Chapter Text
A girl frolics through the clear fields abundant with tall, winding sunflowers. She is innocent here. A child, not quite yet into her teens, brimming with the quiet joy only virtue can bring— she squeals in excitement as she turns towards the still frame of her father. She calls to him, loudly, "Don't be so boring!"
The faceless figure watches her, watches over her, really. His hands do not stray from his sides, but he calls back all the same, "I cannot keep up with you! Your mother will banish me to the streets if she sees I've let you mess up your clothes."
She attempts to say something else, but the words get caught in her throat. So quickly does her look of joy dissolve into terror. She screams for him. She pounds her hands against an invisible wall and cries for him. As he breaks into a sprint, panting, heart racing, his hand brushes against it for only a second before she shatters before him. He's left with the pieces of her left behind. They slice his palms as he grips them, screams her name until his throat is raw and he cannot speak any longer. Rosemary. Rosemary.
—-
Jaime of Eastway awakens in the dead of night to his clothes damp and sticking to his frame. The low light of the campfire does little to adjust him to his surroundings; the forest that surrounds his and his companions’ makeshift home, the sounds of animals crunching the fallen leaves and sticks beneath their paws. he sees himself in the full length mirror left in front of Astarion's tent. His graying hair, disheveled with strands falling into his eyesight, his trembling frame, muscles tense with the urge to fight, and the face of the girl staring back at him. She resembles him, though he cannot recall what her name was nor who she was to him if she was anyone at all.
This is what he knows, what he repeats to himself; I am Jaime. I am good, because I will myself to be.
It has been a week since he'd first awakened on the sandy shores where the mind flayer ship had fallen. A week since he'd awoken Shadowheart from her unconscious state, since he'd freed Gale from the jail of his making, since shooting the floor of the cage that had contained Lae'zel, fending off Astarion's blade, rescuing Karlach, breaking Wyll from his delusions of hunting a murderous demon, and still he cannot remember his past. He awoke knowing only his name, his oath of vengeance and the hushed whispers of the devil in his ear yearning for blood. The former often escapes him for reasons he does not yet know.
His companions as well know not even his title. He is referred to as the Paladin , and it soothes him more than it ought to— that they do not pry, though often he hears them sitting around the fire attempting to guess at what it could be.
Wyll is always kind when he speaks, sipping his ale as he chuckles between his words, "Perhaps it is a name most unsavory, and he is too embarrassed to utter it."
Astarion remarks, " Oooh . Maybe it's one of our names, and he doesn’t want to take the spotlight away. Tell me, does he look like a Lae’zel to you?"
Jaime treks the distance between the camp and the nearby stream and sits with his fingers digging into the dirt. He watches the calm water in an almost loud sort of quiet, mulling over his dream, trying to piece it together like an impossible puzzle. He reaches up to the locket around his neck. Her face is in it. He'd only opened it once, the first night the merry band of outcasts had formed. The freckles dotted her cheeks, her hair curled and pinned, beaming at him as if she didn't know what he was— (What is he? Even he does not know.)
His momentary reprieve is interrupted when he hears another crunch of leaves behind him. He turns, his blade raised and ready to strike, and it falls when he sees the face of his potential attacker.
" Gale ." He sighs, lowering his sword. "I could’ve injured you."
"I see that.'' Gale offers him a small smile as he stands behind him. The air between them is cold, yet thick with something Jaime cannot name. He's seen Gale spare glances at him— during combat, during their rare seconds of rest. It unnerves him to be seen by the wizard. He finds himself paranoid. He wonders, not for the first time, if Gale can see what darkness exists within the walls of himself. "I was hoping you'd reconsider. After all.. I am the only one capable of putting a meal together from the random assortment of goods you present me with."
Jaime huffs his amusement. He looks down at the water once more, this time studying Gale's reflection. "I.. am not good company tonight. I apologize."
The wizard rolls his shoulders and sits beside him. He easily invites himself into Jaime's space, though keeps himself at a distance. It.. comforts him. It makes him believe if for only a moment that he is someone that could allow someone the proximity. "You sustained a significant amount of injuries today, my friend. I'm surprised you aren't still asleep."
Jaime doesn't sleep. Not often. It was not so hard to do at first, until the bard girl had found their camp, stars in her eyes, regaling the story of the inspiration she had felt when the party had saved the grove. He still feels her blood soaking his hands. He still tastes it. Gods , does it eat him alive. "I’ve slept enough. There is always the risk of an ambush."
"So you've sequestered yourself to a destiny of no rest, on constant alert?" When Gale repeats it, he hears how foolish it sounds. "What a lonely life that must be."
Jaime cannot look at him. He fears if he even closes his eyes, he will open them to see Gale's— unseeing, lifeless, cold and empty. "Sleep and I.. we do not agree with each other."
"So I've seen."
Jaime pauses. When he looks at Gale, he sees only honesty in his eyes. honesty, and something else. Concern, perhaps. Worry? "I am fine, gale."
This time it is Gale that watches the water. It is Gale that cannot look at him. "I know what it's like, to reach for something you'll never be able to hold."
Rosemary. what have I done? Gods, what have I done? What did you do?
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Bring her back, you bumbling oaf. Do you understand me? Undo your spell and bring her back!
"I fear you know as much about it as I've come to know."
I— I can't. I can't. I'm sorry. You're bleeding.
What?
"You're bleeding."
Jaime looks at Gale, shocked, as Gale stares down at his hand. Ah. His hand had wrapped too tight around his blade. The wound, though appearing superficial, still bleeds all the same. Wordlessly, Gale mumbles a soft incantation. The two are washed in a sapphire glow; Gale tending to his cut, and Jaime pretending he does not relish the warmth of the other's skin against his.
"I.. apologize. I forget myself."
Gale is kind. His voice, his stature, the softness as his fingers caress the slowly healing cut. "There is no need to apologize. This I can promise you. I've had my fair share of bad days, mind you— ones that would make you think very different of me."
Jaime's muscles loosen. "I doubt that could ever happen, gale."
"You don't think?" He thinks Gale is teasing him, though not unkindly. "We have time, I'm sure. I will make you regret those words."
"You're taking that as a call to action, then?" He speaks before he can even register what he's said. Teasing . How long has it been since he's indulged himself in conversation? Since he's felt something that is not the thick blanket of nothingness, or the choking desire for death?
"Was it something else?"
"No. I suppose it was not."
In the long silence that follows, Jaime's hand falls slack in Gale's palm. He feels his fingers tense and flex, surely uncomfortable with holding the same position they have been for the last ten minutes, but Gale says nothing. He doesn't inquire more about him, nor does he attempt to decipher what he says.
The water is beautiful , Jaime thinks. I do not deserve such a sight . "I apologize also.. for my disrespect. I did not give you my name— when we first met. And yet you trusted me with yours." A name is a name is a name. And my name is.. "You may call me Jaime."
"Jaime." Gale seems to test the name upon his tongue. Jaime longs to know what Gale is thinking. He sees the cogs of his intellect turning. "Jaime. it suits you well. I was hoping it wasn't one of the many Astarion had suggested."
"Gods. I can only imagine what came to his mind." Something utterly horrid in nature, unbefitting of the paladin. It softens him, if only for a fleeting second.
"Thank you, Jaime. for imparting this wisdom upon me. I will cherish it."
He's killed. He's maimed. He's sure he's flayed. It seems impossible, but he is certain the names of his victims prior have been carved into his bones like enchanted runes, meant to spark with pain. Gale looks at him as if he is a good man. He cannot take it. It will kill him, if he does not kill first.
A shift in the air attracts his attention. Jaime looks down and sees that, though his cut has almost completely disappeared, his hand still rests in Gale's cupped palm. Gale clears his throat, flushed, this Jaime can see even in the darkness, and moves his hand away. "Yes. well. I suppose it's time for bed. before I begin imparting my everlasting wisdom upon you."
Jaime stands as well. He misses the sting of the wound. He misses even more the warmth of gale's gaze. He could sate himself in the wizard's shadow. An astounding thought, one he banishes to the furthest reaches of his mind the second it crosses. "Thank you. I.. appreciate this much more than you realize."
Gale smiles at him. He still holds himself awkwardly, but his anxiety seems to lessen with Jaime's admission of gratitude. "You need only ask."
They watch each other for a long while after. Neither moves, seemingly unwilling to break the moment, wanting it to last as long as it possibly can. Jaime clears his throat. his gaze doesn't stray from gale's eyes. If I were a good man, I would drive you away. If I were a good man, I would — "Goodnight, Gale." He says softly. His gaze flicks to the wizard's lips, and he is sure Gale notices for he turns away suddenly, at a loss for words.
"Goodnight, Jaime."
Jaime watches Gale return to his bedroll as he makes his way back to the thick stump of the tree he'd been resting against. He locks his blade within the camp's shared trunk. He sits on watch, surveying the camp, the sounds of the bard girl's gargling breath and pleas of mercy drowned out by Gale's faint snoring.
Though still he does not sleep, he is nourished watching Gale's steady form. The rise and fall of his chest, the way he slightly shifts every so often.
He doesn't recall knowing a peace such as this.