Chapter Text
The offer had always been there. Should you ever find yourself in Waterdeep, know I’ll be the first to hang the welcome banner. At first Shadowheart had taken it as she had taken all kindness– a silly platitude for a stumbling once-ally. The others had their lots, after all, in the astral plane and the hells and the grove. Places to go home to, good fights to carry on, people to share them with.
But Gale, sweet Gale, had a kind of eager sincerity during their annual feasts that had her hesitating when it was time to start wandering once more. Waterdeep.
And she thought perhaps she could wander south, if only for the wine.
The welcome banner had come in Gale’s warm smile when she showed up, half-announced at his door. And it had been… terribly easy. Easy enough to make excuses to come back– you said I simply must see Liar’s Night to oh don’t flatter yourself, I’m here for Tara.
Easy enough to drink wine on his balcony and watch the sunset. To let her gaze linger on his mouth when he drinks and watch his forearms flex as he moves pieces about his lanceboard.
Easy enough to stay.
Altars to old goddesses loom over both of them– Shar with each sunset and Mystra in its inevitable rise. Yet you can’t cast light without a shadow. Gale hides behind easy smiles and teaching robes but she sees how he has more than a connoisseur’s taste for drink into the small hours. She tries to go by Jenevelle but it itches like a too-tight sweater. Things will never be the same– something that first felt like a blessing now cuts as a double edged sword.
Because the heroes of the Gate that sit here now are not the same people who met in the burning core of a nautiloid. She can feel it. Their old selves are haunting Gale’s hallways, howling on about what could have been.
So he calls her Shadowheart and she pours him wine. Together, they don’t pretend to live entirely in the light. It’s bitter the way good whiskey is and it burns just as nice.
It’s no secret he carried a torch for her in the before, and it’s no secret she brushed him off as a starry-eyed Mystran. This Gale, though, the one who has frozen on the vine, she finds there’s an art to falling for. This one gives her a garden and a room of her own. Her touches linger just a moment too long and her praise is a little too pointed to be anything but a tease.
They tip over from kindred spirits to something more on a night like most others: half warmed with whiskey and half by Waterdeep’s late evening sun. They’re playing cards instead of lanceboard because Shadowheart likes the deception of it all– the way she can smile at Gale with only her eyes over the fan of her hand and flick the card faces for luck.
It’s been weeks since she last offered to leave. It’s been longer since she meant it.
“-- Forgive my colourful language but the little bastards are more concerned with tittering about creative uses for mage hand than learning anything practical about magical theory.”
She chuckles, tucking her feet under her hips on the plush loveseat. It’s not as if he hates them, she knows. It’s a mismatch of minds. A man moving so quickly the rest of the world seems full of fools. “Come now. You must have gotten up to a little mischief as a young man.”
And it’s a crack in the door. She knows he’s curious– always curious, forever searching for another sliver of knowledge.
Gale cocks his head. “How’s that?”
She scoffs, and teases him over the rim on her glass. “Hm. When two cultists love each other very much–”
His cheeks colour and Gale rolls his eyes, good natured as they twinkle in the late sunset. “I mean– and please take no offense—”
“I guarantee I will, but go on.” She places her glass down– deliberate, a little punctuation in their back-and-forth. “I like watching you dig.”
“...Unless the temples have come up with a particularly inventive form of Spiritual Weapon, I rather think clerical spells have little use in the bedchambers.” He offers with a grin. “And I, for one, can’t imagine a lover that would take particularly kindly to a Guidance spell in the heat of the moment–”
“Not one for orders? A pity.” Shadowheart slides a copper to the centre of the table, her nail never leaving the griffon’s head upon it, and she doesn’t let him get a word in. “I suppose it’s novel, keeping the company of an archmage so terribly unimaginative.”
Gale perks up at that. His own copper nearly rolls off the table as he flicks it towards the pot. “Oh? Then enlighten me, moonmistress. Don’t tell me you summon Devas to stoically watch at the bedposts.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know. Angels on the head of a– well,” She smirks, hiding the whiskey-fueled scrunch of her nose with a fan of cards. “Would a pin be uncharitable, Gale?”
“Aha, you’re trying to fluster me. It won’t work.” He draws a card and Shadowheart can’t tell if the grin is for his hand or for her. “So, what is it? Some form of Ceremony kept secret? Silence, perhaps? Come now, in the grand scheme of the things we’ve shared surely you wouldn’t deny my curiosity for all things magic.”
“Fluster you?” She laughs. “I’m afraid we’re well past that point. It’s such a fetching look for you, perhaps I’ll never tell.” She draws her own card and keeps her face cool. “Your bet.”
Gale blinks, as if he’s forgotten the game above the game. He rolls a silver to the centre– they never play above Shards– upping the stakes in a way that has Shadowheart leaning just a little closer.
She matches.
Gale fans his cards out on the wicker table and smirks. “Three flames.”
She wrinkles her nose at him, placing her own cards down to reveal a hand she chased for far too long. “Hmf. You’re getting better. I suppose I need to find something else to beat you at.”
With too deft hands, Gales picks up both his winnings and the stray cards. He shuffles like he’s trying to impress her. “Perhaps I’ve earned a hint?”
It’s teasing yet earnest. Spoken beneath his brow but with twinkling brown eyes. Shadowheart looks out to the deepwater bay. Cream coloured sails list where they’ve anchored for the evening as the sun dips below light, lapping waves.
It’s a night wanting for a little chaos.
Gale keeps babbling. “What is it? Lashes of holy fire, cried out penances to cauterized wounds? Ah, perhaps it’s my turn to call you unimaginative, for if it’s pain in magic–”
“It’s not pain.”
A door swung shut, so loud it shakes its building. Its lock slides shut in the tightness of her smile. Shadowheart sips her drink to bury the world in a brass goblet for just a moment and when she comes back, Gale is tipsy and grinning in the sunset.
“Of course not. You’re far more clever than that.”
“I would have thought the same, were it not for the dire hand you lucked into a win. Your draw.” She knocks her chin to the deck and studies the tendons in Gale’s hand as he deals. “Keep flashing me your hand and I might get the wrong idea.”
“Perhaps I wish you would.” He returns her half smirk, no doubt through a haze of liquid courage. “You know I’ve never been terribly good at playing things close to the chest.”
Her cards lay untouched on the table. The deck back is a dark blue sky, warmed by their hands and the evening sun on the veranda. Shadowheart drums her nails upon them, as if each tap might change her fate and swing her luck.
“Hm. Leave it to Gale of Waterdeep to offer his own hint.”
“My own–?” He cocks his head again. Then, he lights up in that one oh-so-very Gale way– with a tap of his nose and a grins that puts the sunset to shame. “Aha! Oh, I’m a fool aren’t I? An answer as subtle as a sword.”
“Is it, now? Why don’t you share with the class.”
“Zone of Truth.”
She’s gone soft, she knows, because she can’t keep the smile off her face. Shadowheart still hasn’t looked at her cards, and so he knows it’s for him– it should be mortifying, but Gale’s preening is a balm against the ordeal of being earnest for once.
“What a clever boy you are,” she teases, just to see him give himself away with a blush. “Clever enough for specifics?”
Gale leans back against the chaise with a lazy grin. “Oh, I can give you multitudes. A shy lover with all sorts of ideas locked behind a stilled tongue, perhaps?” He sips his whiskey, eyes twinkling. “An interrogation from a war priestess to a hapless wizard?”
It’s her turn to blush. “A fantasy pulled entirely from thin air, I assume.”
“Of course.”
A beat. They both sip at their drinks in a bid to fill the space. Shadowheart lets the liquor settle in her bones and takes her turn.
“But honestly. You’ve never been put under?” Shadowheart clicks her tongue, matching his posture upon her own pillows. “One might begin to wonder if all those youthful misadventures were simply tall tales.”
“They never came to interrogation. Perhaps I was simply too good.” Gale squints at her. “A pity we don’t have the perfect way to put your mind at ease.”
“My. A little bold of you.” And yet she’s the one draining her glass; she’s the one setting it upon the table with a clatter.
“I thought you liked bold,” Gale matches. “Besides. I’m merely curious. I won’t be accused of anything less.”
“Asking for trouble, in other words.”
“Like any wizard worth his salt should.”
“Let’s say I indulge you.” Shadowheart slows them down with a final slosh of whiskey. Amber gold in sunset; something pretty to look at so she doesn’t get lost in the mischief in Gale’s eyes. “You should know that if there are any stones you’d prefer I leave unturned–”
“Ah, I’ll stop you there. Even with pages a little weathered and wine stained, I’m an entirely open book..”
She scoffs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I meant to say: you simply need not answer. There’s no compulsion. A yes or no will do.”
“And where’s the fun in that?” His voice climbs higher in teasing offence. When Gale leans forward it’s almost as if he’s already entranced. “Dearest Shadowheart, I thought we were free of absolutes.”
She can’t help but laugh.
“Very well. I suppose it’s fruitless to tell Gale of Waterdeep to keep things succinct.” She hesitates, wondering how much powder to truly throw on the fire. “You might actually find it pleasing to speak entirely unbidden. Even if the neighbors won’t.”
“Will I? Fascinating. If that’s true then you play a dangerous game– we’re liable to lie here all night.”
“So do you. Or shall I not turn through the naughty chapters of your…” she smirks, studying him. “‘...Open book?’”
Gale tuts at her. “And miss the best passages? For shame.”
“It’s your funeral, I suppose.”
Shadowheart plucks at the Weave between them. It’s nothing to her, it’s not like shards of moonlight through the trees or a wolf’s head bowed before her. It simply…is. A conduit put in her hands by a kind sister. Gale folds his hands in his lap, basking in the sun as she pulls the blanket around him. He looks so at peace, settling into a sated curiosity, warm light bouncing off the grey in his hair.
“I’ll never tire of watching you do that, you know.” He murmurs with one eye cracked, looking at her like she’s some priestess on high.
She scoffs. “I recall you said holy casting was…what was it– “entirely utilitarian– calling upon the Weave as a hammer rather than a harp.”
“Did I?” He faux gasps. “Why, that doesn’t sound like me.”
“Looking for trouble again. Don’t worry, you’ll find it soon enough.”
Runes shimmer in the way like heatwaves. She traces each one to life under they are hovering, silver-white, above Gale. Each one flutters down like fallen snow, frosting his hair, his robes, sliding down like a blanket and settling into the herringbone floor beneath them. Quaere verum. Shadowheart lets the incantation slip from her heart, soft yet with a certain command. It feels right.
As it settles, she can feel a soft resistance– a token struggle, a playfight. She raises a brow at Gale and at least he has the good sense to look a little bashful.
“Old habits,” he murmurs– they both know what he means. “Forgive me.”
And with a deep breath, she feels his walls drop.
It’s warm water, soaked into Waterdeep shores as he comes home to her. Shadowheart feels the spell fill her lungs and settle in the hollow of her throat. Ask and receive.
No going back now.
“...There we are. How do you feel?”
Gale stretches out, as if taking it all in. Shadowheart tries not to look at the sliver of skin and soft hair beneath his tunic.
“Hm. Cloaked, I suppose. Watched– though not from something lurking in the shadows, no. There’s a pull, an anticipation–” Gale shifts in his chair, starting at the glowing circle beneath him and chuckles. “Aha. You know, it’s not unlike sitting outside the headmistresses’ study. There’s a lingering feeling of, well, trouble, mixed with a strange need to please. It’s quite– well. Bracing, to be polite about it. Intriguing. Ehm–” He grins, bashful again, entirely caught. “Oh. Oh, for someone as loquacious as I am…I suddenly see your warnings for what they truly were. It feels quite magical to speak to you. Well, hah, more than our usual lovely back and forth of course, I don’t mean to offend again. As if I’m confessing some long-held secret, each word is a veritable weight off my shoulders. A feedback loop that leads to–”
Gale blushes and gently covers his mouth with his own palm.
At first she fears she’s gone too far. But then Shadowheart can see the apples of his cheeks rise in a smile behind his knuckles and his eyes twinkling with curiosity and unspoken challenge. The sight pools warm and low inside her. She can feel his trepidation, yes, but she can also feel his heartbeat quicken in the tips of her fingers. They breathe in time together. Ask, receive; give, take; stand, deliver.
Has anyone ever trusted her like this?
She laces her fingers together and deflects her own wandering mind. “So. Dreaming of me as headmistress, are you?”
“Oh yes.” It’s muffled behind his palm, but unmistakable. Gale’s eyes widen and he drops his hand with a charmingly guilty look. “Ah, that is to say– yes. Oh. my word. This doesn’t feel like enchantment magic and yet–?”
“You’re eager to please. Not exactly surprising but– I don’t mind.”
He settles backwards, caught with a soft smile. “Well. No one’s ever accused me of being ungenerous.”
Shadowheart giggles. She can’t help it– leave it to Gale to sink into the spell just so. “I’m sure we can find a desk and ruler in this dusty old tower. But for now…” She taps her lips, considering. “We ought to keep things simple.”
He spreads his arms in invitation. Or perhaps in challenge. A thousand questions rush through her head– some salacious, some simply curious. The Gale before her has fewer secrets than the man she met on the beach. She wants to trail him through the dark just the same.
“Hm. What do you really think of your students? Should be easy.”
“Ahh, ill-mannered but inspiringly curious. Not unlike myself at their age.” He blinks, sinking into the truth. “Though I kept my mischief decidedly outside the classroom.”
“Mischief? That’s interesting. I take it the story of how little Gale stole the Blackstaff is entirely unexaggerated, then?”
“Hah! If anything, my lady, I didn’t paint a grand enough picture.”
“I see why they had you write lines.”
Gale rests a hand over his heart. “Seems rather unfair since you have indisputable proof from the heavens I’m telling the truth.”
She can feel it– the ebb and flow. The thread that joins them is a braided harbour rope going taut and slack with the tide. Shadowheart breathes it in and can feel Gale take her exhale in turn.
“A half-truth, I think” The ropes creak in protest, in potential. She pours herself another drink. “Because I get the feeling you’re talking about a different kind of mischief.”
“And they call me terminally curious.”
She’s turning a lock, here, and they both know what’s behind the door. Perhaps it’s a bad idea. But Gale is brimming with secrets and mischief and the whiskey has settled so very sweet.
‘Go on then. Tell me about your little creative streak.”
It comes out more commanding than she intends it. Shadowheart can see it hit Gale like a shot, pinning him to the wickerback. There’s a moment of consideration: of wide brown eyes blinking through the mist. Push, pull. Shadowheart holds her breath.
And he smiles.
“Where to start?”
Gale spreads his legs, just an inch. He’s still softly lit in a kind of serenity from the runes at his feet. What had once started as a cold white glow has shifted to soft lilac against the sunset soaked balcony. A drop of purple in her moon-white spell, as if he has already given a bit of himself over to her.
Oh, gods– has he? Her heart quickens at the sudden image of Gale’s worry lines melting away under her word alone. Of a pair of earnest brown eyes looking at her in reverence followed by the pleasant scratch of a bearded kiss.
“You may have your truth spells but the breadth of a good wizard’s spell book is a garden of delights. I’d wager the second time any young man casts Mage Hand it’s under the covers.” He tips his head back, not entirely under but basking in the waters all the same. “I was–am? mm, yes, there’s the truth– never so pedestrian. The hands were for pinning… restraining. Ah, to light little fires of danger wrapped around my wrists, my throat if I’m particularly worked up– which, after a year of self imposed chastity was, ehm, rather often…”
It’s her turn to be hit. Gale with his silver streaked hair spread out against the silks, jaw slack and mouth so terribly wanting as he’s pinned to the bed. The veins up his forearms on full display at his shoulder are pulled up, up. Not to pain but to lay him out as the pretty, gentle thing he is. Another hand, glowing that same soft lilac, trails down he face, through the oiled-softness of his beard, dragging down his lower lip until its thumb covers his hammering pulsepoint–
She lets out a squeak of surprise and they both gasp. Shaky and new. The Gale in her fantasies is a well-worn one, she’ll admit she’s spent enough time studying him to know the way his mouth parts and the sandalwood on his skin.
The Gale before her, with his hands trailing up to half cover that same mouth, is far better.
“Oh, my word–” His cheeks are dusted pink in the sunset but there’s a content, sleepy smile on his face. “That ought to be embarrassing, shouldn’t it? And yet there’s only the relief of a truth revealed.” He meets her gaze with blown-black irises. “Might I show my hand once more?”
Gods, yes, please cross the line before I do. Even after everything she can’t quite be so open, so Shadowheart purses her lips as if it’s not burning at the forefront of her mind. ”There’s no need to ask permission,” and then, with just enough smoke to keep her shadowed, “Unless, of course, that’s what you want.”
“Oh, gods. More than you know, for longer than you can imagine.”
“Very well then. You may.” There’s teasing lilt to her voice but not too teasing. There’s an inch more open at the crack of their door.
He almost covers his own mouth again. Then, the hand hovering at his jaw settles on the arm of his chair. Shadowheart traces the valley of his knuckles– up, down, up down– and Gale doesn’t move. When she looks up, he’s staring her down. Confident. Hazy. Hers. It’s nearly impossible not to touch him; to reach out and feel his hair, his beard, the warmth that no doubt lies under his perpetual blush.
“This is…an experience I’m not eager to end,” he starts, playful and eager. “Would you ask me more? Please?”
His eyes are open and earnest and his please arcs straight and hot to her core. It’s permission enough. Before she can ground it Shadowheart is draped across the table, their forgotten playing cards pinned under her carefully folded arms.
“So. A whole year of chastity. Not exactly my idea of fun…” She drums her nails on the marble table. “For myself, that is.”
Gale cocks his head. “Forgive me– have I missed the question in that, priestess?”
He surely doesn’t miss the way the title makes her breath catch. Shadowheart admonishes him with a smile.
“Very well. Once the orb was stable…” her eyes linger on his scars– almost impossible to see, were it not for the golden light around them and the glow of her spell. “Did you partake in a little spectral company?”
“I– hmm. Yes.”
“Just ‘yes’? Hm. So much for being through with absolutes.” Shadowheart can feel it. The warm blanket of obedience measured against the heat of embarrassment. It pulses through the spell. Gale shifts in his chair and wets his lips, perhaps wanting for a firmer hand. “Do you want to tell me a little more?”
“Most certainly.” Another exuberant answer, followed by wide eyes and an apologetic smile. “...If you’ll hear me.”
“Oh, I’m not so delicate. And I believe I was promised your finest pages. So– at your leisure, archmage.”