Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Evening faded into twilight, and the campsite was alive with activity. Gale had whipped up a hearty stew, rejuvenating enough that the boisterous conversation escalated into a spirited arm wrestling match between Karlach and Lae’zel. Even though they’d set a thick leather pad between their hands, Lae’zel’s palm started to burn after less than a minute and Karlach had forfeited, leaving the winner undetermined.

After some moaning from Astarion and Shadowheart that no clear winner meant no winner of their betting pool, the group settled down and cleaned up dinner (apart from Astarion, who maintained that if he didn’t eat anything, he didn’t have to help).

Quiet settled over the night, and Gale looked carefully around the campsite. Lae’zel and Shadowheart had retreated to their respective tents. Karlach and Scratch sprawled under the open pavilion Karlach insisted on calling a tent, already sound asleep. Astarion sat cross-legged on a log by the fire, needle and thread in hand and focused on mending a tunic. Wyll sat a respectable distance away, close enough to share the fire light, but not too close to intrude in Astarion’s space, and fussed over his armor. Everyone was occupied.

Perfect.

Gale retreated to his own tent and closed the flap, securing the canvas with ties at the corners. He conjured a light to hang above him and thumbed to a bookmarked page in his spellbook. With a mage hand to hold the book aloft, Gale used a piece of chalk to carefully and painstakingly copy the intricate magic circle from the book onto the inside of the tent flap. Once complete, he sketched a simple glyph on the floor. In the center, he placed a chip of porcelain, a dried rose petal, and a waxy flake of lye soap, then recited the necessary incantation and drizzled a trickle of water from his canteen onto the glyph. The glyph consumed the components in a flash of energy, and the chalk circle on the tent flap shimmered. The chalk lines warped and twisted, growing and stretching out to the edges of the canvas, then solidified, creating a perfect rectangular portal on the inside of his tent flap.

From the outside, the portal didn’t look anything at all like a magic portal. There was no glowing outline, no gleaming surface or glittering sparkles, just an open hole in the canvas leading to a dark room. If the spell had been cast in the doorframe of a building, it would look like an entirely normal opening to an entirely normal room.

Gale sighed and safely stowed away his spellbook. He’d first discovered this ritual while isolated in his tower in Waterdeep. He’d transcribed it into his spellbook in a fit of self-pity, thinking it might be useful if he needed to travel to the middle of nowhere before the orb detonated. He was very glad he’d done so. Though he was now traveling the wilderness for drastically different reasons, his Transitory Pocket Washroom made the wilds a little more bearable.

Checking again to make sure the tent flaps were securely tied, Gale stripped and folded his clothes neatly atop his bedroll. He was sliding out of his smallclothes when the crunch of boots on gravel approached his tent. He froze.

“Gale?” Wyll asked, muffled by the canvas. “Are you decent?”

“Ah… No, actually,” Gale replied. “A moment, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Wyll said, cordial as any gentleman. “I’d like a word, when you’re ready. I’ll wait by the fire.”

Wyll’s footsteps retreated and Gale held back a groan. Hells below, what did Wyll want that couldn’t possibly wait until morning? Or have been brought to his attention earlier? Gale sighed and quickly redressed, then untied the tent flap and stepped out, carefully keeping the canvas angled to conceal the portal.

Wyll stood by the fire, the padded doublet of his armor on the log beside him, and looked over as Gale approached. Astarion continued sewing, ignoring them.

“I hope you’ll forgive the late interruption,” Wyll said with a grateful smile.

“But of course,” Gale gave a cordial nod, civil enough to hide his irritation. “How can I help?”

“As a fellow practitioner of magic, I was hoping to see if you have a particular spell that might help me.” Wyll said.

Gale bit back the retort on his tongue as to how a knowledgeable and accomplished wizard was hardly comparable to a warlock who’d crossed his patron. Starting a debate over magical semantics wasn’t going to get Gale back in his tent any faster.

“Certainly,” Gale said instead. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Ever since my, ah… incident in camp a few nights ago, I’m afraid I haven’t been able to get the stench of sulfur out of the clothing I was wearing at the time,” Wyll said, picking up his doublet. Gale carefully did not look at Wyll’s new horns and let him continue. “I was hoping you’d have a way to magic the scent away.”

“Ah, Prestidigitation is a lovely little cantrip for exactly that! Quite a versatile little transmutation spell, it can either clean or soil a material, along with temporarily altering the properties of existing objects. Cast it on your shoes for a lovely foot warmer!” A hopeful look was spreading across Wyll’s face, and Gale continued quickly before he got his hopes too high. “Unfortunately, due to my own incident, that spell is one of many no longer within my repertoire. We’d do well to keep our eyes out for any scrolls, however.”

Wyll’s face fell, his disappointment clear, but gave a polite nod all the same. “I see. Thank you for your expert opinion.”

“You’re quite welcome. Now, if that was all…”

“Vinegar,” Astarion interjected without looking up from his mending. “Vinegar and cold water gets out most anything.”

“Truly?” asked Wyll, renewed hope in his voice. “Even sulfur?”

“No, it works on everything except sulfur, that’s why I suggested it,” Astarion rolled his eyes, then tied off a knot and snipped the thread with a fang. “I’ve never had brimstone in my clothes, thank you very much, so I don’t know how well it’ll take to sulfur. It works well enough on smoke, grease, and piss, though.”

“What, really?” Karlach shouted from her tent, not nearly as sound asleep as Gale assumed. “Aces!”

“Piss yourself often, do you?” Astarion responded without missing a beat.

“Fuck off,” she replied, all smiles and cheer.

Gale cleared his throat. “Ah… Well, if that’s quite everything, I’d like to return to bed. I trust there will be no further interruptions?”

“No, of course not. Thank you, Gale.” Wyll said with a warm smile.

“Best of luck to you,” Gale replied, then hurried to his tent before Shadowheart could yell at them all for making a ruckus.

He gave one look around the campsite, then slipped into his tent and tied the tent flap closed. With all that out of the way, Gale was confident he wouldn’t be disturbed again and stripped once more. He stepped through the portal and let out a deep sigh.

The dark room lit up around him, a crystal chandelier bursting to life at his entrance. Cream and gold filigree decorated the walls, reflecting the dancing candlelight of the chandelier overhead to fill the room with a warm, comfortable glow. The white marble tile was cool against his bare feet, but the air was warm and humid, much warmer than the chilly night air of the campsite.

In one corner was a porcelain latrine, the likes of which were only found among high nobility, with the added benefit of magicking away any deposited waste. Against the walls to either side of him were a marble and gold hand-wash basin, a shelf with a selection of scented hand soaps, and an exquisite mahogany vanity stocked with cosmetics and set with a large, magnificent mirror. Against the back wall was the reason Gale cast this spell every night: a massive claw foot bathtub, large enough for two people to bathe comfortably without ever touching. Steam rose from the surface of the water, the bath already filled upon the completion of the ritual, and the water enchanted to always remain the perfect temperature. On either side of the bath were rows of shelves filled with dozens of sponges, soaps, shampoos, and perfumes in a wide variety of scents, along with a stack of white, fluffy towels.

Gale picked out his favorite soaps and climbed into the massive tub. He took a deep breath, steam filling his lungs, and sank into the water all the way up to his neck. The heat enveloped him, seeping through his chilled skin, and he let out a low moan. They’d done a fair bit of walking today, and Gale certainly felt the strain of so much activity. Tension knotted through his neck and shoulders where the straps of his pack had rested, then branched down his back to settle with a painful twinge at the base of his spine. His knees popped and creaked as he stretched his legs, and the soles of his feet throbbed. Gods, what he wouldn’t give for a massage on top of a good soak. Maybe someone out there had a clever variation on mage hand. If not, he ought to get around to inventing it.

He dropped his head back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes, then concentrated on his breathing. He took a slow, deep inhale of the heavy steam and held the breath before releasing it slowly. One by one, his whirling thoughts slowed, his focus narrowing down to center on each meditative breath.

In, two three four, hold… Out, two three four. In, two three four, hold…

Gradually, Gale extended his senses to the rest of himself. He focused on his sore, aching feet, how they felt like they’d swollen to three times their size. One by one, he relaxed his toes, then his feet, then his ankles, calves, creaky knees, all the way up to his thighs. He flexed his fingers, then let them fall loose and lax. He rolled and stretched his wrists and then followed the same process to relax his arms. Aided by the soothing heat, he systematically took stock of every muscle in his body like he was taking inventory of his library, evaluating, stretching, then relaxing. His mind began to drift, turning hazy as the steam wafting through the room. He could spend hours like this, melting and pruning in water that would never cool. He’d almost be tempted to fall asleep, warm and comfortable, if he’d only—

The orb throbbed within him, a spike of agony searing through his very soul.

Gale jolted, water sloshing over the edge of the tub, and slapped a hand over the discoloration on his chest. The pain radiated through him, rolling from the orb in waves, and Gale clenched his eyes tight.

“I know, I know…” he hissed through gritted teeth.

He rubbed the orb with his knuckles. The initial wave of pain ebbed and faded to a dull ache that settled behind his ribs, just painful enough to remind him it was still present.

“Soon,” he promised the wretched thing in his chest. “Hold on a little longer.”

Gale sighed and rubbed his face. Any further attempt to relax was pointless. He may as well just get clean and go to bed. He ducked his head beneath the water, soaking his hair and beard, then sat back up. Gale wiped the water from his eyes and reached absently for the soaps, then froze.

He wasn’t alone.

Seated on the edge of the vanity and watching him with an amused smile, was Astarion.

“Wha— Astarion? How long have you been here?!” Gale demanded. He looked for something to cover himself with, but the only towels were out of reach on the other side of the shelves.

“Long enough to worry you’d fallen asleep, darling,” Astarion said idly. “I was going to say something and encourage you to hurry it up, but I haven’t decided which scent I’m going to use. You certainly didn’t seem to mind that I was sampling the soaps, so I elected to take my time.”

A selection of glass bottles and soap bars sat on the vanity, all of which should have been on the shelf beside the bathtub. A heat that had nothing to do with the steaming water flushed through Gale’s cheeks.

“I find,” Gale said slowly through a forced smile, fighting to keep his voice calm and collected, “that sneaking around a washroom without the knowledge of its rather exposed occupant is terribly impolite.”

“Do you? How dull.” Astarion popped open a sapphire colored bottle and sniffed the contents. “Oh, have you tried this one? I don’t recognize the script on the label, but it smells divine!”

“It’s in Celestial, but that’s beside the point. What are—”

“Celestial?” Astarion laughed, high and tittering. “I suppose ‘divine’ is right on the mark then, isn’t it?”

“Astarion—”

“Although I don’t know if I like it more than this,” Astarion continued, swapping the sapphire bottle out for a lilac vial. “It’s a bit sharper, but has more of a crisp freshness to it, don’t you think?”

“I would kindly ask if you—”

“And this one has quite the earthy musk to it! The label looks draconic? Is it dragonborn in nature, or do you think dragons order barrels of this stuff?”

“Blast it all, get out!” Gale shouted.

Astarion’s eyes gleamed and he rose to his feet.

“Oh, no. No, I don’t think I shall,” he said. His smile widened to show his fangs, and his eyes glittered darkly. “In fact, if I leave this room before I take my own bath, then the first thing I am going to do is tell everyone you have a secret magic bathroom with a proper latrine and hot running water.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Gale growled, but under his simmering anger, disappointment settled in his stomach like a weight. There wasn’t a civilized way to force Astarion’s silence, and they both knew it.

“Darling, you’ll find that I am quite willing to do terribly unspeakable things to get what I want. Spilling secrets is quite mild on the list of atrocities I would commit for a hot bath,” Astarion said with the arrogance of someone who knew he had his opponent by the shorthairs. “And speaking of, I never suspected you had a secret like this up your sleeve, you sly bastard. How long have you been hiding this?”

“That is none of your concern!” Gale snapped.

He grit his teeth and ran his hands over his face, taking a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm himself. Whether he liked it or not, the secret was out. However, it was better that one irritating rogue knew about the washroom instead of the entire camp, and Gale huffed a sigh.

“Fine,” he said. “Let me finish bathing in peace and come back in one hour.”

“And give you the chance to dispel this miracle while I’m gone?” Astarion laughed, and the sound had the dark edge of a threat. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll be staying here until I’ve finished my own bath.”

Dammit. The only way Gale was going to get Astarion out of this room entailed escalating the situation, and initiating violence with a quite literally blood-thirsty vampire spawn sounded unwise.

“Fine. But no looking!”

“No promises.” Astarion said cheerily, but turned his back on Gale nonetheless, electing to examine the soaps he’d collected instead.

Grumbling was not going to improve his situation, but it still made Gale feel better, so he muttered a few uncomplimentary curses under his breath as he bathed. He washed quickly and efficiently, wanting to minimize the time he spent naked in front of Astarion.

“What were you even doing in my tent?” Gale asked.

“You mentioned scrolls of Prestidigitation,” Astarion said, sniffing at an ivory soap bar laced with pink petals. “I wanted to get a better idea of what I should be looking for and came to consult you on the matter. Imagine my dismay when you appeared to have vanished from your tent entirely! When I investigated further, I found the portal leading to this delightful surprise.”

“Is that so?” Gale asked skeptically. Visited by Astarion long after he’d declared he was going to bed? Gale made a mental note to evaluate his inventory of valuables once he was back in his tent.

“Is this spell permanent?” Astarion asked. “Forever ingrained on the interior of your tent?”

“No,” Gale said. He initially planned to keep his answer curt and short to discourage further discussion, but the lure to elaborate on his spell was too great. “Pocket dimensions without an anchor are notoriously unstable and are prone to collapsing. The washroom only exists for twelve hours before it ceases to exist.”

“Collapsing?” Astarion asked. “What an alarming choice of words. What happens if someone is in here when it falls apart?”

Astarion kept his back to Gale, but was now examining the same four soaps over and over in a repetitive motion. Gale had a sneaking suspicion Astarion was watching him through the vanity mirror, but without a visible reflection, he couldn’t know for sure.

“Anything still within the pocket dimension when it collapses is immediately deposited unharmed outside the portal. Like a Bag of Holding when turned inside out,” Gale said, lathering his hair with shampoo.

“And how many of these washrooms can you create?”

“Only one at a time,” Gale said.

“A pity. I was planning to extort—”

Gale didn’t hear whatever Astarion was planning to bribe or blackmail him with as he dunked his head back into the water and vigorously rinsed the shampoo out of his hair and beard. He sat back up with a splash, hair clinging to his face and neck. Under normal circumstances, Gale would finish his bath by taking advantage of the washroom’s selection of lotions, conditioners, and beard oil, but right now he was more interested in getting away from Astarion as soon as possible.

He hauled himself out of the bath and made for the towels. Gale refused to look at Astarion, as if not perceiving him would relieve his embarrassment, but he felt eyes on his back as he dried himself. He considered wrapping the towel around his waist to leave, but anything conjured with the washroom was unable to leave the washroom. He’d have to awkwardly drop the towel before exiting the portal. Was that more or less embarrassing than just strutting across the room naked? Astarion had been watching him for this long already, was there any dignity left to be saved by hiding himself for another few seconds?

Unlikely. He may as well save face and fake some confidence.

“All yours,” Gale said, dropping the towel to the floor.

He turned around to find Astarion was indeed openly watching him, leaning back against the vanity with an amused smile on his lips. Gale fought to keep his expression one of mild irritation, refusing to give Astarion the satisfaction of a reaction, but felt his face growing hot anyway. Ruby eyes lingered on the orb before trailing downward and Gale turned sharply on his heel and hurried for the portal. He didn’t want to know where else Astarion’s eyes lingered, whether it be on his coarse body hair or the softness around his middle or… or anywhere else. The last thing he wanted was to see that teasing smile turn to mockery or disgust.

“I’ll be in my tent,” Gale said curtly. “Try not to make a mess.”

“Is there a way to change out the water, or do I have to bathe in your sloppy seconds?” Astarion asked. He stepped away from the vanity and peered down at the steaming water.

Gale hesitated before the portal exit. Gods, why couldn’t Astarion ask a simple question? Why did he wait to ask until after Gale was out of the tub? If there was a simple answer to the question, Gale would give it, but now he was forced to give a lecture while naked as the day he was born.

“The water magically filters,” he said, half turning to face Astarion, “but only when it’s empty. Otherwise, any soaps you were using would be immediately cleaned off you, which quite defeats the purpose! The tub itself has an enchantment to detect if there is an occupant using the bath, and once that occupant exits the tub, it initiates a refresh, instantly replenishing itself with clean, hot water.”

Astarion stared at him. “So… it’s clean?”

“Yes,” Gale said, exasperated. Hadn’t Astarion been listening? “It was clean the moment I got out.”

“Oh, how lovely! Now go away. Ta!” Astarion gave a patronizing wave with a waggle of his fingers.

Gale didn’t question the dismissal and slipped out the portal. The shock of cold night air hit him like a brick, and Gale dressed quickly before he could get chilled. He took a quick inventory of his things, but couldn’t tell if anything was missing or out of place. From this side, the portal still looked like an opening to a vague, dark room, with no indication of what was happening on the other side. Gale watched the portal for a moment, as if he’d somehow be able to tell what Astarion was doing, then reluctantly settled down in his bedroll. He wasn’t willing to sleep until Astarion was gone, so he curled up with a book and a mage light to occupy himself until his unwanted visitor departed.

Astarion stepped out of the portal nearly two hours later, fully dressed and smelling like he’d experimented with every scent in the entire washroom.

Gale sat up, wrinkling his nose. “I assume you enjoyed yourself?”

“Immensely,” Astarion purred, running a hand through his damp curls.

“Can I trust your discretion in this matter? I allowed you to use it, now you won’t spread any unfortunate rumors that would result in more people entering my tent?” Gale asked.

“Darling, I wouldn’t dream of it. After all, it’s in my best interests to keep this little secret between you and me,” Astarion grinned down at him with a flash of fang, but the smile seemed a little less murderous than before. “Cross my heart and hope to… well, you get the idea.”

“Good,” Gale said, marking his place and closing his book. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave me in peace. It’s quite late, and I’d like to get what sleep I can.”

“Of course! Trust me, I shan’t disturb your sleep again!” Astarion said, then slipped from the tent without another word.

That was… oddly reasonable, coming from Astarion. Perhaps Astarion was more tolerable when he’d been pampered. Or else he’d become worse. Gale dismissed the mage light and sank back into his bedroll.

Maybe everything would just… work out. Only time would tell.

Chapter Text

Pain drove through Gale’s hand like a spike and he jolted awake with a shout. He lurched upright, heart in his throat, and scrambled back from the tent entrance. Gods, they were under attack. Those blasted goblins had surely followed them to their camp for a midnight ambush. Hells, they were probably at every tent right now and any moment he’d hear the screams of his companions. Gale threw his hands out and brilliant white lights flared from his fingertips to illuminate his assailant.

Standing over him was a woman with long, black hair hanging loose around her shoulders. In her hands she held a small basket with a sponge and a handful of bottles. Odd choice for a weapon.

“Who goes there?!” Gale demanded. His fingers twisted through the air, calling the Weave to him and shaping it to his command. Electricity hummed within his arms, crackling down along his palms. “Get back or I’ll— …Shadowheart?”

The lighting died, dissipating back into the Weave.

“Or you’ll what? Fry the only person in this camp who can heal you?” She sneered.

Gods, what warranted such a sharp tongue this late at night? He’d never seen her with her hair down. Shadowheart was almost unrecognizable without her braid, the waves of dark hair framing her face and flowing around her shoulders softened her severe expression. Or it would, if her hair was actually flowing around her. Odd. Instead it seemed to be clinging to her, as if…

Oh. Her hair was wet.

Gale frowned.

“Shadowheart,” he said with deliberate calm, as if she were a hunting cat that might pounce at any sign of weakness. “Why are you in my tent? And why does my hand… did you step on me?”

She looked down her nose at him, and though her expression was cold and haughty, a hint of a blush painted her cheeks.

“What does it look like?” She responded in lieu of a real answer.

Gale pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. “It looks like you’ve just had a bath. But surely, surely you wouldn’t have come to bother me in the middle of the night, wake me up, step on my hand, just to announce to you’ve had a lovely bath in the River Chionthar.”

“No, I’d imagine that would be quite foolish.” She paused. “...About as foolish as bathing in the river when there are better options.”

“Better options that, and I cannot stress this enough, no one is supposed to know about,” Gale clenched his teeth.

“Astarion knows,” Shadowheart said.

“Quick to rat out your informant, aren’t you?” Gale groaned and ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in a tangle. “Hells. He assured me he would keep that information confidential, damn him. When did he tell you?”

“He didn’t,” she said, looking entirely unrepentant.

“Hogwash,” Gale frowned. “How else would you have found out?”

“I spotted Astarion entering and leaving your tent three nights in a row,” she said. “At first I thought you two were having a tryst, perhaps under the concealment of a silence spell, but after watching how Astarion was sneaking around, it was obvious he was taking care to avoid alerting you, not the rest of the camp. I was sure he was drinking your blood, but you didn’t appear to suffer from exsanguination. Then I figured he was robbing you, but I didn’t know what you could possibly have that required multiple thefts. I was curious, so I investigated after Astarion left, and found the washroom.”

“I appreciate your dedication to protecting my blood and my property,” Gale said dryly.

His eyes fell on the little basket she held. Panicked and muddled by sleep, he’d thought it seemed strange when he mistook Shadowheart for an ambusher. Now, it still seemed strange. The soaps created within the washroom could not be removed from the pocket dimension, so therefore…

“Did you bring your own soap?” Gale asked.

“Your washroom may be elaborate, but I have very specific tastes,” Shadowheart huffed. “So yes, I brought my own supplies.”

“Which means this can’t be the first time you’ve snuck into my tent to use it.” He groaned and rubbed his face. “How many times have you done this?”

“If you can’t figure it out, I’m not going to tell you. And it’s really your own fault for sleeping so deeply. Now, if that’s all, I’ll be going.” She turned away toward the tent flap.

“I beg your pardon?” Gale said, raising his voice. “No, no, that is not all! Don’t you dare try to turn this around on me! In fact, I forbid you from entering my tent again! Both you and Astarion! I didn’t know he was still doing it, either! So help me, I will set up alarms around my tent if need be. This outlandish behavior will not continue!”

Shadowheart stopped, halfway out of the tent. A moment passed in silence, then she looked back at him over her shoulder with a look of such perfect indifference, Gale was certain she’d practiced it in a mirror.

“I suppose I can’t stop you, if that’s what you want to do,” she said. “It’s your washroom, after all. Your tent, your spells. It’s your choice if you wish to hoard those resources for yourself.”

She gave a significant pause, long enough for Gale’s patience to wear thin.

“But?” he prompted, certain she was waiting for a chance to drop the other shoe.

“But if that is the case, then you’ll have no one but yourself to blame when the rest of us choose to keep our own resources to ourselves.” She shifted the basket under one arm so she could examine her nails idly. “Healing magic is so taxing, after all. Perhaps the majority of my spells will be prioritized for team members with a more generous attitude.”

Gale opened his mouth for a scathing retort, but the words died in his throat. Gods, was it worth angering the sole healer in their group? A Sharran cleric would have no compassion for his pain or suffering. Considering Shar’s teachings, Shadowheart had been more than generous to aid them at all. What if he deterred her from sharing any of her healing magic?

“Now now, let’s not be hasty,” Gale said instead. “Perhaps there is an arrangement to be made. So long as you don’t step on me again, I quite literally won’t continue to lose sleep over this. If you continue to heal me as generously and thoroughly as you have so far, I don’t see why I need to waste additional time and energy setting up an alarm around my tent. I trust, as a devout Sharran, you’re quite good at keeping secrets?”

“I keep the Lady of Sorrows’ secrets, not yours,” she said, her calculated indifference turning frigid. “But you have my discretion nonetheless. It benefits me if fewer people know about this. It’s been irritating enough working around Astarion’s erratic schedule. I think he comes in after he hunts, and predicting when he’ll show up has been difficult.”

“Then we have an agreement.”

“Indeed. May your sleep be dreamless,” Shadowheart gave him a look that could almost be mistaken as a smile, then left without another word.

Gale dropped back into his bedroll with a groan and rubbed his eyes. He was too tired to deal with this right now, but he vowed to confront Astarion in the morning. With a final grumble, he curled up under his blankets and sank back into sleep.

By the time Gale left his tent, the camp was bustling with noise and activity. All around him, his companions got ready for their day, gearing up in armor or cleaning up the camp. Gale helped himself to a quick breakfast of last night’s leftovers, then found Astarion sitting cross-legged outside his tent. He was half-dressed in his leather armor and was fiddling with a boot and a dagger in his lap.

“Astarion.”

“Gale.” Astarion didn’t look up from the boot. He seemed to be using the dagger to work out a rock embedded in the boot heel.

“We need to talk.”

“I’m quite busy, darling. Can this wait?”

“No, it cannot.” Gale folded his arms over his chest and scowled. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve continued to use my… private facilities while I’ve been asleep. You promised you wouldn’t use them again.”

“Did I?” The rock pried free and Astarion tossed it aside, then rose to his feet, one foot booted, the other foot bare. “I’m sure I would have remembered making such an idiotic promise.”

Gale smiled over gritted teeth. “I’m quite sure you promised to leave me alone, but it seems you’ve been sneaking into my tent every night, if what Shadowheart told me is correct.”

Astarion tutted. “That tattling shadow-addled shrew. If you recall, my dear, I promised not to disturb your sleep. And unless I am very much mistaken, I’ve succeeded at exactly that. You haven’t stirred a peep with my coming and going. If our little Sharran hadn’t failed at creeping in the dark like a proper creature of the night, then you’d be none the wiser.”

“No. This needs to stop,” Gale said.

“If you’re getting your full beauty rest, then what’s the problem?” Astarion asked, waving the boot in emphasis. “You didn’t even know before!

“I don’t appreciate anyone, least of all you, dipping in and out of my tent whenever it strikes your fancy. Shadowheart already noticed, and now I’ve got two people helping themselves to my privacy whenever you want. I won’t stand for it. If this keeps up, then it won’t be long before the whole camp knows about the Transitory Pocket Washroom!”

Focused on Astarion, Gale failed to be mindful of his surroundings until it was too late. Heavy footsteps behind him stopped.

“Whoa, wait! Did I hear that right?” Karlach’s hearty voice interrupted. “Gale has a magic bathroom?”

Gale had never before appreciated just how much Karlach’s voice carried. The commotion of the camp fell silent, and every eye turned to him, with the sole exception of Withers. Even the blasted dog was watching.

“He… I’m sorry, what?” Wyll asked.

Astarion’s eyes gleamed and a fanged smile spread across his face.

“You will never know rest again.”

Chapter Text

“What do you think, Shadowheart?” Gale asked. “Two cloves or four?”

Shadowheart looked up from her book and peered at the pan over the fire, sizzling with frying fish. The rest of the party was off investigating a note they found in Kahga’s study, leaving the two of them to watch the camp.

“Of garlic,” Gale clarified when she didn’t answer. “Cloves of garlic. Though what I wouldn’t give for a good pat of butter! A few lemons wouldn’t go amiss, either. I’m making do with what we have, of course, but it doesn’t hurt to dream! A splash of oil and a dash of white wine makes for a decent braised fish filet, but…”

Shadowheart stared at him. Gale coughed, suddenly aware of his own rambling.

“The garlic, yes. I say you can never have too much garlic in a dish, but I know not everyone feels the same. Do you enjoy garlic?”

Shadowheart looked down at the sizzling pan and considered for a moment.

“I can’t recall,” she said, and returned to her book.

Ah. Gale elected to meet somewhere in the middle and added three crushed cloves to the pan.

It had been two days since the existence of his washroom was made public and thankfully, nothing seemed to have changed. Lae’zel had scoffed, scorning Gale for wasting time and resources on frivolous luxuries. Karlach laughed and said every bath she took turned into a hot bath, so why should she care? Wyll was the only one who seemed wistful, but he politely refused to intrude on Gale’s privacy. Shadowheart and Astarion were presumably still sneaking into his tent at night, but his sleep remained undisturbed, so he couldn’t say for sure.

Gale slid the fried fish off the stove and onto a platter, then used the remaining grease, fat, and garlic to saute sliced potatoes. Gradually, a new smell wafted through the camp, overpowering the garlic sizzling on the stove. Shadowheart wrinkled her nose and frowned at Gale.

“Is that something you did? You didn’t crack a bad egg, did you?”

“No, we don’t have any eggs to crack.” Gale sniffed and looked around for the source of the smell. “Gods, that’s foul. It’s not as sulfurous as rotten eggs. It smells more… sour? More like decay? I think it might be closer to…ah. Oh, dear.”

A crash in the underbrush announced the return of their other companions, all four of them covered in mud and swamp water and looking very much worse for wear. Karlach walked with a noticeable limp, Wyll’s arm hung inside his armor in a makeshift sling, and dried blood crusted along Lae’zel’s hairline. Astarion’s face was smeared with blood, but it was hard to tell if he was injured, or if he’d taken a bite out of someone else.

“Gods, you look like the hells!” Gale exclaimed, taking the potatoes off the fire.

“And smell like worse,” Shadowheart said and hurried over to them. “Do you need healing?”

“Healing would not go amiss,” Wyll said with a grateful nod.

“We killed a hag!” Karlach grinned. “Wish we’d brought you, Gale. She had some fucked up magic shit down there. You coulda told us what it does.”

“I can’t say that a hag’s lair is high on my list of places I’d like to study, but I can go down with you and take a look if you think there may be something useful,” Gale said.

“I doubt it,” Wyll said. His eyes fluttered as Shadowheart sealed a gash along his shoulder. “Just the warped magics of a twisted mind.”

“We did take everything that looked valuable without also being cursed,” Astarion said. “We even got you a present.”

“I beg your pardon?” Gale asked, and stopped as Lae’zel strode toward him with clear purpose.

The swamp stench was much worse up close.

“Take this,” Lae’zel said, and thrust a pouch into his hands.

The little leather pouch positively thrummed with magic, and the orb lurched within his chest in hunger. Gale pulled the drawstring loose and looked inside.

A single eyeball stared unblinking up at him.

“Ah!”

Gale gave a shout and dropped the pouch as if it had burned him.

“Tch!” Lae’zel scooped the pouch back up and shoved it into Gale’s hands once more. “You are a fool to discard what is so freely given!”

“I’m not discarding it, I was just… surprised,” Gale said, and felt his cheeks grow hot.

“It’s not cursed, as far as I can tell,” Wyll said, “but all the same, we figured hag magic might be safer consumed than used.”

“Also no one wanted to wear the creepy eyeball choker, no matter how magical it is,” Karlach grinned.

“I can’t imagine why,” Gale said dryly, and looked into the pouch once more. Upon closer inspection, the item in question was a single green eyeball entwined with dry, dead branches to be worn around the neck. “Unless it can grant wishes, I doubt any magic is worth wearing this.”

“Good,” Lae’zel said. “Satisfy your hunger, then summon your washroom. We will all be using it.”

Gale’s head snapped up. “Wait, what? No! No, that’s private! There’s certainly no need to—”

Lae’zel rounded on him, and though she was half a head shorter than him, he stopped short at the fire in her eyes.

“Hot water is needed to clean this stench out of our equipment. I will not wear fouled armor with a stink strong enough to alert every enemy within a league to our presence! Are you willing to put the camp at risk?”

“What? No! That isn’t what—”

“Then summon your washroom.”

“It’s already conjured, but I don’t—”

“Good.”

Without another word, Lae’zel pushed past him and vanished into his tent. By the time Gale followed her inside, she was gone, already through the portal to the washroom. She’d tracked swamp mud onto his bedroll. Accepting defeat, Gale focused on rearranging his tent so the parade of swamp-covered intruders would cause as little damage as possible to his belongings.

The others helped themselves to braised fish and garlic potatoes while he worked. Just as he finished stacking the last of his books safely out of the way against the tent wall, a very naked Lae’zel stepped out of the portal. She gave him only a passing glance, then strode boldly into camp, still dripping wet with her gear under one arm.

“The wizard’s washroom has an odorless soap that neutralizes stench without leaving a new, vile scent in its place. I have separated it and removed all the useless soaps from the shelves. Cleanse yourselves and your armor quickly before the stench draws enemies to our camp.” She turned away without another word and returned to her own tent.

Gale settled in and endured half the party intruding into his tent and personal space, and found he couldn’t even justify complaining in the face of Wyll and Karlach’s words of gratitude. Astarion was the last to slip into his tent, a smirk on his face.

“Don’t stay up for me, darling. I plan to take my time!”

Two hours passed before Gale had access to his own washroom again, and the sight that met him left him aghast. Mud and water was tracked all over the tile floor, and the shelves had been quite literally dumped out, all the soap bars and bottles piled unceremoniously in one corner, with the exception of a single white bottle labeled “Deoderizor.” The towels had all been used and sat in a soggy pile, leaving no dry towels for himself.

He hadn’t been in the washroom for ten minutes before he was interrupted.

“Oh, are you not done?” Shadowheart asked. Her upper body leaned through the portal, the rest of her seeming to vanish into nothingness.

“Out!”

He threw a wet towel in her direction and she vanished back out the portal, her muffled laughter ringing through the room.

Godsdammit.

Chapter Text

“Gale, on your right!”

Gale threw himself to the side at Wyll’s warning, and the gnoll’s snapping jaws missed him by mere inches. The gnoll’s fiery eyes followed Gale’s stumbling form and it crouched, powerful legs preparing to pounce once more. With the gnoll’s attention on Gale, Astarion lunged from where he’d been hiding in the shadows cast by the towering cliff and sliced cleanly through the monster’s hamstrings. The gnoll shrieked and crumpled to all fours. It turned and snapped at Astarion, only for the rogue to dance out of reach and vanish into the shadowy cliffside once more.

Gale took the opportunity to put some distance between himself and the gnoll, then hurled a bolt of fire at the monster. Fire seared across the gnoll’s face at the same time Wyll’s crackling eldritch energy struck the monster’s chest, and the two blows were enough to finish it off.

“Good!” Wyll called.

They couldn’t have been ambushed at a worse place; a narrow trail halfway up a cliff, with sheer rock to their right and a drop into an open canyon to the left. Karlach had charged the gnoll pack with a roar savage enough to send the bulk of the gnolls fleeing up the path before her, leaving the others to deal with the stragglers.

“Gale, go after Karlach and give her backup,” Wyll ordered. “Astarion and I will finish off the two that fled back down the path.”

Before Gale could even nod his assent, a shadow passed over them, accompanied by the sound of something scrabbling along rock. A new gnoll scrambled along the cliff above them, then launched itself at Wyll.

Gale’s heart leapt into his throat.

“Watch out!”

From the shadows, a crossbow bolt flew true and pierced through the gnoll’s throat, but it was too late. The gnoll crashed into Wyll, and they both went tumbling off the edge of the cliff and out of sight. Gale sprinted for the cliff edge and called magic to his fingertips, the incantation to a feather fall on his lips before he’d even reached the ledge. The second Wyll’s falling form was back in sight, Gale flicked his fingers and released the spell.

The gnoll hit the canyon floor with a wet crunch, and Gale sighed with relief as Wyll continued to fall, albeit significantly slower than the splattered gnoll below. Gale leaned forward to get a better look and the rock crumbled beneath his feet. He teetered, pinwheeling his arms, then with a sickening lurch, his foot slipped and he pitched forward.

“No!”

Pale hands seized the back of his robe and yanked. Gale hit the ground hard, a rock stabbing into the small of his back and his legs dangling precariously over empty air.

“You moron!” Astarion scolded. He seized more of Gale’s robes and pulled, dragging him away from the cliff. “Get away from the edge, you absolute block-headed dunce!”

“I had to catch him!” Gale protested, but clung to Astarion’s arms.

“By sending yourself over the edge, too? Hells.”

Between Astarion’s pulling and Gale’s frantic clambering, he managed to get himself safely on sturdy ground. He rose to his feet and brushed off his robes, though it didn’t seem to remove any dirt. He took a cautious step forward and Astarion grabbed his arm with both hands.

“Wyll!” Gale shouted, unable to see Wyll without getting right up to the cliff edge again. “Did you land safely? Are you alright?”

“I landed hard on my shoulder, but nothing worse!” Wyll’s voice rose from the canyon below. “Good work, Gale! I’ll be fine down here, go catch up with Karlach!”

“We’ll come back! Don’t go anywhere!” Gale replied, then relented to Astarion’s insistent tugging, letting him pull Gale further away from the ledge.

“Yes, excellent,” Astarion sneered in that particular contemptuous way he did whenever he wanted to plaster on a fake smile and bare his fangs at the same time. “You’ve saved the day, how brave and heroic. Now let’s go after Karlach before she gets herself killed.”

Even outnumbered, Karlach had fared better than any of them. She was still smashing in skulls when they arrived as her backup, and all Gale and Astarion did was help her mop up the last of the ambush. Blood still sizzled on her skin, but hardly any of it seemed to be hers.

“Yeah, turns out even frenzied gnolls think twice about biting you after they’ve watched their mate’s head melt into hyena soup from doing the same thing,” Karlach said when Gale commented on it. “And it’s hard to aim a bow when there’s a screaming burning bitch bashing your head in with an axe.”

“Point taken.”

The canyon was quiet as they returned to the initial ambush site. Birds tittered and flitted through the shrubs and junipers dotting the cliffside, and a stiff breeze blew around them, strong enough to be quite brisk, particularly in the shade. Gale inspected the cliff edge, avoiding the area where the rock had crumbled under him before, and cautiously approached a sturdy-looking overhang to peer at the canyon below. A stream wound through the base of the canyon, surrounded by scraggly bushes and the occasional gnarled tree.

“Wyll?” Gale called. “We’re back! Are you still alright?”

Movement at the edge of the stream caught Gale’s eye. Wyll rose from where he was seated on a rock and waved one arm.

“I’m fine!” he shouted back. His voice echoed off the cliffs around them. “I can’t climb back up, it’s too sheer! I’ll have to find a way around!”

“Hell no!” Karlach interjected. “I’m not letting you wander around gnoll infested wilds alone!”

“There’s nowhere good to anchor a rope,” Astarion noted, examining the area around them. “I don’t think we even have enough rope to reach the bottom of the cliff.”

Blast it all. At the height of his power, Gale would have been able to solve this in a dozen different ways. He could have levitated Wyll back up the cliff, or teleported him, or enchanted him with flight, or polymorphed him into a bird, or summoned an earth elemental to carry him, or commanded the cliff to shape itself into a set of stairs. Hells, he was known to brew a few potions or write up a scroll if he had some free time. He could have equipped everyone with a veritable arsenal of magic.

The most he had at the moment was his feather fall, which was fine for helping someone get down, but less helpful for pulling someone back up.

Lingering on what could have been and wishing for what might be wasn’t going to help anyone. He needed to focus on what resources were at their disposal. The thought about brewing potions rang a bell in the back of Gale’s mind. They’d picked something up recently, hadn’t they? Something about the silvery potion had seemed familiar, but he hadn’t gotten the chance to properly identify it.

“Astarion, where’s that potion you found in that crate this morning? In those ransacked carts?” Gale asked.

“Hm? Why? What’s it going to do?” Astarion asked instead of retrieving the potion.

“I won’t know until I’ve examined it a little more, but it might be a potion of flight.” Gale said.

“And what, one of us drinks it and flies down to pick him up?” Astarion scoffed. “That won’t work. Neither of us have the strength to carry him and Karlach can’t touch him. Either he ends up dropped or incinerated, both of which make this situation worse and wastes a potion.”

A flash of hurt passed through Karlach’s eyes, quick enough Gale almost missed it.

“What if you also took a strength potion?” she asked hopefully. “Then you could fly and carry him!”

“Mm, I’d rather not,” Gale said. “Mixing potions is famously ill-advised. Sometimes the magic works as intended, sometimes the results are… unexpected. Or volatile.”

“I’m going to follow the stream and find a way around,” Wyll called up to them, too far away to hear their conversation.

“Hold tight, we may have a plan!” Gale shouted back.

“We don’t have a plan!” Astarion snapped. “We have a vial of mystery liquid and hypotheticals!”

“Let’s start by letting me see the potion, then,” Gale said, “and we can see what we’re working with.”

Astarion fished the vial out of a pouch on his hip and handed it over. The vial was hardly bigger than his thumb, stoppered with cork and wax. Gale tipped the vial back and forth, watching the liquid within slosh around. The silvery liquid was thin and watery, and not a single drop clung to the glass as he tipped it. He held the vial up to the sky, and with the light of the sun behind it, the silver all but vanished to his eye, looking as clear as water. He shook it, and the liquid shifted, turning into mist within the vial before liquifying once again. Gale smiled.

“I believe I can say with absolute confidence that this is, indeed, a potion of flying,” Gale said with a smile. “The properties of the solution are absolutely textbook to what I’d expect.”

“Marvelous,” Astarion huffed and folded his arms. “As previously discussed, drinking it won’t help.”

“Of course not,” Gale conceded. “We’re obviously going to throw it down to Wyll.”

“Lovely, so it can shatter on the rocks instead,” Astarion sneered.

“Oh!” Karlach said. “What if we put the vial in a bag and pad it with cloth or something before tossing it down? Maybe even lower it with the rope first!”

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Gale couldn’t help but smile with her.

“A sound and excellent idea,” he said, “and in another circumstance, it’s just what I’d do. However, I was going to take a shortcut today.”

With a flick of his hands, he wrapped another feather fall around the vial.

“Wyll!” he called down. “I’m throwing down a potion of flying! It’ll slow-fall, but don’t lose sight of it!”

“I’m ready,” came the return shout.

Gale tossed the potion off the cliff, and the vial floated all the way down into Wyll’s hands as gently as a feather. Mere moments later, Wyll soared up into the air and landed carefully beside them. He was scuffed up from the fight and was favoring his left arm, keeping it tucked against his body.

“You have my gratitude,” Wyll said, clapping Gale on the shoulder with his good hand. “Now let’s get off this damnable cliff before something else tries to throw us off of it.”

The journey back to camp was uneventful, but long, and the sun was nearing the horizon by the time they arrived. Gale hurried right to the fire pit to start on dinner, and Wyll headed to Shadowheart’s tent.

Gale rooted through their supplies and looked for something he could throw together into a quick meal. Smoked sausage, a half wheel of cheese, and a drizzle of honey were an excellent start. The rolls were one step beyond stale and liable to go moldy at any moment, but toasting them would hide the dry texture and save them from going to waste. Add in some baked sliced apples with more honey to round the meal out, and they’d have themselves a lovely, if simple, little supper.

He’d just finished slicing the apples when Wyll returned to the campfire.

“Back in fighting shape?” Gale asked, spreading the apple slices along the bottom of a pot.

“Just about,” Wyll said, and rolled one shoulder. “Anything I can do to help?”

“There’s not terribly much to do, I’m just throwing together something quick due to the late hour. However, if you insist on assisting, you can slice up enough sausage and cheese for everyone,” Gale said.

He laid the apple slices evenly along the bottom of a wide pot, then spread a generous portion of honey on top. Once satisfied, he secured the lid on the pot and set it over the fire to bake. Gods, if only he had some butter and cinnamon to add, perhaps a brown sugar crumble, but this would have to suffice.

“Fifteen minutes or so on the heat and the apples will be ready,” Gale said. “How are you fairing?”

A portion of rough, unevenly sliced sausage lay in front of Wyll, with several full links of sausage still to be chopped. Gale raised his eyebrows in surprise. This wasn’t the first time Wyll had volunteered to help with cooking, so Gale was well aware of his skill with a blade (both in battle and over a cookpot).

“I may have overestimated my capabilities, I’m afraid,” Wyll said. His left arm was tucked close to his body, still favoring the shoulder.

“Wyll, are you still injured?” Gale accused. “Why aren’t you resting?”

“It’s just a bit of soreness,” Wyll protested. “Shadowheart healed the damage, rest assured. She said the tendons would be sore and stiff for a day or two.”

“Which is why you came over to volunteer the repetitive motion of chopping and slicing?” Gale raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Well…”

“Out with it. Dancing around the point isn’t your strong suit.”

“Despite being a practiced dancer,” Wyll said, flashing him a grin.

“Wyll.”

“Easy, easy,” Wyll held a hand up. “I concede. I admit I was trying to curry favor. I’ve been more than willing to respect your privacy, given the circumstances, however…”

Oh gods. Not Wyll, too.

“I do think a hot soak would do my shoulder wonders,” Wyll finished.

Gale sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Given that you are the first person to ask instead of demanding or stealing access to the washroom… yes. Yes, I’ll summon it and grant you access.”

Wyll gave him such a look of relief that Gale felt a pang of guilt at making such a fuss over the whole situation. It certainly wasn’t fair that he’d allowed the unscrupulous members of their party to keep sneaking into his washroom while he forbade access to his more honorable companions.

“After we eat,” Gale clarified. “Give me a little time to get ready.”

“Of course. Thank you, Gale.”

“Now, off with you! Go rest!” Gale shooed him away and took over the cutting board. “You fell off a cliff today!”

“To which I offer my gratitude for your timely assistance,” Wyll said.

“You’ve already buttered me up, no need to keep laying it on thick.”

Wyll chuckled and settled by the fire.

After dinner was cleaned up, Gale slipped into his tent and retrieved his spellbook, his component pouch, and a large, scarlet tassel he’d scavenged from a shredded tapestry. There was no point in trying to keep the washroom concealed within his tent anymore. He might as well set it up where no one stepped on him or intruded on his personal space.

Gale walked around the camp for a while, examining the faces of rocks and boulders around the campsite, but found no surface suitably flat and returned to his own tent. He flipped to the bookmarked page in his spellbook, then knelt in the dirt and started the arduous process of transcribing the magic circle onto the outside of his tent. Soft footsteps approached him and stopped.

“Finally giving up, I see,” Astarion said from behind him.

Gale didn’t look up. “I’ve decided the preservation of privacy within my tent outweighs the failing endeavor to restrict access to my washroom.”

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Astarion said. “You’re giving up.”

“The more charitable take would be to say I’ve elected to embrace generosity and assist my fellow companions,” Gale said lightly. He licked a finger and wiped away an imperfection in the chalk lines.

“Charitable, yes. Charitable and untrue,” Astarion scoffed. Even without looking at him, Gale could hear Astarion’s smirk. “We badgered you into relenting. You would have never shared the washroom if the secret hadn’t come out.”

“Regardless of my motivations, what matters is the current situation.” Gale finished the chalk circle on the tent wall and closed his spellbook with a snap.

“Oh? And what exactly would you consider the current situation to be?” Astarion stood with his arms folded, watching as Gale drew a simple glyph in the dirt and laid out the material components.

“This,” Gale said.

He recited the necessary incantation and poured a drizzle of water over the glyph, then rose to his feet as the washroom twisted into existence on the side of his tent. He brushed the dirt off his knees and turned back toward the rest of the camp. Astarion raised a slender eyebrow at him, which he ignored.

“Ah… yes, excuse me? I have an announcement! Come over here, please. Yes, including you, Lae’zel.”

“Tch.”

“My washroom is now available to everyone in the camp,” Gale said once everyone had gathered. “I’ve devised a system to help us all keep our privacy, as the portal doesn’t contain a lock on its figurative door.”

He picked up the large, red tassel and hung it on a tent pole so it dangled in front of the washroom entrance.

“Hang the tassel here before you enter to signify the washroom is occupied. Once you finish, tuck the tassel out of the way like so to indicate the room is vacant.” Gale moved the tassel aside to demonstrate. “Any questions?”

“Oh, finally,” Shadowheart said. “No more sneaking around at night for a decent bath.”

“Yes, that would be ideal,” Gale said dryly. “As things stand, Wyll gets to use it first tonight, as he had the decency to ask.”

“Oh, like you would have shared if we’d asked earlier,” Shadowheart scowled, looking down her nose at him.

“Now, now,” Wyll said and raised his hands placatingly. “There’s no need for any hard feelings. Gale has given us a marvelous resource to share, so let’s focus on that instead. Thank you, Gale. This is very much appreciated.”

The crowd dispersed, everyone returning to what they were doing before the interruption, apart from Wyll, who vanished into the washroom portal. Astarion lingered, a bemused look on his face.

“I suppose you’ll be grateful to come and go freely instead of slinking about, him?” Gale asked.

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll change my schedule,” Astarion said. “It’s quite convenient to clean up after a hunt. Besides, I don’t trust anyone not to barge in uninvited, despite what your little tassel says.”

“Whatever you do, at least you won’t be bothering me when you do it,” Gale said and turned away.

“It’ll be a pity, though,” Astarion said when Gale was halfway into his tent.

Gale stopped, waiting for him to continue. Astarion looked out over the camp with deliberate wistfulness and slid his hands into his pockets. Gale grit his teeth, unable to leave the subject hanging, and took the bait.

“What will be a pity?”

Astarion shot him a sly sideways look. “Not getting to see you in bed anymore, of course.”

Gale gave a sputter of indignation and felt his face grow warm.

“You… how dare… bah!”

He retreated into his tent, letting the flap close behind him. Astarion’s shadow lingered outside, silhouetted through the canvas wall by the setting sun. Gale ignored him, sorting through a stack of books to pick something out for his evening reading.

“You could stand to be a little more selfish, you know,” Astarion finally said, voice soft and muffled by the canvas.

Gale froze.

“You worried me, damn near going over the cliff like that,” Astarion’s voice was quiet enough Gale had to strain his ears to listen. “It’s not wrong to want to take care of yourself.”

“Astarion?”

Astarion’s shadow slipped out of sight without a word. Gale settled into his bedroll with a book in his lap, but didn’t read a word as Astarion’s soft words lingered in his mind.