Chapter Text
For the attention of Mystra,
I write this on my return to Waterdeep, on my first night back in my old rooms, in my study. I write this having found the last letter I wrote to you in my ledger; my hand looks shaky and unsure, and, on reading it over, it is close to the ramblings of a madman.
Still, there is a certainty of purpose, even if that purpose is consistently changing through the damn thing, that I do find myself envying. There is little I feel certain of now, although I am loath to admit it. Uncertainty is not a state that I find solace or comfort in, though perhaps it is high time I learn.
I have returned home not alone, but, perhaps, with more earnest company than I have ever found myself in. Where before I was surrounded by, for want of a kinder term, sycophants and hangers-on, those who were more interested in the potential for your blessings through me as a conduit than anything I could bring as a person, I am now blessed with the great gift of true friendship. However, I think on reflection that prior circumstance was easier for me to understand, to stomach. It was easier to be an extension of you, than to be a person of worth in and of itself. After all, how long had I thought of myself only in your image? I can scarcely remember a time when the use of magic, when the manipulation of the weave was not central to everything I am. Everything I was. For now, well. Now I feel that perhaps, I am more.
It is not that I shun your great gifts. On the contrary, now I feel that perhaps I understand them better than I ever did. I understand that they were never mine, not in the way I thought of them. They were never core to me as a person. That the manipulation of the weave, of my understanding of magic and spells, my mastery, was an agreement, a bargain struck. That we danced together, in the stretches of the universe, on the tendrils of the weave, but it was together, and in agreement. And, if I wish to keep up the dance, if I wish for magic to be a part of my life, then we must find a step together again.
My lady, I will confess to you that I do not know if I am ready.
When we spoke last, I thought I would be angry. I thought I would have so much to say. You know, because of course you know, how many hours I spent spread out on the floor of my bedroom, the karsite weave as now I know it eating me up from the inside as I rehearsed – yes, rehearsed – all the things I wanted to say to you. Depending on the type of pain, it was a different kind of speech prepared; a heavy, aching pain often brought forward a tearful plea for your forgiveness, the sharp thunderbolt an impassioned, angry rant. I had so many things I needed to say about fairness, about trust, about equality and entitlement, and about love, at the heart of it. Love for you, of course, because I did love you, so completely. However, there was love beyond just love for you. It was love for all of your domain, for magic, the centre of my whole existence. Of love for the world I saw through your benevolence, for the spaces beyond my reality that you showed me. I loved everything you gave me, and I was afraid of what life would be, without you at the heart of it. Without you at the heart of it. Without Gale of Waterdeep, and everything that I thought I would be, at the heart of everything I am.
I have returned to Waterdeep, to the tower that was my beloved home and my prison, my place of rest and work. I have returned to dust piling on my research, to a pantry full of rotted food, a stale scent on the air. I did not know where to start, how to make this feel like a home again, but luckily it was not only down to me. My beloved, my intended, took it upon themselves to bring in new food, make the first meal. They found their place in this tower, and truthfully, it feels more like a home than it has done for years. In the final years of our… entanglement, for it was not truly a relationship by that point, if I am honest with myself, the tower felt like it was a place for my weak mortal needs, while I pursued greater things in your presence. I had forgotten how to care for my mortal needs, in the face of my greater desires. For you, yes. But for other things. For power. For recognition. My desire to be the greatest wizard that Faerun had ever known, beyond Elminster, Halaster, Sammaster, Karsus. To be beyond Karsus. You knew me better than myself, I think, and it brings a shame heavy in my heart.
My love sleeps in the room that is now our shared bedroom. It was difficult to sleep at their side. The intricacies of mortal intimacy are beautiful, but sadly alien to me, and as much as I adore them, they sit on me like boots that need to be worn in. I shall do it, though. For I know when things are worth the work, worth the devotion. I think you will agree that my devotion, above all of my traits, is what you value as much as I do.
My love sleeps in the room that is now ours, and for the first time I see what it means for something to be equal. I see what I look like, reflected in the eyes of somebody who would devote their life to me, in our little patch of mortality. Who would give their time, their attentions. Who would come into this tower and make it a home.
I let them read the letters to you. I saw the pain the words caused, but they know why it was important, and that is why I love them so. They were who counselled me to meet you as you are, and it is down to them that I saw you, for the first time, for all that you are. The mortal you were, certainly, but also too the great stretching entity that you are. I saw, finally, what I could not see before. That it is not your fault, that you do not see all that I am. That I am kind. That I love to cook. That I love stories, both the telling and the reading of them. That I talk in my sleep. That I can talk too much, but that those who love me will always want to listen. That for those who care to see it, I am enough, even as a flawed, mortal man.
I do not think this is the last time I will reach out to you. Magic is my life, after all, and you are magic, and always will be. However, I will take my time. I will find my own rhythm. When I come to extend my hand to you again, I shall be surer of my footing.
Your humble servant, even now.
Gale Dekarios