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Perfection.
It's what he spent a lifetime chasing, and can now practice for an eternity. It is what conquest and reformation of his predecessor's pernicious Weave has granted.
Nowhere is it more evident than in the projection at his side. Every detail is reformed from his memories exactly as it was: her scent, and all its subtle shifts; the glow in her eyes that sets apart a smile expressing true joy from a tactical one; the warmth that forever ran under her skin from the gift of the "Bloom", as she so quaintly called it; the impossibly soft gasps when he trails his fingertips over her ribs, turning to low moans as his hand creeps lower.
Yes, they still engage in that particular facsimile of mortality from time to time. It's a diverting novelty from their usual devotions.
It surprises him that he misses the wracking sobs that followed their earliest astral communions. Especially given the volume of tears he has observed since.
He kept a distant, distracted eye on Morel at the beginning, while he was sorting the tangle of magic inside of him and fusing it with the Crown. She hadn't strayed from her intentions. She terminated the pact, severing any connection to her petty mistress once and for all, and returned to her family, ready to rebuild. He had been proud of her resolve, even while her rejection still bruised.
Her howling anguish once ensconced in the safety of her homeland might have prompted an ill-advised swoop to rescue and recover her, had he not been mired in the labyrinth of divine politics. It's for the best that he kept his distance, that is clear now. The broken shell of a woman known once more as Morel Whisperwillow is fundamentally incompatible with the paradigm he must construct.
Her hunger has settled into a dull, throbbing thing, of vacant eyes staring out of a window and taking in none of the sights. Her yearning, palpable as it is, is wallowing and passive, with no drive. No ambition.
He had idly hoped that returning home would motivate Morel to re-embrace her druidic magic, if she couldn't follow him, if she insisted on carving her way alone. It was always obvious to him that she could never have been as untalented as she believed herself to be, and the confidence of becoming a hero and champion should have stamped down the self-doubt that had held her back in youth. Instead, she does little else than summon flames to soothe the chill of the Bloom's absence.
So disappointing. Needless sacrifice, if it wasn't to obtain the freedom to seize destiny for herself.
Is it mortal stubbornness that causes Morel's complacency? Does she know that he watches her, even now, and is harboring a secret determination to prove that she is perfectly satisfied without the infinite he would have given her?
It is not his concern to know, just as it was not her capability to understand his vision. He turns from the woman aimlessly wandering a prairie to gaze upon his love, playfully strumming his Weave.
That tickles.
She stops and smiles impishly. She lowers her hands and winds her way towards him through their bed of stars.
Well, I had to get your attention. You disappeared again.
You know how much work there is to be done. Such grand plans can hardly execute themselves.
Oh, of course.
Her amusement shifts smoothly into shrewd probing.
So, what are they saying about us?
They've taken to calling me Dekarios the Divine in Amn.
Apt. And me?
They don't know you yet, dear. You haven't found your domain.
Her dissatisfaction curls in his core.
She is Woven from defiant and irrepressible desire itself, she will inevitably slide towards discontent if denied. But it is unavoidable, her preservation must be private, if it is to remain virtuous.
He holds out a hand.
Indulge me.
I always do.
Yes, you do.
He brings her hand to his lips and considers.
It was always her advice he sought.
If I disappeared one day, would you attempt to reconstitute me?
What? Where are you going?
Nowhere. Nothing could separate me from you. But if it could...
Her skin ripples with displeasure.
If you disappeared, I would simply find you, and bring you back.
He smirks at her matter of fact certainty.
What if I didn't want to come?
She looks at him like he's being dreadfully dim-witted, to not have guessed her answer already.
Then I would drag you kicking and screaming.
And if you couldn't?
Real concern starts to etch itself across her face.
What is this, love? Is this Mystra? Is she planning something?
No, no. Just a flight of fancy, we're under no threat.
After all, this version of her...It's a purely theoretical exercise; she is of him. She couldn't persist without his power, she is his power.
Good. Because you promised me eternity, and I'd hate to see you made into a liar.
"We promised each other, Gale. From the beginning. No lies."
Realism is not without its challenges.
He tucks away the memory before it can manifest in her. He's been very careful not to let that conversation into her moulding.
I'll remind you, you also promised me a joint venture.
Surely we have joined in every way that matters.
Don't deflect. I was supposed to help you, so let me. It's what I want.
"I don't want your gossamer fucking filament."
Her edges melt into his as she takes his face into her hands.
I love you. Please let me.
He could remake her. As many times as necessary. The only trouble is the prospect that he hasn't correctly identified and excised the moment where he truly lost her.
Accuracy is paramount. Morel has forgotten herself, and in time, the rest will as well. And he will not allow the memory of Morel Whisperwillow to disappear from the world again.
He loves her. He cannot fail her.
Don't you believe me? I love you, you know I do.
"I hate the fucking gods. You know that."
"You would hate me?"
"Most of all."
The pairing of her sweet expression and that bitter tone is jarring, even to divinity. He yanks the echo back into his mind and she stabilizes.
I - yes, that is how I love you, Gale. Most of all.
He pulls her to him, wrapping Weave around the length of her.
My faith in you is the most profound I have ever known.
Her pause carries intent, the breath tickling his face a conscious detail to shape the moment to her design.
Prove it.