mildly discomforted to a full-blown panic when the performing clown—Dribbles—had called Karlach over, immersed her in his act… and then taken a mallet to the back of her legs, swearing allegiance to the Absolute. Maeve had woken up to the rest. The creatures that had been hiding among the crowd, the hysterical civilians, animals escaping their cages, Orin—
Her hands instinctively balled into fists. Orin. It had been her the whole time. How hadn’t she realized?
You did, a voice whispered, sounding suspiciously like Gale himself. You knew something was off about that woman. How did she know the details of your travels? How could a mere circus performer wield such power?
Maeve winced. Yes, she’d been a fool. Worse, she’d been naive. That judgment had dogged her ever since this nightmare began: who was the young, bubbly, pink-haired cleric to lead them in defeating this evil? Never-mind that she’d grown up on the streets first. The teachings of Eilistraee were seen as weakness to many and although Maeve had no doubts about her Goddess, the same could not be said for her role as torchbearer. Karlach, a general of the Blood War; Lae’zel, raised from infancy to fight; Wyll, a Gods-damned, literal hero… any of them would have been a better choice for this undertaking. Yet for some reason fate had placed this burden on her shoulders and Maeve had royally fucked it up. They were no closer to uncovering a means to end this plot—they had, in fact, been manipulated time and time again by its composers—and now Orin had dealt a blow that had left Maeve vomiting afterwards. Gale bleeding out before she could utter a single spell, neck gaping wide, dying mad and frustrated and thinking she didn’t know a thing about him—
“Cease this foolishness.”
Oh. They’d stopped. Maeve blinked, coming out of her thoughts to find that Lae’zel had led them to an open field near the camp. Perhaps she’d simply been looking for some privacy, but Maeve was all too aware of Gale’s body lying just yards away. It still developed that necrotic aura upon death, despite the control he now had over the orb in life, and they couldn’t risk some innocent Bauldarian stumbling upon it in the dead of night. Or even their exhausted companions doing the same.
Not that Lae’zel was included in that description. She stood with her arms crossed and chin tilted high, as if none of the horrors they’d suffered could touch her. Once that stance would have intimidated Maeve. Now it merely sparked a deep, warm respect.
“I know,” she said, rubbing at her eyes. “Stop moping where the whole camp can see you, yeah?”
Lae’zel made a hacking sound in the back of her throat. Maeve didn’t need a Githyanki dictionary to interpret that as something uncomplimentary. “Simpleton! Have you gone blind now too? I have shown my own grief at the loss of our companion; bent under the blow we have suffered this day. And yet…? Ah.” Lae’zel’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you do not see. Our way is not to leak tears, or to sit with head in hand. But we grieve like any other intelligent race. Any of my brothers and sisters would be able to see it in me now. You too, Maeve, have earned the honor of knowing it is there.”
She tried to look but, as is so often the case, Lae’zel was right. To Maeve she seemed just as proud and untouchable as she always had. Perhaps there was a slight droop to her shoulders… a frown that went beyond the usual judgment… or maybe she was just imagining it. Either way, it was nice to hear and even nicer of her to try and cheer her up—in her own, Lae’zel way.
“Thanks,” she whispered, “but you weren’t there. Gale, he…” Maeve tried to find words to describe how un-Gale-like he’d been in that vision. She wasn’t stupid, of course. Whatever Orin had done included clouding both their minds because no way would he have dismissed her over some foolish game. She'd caught that warm smile at the very end. Still, the judgment that had radiated off him after each answer, and her own, awful response… If Maeve could take anything back right now, it would be that. Even more than her failure to save him.
She wound up shrugging, wondering if she looked half as pathetic as she felt. "Yeah, Orin tricked us, all of us, but I'm the one she targeted. I said some truly awful things to Gale. I failed to protect him—I'm your healer—and now we can't even bring him back because I spent all our money on stupid—" Maeve froze. Then she raised a hand to her cheek and when it came away there was white face paint still marring her skin. Her hand shook slightly. "Shit."
With a disgruntled noise Lae'zel grabbed her by the collar and, like a mother cat corralling a kitten, dragged Maeve to a nearby water-pump. It was old and nearly rusted shut, but after working at it a moment Lae'zel had something like fresh water pouring over a cloth scrap. She shoved Maeve onto a nearby rock and began scrubbing at her face. It was harsh... but not unpleasant.
"You still allow grief to cloud your judgment," she said, breath smelling faintly of wine. "Do not let it. Beat it back! What is the very first tenant of Githyanki protocol that I taught you?"
Maeve swallowed. "Action, not reaction."
"Yes... so what must you do now, Leader?"
"We need Gale back." Maeve lifted her eyes. "To do that, Withers needs money... which means we need money too."
"See?" Lae’zel gave a final swipe across the length of her face, leaving Maeve feeling clean and, perhaps, just a little bit hopeful. “A plan. Now we need only to enact it.”
“I can help with that.”
Maeve jumped as one shadow peeled off from the others. Lae’zel pulled a dagger from its sheath on her hip, only to scowl a second later and flick it back. Maeve let out a gust of air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
It was only Astarion. Sporting a feral grin and the remains of a feast dripping from his lips, but welcoming all the same. He jerked his head back towards the city, silently disappearing again.
Maeve didn’t need to be told twice. Checking to ensure the camp was still peaceful, she sent up a silent prayer to Eilistraee and stood, dusting off her pants. She didn’t know what Astarion had in mind, but anything was better than just sitting here, arguing with a corpse.
“You coming?” she asked Lae’zel.
“Without me something of equal—no, greater horror will no doubt befall you both.”
From anyone else it would have felt like another insult, but Maeve knew that this was simply Lae’zel’s way of expressing concern. She took the words in the spirit they were given, shaking off the last of her reserves.
Before they crossed the boundary of the field Maeve took one last look, attempting to spot the distinctive, necrotic energy of Gale’s corpse, but night had truly fallen now and one shadow was indistinguishable from the next. Still, she blew a kiss in his general direction, knowing he was no longer tethered there, needing to do it all the same.
“I’ll fix this,” she promised and slipped away, Lae’zel and Astarion in tow.
Baldur’s Gate was the city that never sleeps. All around them people staggered towards the nearest pub, met in the crooks of alleyways, finished their shift at the dock, began one at the bakery, or simply sat on the nearest available surface, head tilted towards the stars. There was a strange peace to this type of hustle and bustle and Maeve could almost believe this was the city’s true soul… if she hadn’t just seen its underbelly for herself.
They'll pay. Karlach's words floated back from an hour before, crouched in her tent while Wyll tenderly bandaged a wound. Those fuckers are gonna pay for pulling that shit in my fucking city!
Maeve was no stranger to the horrors of city life. Hells, back in Waterdeep she'd been a part of those horrors for far too long. Now she wished only to see the city as Karlach did, through the eyes of a child who'd grown up here.
…and not actively make things any worse.
Astarion led them through the streets with the same confidence, re-tracing his hunting grounds for, she hoped, a better purpose. Though she wouldn't normally agree to petty theft, Maeve was more than willing to use the excuses at hand: saving the world, the necessity of Gale's involvement, keeping that bomb in check—all of it. Still, she'd pay careful attention to whoever they nabbed and pay them back. Somehow.
Yet to her surprise Astarion didn't stop any of the civilians that passed them by, despite many of them sporting clothes that spoke of moderate wealth. No, he kept to the shadows. Not hiding, but not drawing attention either. It was only when they'd walked a good twenty minutes, down into the Lower City depths, that Maeve began to recognize their whereabouts.
"Jewelry?" she asked.
"Well of course, my dear." Astarion's teeth glinted in the moonlight. "If you're going to steal, do it in style. Now, now, don't pull that look. This will be marvelously easy, I promise."
Lae'zel just harrumphed, shoving past them both.
They'd stopped at the front of the Glitter Gala, a small shop they'd popped into two days before. Maeve recalled the seller's large collection and nodded, accepting the strategy. It would be easy to slip a ring, or even a loose gem into their pockets. Sell it, pay Withers, and return to settle their tab pre-brain confrontation. With a firm plan in place Maeve blew out a breath. She was itching now to put it in motion; get Gale back. She practically thrummed with it.
Keeping a lookout on the front steps she fully expected Astarion to pull out his many lock picks. Instead he just… opened the door?
"Huh?" Maeve spluttered. Even Lae'zel looked impressed.
"Oh this?" Astarion waved a brass ring. "Why, it's just a little something I picked off our dear merchant after she had the nerve to call you a ghoul. I mean honestly. Yes, you're pale for a half-Drow and that pink hair does you no favors, but I picked out that outfit! Gods know she deserved to be robbed after that, especially when I found a second key in her flower pot. What is this nowadays? A cheap romance? Does she expect her paramour to leaf through the—well, leaves and sneak up to her bedroom, unlocking the key to her heart? Look, there aren't even any protective spells on this door! Between the shoddy security and the worse hiding spots, it's like she's outright begging to be robbed—"
With a growl Lae'zel shoved him through the door with one hand and snatched Maeve with the other. Only when it had closed behind them did she let go of them both.
"Clearly her foolishness is catching if you care more about talking than keeping out of sight!"
Astarion sniffed. "I'm capable of both. Oh, stop already. There was no one around!"
"Yes… until your screeching attracted someone."
"Screeching—?"
"Okay!" Maeve got between them. "You're both right and you're both wrong, happy? Let's just grab something and get out of here before the Steel Watch shows up."
Scanning the room revealed little though. Everything was locked behind delicate glass cases that, really, she'd prefer not to smash. Maeve began palming the front of Astarion's doublet.
"Cheeky minx," he muttered.
She poked him with the other key she'd been looking for. This one was smaller, silver, and issued a satisfying yelp when she slotted it between Astarion's ribs. "This one, flower pot key. Where's it go?"
"Now how would I know? You pulled us away before I could find out… spoilsport."
"Well, find out now. And hurry."
They got to work. Astarion, a connoisseur of keys as well as blood, took one half of the room, inspecting each key-hole with an expert's eye. She and Lae'zel went the old fashioned route, slotting the key into each case and chest they came across.
No luck.
Maeve pursed her lips in frustration, rocking back and forth on her heels. The floorboards squeaked as she tried to think of where else they could look. Squeak, squeak. Squeak… creak?
"If not above…" Lae'zel whispered.
"Then below! Astarion, get over here!"
The key fit perfectly into the trap door behind the counter and it was satisfying, oh so satisfying, to descend into the basement and find a wealth of unsecured jewels to choose from.
"Perfect," Astarion purred and immediately began filling his pockets.
She spent more time convincing him not to take the whole inventory than actually finding something to sell. That was the easy part, given that the owner kept a small satchel of coins tucked away in the very back of the room—as if that would count as a hiding place. One-hundred gold coins for Withers… and another hundred once they found the documentation proving that she was selling a large amount of her merchandise to Gortash. Maeve suddenly wasn't in a hurry to pay her back.
Astarion got enough to keep him from complaining, but not so much that the theft was immediately noticeable. Lae'zel sneered at the beauty around her and reminded them that armor, not jewels, was the true indicator of status. Maeve was happy with just the coins. She tucked them close to her chest like they themselves were precious stones. To her, they were worth even more.
"Let's hurry back," she said. "I want…" Maeve swallowed around the lump in her throat.
"Yes, yes, darling. We know what you want. Come along then—and no need to spend all night thanking me."
Smiling, she took the hint and opened her mouth to thank them both, truly, when a flash of silver caught her eye. There on a small table was a collection of necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and rings, all of which seemed to be in various states of repair. None of them had the luster of the other wares, but…
Maeve swiped her hand across the table and pocketed her prize in one, quick motion. Neither Astarion nor Lae'zel noticed. Spending time with a rogue and a warrior was starting to pay off.
"I owe you both more than I can ever repay," she said, tone teasing and meaning oh, oh so serious.
"Let's get home."
"It's okay. You're home."
Maeve held Gale through the initial shock of resurrection, knowing well how awful it could be. His hands had immediately flown to his throat, trying to stem a river of blood that was no longer there, and his eyes flit wildly around the tent, failing to see the safety within its fabric, his books… her. Maeve settled Gale between her legs and leaned back against their bedroll, running hands up and down his arms until the tremors finally slowed.
Huh. Though Gale still wore his combat robes the blood had disappeared from them too. Withers doing magical laundry? How nice. The absurd image drew up a slightly wild laugh and Maeve pressed her face hard against Gale's back, trying to smother it.
"Well..." he breathed, "I'm glad you're in a good mood."
She smiled, drinking him in. "You're back."
"I am. You have my deepest apologies for ever leaving in the first place."
Maeve pulled away, getting enough distance to really look at him. Gale was well and truly in one piece again, but she could see the strain in his face that only time—she hoped—would heal. But he was here now and Maeve finally had the chance to apologize for it all. She had to explain how sorry she was that she'd failed to heal him in time and express her determination to train harder in the future, lest she repeat that mistake. She should have seen through Orin in an instant, but especially after that farce of a love test. Maeve couldn't take back her words, but she could emphasize their falsehood and show again and again and again that she did know him, in all the ways that mattered. I'll do better, Gale, rested right on her lips. For you, the party, the world—
He kissed her. Fingers coming up to twine in her hair, Gale pulled her to him with a fervor no dead man could possess, insistent in a way he almost never was. Maeve didn't get a chance to speak her piece because Gale swallowed the words whole, breathing them in, and only came back up to say,
"You're perfect."
Maeve snorted. Oh gods. That wasn't sexy. "Yeah, no. Far from it. Gale—"
"You're perfect," he insisted, giving her a light shake. "And I am not so naive as to not realize that perfection comes with so many wonderful, beautiful imperfections. I adore yours, Maeve, but even more than that I am grateful, profoundly so, that you see and accept my own." Gale swallowed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "My mind cleared as soon as we left that vision and you… you see me, don't you? Hodge-podge stews thrown together from whatever you all managed to bring back… my truly embarrassing fear of caterpillars…" Gale stared at her like Maeve had uttered something marvelous and profoundly reassuring in its devotion. "You see all parts of me, clearly."
"Like the fact that I sometimes think you love books more than me?" she suggested.
"Never." He grinned. "But yes, precisely like that."
"Good. Then hopefully this will be a better answer to that last question. You're happiest with your books and… I hope, with me."
Maeve pulled out the earring she'd stolen from the Glittering Gala. It was a simple charm showcasing a small stack of books. Nothing more, but nothing less. No doubt that rude owner considered it too gauche to sell in her shop, but Maeve had immediately seen how perfect it would compliment Gale's dark hair, his purple robes.
…and the silver earring he already wore.
She didn't expect him to replace Mystra's symbol. If this day had taught her anything, it was that they both needed to practice seeing things for how they truly were—not the fantasies they hoped for. Indeed, with a delicate kiss to the palm that held it, Gale slipped the earring into his other ear. Maeve well understood the devotion to one's Goddess and, for now, it was enough that he'd place her in equal standing next to Mystra.
"Perfect," he repeated, but Maeve could hear the slight slur in the word.
"Come on. Sleep. We can continue arguing about that tomorrow."
She helped him dress in those ridiculous pajamas—sorry, but even dying didn't exempt one from justified teasing—and wiped both their faces and hands down with a wet cloth, enjoying the way Gale relaxed into each stroke. He was nearly asleep by the time they were climbing into their bedrolls and Maeve wasn't too far behind. She slipped an arm around his waist and pulled him close, forehead pressed into the back of his neck. Thank you for this, she whispered to Eilistraee, or anyone else who might be listening. Thank you for bringing him back... and helping him see me.
One more. Even if he didn't remember it in the morning.
"Gale?" she whispered. "Thank you for taking me to the circus."
Fin.