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"I have something for you,” Art said as she approached Gale’s tent. In her hand lay a necklace inlaid with subtle but, she hoped, effective enchantments.
Gale was weaving some sort of illusion together, and Art stopped as she beheld the image of a woman— or, what she thought might be a woman. Hair sleek and straight, features beautifully cold, eyes made of pure starlight. There was something strange in the image, like looking at only a sliver of a person through a cracked window. Like she was only gazing upon a tiny measure of who this person was.
He looked up, and the illusion vanished. “Oh, Art. Thank you.” He looked at the amulet and smiled with half his mouth. “Not really to my taste, but I’ll accept the gift anyway.”
“Shall I fit it on you?” she said, dangling it in front of him. When he laughed and took it from her, something warm bloomed in her chest. She folded her hands behind her back and cleared her throat. “I hope it’ll suit your needs.”
“Yes, I think it’ll do just fine.” Gale studied the necklace briefly, then the orb gave a violently bright flash, and he grimaced as it absorbed the item, weave and all.
It usually took Gale a few minutes to recover, and Art waited patiently, as his breathing steadied. As always, her heart ached to see him in such obvious pain. She once again wracked her brain for an alternative means, a way to more permanently help him. For gods’ sake, she was supposed to be a master in knowledge, but no. Nothing came to mind.
“Alright?” she asked him, softly.
“I will be,” he said, then patted his chest where the orb lay. “Thank you, once again. You needn’t do any of this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t. I could leave at a moment’s notice, figure out my own way out of this... blight."
Art crossed her arms. “I thought we were over this, Gale. You’re a part of this group, like it or not. Don’t think yourself so disposable.”
“I’m not naive, Artemesia. I know the danger I pose. You should remember it too.”
It always struck her when he used her full name. Gale was easily the most articulate of the entire party, and the many-syllabled name rolled off his tongue in a way that made it seem like it was made for him to speak.
She pursed her lips. She didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want to entertain such an awful prospect. So she did what she did best— she deflected.
“Who was that?” she asked. “The woman you conjured?”
Gale blinked at her. Pink tinged his cheeks, and he scratched the back of his head. “Saw that, did you?”
“Is she someone you know?”
The pink turned a shade darker, and his eyes dropped. “Yes. Yes, she is. Someone I used to know. It was a favorite form of hers.”
Something clicked, and Art felt at once like a fool. “That was Mystra.”
“The very same.”
Gods, she was an idiot. Of course he would spend his time alone thinking of her. Art remembered the fondness with which he spoke of the goddess, his former lover, when he'd divulge his situation with the orb. It had been easy to see how enamored he’d been, how enraptured and totally in awe of her. Art had tried very hard since then to respect his feelings, tried not to judge him too harshly for his past in what had clearly been a one-sided relationship. One-sided in that Art seriously doubted that a goddess could feel a fraction of what Gale had felt for her in turn. All these were thoughts she’d kept to herself, because other than being heartbreaking, were entirely unhelpful.
Of course he still felt for his goddess. After all, how does one simply get over someone like that? There was no chance he'd ever...
“I see,” Art said, more stiffly than she meant to. She turned to leave. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it…”
“Wait.”
She turned back.
“Let me at least repay you for your continued kindness. I believe I owe you something I promised a tenday ago that I have neglected to pay.”
“And what would that be?”
“Do you still want to learn that identify spell?”
She'd all but forgotten about that. Art hesitated, knowing full well that spending more time with Gale was probably the last thing she should be doing, though she couldn't place her finger on why. She generally trusted her gut, but recently, her gut had been leading her in decidedly vulnerable directions.
"I can't say I don't want to know that spell. How do you do it?"
Gale smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and something in her chest skipped. He offered her a spot to stand beside him, and they went over somatics first.
"Now, mind you; this is a ritual spell, so it'll require a bit of channeling. Have you ever channeled the weave before?"
"Can't say that I have."
He seemed almost giddy. "It's like nothing else you've ever experienced. Let me show you..."
The process of spellwork was an elegant one that Art had had trouble with in her early days of learning. Having no formal education of her own, she'd to be a careful watcher and a quick study. Gale's somatic work was different than the other wizards and sorcerers she'd watched, though. There was a fluidity to his movements, a kind of call and response to the gestures and the responding hum of magic.
She commented on this.
"I'll take the compliment," Gale said, his eyes lowered, focused on his hands. "It has taken years of study to understand the weave in the way that I do. Magic is... my life."
The way he said it, with such conviction and passion... Art found herself understanding what Mystra might have once seen in him. His desire to commune with the weave seemed to blur the lines between adoration and worship.
"I've been in contact with the Weave for as long as I can remember," Gale continued. "It's like art, poetry, song all rolled into one and given expression through the senses." He seemed almost shy as he asked, "Is it the same for you?"
She'd never given thought to it, really. She'd truly only seen magic, and seen most things, as a means to an end. She watched Gale's hands as they traced the somatics of the identify spell once more. "I can't say I've had such a passion for anything like that. That's a wonderfully precious thing, though. To love something that much."
He glanced at her, and it was a physical effort not to stare at those warm brown eyes, the ones which held such intelligence behind them, yet never any judgement.
Somewhere, in some distant corner of her mind, out in the far reaches of the known world, Art's breath caught as the moment of eye contact stretched. And stretched.
Gale cleared his throat, looking away. "Let's see how you handle the somatics." He gestured toward her.
The identify spell required a delicate touch, and after attempting it twice, failing both times, Gale chuckled and said, "Here, you're just missing the flourish with your index. Like this--"
He took her hand in both his, gently adjusting her fingers into place. And it was at that precise moment that Art knew she was in trouble.
His hands were warm, and soft, his breath clouding across her brow. Everything in Art froze up as his arms bracketed around her, a breeze blew, and his hair tickled her cheek. Cinnamon. He smelled like cinnamon, and myrrh. And old books, and the faintest hint of ink and parchment...
There and gone again, the touch. It might have never even happened. Gale nodded in approval as she went over the somatics once again, trying to remember how to breathe.
"Now, repeat after me..."
This part was easier, or it would have been, had Art not just been rattled to her core. What was wrong with her tonight? But she managed the verbal component of the spell well enough, and then suddenly a feeling swept into the air. Like-- a kind word, and a kind touch. A smile at the end of a pleasant day, or the feel of velvet-soft rose petals beneath fingertips.
Art blinked, looking around. It felt like someone-- no, something-- was watching her.
"You did it!" Gale exclaimed, half-wild with laughter. "You're channeling the weave! How does it feel?"
Was that what she was doing? "I... it's... " She straightened, wholly uncomfortable with the knots her tongue was tying itself into. The weave felt... intimate. Like it was staring into her very soul. She deflected. "It's a marvel. Though I could have easily done it myself."
"You're hard to please, aren't you?" He wasn't looking at her, instead focusing on the faint arcane glow which had started, well, weaving itself between their limbs, but his smile was easy. It had the opposite than the desired effect on her. Which was to say, it had a warm effect on her.
Then he did look at her, and Art found herself, in that moment amongst such magical wonder, completely helpless. Those warm eyes softened as they met her own, like she was something precious to look upon. She noticed the orb’s mark wove it's way, faintly, up his neck to grace his cheek. It looked almost like the streak of tears. She wanted to touch that streak, to feel if it was warm as the rest of him seemed to be, wanted to lay her hand upon the spot on his chest where she knew the core of the orb’s mark lay, to discover if it pulsed similar to how her own heart seemed to throb just now...
And in the darkness and the glow of the weave, Art found herself wanting to kiss him, wanting to weave her fingers gently through the hair curling around his ears and to melt into him, forgetting everything and everyone else around her. Wanted to lean in and feel his breath on her cheek hitch, his hands wind instinctively around her waist. Wanted to see his eyes widen slightly in wonder, his mouth part slightly. Gods, she wanted it. She wanted it like air. She ached with wanting.
Gale blinked.
And Art realized what she had done. What the weave had revealed to him, mind to mind, heart to heart. She backed away a step, her heart plummeting into her stomach, shame burning her face.
She was an idiot. Of course she was. Gods why had she let her mind wander...
"I..." Gale started, stopped, stared at her like she was a stranger. "I didn't think..."
"I'm sorry," Art said, stepping back again. Her words came out jilted and uneven. "I'm sorry. I'm-- Oh gods Gale I'm so--"
"No, no," he said, and to Art's supreme shock, he reached out to take her hands. Art froze, her eyes threatening to leave her skull, her heart threatening to burst. Gale smiled softly, almost shy. "I'm sorry. I just wasn't expecting..."
Stupid, idiot, reckless...
"But it is a pleasant image, to be sure."
She blinked. Looked up at him. And as their eyes met, the weave pulsed around them, and she felt the mirror of what must have happened to Gale a moment ago. She felt his emotions, the quick-fire bursts of embarrassment at glimpsing something private, then trepidation, doubt, disbelief, and then finally...
Elation.
Art, for once in her life, was entirely speechless as Gale smiled and ran his thumb over the back of her hand which he now held in both of his. "It was most pleasant, in fact. Most welcome."
Art opened her mouth. No sound came out.
Then, like an almighty exhale, it was gone. The weave, that was. The glow faded, as did their mingled feelings.
Sorrow passed over Gale's features. "Oh, there it goes."
He released her, though her fingers still tingled slightly, and gave her a grin with half his mouth that might have made her toes melt a little. "Thank you for sharing a moment of magic with me. Good night. We'll discuss more later, I'm sure."
Suffice it to say that Artemesia had difficulty finding sleep that night.