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As Gale turns, Celeste notices something deeper in his expression than mere nerves.
He isn’t just anxious, he’s afraid.
Terrified to his core.
His fingers fidget with their warding ring on his index finger, the subtle motion betraying his usual composure.
His eyes drop to the ground, his voice strained as he says, almost to himself, “I... I’d better go.” It sounds more as an attempt to muster courage than a declaration of readiness.
“We’ll be here when you get back,” Halsin says with quiet certainty, stepping forward to offer a hug. Gale accepts it gratefully, leaning into the druid’s solid presence.
“Your support means more than I can express,” Gale murmurs, attempting a small, appreciative smile.
But the confidence he tries to project falters, and his unease clings to him like a shadow.
Their companions take turns embracing him, offering whispered encouragements and steady reassurances.
Through it all, Gale never releases Celeste’s hand. She can feel it growing colder, his grip tighter as the moments tick by, as if he’s anchoring himself to her.
Halsin glances at Celeste, silently asking for her lead. She nods, and with a small, knowing smile, Halsin ushers the others out.
“Wait,” Celeste calls after them, tossing her coin purse in their direction. Astarion catches it midair, raising a pale brow in surprise.
“Take the most expensive inn you can find and bring me something to eat if this takes longer than expected. We’ll find you when Gale gets back.” Her voice doesn’t waver, and she carefully chooses her words: when, not if.
Astarion gives an exaggerated bow, his smirk a mask over the concern in his crimson eyes.
“We shall feast like royalty and save you a plate, darling,” he says.
“We’ll take care of you while you wait,” Jenevelle grins.
Celeste offers a weak smile in return. “I know you will.”
Once the others leave, Gale straightens, clearly attempting to compose himself. But his expression gives him away entirely, his worry etched in the lines of his face.
“All will be well,” Celeste says firmly, taking his other hand in hers. She squeezes gently, trying to ground him. “You will be fine, my love.”
“How can you be so certain?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper. The deep fear in his eyes shatters her heart, each flicker of doubt and vulnerability carving into her soul. Yet, she steels herself, summoning every ounce of strength to keep her own fear buried deep within.
He doesn’t need her worry; he needs her resolve.
She leans closer, her tone softening as she says, “Because I love you. Not just because you’re brilliant in bed and kiss me so thoroughly my knees give out—” Gale’s cheeks flush faintly, and a weak smile breaks through his fear. A small win. “But because you are the most intelligent, determined man I know. If anyone can reason with a goddess, especially one whose orders one defied, it’s you.”
His response isn’t verbal. He pulls her into a fierce yet desperate embrace, his arms wrapping around her as if she’s the last tether to his resolve. When she encircles his back, she feels the tremor running through him, the depth of his fear manifesting in his shudder.
“I am afraid,” he whispers into her shoulder.
“There is no need to be,” she says gently, her voice steady even as doubt churns within her.
“She loved you once, Gale. I don’t believe she’s forgotten that.”
The lie is smooth although she doesn’t believe it. She hopes he doesn’t notice the crack in her certainty as his gaze drifts to Mystra’s looming statue.
“I will be here when you get back,” she promises again.
This time, Gale pulls away just enough to capture her lips in a kiss so deep, so desperate, it leaves her breathless.
It is unlike any kiss they’ve shared before, holding within it the weight of every unsaid fear, every unspoken word.
It isn’t just love that passes between them in this moment, it’s something far more profound.
A raw and tender plea, and the quiet resignation of a goodbye they dare not name.
There is love in this kiss, certainly, a love steadfast and all-encompassing.
But it is more than that.
It is a plea, a promise, and an apology wrapped into one aching moment. It carries the echoes of everything he does not dare to say aloud: I am afraid. I don’t want to leave you. If this is the last… let me hold you one more time.
Celeste feels her own resolve begin to crack beneath the intensity of it, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes but she forces them down.
She tries to hold onto the warmth of his touch, the familiar rhythm of his breath.
When their lips part, the room feels quieter somehow, the air between them heavy with the weight of what neither will say aloud. Gale lingers for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against hers, as though drawing strength from the connection.
His hands hover at her waist, unwilling to let go but knowing he must.
As he straightens, his posture shifts—his jaw tightens, his shoulders square, and he exhales slowly, forcing himself into the composure of a man preparing to face the unknown.
But his eyes betray him.
They are soft and full of vulnerability, a window to the fear he hides beneath his carefully constructed mask.
Her heart aches as she meets his gaze, her own fears mirrored back at her. She wants to tell him it’s going to be alright, to promise him that Mystra will be merciful, that he will return to her unharmed.
But she knows he doesn’t need empty reassurances—he needs her belief.
Gale nods once, his lips twitching into a weak but genuine smile.
As he steps away, the space between them feels impossibly vast. Celeste clenches her fists, forcing herself not to reach out for him again. She watches as he walks toward the towering statue of Mystra, his figure framed by the soft, ethereal glow of her divine presence.
He turns around and says, “Wait for me, please.”
His voice so soft it barely carries.
As he disperses, his eyes betray the truth of his heart: Let me return at all.
The first day
The moment Gale vanishes, Celeste’s composure shatters.
Her hands tremble uncontrollably, the reality of his absence hitting her like a physical blow. Fear coils tightly around her chest, constricting her throat until every breath is a jagged, desperate gasp.
She closes her eyes, forcing herself to focus, but the world around her feels unsteady, as if the ground beneath her feet could give way at any moment.
She sinks down in front of Mystra’s statue, fumbling for a distraction, and finds herself opening Gale’s backpack. Her hands grab the first book she touches and buries herself in its pages without even glancing at the title.
When a warm, gentle hand touches her shoulder, it jolts her back to the present.
She jumps, startled, her surroundings rushing back into focus as she blinks up at Jenevelle, who crouches beside her with a worried expression.
“You Reithwin’t moved all day,” Jenevelle says softly, her tone tinged with concern. She gently cups Celeste’s chin, tilting her face upward, and the touch reminding her of her own body.
Celeste becomes acutely aware of the stiffness in her neck and shoulders, a sharp reminder of how long she’s been hunched over. Her body protests every movement, muscles aching from hours spent in the same cramped position.
“I…I didn’t notice,” Celeste mumbles. Her gaze drifts to the book in her lap, realizing she can’t remember a single word she’s read.
Jenevelle sighs, taking the book from her hands and replacing it with a steaming bowl of soup. “Eat this while I take care of your neck,” she orders gently, her tone leaving no room for argument.
The moment the warm soup touches Celeste’s lips, her stomach growls loudly, reminding her of how long it’s been since she last ate. She sips it gratefully, the heat soothing her frayed nerves.
While she eats, Jenevelle moves behind her, her hands slipping with familiar confidence beneath Celeste’s shirt to rest on her neck. A soft, comforting spell flows through her touch, and the tension in Celeste’s muscles melts away.
“Oh, gods, that’s incredible,” Celeste groans, her voice a little too loud for the hushed temple. A few nearby worshippers shoot her disapproving looks, but she’s too relieved to care.
Jenevelle chuckles, withdrawing her hands and kneeling beside her.
“What were you reading?” she asks, nodding toward the book.
“I have no idea,” Celeste admits, her voice barely above a whisper as her gaze lifts to Mystra’s statue.
Her eyes linger there, filled with unspoken worry.
“He should be back by now, shouldn’t he? Time works differently in the Astral Plane, but…it’s been so long.”
Jenevelle hesitates, her mouth opening as if to offer reassurance, but her voice falters. She tries to smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“He’ll be back soon,” she says, the words meant to comfort, even if they lack conviction.
Celeste looks at her, a small, grateful smile breaking through the fear etched across her face. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
Jenevelle nods, her voice soft. “You’re welcome.”
“Did you find a nice inn?” Celeste asks, her tone shifting to something lighter as she takes another sip of soup.
“What do you think of the soup?” Jenevelle counters with a grin.
“It’s delicious,” Celeste admits, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Or maybe I’m just starving. Probably both.”
Jenevelle laughs. “It really is good. And yes, we found an inn. They have an amazing bathhouse in which we spent most of the day. Even Halsin approved.”
“That’s high praise,” Celeste says, her smile growing just a bit wider.
They fall into a comfortable silence, the weight of unspoken worries hanging between them. When Celeste finishes her soup, Jenevelle takes the empty bowl and, without a word, pulls her into a tight embrace.
As the day gives way to night, Celeste curls up in her bedroll, her gaze fixed on the unyielding figure of Mystra’s statue. The temple feels colder now, the shadows longer and more oppressive.
Sleep evades her. She shifts endlessly, trying to find comfort that simply isn’t there. The stone floor beneath her digs into her shoulders and hips, the chill of the temple air sinking into her bones. Despite her exhaustion, her mind races—an endless loop of worry, anger, and fleeting hope.
She hugs her arms closer to her chest, pulling the bedroll tighter around her. It doesn’t help. No warmth comes, no comfort soothes her. The statue’s impassive face offers nothing but silence, a stoic witness to her turmoil.
She whispers into the stillness, barely audible even to herself. “Bring him back…”
Her voice trembles, breaking on the last word. She doesn’t even know if she’s speaking to Mystra, to the universe, or to the empty space that now feels like it surrounds her entirely.
The second day
Celeste wakes to the faint sound of a broom sweeping nearby. For a moment, her mind lingers in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, uncertain if the figure moving about is a priest or a familiar. Whoever it is, they work around her silently, careful not to disturb her bedroll or draw attention.
She sits up slowly, her body stiff and protesting every movement. It has been more than ten days since she last slept on the ground, and even with her bedroll beneath her, the stone floor offers no mercy. Stretching cautiously, she winces as the ache in her spine and shoulders reminds her of her restless night.
Her eyes fix on Mystra’s statue, her lips curling into a bitter frown.
You owe him, she thinks, glaring at the serene, indifferent expression carved into the stone.
Celeste stands, brushing off the loose dirt clinging to her clothes, and begins to move. She paces slow, deliberate circles around the grand hall, her boots clicking against the marble tiles. No matter where her feet carry her, she keeps Mystra’s statue in view, her gaze sharp and unwavering.
Time loses meaning as the hours slip by. The others check in on her one by one—Jenevelle first, bringing food and a cheerful smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Astarion comes next, lounging against a pillar and offering sharp, sarcastic quips, though his presence is oddly comforting. Wyll arrives later, his quiet strength radiating calm, grounding her for a brief moment.
They all bring something—companionship, warm meals, soft words of encouragement—but nothing seems to quiet the storm building inside her.
As the day wears on, the fear she has been trying to suppress claws its way to the surface. It’s a slow, relentless pressure, tightening its grip with each passing moment.
It has been more than a day.
Her thoughts spiral, unchecked and relentless. How much time has passed on the Astral Plane? Weeks? Months? Years?
Her pacing quickens, her steps less measured, more frantic.
Had Mystra killed him?
The thought strikes her like a physical blow, and she falters for a moment before resuming her path.
Or worse… disembodied him? Left him adrift, a fragment of himself, lost in eternity?
The questions circle her mind, each more brutal than the last. Her breaths grow shallow, sharp, her chest tightening as panic threatens to overwhelm her.
She keeps moving, forcing her body into action to drown out her thoughts. If she stops, even for a second, she knows the weight of her fear will crush her completely.
Her hands tremble as she presses her fingers to her temples, trying desperately to silence the relentless dread clawing at her mind.
But it’s no use.
The fear is too strong, too all-consuming.
He’ll come back, she tells herself, repeating the words like a mantra. He has to.
But as the hours drag on, and the minutes blur into a second sleepless night, the terrifying thought creeps in despite her best efforts: What if he doesn’t?
The third day
The next morning, Celeste wakes with her body aching more than the night before. Sleep, such as it was, hadn’t helped. She stretches slowly, each movement met with a protest from muscles stiff from tension and the unforgiving stone floor.
Her head does not feel any better. Somehow clouded and heavy with worry.
Surprisingly and annoyingly slow.
She resumes her now-familiar pattern of pacing the temple, never straying far from the statue of Mystra, her gaze frequently returning to the cold, unyielding figure. When pacing fails to ease her restlessness, she tries to read.
It doesn’t work.
The words blur together, their meanings slipping away before she can grasp them.
“You look like shit,” Karlach’s voice cuts through the quiet, breaking her fragile focus.
Celeste looks up to see the tiefling standing over her, a plate of bread, cheese, and fruit in hand.
“I feel like shit,” Celeste replies grimly, accepting the plate with a weak smile.
Karlach sits down beside her, folding her legs casually. They’ve grown close over the years, their bond forged in countless battles and quiet moments of support like this. Though Karlach keeps up her brash demeanour around most people, with Celeste, she allows glimpses of the softer side she guards so fiercely.
“You’re afraid for him,” Karlach says quietly, her tone uncharacteristically gentle as she hugs her knees.
Celeste nods, her throat too tight to speak. She forcefully starts to eat although she is not hungry.
Karlach leans back, her fiery eyes flicking between Celeste and the looming statue of Mystra. “He’ll come back. He’s our wizard! We would be absolutely lost without him.”
Despite the attempt at humor, Karlach’s voice softens as she continues. “You know I’m not one for romantic talks, but even I can see it. How much he loves you, I mean. It’s so obvious, Cel. And trust me, I miss sharing a tent with you—gods, I really do—but even from a distance, it’s clear as day. He loves you deeply.”
Celeste swallows hard, the weight of Karlach’s words settling over her. Her gaze falls to the plate in her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as she picks at the edges of the bread. Slowly, her eyes rise to meet Karlach’s, searching for something she cannot name.
Her gaze flicks to the statue towering over them, Mystra’s expressionless face offering no solace, only an imposing reminder of the uncertainty looming over her.
“I know,” she whispers at last, the words escaping her lips as if they’d been torn free. They feel empty, hollow, a shallow echo of the truth she desperately wishes to believe. “But this isn’t about whether he loves me or not.”
Her voice falters, her hands tightening around the plate as her shoulders slump. “This is about whether I’ll ever see him again.”
Karlach reaches over, squeezing her shoulder firmly. “You’re stronger than you think. You’ll get through this. And so will he.”
They sit in silence for a many moments, the distant sounds of the temple echoing around them.
Celeste takes a small bite of bread, her appetite faint but her body reminding her it still needs fuel.
Despite the circumstances.
Karlach stays close, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of Celeste’s thoughts.
No grand declarations, no empty reassurances.
Just a quiet, unwavering reminder that she’s not alone.
The day drags on, each second stretching unbearably long.
Seconds bleed into minutes.
Minutes crawl into hours.
Celeste moves through the motions, but she feels like a ghost of herself.
She is fed.
Hugged.
Reassured.
Each gesture of kindness from her companions chips away at the fraying edges of her composure, but it’s not enough to quiet the storm inside her.
Inside, she is dying a thousand small deaths with every breath, her heart pounding a relentless, agonizing rhythm.
She forces herself to think, to cling to reason, and begins sifting through her fragmented memories of Gale’s teachings. He had explained the Astral Plane to her many times, its strange relationship to time, its unpredictable nature.
Was time there faster?
Slower?
Did hours here mean days there?
Years?
Her mind feels like a sieve, the details slipping through no matter how hard she tries to hold onto them.
She can't remember a damn thing.
The Urge is surprisingly quiet.
No murderous intervals, no violent thoughts clawing at the edges of her mind. Even as her fury simmers—a barely restrained desire to march into Mystra’s domain and decapitate the goddess who dares to hold her love captive—the Urge does not stir.
There is no yearning, no insidious whispers encouraging her to consume, to destroy, to bathe in blood and chaos.
Nothing.
It’s as if her rage has hollowed it out, burned it away. Or perhaps even the Urge, that dark and relentless shadow, knows that this grief, this fear, is far more consuming than any violent compulsion it could conjure.
Celeste’s frustration simmers, bubbling just below the surface, threatening to spill over.
She wants to scream. At the universe, at Mystra, at the cruel, unyielding uncertainty that gnaws at her.
She wants to rage, to throw herself at the feet of the statue and demand answers, demand justice, demand Gale.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she swallows the scream, biting down on her lip so hard she tastes blood. Her hands clench into trembling fists, nails digging into her palms until it hurts, but the pain doesn’t quiet the storm inside.
The urge to lash out remains, primal and raw, but she forces herself to stay still.
To breathe.
To focus on anything but the helplessness that is tearing her apart. She paces instead, her footsteps echoing in the vast, empty temple, her gaze flickering to the unmoving statue of Mystra.
It feels like mockery, her serene, all-knowing expression.
“You need to rest.”
Celeste sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of all she is carrying.
“I know,” she answers quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper. There’s no use in arguing with Halsin; he’s right as he always is.
Halsin gently hands her a cup of steaming tea and, without a word, removes his coat, spreading it out on the floor with a gesture for her to sit.
Too exhausted to resist, too drained to protest, Celeste drops to her knees. The tea is warm, the steam curling around her face, the cup feels warm against her trembling, cold fingers.
“I also brought some bread and salad, something light to complement the tea. But please, drink the tea first,” Halsin orders.
Celeste nods, lifting the cup to her lips.
There’s nothing left to say.
Nothing that could prise fear and uncertainty from her heart.
Deep down, Celeste knows the terrible truth: she has already accepted the possibility that Gale will not return.
But acceptance doesn’t mean she’s ready to give up.
The world beyond these walls feels like a distant, intangible, irrelevant dream.
Why should she care about the threat of becoming a mind flayer?
Why waste another thought on slaying that damned brain?
Those battles feel like the concerns of another life, one where she could still pretend that saving the world mattered more than saving the man she loves.
Here and now, everything that truly matters hangs on a precarious edge, teetering closer and closer to the abyss.
Her heart feels fractured, the jagged edges grinding with every breath she takes.
The thought of losing Gale is an unbearable weight pressing down on her chest.
Let the rest of the world burn.
Let gods and devils wage their wars.
“I know the darkness weighs heavily on your mind,” Halsin says, his words wrapped in gentle care.
As if he has read her mind.
Again.
“But do not let fear cloud your judgment, Celeste. Even now, there is still hope. It may be hard to see, but it is there, waiting to be found.”
Celeste doesn’t answer.
She continues to drink the tea, each sip a small comfort, a fleeting moment of warmth in a world that’s become so cold.
She knows this herbal brew well, can almost taste the care Halsin put into making it. He must have spent hours at the vendors, collecting every herb he could find.
It’s a labor of love, she realizes, and a small, bittersweet part of her is grateful for it.
Looking up at him, she forces a weak smile, though it feels strange to have her lips move, unfamiliar after days of forced stillness.
“Thank you, honey,” she says softly, and the deep rumble of Halsin’s laughter sends a shiver through her.
He reaches for her neck, pulling her close and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
The weight of his embrace lifts some of the burden from her shoulders.
A sob rises in her throat, but no tears come.
She’s too exhausted to cry, too numb to release the ache inside her.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers, the words trembling on her lips. “I’ve never been this afraid. I mean, I probably have, but I can’t remember. Ever since I woke up with this… thing in my head, all I’ve worried about were you. Jen’s mysteries. Her worship that was so defining for her and almost broke her when she turned away. You. The refugees. Your Grove. Thaniel! Gale’s orb. Wyll’s transformation, father. Astarion, being hunted in this very city where I sit on the floor, waiting for a merciless goddess to show mercy... Karlach’s heart.”
Halsin’s voice is soft, yet steady, as he carefully takes the cup from her hands to draw her closer.
“You gathered those around you, these broken and lost soul, so that you might not have to face your own fears alone,” he says quietly, his eyes searching hers. “But you’ve always been more than the sum of your struggles. You’ve done so much more than simply survive. We are here. We are thriving. And by some divine intervention or your hard work, we are somehow still alive.”
Celeste doesn’t resist.
She lets him guide her, her body heavy with fatigue, pain, and an aching emptiness.
He moves her into a lying position, cradling her gently in his arms.
“You will be alright, duckling,” he murmurs softly. “I promise.”
Celeste’s body shudders, a shiver of relief passing through her at the comfort he offers, even though her mind remains heavy with doubt. Still, with his arms around her, for the first time in days, she feels a thread of safety, a spark of hope that maybe—just maybe—things will be okay.
She’s teetering on the edge of sleep, exhaustion pulling her into its depths despite the chaos in her mind.
And then, a voice shatters the fragile quiet, yanking her violently back into the cruel reality of her own aching body and fractured soul.
Her entire body flinches, muscles tensing as if bracing for a blow. Her heart pounds in her chest, startled and raw, as though it too had been shaken awake.
“Oi! No littering!” a voice calls out from the shadows.
Halsin is already on his feet, his knife drawn from the folds of his clothes.
“You cannot sleep here!” the voice continues, more firm now.
“We have, we can and we will,” Halsin responds with a friendly grin, sheathing the knife and offering a calm, unbothered look.
The man’s small eyes flick briefly over Celeste before returning to Halsin.
“I need to lock up,” the man says, trying to assert control. "The vicar wants everyone out."
“Lock us in then,” Halsin replies nonchalantly, his voice smooth and unwavering.
The man raises an eyebrow. “For some coin, I will.”
Halsin lets out a soft sigh, reaching into his purse.
“A thousand,” the man pushes but Halsins gaze only lift from her purse and he backs aways. “You’ll get a hundred, not a single coin more,” Halsin states firmly, the exchange final.
The man takes the coin and leaves, but not without a disapproving love. The heavy keys clinging as he closes the temple doors.
“You can shift,” she says quietly, her fingers clinging to his belt. “I know you hate sleeping indoors, especially in this form.”
“You worry about me again,” he murmurs, his tone rich with affection. “Let go of that concern. I’ll be here, as I always am.”
It takes time for her to relax again. Celeste feels the tension in her shoulders slowly begin to fade. It could be the soothing warmth of the brew Halsin made, or perhaps the quiet power of his presence, steady and grounding. Maybe it’s a spell he’s cast, unnoticed, to ease her weary body and mind, but she doesn't pay attention to the details.
Her thoughts drift in and out, the edges of the world blurring as she sinks deeper into the embrace of sleep. The weight of her fears, the worries that have consumed her for days, seem to slip away, if only for a moment.
Celeste doesn't care what causes it, only that for the first time in days, she can breathe without the crushing weight of dread in her chest. As sleep takes her fully, she surrenders to the comfort of Halsin's presence, grateful for the brief respite from the storm inside her.
The fourth day
When Celeste wakes, the first thing she notices is Halsin sitting beside her, a cup in his large hands. His eyes are closed, and he’s blowing softly over the steaming tea.
The temple doors are open again, the first worshippers approach.
She must have slept through it.
The sight almost brings a smile to her face. In his massive hands, the cup looks comically small, like a toy rather than something meant for use.
“Karlach brought tea and something sweet,” he says in his low, calming voice, nudging a wooden bowl in her direction without meeting her eyes.
That small detail hits her like a slap. The thought of it unsettles her, making her heart thud unevenly.
“I know these past days have been… a lot. I am sorry.”
Halsin opens his eyes, startled by the tone of her voice, and turns to meet her gaze. His expression softens as he reaches for her cheek, his fingers warm from the tea he holds. The gesture is meant to soothe, to comfort.
And it usually does.
But instead of finding solace in his touch, she feels a sharp flare of anger.
His gentleness cuts through her fragile calm.
Instinctively, her jaw tightens, the tenderness she should have welcomed instead igniting a fire.
He notices instantly, still smiling.
“It will be alright,” Halsin says gently, his voice steady and calm. “Yell at me, be angry if you must—I’ll remain here until the storm passes. Karlach says today is the day, and her instincts are rarely wrong. I’ll stay as long as you need me. Or…” his eyes move over her face, taking in every frown line, ever freckle, “if solitude is what you desire, just say the word. Do you wish to be alone?”
The tenderness in Halsin’s voice, the quiet weight he places on that single word—alone—nearly undoes her.
Celeste shivers, the anger that had just briefly sparked within her draining away, leaving only raw fear and aching exhaustion in its wake.
She doesn’t break down.
Not yet.
But the strength she’s been clinging to, the fragile facade she’s kept for her own sake—and for Gale—feels perilously close to crumbling.
Halsin’s gentle touch lingers against her cheek, and she feels the sob rising in her chest, unbidden and unwelcome.
She fears that if she lets it free, if she allows herself to shatter now, she’ll never be able to piece herself together again.
Quickly, she pulls away, reaching for the tea.
Her hands tremble slightly as she grips the cup, the heat seeping into her fingers and grounding her.
“I will not be good company,” she mutters, her voice rough with the strain of holding herself together.
Halsin doesn’t move.
His steady presence anchors her, his deep voice like a balm against the storm in her heart.
“You are always good company,” he whispers, his gaze unwavering. “Especially in your darkest hours.”
The sincerity in his words chips away at her defences, and for a fleeting moment, she is thankful for the people she has met on this unexpected, involuntary journey.
She knows they will catch her if she falls.
The day stretches endlessly, each moment bleeding into the next.
The others come and go—offering hugs, reassurances, and conversation—but their words feel distant, their comfort a fleeting balm against the aching monotony.
For Celeste, this ordeal feels like a cruel, looping dream she cannot wake from.
It’s only been four days, but the weight and uncertainty of it all makes it feel like a lifetime.
Jenevelle appears in the afternoon with fresh clothes and a small, familiar smile. She guides Celeste behind a cupboard, where Celeste casts a cleaning spell and dressing into fresh, surprisingly well smelling clothes.
The fabric feels soft against her skin, and for a fleeting moment, she feels a little lighter, a little more herself.
Halsin has sat down near the temple doors, carving a small piece of wood. His presence is steady, comforting, and he greets every child and stray that passes by, sharing his warmth with anyone who lingers.
Celeste tries to focus on him, on the rhythmic movements of his hands shaping the wood.
But her eyes betray her, drifting back to Mystra’s statue time and again.
She’s tired of the goddess's serene expression, tired of the divine indifference etched into stone. Mystra’s visage feels like a mockery, and Celeste’s stomach twists with a bitterness she cannot shake.
A soft giggle breaks through the silence, and Celeste turns to see a small girl watching Halsin work with wide, curious eyes. Her mother quickly ushers her away, offering Halsin a grateful nod as they leave.
If she had the strength, if there was any will left in her, Celeste might have smiled at the scene. But her heart feels too heavy, her mind too clouded. Instead, she lets her gaze fall, her thoughts returning to the endless question she dares not speak aloud:
When will he come back?
Celeste has positioned herself across Halsin, her own knife in her lap.
"That is no whittling knife, duckling! You’ll lose a finger with a blade like this. You need something smaller, precise like this.”
He flips the blade in his hand, offering it to her “Here, let me show you. We’ll make something together, and your fingers will thank you for it.”
Celeste lets her fingers trace the natural contours of the wood, her touch lingering on its fine lines and markings. The texture grounds her, the act of focusing on something tangible easing the tension in her shoulders.
She takes a deep breath.
With Halsin's steady guidance, she takes up the smaller knife he’s provided, its weight surprisingly comforting in her hand.
His voice, low and reassuring, offers quiet instructions. “Let the grain guide you,” he murmurs. “Work with it, not against it.”
Slowly, she begins to carve, her movements deliberate and careful. Each pass of the blade peels away a sliver of wood, revealing a smoother surface beneath. Halsin watches her progress with a warm smile, occasionally reaching out to adjust her grip or angle.
"Good," he praises softly. "You’re letting the wood shape itself, as it should be. It’s not about control, but about harmony."
Celeste nods, her hands working with a growing confidence.
The rhythm of carving, paired with Halsin’s patient presence, quiets her mind.
In this moment, it feels as though the weight of the world has been pared away, leaving only the steady pulse of creation.
The slight, nearly unnoticeable blue glow of a magical transportation appears, barely visible at the edge of her vision but catches Celeste attention immediately.
Instinctively, she turns the knife around in her hand, handing it back to Halsin.
While jumping to her feet, she kisses him deeply. Relieved.
“Thank you!”
“Any time, my heart,” he smiles warmly, starting to bag the materials.
She turns around and her breath quickening as she strides toward the statue. The air feels heavier with each step, thick with the weight of her expectations.
Her pace quickens instinctively, urgency driving her forward until she stands before the imposing stone figure. She arrives just as the faint blue glow begins to spread, illuminating the worn carvings with an otherworldly light.
Her nerves hum with a potent mixture of anticipation and dread. The glow pulses faintly, casting shadows that seem to dance on their own accord.
She clenches her fists at her sides, steadying herself against the panic building in her chest.
Realizing she fears his dead body might drop at her feet, she lets out a deep breath.
The sacrifices of the last four days weigh heavily on her shoulders, the echoes of sleepless nights and too many unanswered questions clawing at her resolve.
She doesn't think she can endure another moment of this relentless tension—the uncertainty, the gnawing ignorance. Her mind races with possibilities, each one darker than the last, as she draws in another shaky breath.
The air itself feels alive, charged with an energy that prickles at her skin, setting her every nerve alight.
“Why the long face?” Gale’s voice rings out, laced with humor and warmth, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.
He steps forward with open arms, the tension in the air cracking under the lightness of his tone.
His embrace finds Celeste without hesitation, pulling her close as though no time had passed, as though the four harrowing days apart hadn’t felt like an eternity.
She lifts her gaze to meet his, her breath hitching as she takes in his expression.
That smile—so familiar, so utterly Gale—radiates a warmth that cuts through the icy fear gripping her heart. His eyes glint with relief, soft and kind, as though his world has righted itself simply by being here, in this moment.
It’s him.
Fully and completely him.
Nothing remains of the fear he had carried when he left, a fear that had hung over them both.
That shadow is gone now, replaced by something resolute and at peace.
His shoulders, once weighed down by doubt, are steady and relaxed. He stands before her as the man she loves—whole, alive, and unbroken.
The realization strikes her like a thunderclap: he is alive.
The echo of her dread, her uncertainty, shatters against the undeniable truth of his presence. His arms around her, solid and sure, are an anchor in the tumultuous sea of her emotions.
He is here.
This is no dream, no cruel illusion conjured by a desperate mind. His warmth is real, his scent familiar, and his voice so achingly welcome.
He is with her.
And yet, that knowledge is both salvation and unraveling. As his arms tighten around her, she feels herself teetering on the edge of the abyss.
The sacrifices of the past days, he sleepless nights, the silent prayers and the gnawing fear still cling to her.
The emotions she has kept locked away threaten to break free.
Too close to shattering, she clings to him with everything she has, as if letting go might send her spiraling into the void.
He leans back slightly, his hands resting firmly on her shoulder and back as his gaze searches hers.
"Celeste," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone. "I’m here. I made it back. We made it."
And in that moment, the tension in her chest begins to ease, just enough to let a breath escape. He’s alive. He’s here. He’s with her. That truth, fragile yet unyielding, is enough to hold her together for now.