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Gale lets himself be pulled from a deep, seemingly endless sleep. The ceiling above is blurry; blobs of rich reds and deep blues overtake his vision before the painted ceiling of his tower comes into focus.
He'd been dreaming. More of a series of flashbacks, really, of Mystra merely touching his chest and the searing, all-consuming pain of the orb being forced onto him, interspersed with hazy visions of what his future might hold, living like this. Mostly death by explosion in his tower, after he runs out of weave-rich artifacts.
The orb flares.
Gale winces, hissing out a long breath. The monster hungers once again. That must be what woke him up.
He struggles to sit up, attempting to read the intricately-carved grandfather clock that rests on the opposite wall. Its numbers and hands blur into its face, and Gale can't even remember how, exactly, the numbers are usually positioned. He tries to make out what time it is by how bright it is outside instead, but he can't seem to focus in general.
"It's late afternoon."
He flings a leg over the side of the bed. "Thank you, Tara."
His best friend glides down from her favorite perch: the top of his wardrobe. She lands at his socked feet and pads at his ankle. "You've been asleep since last night."
"I'm aware, Tara." He finally stands up, but has to catch himself on the wall lest he lose his balance. Moisture beads on his upper lip – of course he's sweating already. …Why is he standing up, again?
"My repository ran out of food, by the way, while you were sleeping. I had to resort to eating a rat that was scampering around the perimeter."
Gale's eyes fill with tears, to no control of his own. Mystra forgive him. He forgets his friend to wallow in his own self-pity after he swore it wouldn't get to this point. He swallows past the sudden lump in his throat and ducks his head. "Sorry," he manages to say, voice already giving out from the effort it takes to talk.
"Oh– I was teasing."
Gale's chest shudders as he holds his breath, trying desperately to not let any sobs escape. It wouldn't be fair to Tara, after she had to fend for herself – she deserves to be respected, and forgetting to refill her food vessel so that she can feed herself independently is tantamount to treason, in his opinion. He relaxes a bit, though, when he feels her wind around his ankles.
"I apologize, Mr. Dekarios. Don't cry. Again."
He laughs wetly, almost gasping. He can't make himself stop.
"Well, don't do that either. You're going to make yourself pass out."
The orb pulsates again and Gale grabs his chest, choking on his own air and struggling to get his lungs working again. The shock of the orb rebelling inside of him hasn't lost its agonizing novelty yet. He slides back down into a sitting position on the bed, trying to breathe through the pain.
He hears a surprised chirp and a flutter of wings. It's not five seconds before Tara has landed beside him, shoving her face into his hands. Without looking, he splays his palm upwards and feels something small and cool drop onto his hand. Gale doesn't bother checking to see what it is. He holds the item up to his heart and allows the beast inside of him to consume. And consume it does – the pain ebbs, the orb sated once more.
He takes deep, slow breaths, and the stitch in his chest eventually fades away. Gale sighs in relief and hangs his head. He can't bear to look at her. "I truly am sorry, Tara," he rasps out. "I promised you I wouldn't get so wrapped up in my own failings to neglect you, and look at me now. Forgetting my duties as your friend."
Tara nudges her way underneath his arms. When he relents and leans back, she sits on her hind legs to rest alongside his chest, paws laying on his shoulder. She purrs, which sends fresh tears to Gale's eyes. "You're being far too hard on yourself, Mr. Dekarios. I can survive if I don't get a home-cooked meal every night. I can more than survive, really – it was delightful to watch that little creature squirm."
"But I promised–"
"Stop promising things to me, then."
Gale tries desperately hard to not let a fresh wave of grief bowl him over. He's such a failure that even his best friend can see that he's incapable of following through on such a simple task. Maybe it would be better if he left the tower entirely to find some empty expanse of land to–
"And I mean that as such: I don't require you to promise me anything. Right now, I just want you to feel better. I'm resourceful, Mr. Dekarios, it's not like I'm some yapping, useless lapdog."
"Of course you aren't," Gale says, cradling that back of Tara's head with one hand and wiping his tears with the other.
She purrs louder and settles, dropping her head to rest on Gale's shoulder. "I hope that's not your main takeaway. You're not incapable, just melancholic."
"It's starting to feel like I'll never not be melancholic again."
Tara butts his head with hers. "This will pass. But," she says, pushing herself off of his chest to sit next to him, "as it hasn't yet, I shall continue providing you with anything you need, within reason and ability. Meaning, get up and fix yourself supper. You haven't eaten since last night. It's my duty as your friend to give you a reminder."
"I'm not hungry."
Tara bats at his leg. "It wasn't a request, Mr. Dekarios, it was a command. I shan't be satisfied until you've gotten some food in you." She paces away from him with a lash of her tail and looks him up and down with a critical eye. "You've gotten gaunter – a terrible shame, honestly."
Gale snorts, nose uncomfortably clogged. "What, is your throne becoming less comfortable?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Her ears twitch. "You don't have to cook, just get something into your body before you starve."
"You of all people know that starvation takes more than one night," Gale says. Even so, he grunts as he gets to his feet again, a bit more stable than before.
He'll admit that he takes some pride in his kitchen. What use is magic if not to make it work for oneself? That said, he doesn't bother looking through the various containers that he's enchanted to keep their contents at the perfect temperature, warm, cold, or otherwise. He grabs an apple, crusted bread, and a small jar that he casts Create Water inside of. The basics of the basics.
(He did look longingly at his collection of wines before turning away – if he starts to drink right now, he won't be able to stop until he's physically unable to continue. Drunk-Gale is an emotional mess, and one should not be a drunk, emotional mess whilst having a bomb in their chest.)
He remembers to resupply Tara's meal receptacle – a small ornate box, enchanted just as Gales', with a small door for Tara to get in and out of, usually filled with warm fowl that she can carry outside and eat as she pleases – before shambling back to his nest.
"Thank you," Tara says as Gale sits down in his bed, heeding not of possible messes. He can just magic the crumbs away afterwards. There is a good chance he'll be too sad to care, though, but he can barely manage to care about anything right now, so nothing is new.
He eats his meal in silence, allowing Tara's words to wash over him. He doesn't really comprehend what she says, but he appreciates it nonetheless. And, as always, she was correct in the sense that he'd feel better once he'd eaten. With every bite he takes, the glow of life seems to balance out the chill in his bones and the opposing molten-hot shame that envelops the orb.
Eventually, though, the food is gone, along with all of Gale's energy. He was right when he assumed he'd be too exhausted to manage a simple spell to banish the small bits of bread hidden in the creases of the sheets. The warmth from before seems to seep out of his body, stolen by the frigid, lifeless air he's allowed to set into his tower. All Gale can do is lie down and stare at the ceiling. He can't find it in himself to pull up his covers.
Before he can get too lost in his head, though, Tara steps onto his stomach, all four-and-a-half kilograms of her compressed onto her tiny paws.
"Ow–! Gods, Tara."
She simply purrs, kneading his gut – really, after he's just eaten – for a moment before laying down, head at his chest, right over where he knows the mark of the orb sits. "You'll get through this, Gale. For now, let's have a lie-down. Rest some more."
It shouldn't be a shock to hear her speak so gently to him. They've been nothing but caring to each other, and Gale could never, ever find it in him to be more than simply exasperated with her on certain occasions. He could say the same for her. Even so, Gale swallows past the lump in his throat and nods. "Alright." He scratches the top of her head, just behind her ears, the way she likes it. She leans into the touch, purring harder.
His eyes grow heavier and heavier as time stretches on. A part of him fears going back to sleep, hesitant to face his visions once more. The other part of him yearns for a chance to welcome the facsimile of oblivion, untethered to the waking world without setting off that damned orb.
Tara, mind-reader she is, stretches out a wing to brush against his cheek, her feathers tickling him enough to make him remember where he is. It might not be a comfort, but it grounds him, and that's all he can ask for. He allows his eyes to close, fearing neither dreams nor death.