Chapter Text
“Doing the rounds?”
Shadowheart’s inability to ask or answer a question without a tinge of scorn was not one of her more endearing traits. Despite this, Niamh found herself liking the young woman - she was witty, self-possessed, and sometimes almost uncomfortably observant. Sharrans did not generally inspire friendly attitudes, but over the last tenday or so Niamh had become increasingly certain that this was not a very good Sharran. This was a bit of a relief. They were probably safe from the more violent forms of proselytizing, and there was no shortage of violence as things stood.
“I am,” Niamh grinned cheekily, “you’ve caught me out. Feeling all right after today? The swamp got pretty nasty.”
“Gods, if I never see another mud mephit it’ll be too soon. Those things are absolutely vile. I’ll never get all that muck out of my armor.”
“Oh, I know. I think my boots have given up the ghost entirely. I’m going to see if Gale can teach me that prestidigitation cantrip he’s been using. I’d do anything just to have clean hair .”
Shadowheart’s face brightened. “If you do learn it, I’ll trade you that bottle of Arabellan Dry I found if you’ll clean my hair too.”
“Deal.”
*********
Rounds complete, Niamh made her way to Gale’s tent. She often found herself going to speak with him last, to stretch it out a bit - he was friendlier than almost anyone else in camp, and he made her laugh in a way that Wyll didn’t.
She was still not completely sure how she’d become the de facto leader of the group, though she supposed it had something to do with her practiced easy manners and a tendency to decisiveness. She’d been earning her living on the road as a troubador or sellsword for a decade and a half; she’d learned to get along with traveling companions quickly, or else leave a party if that wasn’t possible.
This odd bunch was held together by circumstance more than anything else - she couldn’t imagine Lae’zel and Shadowheart inhabiting the same square mile for any reason besides shared mortal peril - but she could see connections building, and encouraged those when she could. Part of her wondered if this was cynical. Wondered if she really cared whether these people got along, or if it were only more convenient for her that they did. Ultimately her motives didn’t matter, she decided. Life was easier when the camp was peaceful, and she did enjoy their company more this way.
At least Gale was straightforward in this respect. He was almost painfully eager to make himself agreeable to everyone. He wanted to be useful, wanted to be liked. The watchful, pragmatic part of her noticed this and tucked the information away for future use. She wished she could ignore that part, at times. He was funny, and brilliant, and pleasant to listen to and look at. It would be much simpler if that were all she had to care about.
Rounding the corner to his tent, she saw he was occupied. He was intently focused on an image projected into his hand - the head of a woman, faintly familiar. Niamh considered letting him be, but curiosity took the upper hand.
“Who is she? Looks familiar, somehow.”
He started, jumping a little, and the image flickered out.
“Goodness, I was miles away. Yes, you probably would recognize her face from temple carvings - Mystra, the Mother of Mysteries. My goddess.” He spoke the last phrase in a strangely rueful tone.
“Were you praying? I’m sorry I interrupted.”
“I was, in a way. But it’s all right. What can I do for you?”
She shook out her dirty sleeves and grimaced. “This is driving me crazy. I’ve seen you doing the prestidigitation charm - could you show it to me? Somehow I’ve never managed to pick it up in all my years on the road."
He snapped out a quick set of movements and a command, faster than she could follow, and her shirt was clean. “Easily done. What about the rest of you?”
“No, I want to learn the spell, not run over here every time I need a wash,” she laughed, “if soap were more accessible it wouldn’t be as much an issue.”
“Well, that’s a different question,” he mused, “though you seem a competent enough caster, and it’s a very simple cantrip. It’s intended for beginning students, though it possesses a surprising amount of practical applications. I don’t see why not.”
“Your faith in my abilities is heartening, as ever.” she said dryly.
He blushed ever-so-slightly - he was adorable when he blushed, she thought - and put his hands up in a gesture of conciliation. “That’s not what I - I hadn’t intended to impugn, it’s just that your educational background is, well, different -”
“We weren’t complete incompetents at Fochlucan, even those few of us who studied at the College of Swords, if that’s what you’re referring to,” she countered, deadpan. It was really too easy to get to him.
He eyed her narrowly. “You’re winding me up, aren’t you.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, all innocence.
He rolled his eyes and gestured to the rug rolled out in front of his tent. “Shall we begin? Have a seat.”
The next half-hour passed in the sort of companionably studious routine she remembered from her time with the Lore tutors at school. She had not brought her violin - she preferred to learn spells without her focus, though she made frequent use of it - and found Gale amused and puzzled when she sang the verbal component.
“The way you use the Weave is so… unconventional,” he said, frowning as she added a triplet beat to the somatic gesture, “it's as if you're persuading it to dance to your rhythm, rather than commanding it directly as wizards do.”
She completed the sequence as he spoke, and was delighted to find her boots as clean as if she'd just bought them from the leatherworker. “Look!” she exclaimed, “it worked!”
“I knew you could do it!” He was as excited as she was, despite his earlier dismissiveness about the charm's simplicity. She suspected he was this happy any time he learned something new - or in this case, taught it.
“I know it's probably hard to believe,” she said as she admired her handiwork, “but I used to be much more proficient at this sort of thing, even though I wasn't - am not - a Lore bard. I used to cast major illusion and enchantment magic as easily as snapping my fingers, especially if it had anything to do with sound. I suppose it's my little cranial squatter causing the problem. That seems to be the case with everyone else.”
There was a long pause, and Niamh wondered if she'd said something wrong, or upsetting. Finally, in an oddly strained voice, he replied,“Yes. Yes, I believe you. I find I'm only a fraction of my former self since… Well, for a while now. It's upsetting, I'll freely admit. Magic is… my life.”
He gazed down at his hands, turning them over, and then clenched them into fists. “The frustration, not to be able to call upon it at will… I've been using the Weave in one form or another since I was a child. To me, it's everything; music, poetry, and physical beauty, all given form. I suspect it's something similar for you?”
She nodded emphatically, hoping to jog him out of whatever strange mood had settled upon him.
“The Weave is music,” Niamh explained, “or it's so similar it might as well be. Think of it this way: when you pluck a violin or a harp or a lute string, it vibrates, yes? Change the length or the tension of the string and it vibrates differently, at a higher or lower tone. The same with a drum, or with vocal cords… wait, here, you can feel it.”
Acting on a sudden inexplicable impulse, she leaned forward and took his hand, placing his fingertips lightly against her throat. She sang a quick scale, followed by an arpeggio, tilting her head back so the motion of her larynx would be evident. His skin was pleasantly warm, and he held himself perfectly - almost unnaturally - still. She was rather enjoying the sensation when he snatched his hand away, drawing it back to his chest to hold it in his other hand. He looked down at them as if they were new and unfamiliar.
“I'm sorry,” she said, sitting back, “I should have asked. I didn't want to get up to fetch my violin to show you what I meant.”
“That's quite all right,” Gale said, eyes on her face now, unreadable for the moment. Then his expression cleared, politely curious once again. “Any teacher knows that a demonstration is worth an hour’s lecture. You were saying?”
While he spoke, he gently flexed the hand that had been on her skin, seemingly unaware he was doing so. She wanted him to touch her somewhere else, to find out if he'd do it again. Perhaps on her shoulder? Her hip? Nothing else was conveniently exposed. How could she -
He was still looking at her, waiting for a reply. She hastily cleared her throat and continued.
“Yes, as I was saying, you can use a song or a musical phrase to lengthen and shorten strands of the Weave, and to vibrate it at the tones you want. It… resonates with you. Most of us don't actually spend that much time thinking about it,” she smiled, thinking of early classes at Fochlucan, “but that's the theory, anyway. A lot of bards end up stumbling onto it by accident. You can do it with spoken poetry as well - the main thing seems to be intent and rhythm.”
“Fascinating,” he exhaled, eyes unfocused, lost in thought. “The actual modifications to the Weave itself can't be too different, else the spell effects would be altered, but the approach diverges at several key points. I wonder if the method and application would change with the school of magic…” he turned, hands lighting on a quill and journal, clearly prepared to jot down various hypotheses for the remainder of the evening.
Laughing, Niamh waved her hands in front of him. “Gale, hello,” she called out, “I'm still sitting here. Shall we call it a night?”
He stopped short of actually smacking himself on the forehead in embarrassment, but she could see it was a near thing.
“Where are my manners! No, please, stay a bit longer. While you're here, actually, I was wondering if I could show you something,” he looked at her a bit shyly, but with obvious enthusiasm. “It's quite nice to chat with someone who appreciates the art of casting, rather than viewing it as a mere tool.”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked, trying not to think overmuch about interpretations of the phrase “show you something”. Where was her mind tonight, she scolded herself. This was a… a nice man, of all things, an ally becoming a friend, and there was no time nor call for any sort of fooling around. No matter how prettily the moonlight shaded the planes of his face.
“I thought you might be interested in seeing a different way to channel the Weave - I assume you’ve some experience in channeling?”
She nodded, unsure where this was going.
“Well,” he continued, “If you’ve never tried it before, there is a technique that’ll let two casters share a channel. I thought we might give it a go, show you a wizard’s way of doing things from an inside perspective.” He looked excited, hopeful, as if she were on the point of giving him a new book or a fresh scroll. She couldn't have said no even if she wanted to, and she didn't want to.
“Yes, please, that sounds quite intriguing,” she said with a smile, and his answering grin as he scrambled to his feet sent a wave of warmth all through her. The way he lit up from the inside, his simple pleasure at sharing what he so loved - after so many days of mud and blood and confusion, to be here with him was a relief and a comfort. Surely it was all right to enjoy it while it lasted.
Niamh stood and brushed herself off before remembering her clothes were now quite tidy and it was no longer necessary. She laughed at herself, and looked over at Gale, who was observing her with amusement. His eyes glowed with anticipation as he raised his hands and beckoned for her to follow along.
The incantation and gestures were familiar, though she was unused to manipulating the Weave quite so… mechanically. She had a sense he was doing a great deal of the heavy lifting and trying not to show it. Harmonizing as he directed was, of course, effortless, and a moment later she felt herself enveloped in a sense of calm, floating as if on gentle seas. The aroma of rosewater lay heavy around her - she found herself wishing it away, whistling a childhood tune and imagining the sweetness and tang of the apple orchards she’d grown up in. The scent of home, for better or for worse.
“Did you do that?” Gale asked, surprised. “I meant to show you how to effect changes, but you seem to be doing quite well on your own. How did you..”
It seemed the paired channel meant their perception and sensations were shared. She wondered how much energy this was costing him.
“I’m not quite sure how I did it,” she replied. “I don’t like rosewater.”
“Hm. I must admit, I associate it with a much different context myself. I like yours better. Can you try something visual? Here, it’s quite similar to illusion magic.” He knitted his hands together in a simple gesture - one she recognized - and ribbons of color and light spun themselves through the air, hinting at forms but never resolving. “Try this. It's not the same as a full casting - the connections between your mind, and mine, and the Weave have been reinforced by the channel.”
She repeated the motion, but only faint echoes of the brilliance he’d summoned hung before her. She crossed her arms, thinking, and tapped her fingers unconsciously against her sleeve. All at once a sound came from between them, an underwater rippling sound, like a hand drawn idly across a harp.
“Wait - what was that? How did you do that without the command?” he asked, mystified.
She continued to tap in a random pattern, using both hands now. The music changed, shifting to a warm bubble of notes ending in a swift glissando. No melody, only a sonorous sweep that ended when she stilled her hands.
“Incredible!” Gale was delighted. “Show me, please,” he asked, “and I’ll show you how the lights are done.”
“You've got to have music in mind when you do it, I think,” she ventured, “I almost always do, so it's unconscious for me. You'll probably have to focus on it specifically. Follow along with me, and think of an instrument or sound that you particularly like.”
She began to hum almost inaudibly, this time eliciting a soft skirl of pipes. Gale patterned himself after her in a pleasant but untrained baritone, with none of the self-consciousness she would have expected of him. Soon a waft of chimes, from deep bell tones up to a sweet silvery shiver, joined her song.
They continued this way for a while, one or the other taking the dominant thread, passing a simple, echoing melody back and forth. Gale looked more contented and comfortable than she had ever seen him, and his warmth communicated itself to her, enfolding her in a feeling of safety and joy.
Niamh had never felt such synchronicity outside of an ensemble performance - an easy, happy, flowing connection. A sense of play. She wished it never had to end. As if he'd heard her thought, Gale turned to her, a smile lighting his eyes as he took a step closer.
His chimes faded away, but the warmth remained, all under the continuing benediction of apple blossom in the air. There was a pleasant sense of tension, of anticipation around them both, as if something momentous was about to happen.
“That… I've never experienced anything like that. It was beautiful,” he breathed, “thank you.”
She was silent, looking at him. Their link deepened as she did, an intimate sharing, and she knew that whatever she thought or felt now, he would know too. She wanted to touch him, wanted the accidental brush of his hand against hers to become a firm grip, but she remembered his shyness from before. Unbidden, her mind formed a picture: a kiss.
A tender, careful kiss at first. Sweet, and gentle, and exploratory. She imagined his lips opening under hers, the softness of his beard against her face, his hands settling tentatively on her waist as she rested hers on his chest.
His eyes widened in surprise and she felt a sudden spike of embarrassment from him. This was rapidly followed by an odd feeling of trepidation, as if there were some danger in their closeness. She had begun to pull back when she felt something else - a sense of elation, of joy. A growing arousal.
Her response was immediate, instinctive. In her mind's eye the kiss intensified, her hands moving up to bury themselves in his hair. A deep, electric thrill coursed through her when he engaged in the shared vision - wrapping his arms tightly around her, pulling her close to his body.
Her breath was coming faster now - she began to wonder exactly how this could end - when the tattoo on his chest began to thrum faintly with a purple glow, the way it did when he destroyed an artifact. He stopped the kiss abruptly, though he didn't break the channel.
“I, I - I didn't know you were…” he shook his head suddenly, putting the heels of his hands to his eyes for a moment. “This is... unexpected. But it is a pleasant image, to be sure.” His face softened as his gaze traveled along her features, as if trying to memorize them. “Most pleasant. Most welcome.”
She tilted her head to the side and smiled at him, reassured. They stood in silence for a moment - she again felt the urge to reach out and take his hands - until his mark pulsed once more and the connection evaporated.
Niamh felt a sudden cold wash over her, carrying a sense of loneliness. From the look on his face Gale felt the same. His shoulders slumped, turned inward as if to protect himself from something.
“How easily such things slip away from us,” he murmured, seemingly to himself, “no matter how difficult they were in the getting.”
She needed to be in her tent, to catch her breath and figure out exactly what was happening to her.
“Gale,” she said, softly, “thank you. For teaching me the charm. For… for all of it, it was lovely. Thank you. I'll see you in the morning?” It was somehow now a matter of importance that she confirm this, for both of them.
“Yes,” he replied gravely, holding her eyes with his own. “Goodnight. I enjoyed sharing a moment of magic with you.”
He turned and entered his tent, closing the flap behind him. Niamh wandered toward her own bedroll, not sure if she'd be sleeping much this night. She stopped at the entrance to her tent, remembering, and used the charm to clean her face and hair.