#fic: mybg3

[galedekarios]

you mentioned a few days ago about how Eilistraee's connection to Mystra is part of what bonded Alton and Gale initially, can we hear more about that? sorry i'm just a huge Eilistraee fan and love your ocs so much so my ears perk up whenever they're mentioned at the same time

i apologise in advance because this got away from me!

i already had something written up from a while ago, but your message gave me the motivation to polish and finish it.

thank you. 🖤

"May I enter, my friend?"

Gale’s only answer is a ragged breath coming from the far side of the ruin. The small space is only illuminated by a single candle by the entrace, the dim light not enough to banish the darkness reigning inside entirely – at least not for his poor human eyes.

"...You may.” 

Gale steps inside the crumbling ruin Altonaufein had made his sanctuary right from the moment they had made camp a tenday ago, the stone walls a protection as much as at least an illusion of privacy, "I'm going to approach, Altonaufein. I have something for you."

Through squinted eyes, Gale is barely able to make out the shape of the drow: Sitting on the ground, back to the wall, knees half drawn up, both of his arms loosely resting on them. His short-cropped hair a stark contrast even in the low light.

It's dishevelled, tufts of white sticking up at odd angles, reminding Gale very much of his dear Tara – of when he was young and, to tease her, had brushed back her fur the wrong way. She’d complained, of course, though more for show, and unlike Tara, Altonaufein has twin scimitars resting close to his side. Gale has seen their deadly dance firsthand. 

The search for the Githyanki crèche had not gone well. They had found Zorru, yes, but what had followed had been a tense moment between his two companions. 

Lae’zel and Altonaufein – their relationship between the two was strained at the best of times – of which there aren’t many lately, Gale finds himself thinking ruefully – yet when Lae’zel had commanded that poor terrified tiefling to bow, lower and lower, to humiliate himself before her, the drow’s eyes had glowed like freshly spilled blood, scarred hand tightening on the hilt of his blade, Drowic harsh on his tongue. Gale had interfered before the situation could truly escalate, but the moment had stayed with him on their track back to camp all the same. As it had with Altonaufein, evidently.

So close now, he catches the red glint of Altonaufein’s eyes again, muted now, but still there. The flickering candlelight casts sharp angles on the drow’s face. Many fainter at heart would turn heel at the sight, run screaming for a mob, for pitchforks and pyres, but Gale finds himself not so easily cowed. 

He’s a wizard of Waterdeep after all and has dealt with far worse than a taciturn drow. 

“I took the liberty of preparing you a cup,” Gale holds up a warm steaming mug, its strong herbal scent gentled by spices and honey, “Peppermint and balsam with a dash of sweetness. It calms more than the discomfort of our current surroundings.” 

Red eyes flick from Gale to the mug then to Gale's face again. It doesn’t take someone particularly insightful to spot the distrust in them.

"Why do you keep doing this?" The drow’s raspy voice is low and rough, as if a hand had wrapped itself around his throat and squeezed too tight. Yet it was no hand, Gale knows. Its loneliness, isolation, its claws sunk deep. Altonaufein had held himself apart from the group since the beginning. And who knows of his experiences before all this, too. 

"Because you are in need of a friendly hand," Gale’s tone is so matter-of-fact, as if he was speaking a simple truth, obvious to anyone who would care to see it. As if he wasn’t talking to a drow, ruby-eyed with Lolth’s touch. A hint of a smile twitches his lips as he remembers the drow’s own friendly hand pulling him for the unstable portal, saving his life, grip strong and sure.

"Do I?" Altonaufein lets his head fall back towards what's left of the ruin's stone wall.

Refusing to let himself be discouraged, Gale still holds the mug, waiting for Altonaufein to take it. 

"Does the thought not bring you some peace, my friend? Having an ally in this journey that we have so unexpectedly found ourselves on?" Gale asks, brown eyes patient, free of judgement. He wishes to understand, but at times he feels like navigating conversations with Altonaufein is like navigating the waters of the Sea of Swords. In a rowboat. On a starless night. 

He doesn’t blame the drow for it. He’s heard hushed whispers at the Promenade, a few tales at the Yawning Portal, from a moondancer here and there, caught too deep in their cups, caught even deeper in their memories. 

"Peace?" Altonaufein's mouth thins, lips pressed together, gazing at the night sky. There is a pause and Gale almost thinks the drow will leave it at that before he continues, "It might as well be up there, with the moon and the stars. I'll never have peace." A breathy sound follows, one that Gale realises is a laugh, bitter as nightshade.

Gale frowns, brows drawing down. The thought doesn’t sit right with him.

Never knowing peace? No one deserves that, he thinks, his own hand unconsciously reaching up to lay over his chest, where, under the threadbare fabric of his tunic, the deepest of the bruised purple lines of his magical scar remain well-hidden.

Banishing the shadow that had crept through his mind like the sun rising over clear waters, a poem comes to him, a second nature, its words familiar, “Speak with me. Speak of the broken past, named and not. Speak of the uneasy peace we share. Speak with me, through the night, the night air, the breathing particles of other lives. Too much to carry around the heart. Speak free.” 

At the confused look in Altonaufein’s red eyes, Gale cannot help but smile. It seems a different strategy will have to be employed. Luckily, he has many at his disposal.

Ah well, it's no trouble at all.

Casting a minor illusion, a gentle moon appears between them, almost translucent; a faint purple glow illuminating their faces in the half-dark.

“Let me propose something to you,” voice slow and measured, Gale’s eyes hold the drow’s gaze, “You told me you look to the moon. What if I tell you about what I know of your goddess while you drink the tea? It'll keep you warm and chase away your worries – for a spell, of course. I promise, no magic in it, not even a whisper of the Weave.” With a chuckle, he adds, “Save perhaps for the magic of Mother Nature herself, I suppose.”

Where at first the drow had startled at the unexpected motions, hands reaching for the weapons at his feet, seemingly innately recognising the arcane power behind them, his shoulders lose their tension when he sees the illusion of the moon. 

Altonaufein's weary gaze lifts from the illusion hovering over Gale’s palm to search his face. They are the eyes of someone who is unused to promises given and kept, but he seems to find what he was looking for, hand deceptively sure when he takes the mug Gale is offering.

He was right. Gale knew there were the first fragile seeds of trust here, between the two of them, he was sure of it, and, by Mystra, he’s glad he had been right. He had had little cause for gladness in years.

Settling against the rough stonewall, too, only a arm’s width away from Altonaufein, Gale moves his hand in front of both of them. 

He’d startled the drow just a moment ago and he refuses to make the same mistake twice, “Let me show you something – or someone, rather. The moon you look to, the goddess that has guided you, is none other than the Dark Maiden, Lady Silverhair.”

The moon in front of them changes into a new form, one of a female drow, dancing, bare, save for the silver hair falling in long waves around her body like a long silver veil, a sword in her hand, a smile on her handsome face.

“When Corellon's wife, known then as Araushnee, tried to kill him, he forced her, and all dark elves, into exile. They were all expelled from his haven, Arvandor, with the exception of his daughter,” Gale cannot help the dramatic pause he makes, a storyteller before a grand reveal, “Eilistraee.”

There’s an undeniable spark in Altonaufein’s tired eyes as he leans forward ever so slightly, mug held tight in his hand. Gale catches the motion instantly for what it is: The drow is engrossed in the story he weaves.

“The Dark Maiden, compassionate, asked him to banish her, too, so convinced she was that the dark elves would need guidance to travel the surface and to fight this evil that would inevitably take form again, known later as Lolth.“ 

Eilistraee’s illusion is joined by another figure. A woman.

“Eilistraee became a friend of Mystra, the goddess of Magic and the Weave.”

With the mention of her name, Gale feels the by now familiar combination of sadness and melancholy, love and pain, twist his heart. Not allowing himself to linger, the wound still so fresh in his mind, he pushes on.

“She is and embodies the Weave itself. I used to see it completely, all around us, but now… Well, perhaps that is best saved for another time. Another story.”

With a flick of the wrist the illusion is gone, only leaving behind rolling waves of purple and blue.  

“This is the Weave, connecting us all, connecting everything through magic. During the Time of Troubles, the Gods walked among us. Eilistraee appeared to mortals, too. If my memory does not fail me, she appeared in Waterdeep, in a location that later came to be known as the Dark Maiden's Leap, a site of pilgrimage sacred to her. The goddess ventured there to rescue a group of drow refugees and lead them to safety. In honour of her deed, a temple was founded, the Promenade, safe in Waterdeep itself.”

As he tells his story, Gale shifts – the hard stone wall bothers his back, yes, but the story draws him in as much as it does Altonaufein – his shoulder almost touching the drow’s. 

“Now, that's something I can speak about first-hand: I visited it myself. The Promenade of the Dark Maiden is a sacred temple of Eilistraee, located in the Undermountain. It’s there that her clergy stops the horrors of the Underdark from reaching the city while, at the same time, helping all those in need. Slaves, escapees, lost souls.”

Gale steals a glance at Altonaufein out of the corner of his eye, “Admirable, really.”

Clearing his throat, he continues, “Eilistraee fought many battles and, in one of those battles against her mother, she was killed. Yet soon, she returned. After the Second Sundering, she was seen again in Waterdeep. Three years ago, we witnessed the Dark Dancer, near the walls of the city. In that year, Waterdeep welcomed an influx of moondancers.”

Over his outstretched palm, a figure appears once more, with silver hair, dancing under the moon, brighter than before. 

“It's said that the Dark Maiden has helped Mystra in containing and repairing the Weave for many years. You see, their friendship is very deep. They help each other, they share the Weave.”

With a flick of the wrist, the illusion is gone again and Gale tries to chase the wistfulness away that had risen up in him so sharply, almost stealing his words. 

Altonaufein's eyes are wide as he turns to look at Gale. There's wonder in them and longing and... hope?

That hope, that spark he sees, makes Gale smile again, soft and small and private, “The Dark Maiden and Mystra revel in freedom and in mysteries, in the little chaotic marvels that magic brings, in nurturing beauty, in embracing the happiness that living in this world, in beautiful Faerûn, inspires.”

The drow, who had been mustering him so intently before, drops his gaze to the floor in what Gale can only assume is a force of habit. It's clear to Gale that his words touch something inside Altonaufein so he decides to simply press ahead, “Now you know why I keep doing this. How can I see a follower of the Dark Maiden in need and not offer him a friendly hand? I want to honour our ladies' friendship, Altonaufein. Life is all about humble miracles."

Silence follows, but Gale cannot find it in himself to regret his words. He nearly makes to stand as only the steady rush of the waterfall sounds around them – then, quietly, "Thank you... Gale."

Words rough with emotion that have not been wrest back under control, still, it's the first time the drow has called Gale by his name. 

Not rivvil.

Not faern.

Not even a cautious abbil. 

Simply ‘Gale’ – and Gale's smile widens further with the realisation. 

"Don't mention it. I hope that my little story brought some comfort to you.” 

"It has," Altonaufein’s answer is curt, but there’s a gratefulness in those red eyes Gale can see as clear as day. Scarred hand reaching out, the very tips of Altonaufein's fingers hovering just over Gale's heart, drawing away before they can truly make contact. 

"You are... kind,” the drow’s words are halting, as if they taste odd on his tongue.

Gale doesn't move away, only glad that the drow is willing to break his walls – at least for today. He stands, rubbing his back, almost comically, exaggerating in hopes of winning a smile from the drow, "My, this wilderness takes some getting used to, I do so long for a proper bed with at least a dozen down feather pillows..." 

When he sneaks another glance at his companion, Gale sees that he has won this battle, too.

"I suppose I need to prepare dinner, otherwise we’ll have to suffer Karlach’s cooking. If you are in the mood, please approach the group tonight,” with that, Gale casts a final illusion before he turns to leave: The Dark Maiden dancing under the stars, Mystra at her side. 

“It will last a few moments, my friend.”

Altonaufein's eyes linger on Gale’s back a bit longer than perhaps necessary before focusing on the illusion the wizard had crafted, and his heart feels oddly light with it.

On a night when the moon shines as brightly as this, the unspoken thoughts of even the most discreet heart might be seen.

—Izumi Shikibu, “On a Night—”, trans. by Jane Hirshfield with Mariko Aratani in The Ink Dark Moon: Love Poems by Ono No Komachi & Izumi Shikibu, Women of the Ancient Court of Japan

[aesfocus]

Somewhere in the far reaches of his mind he remembers wisdom delivered with a stern voice long lost to the past, “never tell them thank you, nor say they have done you a turn.”

Template by nuclearstorms

[galedekarios]

how close you are (two hearts beating a perfect rhythm)

ever since i first played through the test of love with gale, i couldn't stop thinking about what if he had to answer questions of his own. so this is that, completely self-indulgent. 🖤

~*~

"What is the drow’s favourite colour?"

Someone less inclined towards forgiveness, towards acceptance, than Gale would say red. Altonaufein knows he had spilled enough blood in his past for it to be an answer to the dryad’s question–and one he would accept. 

Yet the thought of it alone brings memories with it. Unwelcome. Unkind. 

(There is blood everywhere. I’m lost in it. I breathe blood, not air–)

Mal’ai. Calm.

With a shake of his head and a deep breath, Altonaufein’s eyes, blood red themselves, dart to Gale’s. The wizard’s patient gaze meets his before warm brown eyes widen. Perhaps the drow has given himself away with this glance alone.

“Brown,” Gale says and the answer is so uncharacteristically short for the man that it speaks of his surprise, the right answer coming to him in a moment of realisation. 

~*~

“Where does the worst of his scars linger?”

Gale knows intimately what lies hidden under the heavy chain mail and gambeson, protected further by a simple linen undershirt: A web of raised scars on the drow’s back, a testament of his sisters’ unimaginable cruelty. He had run his hands over each lash mark, touch light as a feather, perhaps to offset the violence that had caused them. 

Still, Gale knows all too well that some hurts run far deeper.

“He fears what happened: What he doesn't remember and what he does remember.”

He will not say more, not even here, in the privacy of this illusion around them, and the way Altonaufein’s eyes–not the colour of blood, not to Gale, but priceless rubies–glow softly with the affection the cleric feels at the man's thoughtfulness. And the dryad has her answer.

~*~

“When does Altonaufein feel safest?”

Once–not so long ago–the answer might have been nowhere. Later then, with his two scimitars in hand would have been true. 

Now, both would be a lie. 

He had felt it first as Karl held him close, knowing just who he was and what he had done.

Kulg Llarzoran Ithrana d'qu'ellar Hlarahel.

Jaluk.

Auflaque.

Dirt elf.

Alton.

The broadness of the man had felt like a haven instead of a threat in a way perhaps only one of the Ilmatari could. 

He had felt it again as he had been cradled in the Weave, Gale knowing his every thought and every desire, every part of himself that was dark and ugly, light and beautiful.

“Being known and accepted for who he is, that is… true safety to him.”

~*~

Drawn together by the bond between them, a push and pull both have followed, Gale realises just how close they are to each other when a calloused hand brushes against his cheek. 

“Ussta ssussun.” 

He knows only a handful of words in Drowic, most of them from late nights and some early mornings at the Yawning Portal, though he has made it his mission to learn more–still, even so, Gale knows this endearment well:

My light.

-------

drowic translation:

-ma'lai = idiot -kulg ("male offspring in the house", lit. meaning "dirt") llarzoran ("three" bc he's the third-born) ithrana (name of his mother) qualla hlarahel ("of house hlarahel") -jaluk = male -auflaque = dog -ussta ssussun = my light