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Gale couldn’t make sense of it.
He was used to laying love upon an altar. He knew how to drop to his knees in worship, whisper prayer and devotion between each kiss, to sacrifice his time, his life, his soul, all to the one who held it in the palm of her hand.
That was how it was meant to be. That was how it had always been.
He remembered his first night with her, barely a man, yet held by a goddess. Gale was nothing, and she was everything, and… it was perfect. It was bliss.
As years passed, it had remained much the same. The demands became more and more, but to Gale, they had been nothing. Anything was worth it. He was nothing. She was everything.
That was how it was supposed to be. That was how it always was.
He only lost her because of pride. Straining too far, reaching for the heavens and burned by their flames. Gale became a man obsessed after that night. He was going to prove his worth, prove he could serve, prove he was, again, nothing to her everything. Part of him was sick at the thought but… that’s what love was. Love was to give everything, and receive nothing. It was the heavens on earth.
After Gale fell out of that portal and saw that smile, he had lost interest in magic’s temple. His new god, a god of birdsong and roses and laughter, was blinding in his brilliance. Gale couldn’t even bear to look at him sometimes, afraid to go blind.
After that moment in the Weave, feeling his lips on his skin after only a look into those eyes, Gale was nothing short of a zealot. Everything had to be perfect, just as before. He rehearsed every hymn, gathered every sacrifice, ran through the rituals again and again.
Eventually, Gale had worked up the courage to pull his god aside and offer himself. Offer a tool, a servant, a lover. The words were all the same. It didn’t matter to Gale, he just needed to be worthy to be used.
In mere moments, Lindir had pulled him to his feet and held him like a man.
It was surreal. It was unthinkable. There was no way this could happen. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Panicked, he began to sputter off nonsense, more worshipful praise, more offers of pleasure, of power, of everything a god deserved, everything he had to give.
None were accepted. Lindir had just… smiled, shook his head, and kissed him until Gale couldn’t tell you where he ended and Lindir began.
And he had done it again and again.
Two months had passed since then. Gale sat alone in his tent, trying to piece it together. It made no sense at all. Lindir was more divine than Mystra had ever been, and yet… why?
Gale was supposed to be nothing. He was supposed to be a vessel, chosen and constrained, treasured and ruled. Love was proved through offering, service, sacrifice. He needed nothing in return - he was never meant to be anything but what he was molded into.
He was never meant to be anything less than perfect.
One hour earlier, Gale had offered the universe at his god’s feet.
Lindir had laughed. Laughed!
Apparently… this was enough.
Gale of Waterdeep, with the divine in the palm of his hand, the universe at his fingertips, wasn’t what Lindir wanted.
For some reason, he wanted the mortal man.
Gale’s head turned to the campfire, still utterly perplexed. Firelight danced off Lindir’s face as his fingers moved effortlessly over the lyre. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense at all.
The bard turned back. At that moment, Gale saw - or perhaps realized - many things for the first time. He saw the beginnings of silver streaking Lindir’s hair, the faint lines in the corners of his eyes, the fading bruises from the battles on the road. For a moment, the halo seemed to fade away.
Lindir smiled.
For the first time in many years, Gale felt… something he couldn’t quite define.