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The fire is warm. Embers, really. Everyone else retreated to their tents hours ago.
Gale runs his hand through the scruff on his jaw. A soft, dark remnant of those months in isolation, up in his tower with only Tara for company. He'd filled out around the stomach, too, chubbier than before. He didn't quite like how much he still looked like he was mourning.
Maybe he should cut his beard off. Mystra would like that.
"You're always stroking your chin like a wizened old man. So stereotypical it's nearly funny." A lilting voice cuts through his thoughts. Astarion sits down, his pale skin reflecting the moonlight with an almost iridescent shine. "Perhaps you've got fleas. With your bathing habits, I wouldn't be surprised."
Gale manages a laugh. "Always so colorful, Astarion. Though I'm not sure you should be the one lecturing me on hygiene. I don't tend to let my food dribble sensually down my chin."
Astarion clicks his tongue, but smiles. "You're quite the flirt. More and more, you make these little teasing comments. I wouldn't --" He stops. Something shades his face. His eyes seem to get rounder, younger for a moment. Maybe a trick of the firelight.
"Oh, you can't start such an intriguing sentence and leave it unfinished. Tell me."
"I wouldn't have expected it from... someone like you."
"A scholar?"
"A Chosen."
It cuts like a razor.
"A former Chosen," Gale corrects. His lungs tighten. He can't tell if it's the orb, or regular old heartache. "My goddess," he begins, but his voice fades. "I outlasted my usefulness to her. Now, all I have is this." The orb in his chest glows a brilliant purple. It would be beautiful if it weren't so somber. So destructive. "And my love -- my devotion to her." He stumbles over the word 'love.' It doesn't fit right in his mouth anymore.
Astarion wrinkles his nose. "For that witch?"
"She's my goddess," Gale says simply. "I will always have a measure of affection for her."
"Even with that thing in your chest? With the cruel demand of your life?" The vampire sounds disgusted.
"Even then."
The fire crackles. Gale's eyebrows knit together in that pitiable way that his face seems to favor. Why must he always look so haunted? His hand pulls at his beard. An eternity passes before he speaks again.
"I don't expect you to understand. Your sire never had any true affection for you, that's clear enough. He was using you. There was no love to dissuade you, to persuade you otherwise."
Astarion scoffs. "So much intelligence, and yet so naïve."
Gale raises a finger in warning. "Tread carefully."
The fire pops.
"Always." He smirks. "I only mean to imply that your goddess," the word drips with sarcasm, "was not the benevolent deity of your dreams."
"She offered me everything I could've asked for. Everything I wanted."
"No one, not even a god, appears to their beneficiary, an accomplished wizard in his own right, to spontaneously, graciously provide a warm place in her bed." Gale's face crumples with each word Astarion speaks. "It was not an opportunity, Gale. It was a trap. She was a puppeteer, every bit as conniving as Cazador."
The wizard tugs at his beard hard enough that a few hairs come off in his fingers. "I wasn't accomplished when Mystra chose me. I was a boy."
Astarion's face changes. The condescension disappears. A familiar, horrified, soft-tissue kind of recognition washes over his features. His mouth drops open. Gale catches just a glimpse of his fangs before Astarion's lips curl into a snarl.
"I was wrong." He stands up, clenching his jaw and shaking his head. He marches toward his tent. "You're not naïve. You're a fool."
A pit of guilt and longing settles deep in Gale's stomach. "You think so?"
Astarion turns on his heel, marching back toward the campfire and bending down to eye-level long enough to spit, "Where is your fury!?" Righteous indignation burns in his red eyes. He stands to his full height, unsheathing a beautiful dagger. He twirls it, knuckles white. He's practically snarling. "Does it not scorch your organs and rot your lungs? Crawl up your throat like a rat, dying and desperate to escape?"
Gale sighs. His body does feel heavy, though not with fire or rot. He just feels worn. His eyes reflect both the sparkling stars and the glowing embers. "I have none. Perhaps I loved her enough for the both of us."
"I do not understand." The words should be venomous.
Instead, they are bruised.
Astarion paces with seething energy. He flips the blade between his fingers.
Gale closes his eyes, lips pursed. He swallows, hard. "I cannot explain it for you. I hardly understand it myself. She was my whole world, and for one, glittering moment, I was hers." He tugs at his beard again, well on his way to a painful snag.
Astarion smacks his knuckles away with the handle of the knife. "Hideous habit," he bites, marching past. "A patchy beard would do you no favors."
Something about that feels kind, almost. As kind as the vampire seems to be capable of being.
"You prefer me unshaven?" he murmurs. The hint of a smile plays in the wrinkles of his eyes.
He rolls his eyes. "I've never had the pleasure of gazing upon your bare face. Though I'm sure the sight is more frightening than any battlefield."
Gale blinks. "You've never known me without a beard."
"Yes, I've just said as much." Astarion slows, leaning down again to search the dark eyes. "Have you been enchanted? Is this to do with that awful parasite?"
"How strange."
"Gale, I'm not teasing."
"And I'm not enchanted. I'm... reflecting."
Astarion takes Gale's chin in his hand. "Stop being cryptic." His weak pulse rises, as does Gale's. "Tell me who you are. Do you remember our meeting?"
He smiles. "I was trapped in a sigil, alone and shrouded in darkness. You pulled me out."
It's enough to let Astarion breathe again. He lets go of Gale's chin, but stays crouched. "Would you care to explain, then? Before I lose my mind with worry?"
The wizard quirks an eyebrow.
"Don't flatter yourself. I was worried about my own fate. I have a worm in my head, too, you know."
"I know."
The silence stretches long enough for the fire to sputter. Astarion distracts himself from the heavy moment by dragging a piece of flint against the blade of his dagger.
"I didn't have a beard until I spent those months in my tower." Gale's voice is soft. It wobbles, like it wants to break. "After my quest to restore her Weave failed, and I found myself saddled with this." He puts his hand over the orb in his chest, running his fingers over the edge of the delicate circle. It looks like a tattoo, but it feels like a scar. Raised. Textured. "Somewhere between an illness and an addiction."
"Or a weapon," Astarion spits, "according to your goddess. A sacrifice." The flint in his hand sparks, and the fire comes back to life. Still, he won't look back. Gale doesn't know if it would be easier or harder to speak with the vampire's red eyes on him.
"Whatever it may be, it was but the final nail in the coffin."
Astarion winces.
"Poor choice of words. Forgive me, please. I don't mean --"
"It's an idiom. I won't hang you for it. I do have a sense of humor." He glances over his shoulder with something like affection.
Gale smiles. It wavers, and he presses his lips together to hide it. "I locked myself in that tower for months on end. At first, I thought I was keeping people safe. If I couldn't curb this Weave, couldn't control it, then I had to make sure I wouldn't hurt anyone. By the time I had worked out its rules, I... well, I didn't much see a point to anything anymore."
Astarion's shoulders tense. Gale reaches out a hand, but he stops short of the billowing white shirt. He draws it back in without ever touching the fabric, or the man.
"I stopped taking care of myself. It just, felt futile. I ate without thinking. My hair grew long. I stopped shaving." He tugs at his facial hair again. "I'd never grown a beard before. I didn't know I could, to be honest."
Astarion turns, a combination of pity, bafflement, and amusement on his pale face. "You didn't know you could?"
Gale sighs, fingers still pulling gently. "Mystra."
Astarion sucks his teeth, tongue running over his sharp fangs. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for an elaboration.
"I can give you theories, but nothing more."
The vampire spreads his arms in an invitation.
"As much as I denied it, I could feel her love... changing as time went on. She didn't teach me how to shave, but she gave me gifts to help. A razor that would never dull. A brush of fine badger hair, enchanted so I would never nick myself. She ensured I looked proper, presentable."
The fire crackles as Gale refuses to finish his sentence, refused to put voice to what his patron really wanted him to look like.
But both of them know.
"And then I found laugh lines in the mirror, then crow's feet in the corners of my eyes and grey hair at my temples. Mystra grew more and more distant with each year. I did everything I could to keep her affections. Even with my prowess, I could never find a way to unwind the clock." The wizard tries to laugh, but it comes out like a shuddering breath.
That shadow passes over Astarion's face again. "I'm jealous."
Gale looks up, but Astarion won't return his gaze. He reaches out again, finally settling his hand on Astarion's shoulder. "You have good reason to be."
"Everything about us seems to be their fault," Astarion muses. He leans back on his hands. For a moment, Gale thinks he might shirk his hand away. But he doesn't.
"Then mustn't we credit them with the good, too?"
"You can credit Mystra and Cazador all you like. I simply refuse to believe either of them could possibly be responsible for anything good. Especially not you."
Gale smiles.
Gotcha.
Astarion rolls his eyes, but a smile tugs at his lips. "You've conned me into a compliment. I hope you're proud."
Gale laughs. It sounds warm and full and gentle this time. He runs his hand over the back of the vampire's neck, fingers playing in the white curls. His thumb rubs a soft pattern in the hollow just behind Astarion's pointed ear. The skin is cold, but not uninviting. "You're very different than you think you are."
Astarion's brows knit together. He shifts, muscles going rigid. "Let's not talk about me."
"I thought that was your favorite activity," Gale teases gently.
There's enough of a pause that he wonders if he's overstepped again. Pushed too hard. Peeled back a scab until it bled, the way he always seems to.
"Would you ever shave it again?"
Gale's thoughts slow as his eyes find Astarion's once more. "I don't know." He chews on his lip. His free hand scratches roughly at his jaw.
Knowing what's coming, Astarion takes Gale's hand and pulls it away from his face. "Leave it. You'll hurt yourself."
Warmth sparkles up Gale's fingers and into his wrist as the vampire chastises him. His heart swells, pressing against his ribs until he thinks it might just push the orb right out of his skin. "I wouldn't know where to start if I wanted to lose it," he admits. "I never learned, remember? And I can't exactly recreate divine enchantments in my current state."
"I could help."
Gale's face softens with surprise.
"Now, wait just a minute. I never learned, either."
"I would've assumed. I've read that elves are practically hairless."
Astarion gets a faint pink blush over his pale cheeks. "You're right. But, I have a few hundred years of practice making myself look good without a mirror. I'm sure it can't be too difficult."
"No, I wouldn't let you."
Astarion lets go of his hand. The vampire looks genuinely offended.
"You'd do it well, I have no doubt. But I wouldn't ask you to." Gale caresses Astarion's neck. "You've spent too long catering to someone else's needs."
"And you haven't?" His anger is undercut with a softness he tries desperately to cover.
Gale tilts his head, tutting a wordless admission. "Even so, I think I'd like to keep the scruff."
"Why? Clearly, it bothers you."
"Mystra's never known me with it." Gale takes a deep breath, glancing over to Astarion for a moment before tearing his gaze away. He looks up at the sky, stars twinkling in the deep velvet. "You've never known me without it."