Chapter Text
1488 DR, APRIL 16th [Present Day]
It’s early morning when Gale arrives at the old salt-chewed port, arms full of luggage, Tara perched on his shoulder. Last night’s storm still lingers in the form of thick rolling clouds and that bone-deep chill, but like always the birds emerge from their nests and begin their wistful song. Gale fills his lungs with that stark, post-storm air. He and the dawn have always been at odds, but little things like this, he can appreciate.
Still, most things he cannot. His nose wrinkles as he makes his way down the docks; that age old reek of stagnant water and rotten meat seared into every inch of wood. The result of being just downwind of Pax’s fish cleaning post, he supposes.
“Keep your head on, Mr. Dekarios,” Tara says. “We are running late.”
Gale grumbles. The sun has hardly peeked its head above the horizon, only beginning to spout fire along each ripple of the sea. All to say, it’s far too early to form a proper response.
“To the right,” Tara murmurs.
Gale waves her off. He could find his way blind.
He walks down the never-ending docks, making all the correct turns, his eyes half lidded and his mind half asleep. Tara’s ears prickle as they approach the vessel; a crowd is forming around the ship, families and lone travellers clutching their bulging luggage and lining up early for boarding.
Gale sighs out through his nose, momentarily setting his bags down by a gnarled dock piling. He flexes his fingers, inspecting the deep red indents crossing over his palms from where the straps of his bags were biting into them.
He’s never liked travelling overseas— not with that constant stench and that swirling sick feeling that never seems to go away. Really, he doesn’t like travelling at all. There are only so many books one can fit in a travel bag.
“Aye! Dekarios!” Juno, the old fishmonger, nods at Gale from a few yards away. He’s packing crates of salt cod into his wagon, like he does every Tuesday morning.
Gale looks up, smiles at him. The old man has known him since he was crawling around on all fours. He’d known exactly how to capture Gale’s attention with tales about his long past seafaring days.
“Juno,” Gale bows his head in greeting.
Juno grunts as he lifts the crate into the wagon, then wipes his hands on his salt-stained pants. “Where are you two off to now? Thornhold again?”
“Much farther, I’m afraid.” Gale nods towards his stuffed bags. “Three weeks overseas to Baldur’s Gate.”
“Aye!” Juno raises his eyebrows. “She has you going all the way out there? What about Morena?”
Gale laughs. “You know my mother. Tireless woman. She’ll do just fine without me.”
“And the little ones?”
“Elminster is taking over their lessons while I’m gone.”
Juno only scoffs in response, shaking his head as he bends down to pick up another crate. “That old gruff can’t train ‘em like you do, Dekarios.”
Gale chuckles. “He was my teacher too, Juno. I think I turned out rather alright.” His eyes wander to the shore in the distance as a flock of seagulls take their landing, spreading out across the sand. Wildflowers are starting to bloom from the grass under the boardwalk. Gale laments not being able to spend Spring in Waterdeep.
His stomach turns, dread settling heavy in his gut like stones. Typically his travels are an inconvenience at worst, and decently enjoyable at best— nothing he’d ever been excessively distressed over. But just the name Baldur’s Gate brings up a range of memories that he’d be better off forgetting.
To name one, the last time he ever saw Astarion. Right here on these docks, when they were just barely eighteen. Hot tears rolling down cheeks, the name Baldur’s Gate on the ticketmaster’s lips like a death sentence. “Baldur’s Gate— last call for Baldur’s Gate!”
But he supposes there is some hope in hearing that name now. Thirteen years since they last saw each other, ten since they last spoke, but perhaps… Perhaps Gale will find him there. Demand answers. Curse him for leaving him alone. Hug him and hope his name will become familiar on his lips all over again.
“Three weeks there and three weeks back, is it?”
Gale blinks, shaking himself out of his thoughts and shifting his focus back to Juno. “That’s right.”
“Awful long time.” He heaves the last crate into his wagon. His cap nearly blows away as a gust of wind howls through the port. He secures it down with his hand. “What for?”
Gale shrugs. “Same as always.”
“Ah.”
“Mr. Dekarios,” Tara says, shifting impatiently on his shoulder. “First class will be boarding soon. Come on now.”
Gale leans over to retrieve his bags. “Tara demands that I get myself in order. I’ll see you in just under two months, my friend.” He offers a sad smile. “Enjoy the Springtime for me.”
Juno tips his cap. “Will do, Dekarios. Safe travels. Your mother will want you back in one piece.”
As Gale walks towards the boat, standing tall and proud in the water, his trepidation nearly trips him, stumbling forwards with a tight feeling in his throat. He knows his anxiety is trivial; Baldur’s Gate is a large city and for all he knows, Astarion could be living somewhere else entirely these days. He should be soothed knowing he may not have to face his past at all. Unfortunately, that defiant part of him hopes that running into him on an unassuming spring day will become a reality. Perhaps their worlds will collide once more. Perhaps he will offer an explanation for the rift that’s grown wide between them, where there used to be no space at all.
“Gale, love,” Tara says softly. “It isn’t worth fretting over.”
She’s always known how to read his mind.
𖤓₊ ⊹
“This one is yours, just down here.” The tiefling girl leads him down the hall of first-class cabins.
It isn’t a hall he’s used to. Mystra was feeling generous, and Gale decides not to question why.
They reach the end, where the ceiling starts to slope downwards, and Gale is ducking his head a little by the time the tiefling opens the very last door.
Gale peeks inside. It’s small, but he has his own bed, a wardrobe, a mirror, and even a window.
“It’s Anastasia, if you ever need me,” the tiefling girl grins, all teeth, and holds out her hand. “Ana, if I like you.”
“I see,” Gale smiles back, amused. He thinks briefly that she looks far too young to be working on a ship. “Gale, wizard of Waterdeep, if you shall ever need me.” He shakes her hand.
“And your cat?”
“Tressym. Tara.” He starts to make his way into his room, only to put his bags down. Tara jumps off his shoulder and sits on the ground instead, blinking up at the girl. Her horns are rather unique, curling around her ears much like ram horns do.
“Well.” Anastasia reaches down to scratch behind Tara’s ear, to which Tara is rather receptive. “Good to meet you both. Bound to run into you again soon,” she says, straightening up again.
Gale hums his agreement. “Surely. Thanks for your help,” he says, dumping his bags at the foot of his bed.
“Of course,” Ana says. She reaches in and pulls his door shut, leaving them in the quiet.
He falls back onto his bed, the urge to go back to sleep growing stronger every passing moment. Tara pads over to him, jumping up onto the mattress and walking across his stomach.
Gale groans. “You could’ve gone around, you know.” He drags himself upright, leaning against the wall.
“I know.” She makes herself comfortable at his side.
He watches people’s feet shuffle around on deck through his window as the crowd continues to file onto the boat. The sun is getting higher, touching the tops of the buildings now.
Gale reaches down, digging through his bag until his fingers find his journal. Setting it in his lap, he traces over the ridges of the lapis stones arranged in swirling designs across the cover. A gift from Mystra. It’s nearly filled to the last page now.
“I’d say this is one of our easier missions, don’t you think, Gale?” Tara says, watching him flip through the pages over his shoulder.
He finds the page he was looking for. “I’d agree. But we have to travel awfully far for it. A bit of a pain.”
He scans over the notes he wrote for himself. Mystra is sending him after an artefact buried with a dead man— a ring that turns the wearer into stone. Quite useless to an all powerful being like Mystra, if you ask Gale, but he has no right to question his goddess. If it is what she wants, he cannot in his right mind refuse her.
“Fowler Wigglesworth. An unfortunate name,” Tara murmurs, reading Gale’s notes.
“Ah, well.” Gale flips the page. “I reckon a dead man doesn’t mind.”
𖤓₊ ⊹
My Dear Mother,
My first week of travel has been rather unremarkable. The food is unpleasant, and as always, blander than a pile of rocks. Tara has expressed her own displeasure regarding the quality of the rats down in the hold, so I suppose the two of us are in agreement. In the same boat, you could say…
I do appreciate having my own room this time, though admittedly it has only led me to hole up inside of it for the majority of my days. I have already read all five books that I packed and I’m bored out of my mind. I can’t say I understand why you always insist on receiving updates when it is the same story every time I travel overseas. But I appreciate your concern as always, mother.
Luckily I have more than just Tara to keep me company this time. The Quartermaster, Anastasia, is a bright young girl. It’s good to have some distraction outside of my books. She’s quite entertaining. You would like her.
I must ask a favour, while I’m still writing. Will you remind Elminster to keep a close eye on Micah when he’s practising his fire spells? I’m not sure he was listening to me when I warned him about Micah’s particular aptitude for fire, and truth be told I’ve been losing a fair amount of sleep thinking about the trouble he might get up to.
On second thought, maybe you should keep a close eye on all three of my students. Elminster is a commendable teacher, but I fear he’s too distracted these days.
Nevertheless. Smooth sailing here, no need to worry. Do let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to bring you from Baldur’s Gate. I’ll be stuck there much longer than I need to be.
Well wishes, I love you,
Gale
𖤓₊ ⊹
1488 DR, APRIL 27TH [Present Day]
The ship rocks back and forth as night approaches. Gale is lying with his back against the rough planks, his arms folded behind his head. Tara is resting on his stomach, curled up and breathing softly in her sleep.
“Are you going to finish that?”
“Ah…” Gale eyes his plate; beans and a slab of salted pork belly. He’s hardly touched it. “No. It’s all yours.”
Anastasia makes a pleased noise as she takes his dish from where it was neglected on the floor and balances it between her knees. The food is hardly tolerable, much less enjoyable, but Gale has quickly discovered that Ana's appetite is insatiable, no matter the food in front of her.
Gale pets Tara absentmindedly, trying not to get lost in thought. The past week and a half, he’s been thinking and remembering more than he typically allows himself to, old memories resurfacing of a time well missed— memories that Gale had spent all of ten years trying to forget. When he thinks of them now, there is only a sense of something long lost; an empty space in his chest where something warm once lived. If only he had more distractions— more books .
“I’ve never seen a cat like that,” Ana says with her mouth full. She’s taken a particular interest in Tara over the past week, claiming to have grown up with several cats of her own. “Or, a um, Tressym. Whatever you called her. She’s pretty.”
Gale chuckles, lifting his head a little to look at her. “She is. Tressyms are quite rare.”
“Hmm.” Ana reaches out to lightly trace the patterns on Tara’s fur. “Where’d you find her, anyway?”
“Oh, I didn’t find her,” Gale smiles fondly at his furry companion. “I conjured her myself. When I was ten years old.”
Ana’s eyebrows furrow. “You created her?”
Gale shrugs. “What is a young wizard to do when his father refuses to get him a cat?”
A grin spreads across her face and she forks another chunk of meat into her mouth. In the silence, Gale focuses on the sound of the waves sloshing against the hull and runs his fingers over the termite-eaten holes freckling the wood. He tries to keep his mind off that night, when he created Tara, and the boy who had encouraged him to do so.
“What is it?” Ana looks down at him with round eyes, wiping the corner of her mouth with her sleeve.
“What?”
“You’ve got a weird look on your face.”
“Ah.” Carefully, Gale slides his hands underneath Tara, and slowly moves her onto his legs, allowing himself to sit up. He adjusts his tunic and leans back on his hands. “Just feeling a bit seasick.”
“Oh, poor wizard.” She smiles a little. “Isn’t there a spell for that?”
Gale hums, eyes squinting. “You know, there probably is,” he says brightly. “Perhaps I’ll look into it when I return to my books.”
𖤓₊ ⊹
My Dear Gale,
I’m sorry to hear about the food, though that’s rather expected, isn’t it? I promise to make all your favourite dishes the moment you return to make up for it! And Tara’s, too. Do tell her for me.
I reminded Elminster about the little firebug, like you asked. It’s a good thing I did; when I walked in he was trying to set Elminster’s curtains aflame. It seems we have a young arsonist on our hands, though I’m sure you already know it.
I’ve been checking on all three of them every now and then. Elminster told me that Selah is advancing quickly! On the other hand, Kip refuses to practise under Elminster’s guidance. I suppose I am not the only one who is missing you.
I hope the rest of your travels go just as well. It is good to hear that you are in good company. And you know precisely what, or rather, who I would like you to bring home from Baldur’s Gate for me!
Please send me another letter once you arrive so I know you made it in one piece.
Love you, love you, love you,
Your Mother xxx
𖤓₊ ⊹
1488 DR, MAY 7TH [Present Day]
Gale waits on the starboard side of the ship with all of his things as they approach the port, Tara perching on his shoulder, nose to the air.
“I’ll see you on the trip back, won’t I?”
Ana nods, leaning against the railing. “We’re sailing Southwest to Candlekeep. We’ll return to this port in six days.”
“Right. Yes.” Gale breathes deep through his nose, glancing behind her at the bustling port of Baldur’s Gate. A sense of nervous excitement creeps up on him. Each face that passes down below is— possibility. Though he’s certain a magistrate would not be found in such a run down part of the city.
The ship slowly docks, and a small crowd forms where Gale is standing, people holding their things and buzzing with anticipation. Gale is just pleased to be so close to solid ground.
“I’ll see you in just under a week, then.” Gale offers her a small smile. “Take care, Ana.”
“See you soon, Wizard!” She waves as he makes his way down the ramp, eyes bright.
The smell, once he reaches the bottom, reminds him of his own port in Waterdeep. The smell of rotting fish is inescapable no matter where he goes; that’s one binding oath of the sea, he supposes.
His own two feet against the unwavering ground makes his stomach lurch. He’s used to land sickness, of course— a nearly unavoidable side effect of sailing for days at a time. But he always forgets the unsteadiness in his legs, his dwindling trust in his ability to move forward. Still, there’s no other option, so he puts one leg in front of the other and tries to ignore how the ground seems to swirl beneath his feet.
“Crestbourne Inn,” Tara mutters as he weaves through the crowd. “Mystra said it’s up East.”
“We’re not in any rush,” Gale says, eyes flicking to every face he passes by.
“We’ll check in, then we’ll go to the graveyard,” he says matter-of-factly.
“I thought we weren’t in a rush?”
The amusement in her voice makes Gale scowl. “I want to get it out of the way.”
He starts up the cracked road, swallowing down the sick feeling, passing new buildings and a plethora of different shops. The Gate is… nice. But it’s not Waterdeep.
“What are we going to do for the other six days?”
Gale shrugs. His eyes catch on a larger building, taller than the rest. He instantly recognizes it as a library, and he can’t help the excitement fluttering in his chest. “I will be there.”
Tara sighs.
𖤓₊ ⊹
There’s a kind half-orc woman behind the counter.
“Gale Dekarios, ah, yes. You’ll be in… let's see here…” she runs her finger over the page, stopping halfway down. “Room seven. Second floor.”
She turns around and pulls out a drawer of neatly organised keys, scanning them until she spots the right one. She grabs it, closes the drawer, and holds it out to Gale.
He thanks her and takes it.
“My daughter, Effie, left clean towels on your bed. Let one of us know if you or your cat need anything, dear.” The woman smiles.
“Thank you,” Gale returns her smile, bows his head, and heads for the stairs.
He passes the fireplace and the small bar, which a halfling is standing behind, cleaning glasses. It’s a small inn, but it’s cosy. Warm.
Gale’s room is the same likeness— small and cosy. The double bed is flush against the wall, beneath a large window, and plush with pillows. He has his own desk, wardrobe, and bathroom. There’s even a small balcony on the left side of the room.
He sighs, setting his bags down. Tara jumps to the floor just before Gale tosses himself down on the bed, sprawling across it, disregarding the towels that he sends tumbling to the floor.
“We’ve certainly had worse,” Tara says pleasantly, climbing on top of the desk, surveying the room.
Gale nods in quiet agreement, thinking back to all the cramped, dusty rooms they’d been subjected to throughout their travels. He knows that the quality of their cabin on the ship and their hotel room is likely Mystra trying to make up for sending them on such a long trip, so he’s just going to try to enjoy it.
He pushes himself up off the bed and steps towards the mirror, Tara stretching out in the sunbeams out of the corner of his eye. The light is soft and orange as the sun begins to set, illuminating the dust lingering in the air. Gale fans it away from his face as his gaze flicks up to meet his own in the mirror. He’s a bit of a mess. His hair is frizzy and there are dark circles under his eyes from so many sleepless nights, holding back seasickness in the damp dark of the ship.
He draws in a breath and thanks the gods for the solid ground beneath his feet. He reaches up and combs his fingers through his hair, tying half of it back into a small bun.
“Coming with me?” Gale asks, scooping up his bag from the pile of them on the floor.
Tara makes a soft sound from where she’s laying, eyes closed, basking in the warmth. “You don’t really have to go tonight, do you?”
“No, but I’d like to.” He rubs his fingers over the tense muscles in his shoulder. “You can stay here, if you’d like. I’ll bring back a treat.”
“No rats, I’m sick of them.”
“I wasn’t going to bring you a rat,” Gale scoffs. He tugs on the strap of his bag. “I’ll be back in a few hours, if all goes right.”
Tara only hums in acknowledgement, her drowsiness winning out. Gale can hardly blame her.
He turns to leave, making sure his room key is tucked safely in his pocket.
“Gale,” Tara says as he has one foot out the door. “The shovel.”
𖤓₊ ⊹
The wind rattles the old gate, a sharp clinking following every gust, created by the rusted chains knocking against metal.
Gale grips his shovel tight, his fingers numb and freezing. He expected the Spring to be forgiving. But as the sun sinks further below the horizon, the wind shows him no such mercy. He pulls his robes tight around him with his free hand.
The graveyard before him looks much like what you might imagine upon hearing the word graveyard. Typical. Lonely, grey, solemn.
Some graves are adorned with flowers, bright colours leaning against polished stone, and some stand long neglected, cracked and mossy and illegible.
Fowler has been dead a long while, so Gale starts towards the back, where the more neglected graves are all clustered together. He wonders briefly if being surrounded by other forgotten souls provides any comfort for the dead.
“Fowler, Fowler, Fowler,” Gale mutters to himself, passing each grave, reading each engraving. He hadn’t realised the eerie silence until he spoke, and now the quiet that follows makes his skin prickle.
An owl hoots from somewhere in the thick of the forest. Gale decides that’s not much better.
“Where are you, stubborn old bastard…” he whispers, moving a little faster. He should’ve made Tara come with him. Even powerful wizards are not immune to paranoia.
The wind howls through the trees and they move as if they’re underwater, swaying and rippling and leaning with the current. Gale stops before the grave; Fowler Wigglesworth, lying six feet beneath the ground. He drops his shovel and reaches up to fix his bun, tying his hair out of the way.
He looks around again, ensuring he is alone. Then he starts the process, piercing the grass and using his foot to push the shovel in deep.
The pile of dirt beside the grave slowly grows in height. It’s an exhausting, sweaty chore. Gale uses his magic when he can, lifting whole sheets of dirt out at a time when his arms get tired, though it proves to make a bit of a mess.
His shovel eventually hits something solid. He draws back, sighing, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath. Sitting on the edge of the grave, he lets his eyes fall shut, shivering at the cool wind against his nape.
“Almost finished,” he mutters to himself, imagining the relief he’ll feel when he walks back into his warm hotel room with an old ring and a waiting bed.
His peaceful thoughts are interrupted by the distinct sound of scratching.
On high alert now, Gale sits up straighter, scanning the graveyard surrounding him. There is nothing, no one. Other than the rippling grass and trees, everything is still.
He’s ready to blame it on the wind and continue digging when he hears it again. His gaze snaps to the coffin beneath him.
“By Mystra…” he whispers, leaning down to hear it better.
The scratching continues, desperate and frantic against the wood.
Gale’s eyes widen and he scrambles to his feet, clutching his shovel tight. “H-hello?” he leans over the grave, gaze trained on the coffin, barely visible beneath the dirt.
The scratching continues.
Gale stares. By the gods, what has his goddess gotten him into?
Just a rat, he tries to convince himself as he raises his shovel like one would a sword. Just a rat that got stuck in a coffin and has been surviving off rotten flesh for years. A very common occurrence, surely.
He lowers his shovel into the grave and knocks against the coffin twice.
The scratching stops.
Gale nearly lets out a sigh of relief. And then there’s banging— like a fist rapping against the wood, insistent and impatient.
Not a rat. Definitely not a rat.
He tosses his shovel to the side and watches the wood rattle. He huffs, raising his hand, the weave crackling at his fingertips. What’s an undead corpse going to do to him, anyway? He’s faced worse.
He steels himself and slowly begins to use his magic to lift the coffin out of the hole, dirt sliding off as it unearths itself. The pounding and scratching stops all together as the coffin moves. Gale sets it gently in the grass.
He watches it carefully, preparing himself to face whatever might be inside. He leans over to retrieve his shovel from the grass, holding it in two hands like a weapon, and approaches the coffin. There’s a latch on the side, old and rusted. Gale reaches for it, purple threads of weave dancing around his fingertips without him even thinking about it, like it always does, reacting to his own anxieties.
He forces himself to be calm as he unlatches the coffin door and lifts it slowly.
The door thuds against the grass.
Every bit of air leaves Gale’s lungs in an instant as he stares down into the coffin. He’s left winded, frozen in place, eyes wide; the world goes incredibly still.
He is changed in ways Gale cannot grasp, but if there is one person Gale could recognise even in death, even half rotted and covered in dirt and blood and earth, it is
“Astarion,” he whispers, shovel dropping to the grass.