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Sitting on his balcony and watching the sun take its daily dive into the sea had always been an integral part of his routine, and one of his favourite activities. To witness the transition from day to night, from light to darkness was calming and stimulating in equal measure; few things happened to be more poetic than this.
Alas, no matter how hard he aimed to, he could not bring himself to enjoy the view tonight. Mount Waterdeep in the distance, the sight of the waves shattering against the shore, the Sword Sea roaring like a proud lion, the smell of salt and nature, of life itself in the evening air, it all seemed strangely dull to him. It was regrettable, seeing that this was the last evening he would be graced to experience this spectacle.
As if on command, the ever-hungry demon in his chest started to dig its teeth deeper into his insides. One year of hosting it, and yet, the sudden changes from dull throb to all-encompassing pain accompanied by biological deterioration still caught him by surprise every single time. The human capacity to suppress unwanted certainties really was quite admirable.
Slowly rubbing his hand over his sternum, tracing the outline of his mark, he walked into his study. He had prepared everything meticulously: His favourite stationery lay neatly arranged on his desk, the inkpot was filled and his quills were freshly sharpened. Writing a farewell letter was a grave matter; it had to be treated with the appropriate respect.
Yet, he felt his hands tremble when he finally picked up a quill. The few deep breaths he took did nothing to steady his hand. Swallowing, he looked up from the empty page in front of him. He did not loosen his grasp around the quill, knowing that once he put it down, he would likely not find the courage to take it up again.
The stack of books on his desk seemed to spin as he tried to focus. Was it another effect of the orb in his chest or simply a physical reaction to the anxiety that simmered underneath?
Not anxiety. Fear. He had always attached importance to using correct terminology. It was one of the basic rules of academic working, no matter the field; besides, lying regarding his feelings, especially given the circumstances, was futile.
There was nobody left he needed to impress or to pretend for. He was lonely, doomed, afraid; and he had only himself to blame for this deplorable state of things.
Forcing himself to take a few more deep breaths until the room around him stood still once again, he dipped the quill in the ink and finally began to write.
To my dearest mother and to Tara, my best and beloved friend,
He let the quill hover over his words, uncertain how to continue. There were so many things he wanted to tell them, so much he still ought to explain. Yet, he had let a year pass without doing so. No words would have done his folly justice, no attempt to apologize could have atoned for his mistake, for the sin that now slowly ruined him.
Another burst of pain crashed hot and searing against his ribs and lungs. He should get up and get a magical artefact to ease this torture. Instead, he forced himself to focus on it, to feel the orb consume him layer by layer. What better company for organizing the farewell to your life than the sensation of your own deterioration?
When his thoughts drifted off to his mother, he even wished for the pain to grow stronger. He missed her thoroughly. Yet, he had deliberately chosen to ignore her in the past year. He had neither answered the knocking at the door of his tower time and time again nor the many letters she had sent. The last four he had not even bothered to open any more, the guilt of ignoring her weighing too heavy on his shoulders. Nevertheless, it had been the right decision. In his current state, he could prove an uncontrollable danger to her, carrying an object as volatile as the Netherese orb in his chest. But even after he had found a way to stabilize the orb for the length of a visit to his mother, he could not bring himself to do so. Looking into her eyes, confessing his shame and witnessing the disdain she would involuntarily grow for him was nothing he could endure. She would have ostracised him. Rightly so, for what mother could be bothered to love a walking failure? No, it was better this way. Better to spare her the shame he had brought over her family and her legacy.
Locking Tara out, however, had been out of the question. The tressym lived with him and she would unhinge the whole Sword Coast if necessary to come back to him. He loved her for it. He loved her for her willingness to help with his self-inflicted predicament too, well aware he did not deserve one or the other.
However, she had helped with his studies of Netherese magic and Karsus’ folly in an attempt to find a cure. In discovering that the supply of magic resulted in a momentarily rest of the arcane hunger he experienced he thought they had been close, but it had turned out to be a mere glimmer of hope in the dark sea of despair that his life had become.
A glimmer that had proven to be as time-consuming and expensive as it was painful. At first, he had used magical artefacts he did not strictly need. Once this supply had been depleted, he had gone on to eligible items Mystra had given him. Then, finally, his quarterstaff, the most important belonging of any wizard. His had been carefully crafted and adjusted over the years by his own hands and magic, every bit appropriate for an archmage and a chosen of Mystra. Tara had made her protest vociferously known, but even the most precious staff was of little use to a perished wizard. Besides, what need did he have for an archmage’s staff in his current state, being a mere shadow of his former self? It had not mattered, because this sacrifice had been as fruitless, too - only prolonging the time until he had to ask Tara for even more help. She had not complained once, instead willingly changing her hunting behaviour to provide for him. Instead of pigeons, one of her favourites, she focused her chases on magical items. She was an outstanding hunter, always had been. Every single time she came back and handed him another suitable item he was embarrassed beyond description; using his dearest friend as nothing more than a winged servant – how low had he sunk?
All the more reason to see his plan through. He would write this cursed letter, drink a glass of zzar – or three, hope to find a few hours of sleep the last night he would spend in his own bed and then, come the morrow, go to the Academy and use the portal to Yartar. There, he would either, in defiance of any reason, find a cure for his condition, or head for the vast and lonely forests around the city to die. Far enough from civilisation to not endanger innocent beings.
Rubbing over his chest, he felt his heart flutter against his ribcage like a scared little bird. He hoped it would still once he started his last journey through Faerûn. With still trembling fingers, he dipped the quill into the inkpot once more.
As much as it grieves me, we will never see each other again. If I saw any possibility to change this fact, I would turn the weave upside down and inside out, would alter the planes of reality to make it happen. Alas, it is not possible and I am sorry beyond words for it. I want nothing more than to beg for your forgiveness, but I am well aware I do not deserve it. What you deserve, however, is an explanation.
I know you both disapproved of my relationship with my goddess. In hindsight, I have come to realise you only wanted to protect me. Yet, what happened was not Mystra’s fault, not in the least. I bear the whole responsibility for the grave mistake I have made. If anything, I would have needed protection against myself, and this is something no one could provide.
Mother, I do not want to go too much into the details of the folly I have committed. If you decide you want to know, I hope Tara will be kind enough to do so. The shame of putting my failure onto paper is too grave for me to bear. I am sorry.
The essence of this folly, however, the thing it all boils down to is that I will perish rather sooner than later. In trying to perform a grand gesture in the name of love, I have figuratively flown too close to the sun and thus, orchestrated my own demise. Too afraid and selfish to confront the truth, I have lingered on performing its dolorous minuet ever since, still holding up the delusional hope of an unexpected turn of events. A turn that never came.
Another spike of pain burst in his chest, a cruel affirmation of the truth of his words. Gritting his teeth, he forced the quill back on the paper.
Finally, I am willing to accept the truth – that there is no cure for my condition. Even if there was, I would not deserve it. The one whose attempt at being a goddess’ equal fails needs to be penalized for his hubris. It is a tale as old as time; one I thought would not apply to me.
To not digress any further, there is only one thing left to do for me: conducting the finale of this uncomely symphony. I need to do this alone, for I have hurt far too many people already.
Please, do not mourn for me. I never wanted to cause you pain, and in light of the things I have done, I do not deserve your tears. Perhaps, several years from now, you may find it in you to forgive me.
I wish things would have played out differently. I wish I had been good enough. For Mystra, for the responsibility wielding the Weave brings but especially for you.
For what it may be worth – you will forever have my heart.
Gale
Feeling strangely uninvolved, he wrapped the letter and put it between two books standing on the top piece of his desk. This way, Tara would not find it too soon. Only when he turned back and let his gaze wander over his study, looking at his books, sculptures and paintings cluttering the room, the fireplace, the piano and the wing chairs, the tears started to fall. Silently at first, then accompanied by sobs he could no longer suppress. As his legs gave way and he fell to his knees, the pain felt like a small breeze compared to the storm raging within his chest. Countless times before he had been in this exact position, praying to Mystra. He knew she would not answer. After a whole year of being ignored by her, it should not hurt as much as it still did.
For a moment, he pondered to just lie down and wait for death to get him. It was a calming thought, almost comforting, if he did not regard the little downside that when he died, the bomb in his chest would explode and level the whole of Waterdeep.
He could not fathom how much time had passed until he trusted his legs enough again to carry him, but when he got up from the ground, the moon was halfway up to its zenith already, basking the study in its cold light.
His breathing had calmed, too, except for the occasional little sob. That did not diminish the ringing in his ears or the dizziness, but it was a little solace. Slowly, he went through the door and upstairs. The rucksack already packed and ready for the journey leant against the foot of his bed. He opened it and took out a ring of colour spray, holding it against the orb’s mark on his chest.
A by now familiar purple flash emerged, then, he felt the ring crumble to dust in his hands and the beast in his chest quieting down. He waited a few moments more until the room did not spin before his eyes any more, then he went back downstairs and to his balcony, sat down on the bench, took the bottle of zzar he had put there earlier and looked up at the moon.
No matter how hard it would be, he was set on trying to take in as much of the rest of his last night home as he could. Mayhaps, the memory would act as a guiding and calming light in his difficult journey to come. He desperately hoped so.