Chapter Text
Looking back, Celeste could scarcely piece together how it had all unraveled.
One moment, they were celebrating in Baldur’s Gate, the air thick with triumph and relief.
The Netherbrain was defeated.
Gale, victorious and brimming with hope and determination, had salvaged the Crown and was preparing to deliver it to Mystra. All that remained was her summons, and then, at last, the orb would be gone, and he would be free.
They had loved each other with a fervour that felt almost otherworldly, each embrace more magical than the last.
Gale had been surfing a wave of elation, the promise of freedom so tantalizingly close.
For a brief time, their future had seemed as bright as the Weave itself.
But then came the morning that shattered everything.
As they packed to depart for Reithwin, Gale announced his decision.
He was returning to Waterdeep.
Alone.
Celeste tried to understand.
To reason with him.
To ask.
To talk.
To beg.
But none of it mattered.
Gale walked away.
After that, her memories became a fragmented haze, blurred at the edges and distant, as though they belonged to someone else entirely. She could recall only glimpses: Halsin and Jenevelle waiting for her, Scratch barking and bounding with joy, the cheers of refugees welcoming her to join them.
And then, her own voice, hollow and detached, as if spoken by a stranger, saying, “Gale is going to Waterdeep.”
The journey to Reithwin was marked by moments that passed in a haze. There were battles, of course. Scattered goblin raiders and scavengers testing the caravan’s defenses.
For brief moments, the thrill of combat gave her purpose, a fleeting reprieve from the void that had swallowed her.
She fought for others now, not for herself, and for those precious seconds of struggle, she felt almost whole. But the adrenaline always ebbed, and the weight of her loss would creep back in, heavier and more consuming with each passing day.
It was as if her body moved through the world, but her spirit lingered somewhere else; caught in the pieces of a shattered past she couldn’t make whole.
When they finally reached Reithwin, the sight of it struck her as cruelly beautiful.
The Shadow Curse lifted, the land was lush and fertile, full of potential.
The ruins begged to be rebuilt, the soil ready to nurture life again.
It was a place that promised healing, but Celeste felt only the ache of emptiness as they began to shape a new home.
Halsin, of course, was in his element.
Leadership through kindness came naturally to him, and under his care, the community blossomed.
He chose his role with intent, not because it was thrust upon him by fate, and the people adored him for it.
It was impossible not to.
Halsin inspired hope with his vision, steadied his people with his wisdom, and guided them with an open heart.
The children adjusted quickly to their new lives.
Until their own homes could be built, everyone old enough made do with structures sturdy enough to keep out the rain, prioritizing to build a proper shelter for the youngest among them.
A former hospital was chosen for the children’s quarters. The rooms already spacious and practical.
The children eagerly pitched in, their excitement transforming the task into an adventure as they scrubbed walls, painted, and helped wherever they could.
Each night, Halsin would tuck them in one by one, his presence a comforting constant before he shared his brilliant stories.
His deep, soothing voice brought tales of the wilds, Nature’s grace and daring adventures to life, lulling the children into peaceful dreams.
Celeste often joined him, though they had agreed her illusory magic and songs would be reserved for special occasions. Her performances, when given, became moments of wonder as magical interludes that the children would talk about for days.
Watching Halsin with the children, Celeste couldn’t help but feel her heart swell.
Here, in this haven they were building together, she saw the best parts of him shine.
It reminded her of what they had worked so hard to create: a home, a future, and hope.
She did her best to support him in everything.
If she felt anything during those early days, it was gratitude for Halsin’s presence and love for the quiet strength he offered.
He never pressed her to talk about the pain she carried, never pushed her beyond what she could bear.
He simply held her when her grief overwhelmed her, his arms a sanctuary on countless nights when her sorrow became too much.
His reassurances were soft, his patience unyielding.
Not once did he grow weary of her sadness.
When Celeste began apologizing for her burden, Halsin would only chuckle and draw her closer, his deep voice warm with affection. “I will stay by your side for as long as you wish me there, my heart,” he would say gently. “Through light days and dark ones alike.”
For Halsin, this was a time of fulfillment.
Pride radiated from him as he watched the settlement take shape, as families found security and children laughed freely in the streets.
He rebuilt a cabin just for them on the settlement’s outskirts, just within the protective borders he had established.
It was close to the tree line where Thaniel and Oliver preferred to appear.
The house was modest but perfect, just big enough for the two of them, with room for an occasional guest. He even designed their bed with care, close to the floor. He layered it with furs to ensure it was warm and comfortable enough for Celeste through the colder months.
Celeste filled the small garden with life, including a family of ducks she’d found wandering the ruins of the village.
When she brought them home, Halsin’s laughter was deep and unrestrained, a rare sound that briefly chased away her sadness. These small joys sustained her, even as her heart remained heavy.
Jenevelle found her place among the farmers, reclaiming a cottage with her parents.
Celeste hadn’t imagined her thriving in the company of so many animals, but Jenevelle took in every stray she encountered, nursing them back to health.
Some stayed, others left, but she cherished each one.
Celeste grew close to Jenevelle’s father, Arnell, a devoted Selûnite and a skilled cook. He often invited her and Halsin for late-night suppers, serving hearty meals that warmed more than just their bellies.
Though Jen’s mother, Emmeline, still suffered from their years of confinement, she shone under the gentle care of her husband and daughter.
The settlement flourished, drawing the attention of traveling merchants who admired the quality of their products and craftsmanship.
Among them was a gnome named Nuram, who eventually decided to stay. With a sharp mind for trade and numbers, Nuram quickly became indispensable, taking over much of the community’s logistical burden. His meticulous record-keeping and cheerful demeanour lifted weight from both Celeste and Halsin’s shoulders.
Celeste found purpose in training the settlement’s volunteers, teaching them to wield swords, bows, or simple spells.
The effort gave her a sense of contribution, a distraction from the truths she couldn’t change. She supported Halsin in his administrative duties and took every opportunity to be near him, drawing strength from his steady presence.
In quieter moments, she wrote songs but hated them all. Melancholic ballads of loss and resilience that shifted to lighter melodies at the bonfires when the children demanded it.
To her surprise, most of her new found friends loved them.
But the void Gale had left remained.
It was inescapable.
The first time she truly broke was when they pried open the old library doors.
Thousands of books, untouched for over a century, lay beneath layers of dust, waiting to be discovered.
Celeste realized how she and Gale would have spent weeks—months—here together, cataloguing, reading, sharing their excitement over every find.
The thought brought her to her knees, and she wept uncontrollably. Halsin had to be fetched to collect and soothe her.
The realization struck her harder that day than it had any other. Gale hadn’t come. He hadn’t changed his mind. He was still lost to her.
His letters, formal and polite, read like correspondence from a distant acquaintance, not the man who had once called her his everything.
Each word felt like a blade, sharp and impersonal, cutting through the memories she clung to so tightly.
She replayed their last days together endlessly, searching for answers in every glance, every word exchanged, every tender moment they’d shared.
What had changed?
What had she missed?
What had she done wrong?
Her thoughts always circled back to Mystra’s summons.
Something must have happened during that encounter.
Something he wasn’t telling her.
She was certain of it.
When he announced his decision to leave, the orb was gone. The faint, ominous lines etched into his neck and beneath his eye had vanished, leaving his skin unmarked. It should have been a moment of triumph, the culmination of their long, painful journey.
Yet Gale had seemed uneasy, distant.
His smile never quite reached his eyes.
Was it the weight of the choice he had made, or something more?
He had spoken of returning to Waterdeep as though it were an obligation rather than a desire. His reasoning felt incomplete, his answers brief and unsatisfying. And though Celeste pressed him, though she begged for clarity, he offered none.
Then, he had spoken of Halsin, forcing her to choose in a way that felt utterly unlike him. Gale had never done that before.
Though he hadn’t always been comfortable with the way she expressed her love freely in r affectionate hugs or what he considered unrestrained closeness with others, he had come to accept it.
At first, there had been days of quiet pouting, but never anything as cruel as an ultimatum.
Her love for Halsin had never diminished her love for Gale, just as her deep friendships with the other hadn’t changed anything between them.
Gale had struggled with it, certainly.
They had argued, sometimes bitterly, over his insecurities and fears.
But when Celeste refused to back down, he had eventually agreed to listen and talk.
It hadn’t been an easy path.
His discomfort lingered, his questions sharp and frequent.
But Celeste had been patient, guiding him into her world.
A world where love was neither finite nor confined.
To her surprise, Jenevelle and Astarion had been crucial in helping him adjust.
While they didn’t fully share her views, their gentle reassurances and insights had gone a long way in soothing Gale’s nerves.
It had taken months of difficult conversations, misunderstandings, and slow progress.
A delicate dance of testing boundaries and building trust to the foundation he needed.
But in the end, Gale had understood.
He had accepted that her love wasn’t something to possess or control.
It was something she offered freely.
So why had he suddenly demanded the impossible?
Why had he tried to turn her love for Halsin into a wedge between them?
She was certain the reason lay elsewhere. Or was this another lie she couldn’t unravel?
No matter how many times she turned it over in her mind, she couldn’t piece together the truth.
What had Mystra said to him?
What had changed that morning?
Whatever it was, it felt like the exact moment everything she held dear began to unravel.
The questions circled her mind like spectres, haunting her thoughts day and night.
But no matter how many times she searched, the answers eluded her, slipping through her grasp like sand through her fingers.
When the invitation to their reunion arrived, Celeste hesitated, her fingers tightening around the parchment.
Six months had passed since that fateful day, but the pain still lingered, fresh and raw as if no time had passed at all.
The thought of seeing him again, of sharing the same space, sent a sharp pang through her chest.
She didn’t want to go.
Though she still saw most of their friends regularly, this night would be different. It would be special, an evening meant for celebration and nostalgia, and she feared it might be too much to bear.
It was Halsin who convinced her, his warm, reassuring presence easing some of her trepidation. He had smiled gently, taking her hands in his as he promised a night of joy and camaraderie.
“You’ll be among those who love you,” he’d said. “Those who miss you and will be delighted to see you.”
His voice carried a quiet certainty that she had come to rely on, and though the ache in her heart remained, she found herself nodding. For her friends, for the chance to feel a fleeting spark of connection, she agreed. With Halsin by her side, she hoped she could face whatever awaited her that night.
At the reunion, Celeste kept her distance from Gale, weaving through the gathering with a deliberate avoidance that only a few close friends might have noticed.
He was as effortlessly charming as ever, his words flowing like honey as he mingled, eager to reconnect.
He approached her more than once, his tone warm, his smile easy—so much so that it nearly broke her. He acted as though nothing had happened, as though the vast oceans of hurt and the mountain of unspoken words between them didn’t exist.
When he offered her a place to stay in Waterdeep, his voice soft with sincerity, she declined with a polite smile, her heart shattering under the weight of his casual generosity. She barely managed to hold back tears as she turned away.
Gale had moved on, it seemed. He had stepped into a new chapter of his life, becoming a professor. Leaving her behind like a memory he had folded away into a corner of his mind.
Celeste, however, wasn’t sure she ever could.
Though she worked tirelessly to build something new, though she tried to fill her days with purpose and her nights with the warmth of Halsin’s embrace, the ache in her heart never truly faded.
It gnawed at her, a quiet, relentless reminder of what she had lost.
Some wounds, she realized, don’t heal. They merely become a part of you, woven into the fabric of your being.
The first night back home was nothing short of enchanting.
The children had been ecstatic, their excitement palpable as they gathered around the owlbear.
The young druids and budding sorcerers, already skilled in communicating with animals, were nearly beside themselves as they bombarded Celeste with questions. She responded patiently, explaining the ground rules with a steady voice while the owlbear curiously took in its new surroundings.
Halsin stood in the background, his warm smile a reassuring presence as Celeste laid out her plan.
The owlbear would reside in one of the old cellars for the time being, a quiet and secure place where it could hibernate undisturbed. The children were allowed to visit, even pet the creature, but only under strict supervision until it would wake in the spring.
The joy on their faces made the effort worthwhile.
Scratch could have not been happier.
Overwhelmed with joy at reuniting with his brother, the loyal dog spent the entire night curled up next to the owlbear, his tail wagging incessantly.
When Scratch eventually decided to sleep by its side, Halsin let out a deep, hearty laugh, the sound filling the room with warmth.
Later that evening, Halsin entered their bedroom, entirely at ease in his natural state.
His footsteps were soft, his presence unassuming but comforting.
Though his smile remained steady, Celeste could see the exhaustion etched into his features. Without hesitation, she lifted the blankets, welcoming him into bed.
Halsin scooped her into his arms, his embrace solid and grounding as he pulled her close. One of his legs shifted over her hip, his foot gently hooking around her legs to close any remaining distance between them.
“You did well, my heart,” he whispered, his words warm and tender after a series of lingering kisses.
“How so?” she murmured, her head resting on his chest as she listened to the steady rhythm of his heart.
“Seeing Gale,” Halsin said softly. “I could feel the tension in you, sense the fear that lingered beneath it. I worried you might let your temper get the better of you.”
“But I didn’t,” she replied, her voice calm yet resolute, a quiet finality to her words.
Halsin nodded, recognizing the dismissal in her tone. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead and tightened his arms around her, silently promising to share her burdens as long as she allowed him.
The days grew shorter, the nights colder, as the first frost began to settle over the village.
The last of the year’s harvest was brought in, and for a community in its infancy, it was a resounding success. Celeste took charge of organizing the preservation of the surplus, to ensure nothing would go to waste.
But as the seasons shifted, so did Halsin.
Celeste noticed the subtle changes first. He went to bed earlier, his steps grew heavier, and he yawned more frequently.
His boundless energy, so characteristic of him, seemed to wane with the fading sunlight.
One evening, as they settled in for the night, she finally broached the subject.
“Have you considered hibernation, my heart?”
Halsin smiled at her, his eyes sparkling despite the fatigue.
“I thank you, duckling, for your nurturing heart,” he said, his tone as warm as ever. “I do not require a deep slumber, merely a touch more time to restore my spirit. And, if I’m not mistaken, you seem quite content lingering in this cozy sanctuary...”
His teasing words were accompanied by a playful glimmer in his eyes.
Celeste chuckled, wrapping herself around him as they nestled beneath the blankets. She peppered his chest and neck with soft kisses, her affection unrestrained.
“There can never be too much cuddling,” she murmured with a smile.
Halsin let out a deep, rumbling laugh, pulling her closer. “Then let us make the most of these longer nights together,” he whispered. “For if there is one thing I need as much as rest, it is you.”
Despite Halsin’s steady presence, Celeste could not shake the weight of her sadness.
She had believed, naively, that time would heal the wounds left by Gale’s departure.
That the pain would fade, like a scar that softens over time.
But it didn’t.
She threw herself into her work, keeping her hands and mind occupied, yet the emptiness lingered like a shadow.
Her daily walk to the library, where she spent her winter days teaching children and some adults to read and cataloging books, felt heavier with each passing morning.
The familiar scents of parchment, ink, and dust cut through her like a knife every day.
Rainy days were the hardest.
The way the rain distorted the world around her, blurring shapes and shifting shadows, played cruel tricks on her mind.
It teased her with the impossible, making her believe she saw him—in the face of a passing neighbor, in the fleeting silhouette at the edge of her vision.
Her heart would leap, her breath catching in her throat, but every time she turned, he was never there.
She had never thought Gale capable of abandoning her so completely.
She had never imagined him a coward.
If anything, he had always been the opposite. A man of unyielding courage and intellect, steadfast in the face of unimaginable dangers.
And yet, here she was, questioning everything she thought she knew about him.
Perhaps she hadn’t known him at all.
After a particularly long day, Celeste realized she had missed dinner entirely.
She had gotten lost in a book about wood elven customs, her curiosity about Halsin’s heritage pulling her deeper into its pages.
Halsin, ever attentive, had sent one of the older children to fetch her.
The message was simple: come home immediately. He would have a bath prepared, a massage with his warm, steady hands, and leftovers waiting for her.
The thought brought a small, bittersweet smile to her lips, though regret lingered in her chest.
Halsin didn’t deserve this.
This version of her that felt broken, somehow less than what she once was.
And yet, he treated her as if she were whole, his patience, love and kindness unwavering.
Pulling up the hood of her coat, she stepped into the cold rain, the icy droplets stinging as they seeped through the fabric. The downpour was relentless.
The chill gnawed at her, creeping under her layers of her clothes and settling deep in her bones.
Snow was close, she could feel its promise in the biting air.
By the time she reached their small home, the settlement was quiet.
The children were tucked into bed, their laughter silenced after another of Halsin’s intricate bedtime stories.
Most of the adults were gathered around the community fire, sharing stories and companionship in the warmth.
Celeste entered their home, stripping off her boots and coat, her heart warming at the sight of the familiar space.
“Big bear? Is the bath ready? I’m frozen to my core...” she called out, as she entered the main room, lifting her wet tunic halfway over her head.
But she stopped mid-motion, her breath catching in her throat. Standing in the kitchen nook, Halsin was handing a cup of tea to a man seated at their table.
Gale.
His weak smile met her stunned gaze, the room thick with tension.
“Your bath awaits, duckling,” Halsin said gently, his voice calm and measured despite the palpable strain. “Would you care for something to eat as well?”
Celeste’s eyes darted between Halsin and Gale, her shock giving way to a surge of emotion. “No,” she said sharply. “I want to know what the Hells is going on here.”