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The city is still miles and miles away. The thought of what they'll be up to once they reach it sits uneasy in the wizard's stomach, but for now they're here, safely out of its reach and far from any cultists or vampire lords. Without the city lights, the stars shine bright in the night's clear sky. At some point after dinner, Gale had successfully snuck away to admire the night's beauty without any notice from the party.
Well, almost without notice.
“Someone's unusually quiet,” Astarion says, sliding comfortably to Gale's side.
Sometime ago, he'd found the rogue's eerily silent approaches unnerving. It certainly wasn't a good feeling to have a perpetually hungry vampire sneaking up on you, that's for certain. Now, though, Gale doesn't so much as flinch at the newfound company. He hums in acknowledgement at the man, eyes never straying from the constellations he'd been mentally mapping for sometime now.
Astarion frowns at the lack of usual greeting, giving a bemused huff. “If I wanted silent company, I would've sought out Lae'zel.” His nose scrunches at the thought, no doubt imagining the heated argument that'd end with a sword to his throat. “Perish the thought, gods know she’s no definition of the word fun.”
Gale's chest reverberates with a deep chuckle, finally meeting crimson eyes. “I’d ask as to why you sought me out for companionship, though I rather like my head still attached to my shoulders if it's all the same to you.”
“You wizards do love your dramatics, don't you?” Gale doesn't comment on the hypocrisy, instead settling for raising an eyebrow in amusement. “Wipe that smirk off your face, wizard. I think you'll find your usual woeful expression is much more comfortable.”
“I haven't the slightest clue what you mean.”
“Oh? I'll presume that means you've not been spending this past tenday mulling over your Goddess’ offer of becoming a suicide bomber.”
The air shifts slightly. Gale turns to gaze up at the stars again, ignoring the indignant pulse of the orb in his chest.
It's been… Well, he's lost track of time since Mystra laid out her proposal; or, more aptly, made Elminster deliver the proposal in her stead. Of course he knew his Goddess refused to so much as look his way after his betrayal, but it still stung hearing the fate laid out for him through Elminster. And, well, who was Gale to deny her?
But he wants to live. For perhaps the first time since Mystra had sent him away, Gale wanted to live; not as Gale of Waterdeep or Mystra's chosen, but simply as Gale Dekarios. Gods, how long has it been since he's wanted such an achingly simple thing? Was it truly such a crime that he wanted to live for himself, in spite of his Goddess? It's sacrilege, it's going against the woman he dedicated so much of his life to, and yet…
The stars are beautiful. It's quiet, save for the woodland creatures and the nearby stream, and he wants nothing more in this moment than to spend an eternity mapping these skies in all their glory. Wind chills the air pleasantly, though he shudders despite himself.
“Little star,” he mumbles, Astarion's ear twitching at the sound. “That's the name your mother gave you.”
“Yes, well, it's certainly easier on the ears than Gale of Waterdeep,” Astarion quips with little bite.
“It's a beautiful name. Astarion, that is. I find little to admire in my titles these days.”
Astarion's scrutinizing gaze bores into him, searching for…something. Gale lets him look, expression open and unchanging. He's been getting tired of trying to mold every minute detail into whatever another person may want, or perhaps expect. Funny, then, that he's chosen to let go of pretenses around the man who's got a sizable amount of his own.
Eventually, Astarion sighs, turning his gaze towards the night sky as a comet flies by. “There was a time I would wish on those; on any star, really.”
“For freedom?”
“For my mother. I was still a child by elven standards when Cazador took me, so I suppose I fell back on the childish habit.”
“Why your mother?”
“What child wouldn't wish for their mother?” He pauses, drawing in a breath he's not needed in a long, long time. “I gave up on all my wishing and praying to deaf ears quickly, Cazador made sure of that.”
It is then that he's struck by how he and Astarion are not so different. Decades cannot compare to centuries, surely, but they are but wretched mirrors of each other. Years under a master's thumb, whatever form it may take, is no easy thing to shake.
He thinks about the years he spent tripping over himself to keep in Mystra's good graces, how every praise felt like a prayer answered and every cold look choked the air from his lungs. If she asked it, Gale would've bled himself dry just to be something worthy, something holy.
Then, of course, she found a new sacrificial lamb. The empty space in his chest grew ever hungry. It landed him on his mother's doorstep, near hysterical as he asked if she was sure she gave life to a child and not an ever growing vortex that would never be satiated. You are my son, she had said with her own eyes brimming with tears, I will love you regardless. Even if he is empty, even if his very being is all consuming? It felt nigh impossible. He is hungry and hollow and desperate to claw his way into someone's side so he may become a part of them, creating a space to become an organ with a necessity rather than a void to consume.
He fears to break the silence, but he fears more to become hollow with want. “You never answered my question.”
“Hm?”
“Why would you seek out my companionship?” It's punctuated with a punched out laugh, bitter and hollow just like him. “Excuse my brashness, but I was under the impression you weren't all that fond of me.”
Astarion regards him with a curious expression. He wants to ask what he sees, if it's a man or a hollow shell. “You scurried off like a little mouse all by yourself, darling. How was I to know you wouldn't be moping about the Goddess you bed?”
“Astarion.” Gale's voice is firm, but not prying. He doesn't wish to dwell on his Goddess more than he already has.
Astarion takes a moment, eyes flickering elsewhere. His tongue snags on his fang as it darts over his lips, the little blood left in his body welling up. “You're an annoying little voice in all our ears—”
“Holding back your usual barbs, I see”
“—I will drink you dry right here, wizard.” Gale huffs a laugh, poorly hiding a satisfied grin as he motions for him to continue. “You were all quiet and…mopey. I was merely curious, so don't let it go all to your pretty little head.”
It's deflection, he's too engrossed in his own to fail to recognize such a thing. He craves more. There's something sick inside of him that will always crave more than what he's allowed.
The wizard hums. “I was unaware you were missing my usual verbosity.”
“Yes, well, if we're to be turned into monsters— well, those of us who haven’t already — at any moment then I at least wish to be entertained.”
“I don't believe your condition makes you a monster.”
Astarion scoffs at that, eyes crinkling in distaste. “Oh, spare me the bleeding heart lecture on how I'm not a monster, I've heard it enough that I could recite it from memory. No monster could be as pretty as you, this and I know there’s more to you, that.” His hands work in an entrancing flourish as he speaks. Gale wants to tell him he'd look beautiful working the Weave, but he's made enough of a fool of himself for the night.
Well, perhaps not.
“I didn't quite mean it like that.” He turns to face his companion, eyes open and earnest in hopes he might be convinced of the words to follow. “If your condition makes you to be a monster, so does mine, too. If there is no more to you than this, it is more than enough, and if you choose to dawn any other masks, I will still be here. My companionship is not finite, you will have it in any form, under any condition.”
They lapse into silence. For a moment, Gale wonders if he's said too much. Astarion has always been one to flinch back at tender words and kind hands, perhaps for fear of them turning cruel and unforgiving as humans are wont to.
Astarion takes a breath to speak and relief floods over him like a tidal wave. He has not ruined this, not yet, not with him.
“You're a foolish man.”
“So I've been told.”
“I could kill our other companions.”
“As can I. I surely have no desire to, and I'm quite sure you feel the same.”
Astarion hums in mock thought, tilting his head as he eyes the man before him. “No,” he admits softly. “I certainly have no desire for such things if it can be avoided.”
Gale grins. It feels as though his cheeks will split from joy and, for once, his Goddess can't touch him here. Beneath the cool night sky, sat with his friend (can he call him that, is it allowed?) he's struck with pure elation that this is something she can't soil for him. He'll keep them right here, as they are now, tucked close to his chest.
“Little star,” Astarion whispers as if a secret to himself. “I can't imagine it's a proper star name.”
Gale hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps not. It's beautiful all the same. If I fancied myself an astronomer, I might have named a star in the sky after you.”
“Ever the romantic,” Astarion quips, failing to hide his own grin. “Which one?”
Gale studies the sky before them, eyes scanning the vastness they may never live long enough to truly grasp. He points, then, at the brightest one visible from here.
“Stars burn bright with age. Certainly, it's already dead for its light to reach us, but to us it is alive and it glows with true radiance. Anything is immortal so long as we're still here to witness it.” He pauses, licking his lips nervously. “You are still alive, Astarion. Your wit and charm radiates off you, almost blindingly so, but it is precious nonetheless. Your mother truly named you aptly.”
Astarion says nothing. Still, he inches close enough to rest his head on Gale's shoulder.
The universe expands in multitudes. However vast and endless it may seem, it is even more so, and yet it is so young. There are eons ahead, it will continue to expand even after the both of them have long passed and the sun fizzles out. For now, the stars dot the night sky, a true light in the dark to guide weary travelers and homesick sailors. When the universe grows old, perhaps when none are left to witness its beauty and put names and stories to such things, the night sky will be a sea of diamonds; trillions of new stars will swallow the sheet of darkness whole and they may very well be all that remains.
For now, they're here. Alive. What a giddy feeling, to bear witness to such creations when their own existence is a statistical improbability, a miracle of its own.
The universe is vast and endless. I love you. Perhaps when the stars stare back, we are still children mulling around the garden. I love you. The stars are dead but not to us, not here yet. I love you.