Chapter Text
The ornate silver frame gleamed in the honeyed light of late afternoon, the sunbeams streaming through the leaded glass windows. The study seemed to hold its breath, bathed in golden afternoon light. Shelves of gleaming mahogany displayed an almost sacred order—academic tomes alongside fashion sketches, magical ingredients mingling with faint traces of moonflower and bergamot. The air felt alive with whispered spells and secrets, each detail a fragment of their shared story.
The study windows faced east - Astarion's deliberate choice, though he claimed it was 'purely aesthetic.' But Gale would catch him sometimes, standing just beyond where dawn's fingers could reach, watching the play of light across their shared space with quiet longing.
The late autumn sun cast longer shadows now, marking the seventh month since… since. Time had become a strange, slippery thing, measured by the changing angle of light across the portrait—his own likeness, painted with such loving precision by hands that would never hold a brush again.
Gale ran his fingers over the dusty frame, the stillness of the study pulling him deeper into memory.
But no frame, however elegant, could truly capture Astarion’s radiance. Gale’s fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted it, leaving faint smudges on the polished silver. Another thing Astarion would have tsked at—fingerprints on his precious metalwork. The thought almost brought a smile to Gale’s lips. Almost.
The study seemed caught in limbo, its stillness broken only by the shifting light across the portrait. Each corner held a memory, as though time itself had crystallized to preserve the echoes of their life. The portrait watched, patient and unchanging, as Gale drifted through the layers of memory that had accumulated here like sediment after a storm.
Memory was a fickle beast, striking sharp and sudden, then softening into something almost bearable. Seven months, and still the study felt frozen in time, its corners alive with echoes of their shared life, preserved like insects in amber (a metaphor Astarion would have smugly approved of).
Every detail told their story: the shelves, lined with Astarion’s meticulous sketches and Gale’s tomes; the chaise by the window, still draped in the blanket Astarion had arranged for his “proper dramatic contemplation”; and the trinkets catching the light—a crystal paperweight casting rainbows, a silver letter opener with an elegantly curved handle ( “If one must open correspondence, darling, one should do it with style” ). Even the faint ring left by a half-drunk cup of bergamot tea seemed part of the tableau.
Time, indifferent and unrelenting, crept in. Dust gathered on Astarion’s perfect arrangements, a quiet rebellion against his meticulous order. Gale let it settle, the changing seasons outside a cruel reminder of how little had changed within.
The afternoon light struck the frame at an angle that felt wrong somehow. Astarion would have noticed, muttering about “proper illumination” while shifting it a fraction of an inch until the gold caught just so. The imperfection of it ached almost as much as his absence.
The air carried the faintest ghost of bergamot and jasmine, a reminder of nights spent bent over books together, Astarion’s scent mingling with ink and the hum of magic. The fragrance tugged Gale back, unbidden, to the day Astarion declared the frame an “homage.”
“Darling,” Astarion had drawled, adjusting his immaculate tailored jacket with mock offense, “you wound me. It is not gaudy—it’s an homage.” His smile—wicked and charming—had been a masterstroke of effortless symmetry. “Do you mean to tell me you wouldn’t immortalize such radiance in something suitably dazzling? Besides,” he added with a theatrical flourish, “I refuse to have my masterpiece displayed in anything less than what it deserves.”
Gale had set down his cup of tea (bergamot, of course—some habits were harder to break) and traced the inscription engraved along the bottom of the frame: To the wizard who lights up my eternity. May this capture even a fraction of your brilliance.
The portrait within was breathtaking. It caught him mid-spell, his brown eyes glowing with arcane energy, his soft curls unruly and wild. Midnight-blue robes with silver threading, designed by Astarion himself, draped across his substantial frame, making him look both powerful and inviting.
Every sitting felt like a deliberate performance, Astarion’s predatory grace matched only by the reverence in his touch. He had captured not just Gale’s form, but his essence—magnificent, even when Gale could not see it himself.
“Hold still, darling,” he murmured, his voice dipping to a purr as his cool fingers brushed along Gale’s jawline. The touch lingered—a feather-light stroke that slid down his throat and paused at the hollow of his collarbone. Gale swallowed reflexively, heat prickling at his skin where Astarion’s fingers hovered.
“You’re tensing again,” Astarion chided, his breath cool against Gale’s ear. The proximity sent a shiver spiraling down Gale’s spine. “ How do you expect me to capture your brilliance if you keep squirming like a frightened rabbit?”
“I’m not squirming,” Gale managed, though his voice wavered, betraying him entirely.
“Oh, but you are,” Astarion countered, his lips curving into a wicked smile as he tilted Gale’s chin just so, their faces a breath apart. “ And it’s terribly endearing, though I’d prefer you more… composed.” His touch trailed lower, along the curve of Gale’s shoulder, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
A pang of embarrassment flared, though it softened into bittersweet warmth. His broad shoulders held the steadiness of a tower’s foundation, his middle exuded warmth and comfort, and his strong hands spoke of both mastery and gentleness.
“You see yourself all wrong, darling,” Astarion had said during one of the painting sessions, his voice uncharacteristically soft. His cool fingers had traced the curve of Gale’s cheek, crimson eyes piercing with rare intensity. “Your softness is a strength, Gale,” Astarion murmured, his fingers gliding along Gale’s waist with deliberate reverence, as though etching the curve of his form into memory. His touch stilled just above Gale’s hip, the coolness grounding the warmth beneath Gale’s skin.
“It speaks of life fully lived—comfort and strength intertwined,” he continued, his voice soft yet weighted with unspoken emotion. A faint smile curved his lips, though it faltered, a shadow slipping behind his crimson gaze. “Unlike me. Preserved, frozen in time, like an insect trapped in amber.”
Gale’s breath hitched as Astarion’s hand lingered, his thumb brushing in a slow, deliberate arc. “If I am amber, then you,” Astarion added, his voice barely above a whisper, “are the sunlight caught within it.”
Each layer of paint seemed to echo those words, capturing not just Gale’s likeness, but the love Astarion had poured into every brushstroke—a love Gale had dismissed too often in life, unaware it would one day be all he had left.
Astarion had insisted on painting it himself, working late into the night in his workshop after his prestigious tailor shop closed its doors. There, amidst bolts of silk and spools of silver thread, he mixed pigments with the same precision he reserved for his craft. Gale had been barred from entering for weeks under the pretense that “genius requires privacy, darling, and your presence is terribly disruptive to my artistic process.”
“The most challenging commission of my career,” Astarion had declared to his noble clients with all the gravitas of an actor taking center stage. “An attempt to capture true magical prowess on canvas.” Then, with a knowing smirk that sent the nobles tittering behind their fans, he would add, “Though I must say, the subject makes it rather enjoyable.”
Gale could still hear Astarion’s voice as he worked, a mix of playful teasing and quiet reverence. “Your shoulders,” Astarion had mused one evening, brushing a hand against them as if committing their curve to memory, “are like the foundations of a great tower—solid, enduring.” His fingers had ghosted lower, tracing the soft roundness of Gale’s stomach with a touch so feather-light it made him shiver.
“And here,” Astarion continued, his tone dipping into something almost reverent, “is the hearth where warmth resides. You are comfort and strength in equal measure, love. And don’t even get me started on your thighs…”
His voice had dropped then, low and sinuous, each word laced with the kind of mischief that made Gale’s breath hitch. A flush of crimson had flooded Gale’s cheeks as he laughed, stammering a flustered protest.
These moments would inevitably dissolve into something far removed from artistic pursuit. Paint brushes forgotten as Astarion's mouth found the sensitive spot beneath Gale's ear, canvas abandoned as cool hands slipped beneath robes warmed by Gale's skin. “The light is perfect now,” Astarion would whisper, though his eyes had long since abandoned any pretense of studying artistic composition. “Though perhaps we should ensure the pose is... sustainable.”
Gale’s fingers brushed over the frame’s engraving, the words catching faintly in the waning afternoon light. Astarion had been many things: lover, dramatist, artist—and, once, a man burdened by the shadows of his past.
The memory surfaced unbidden, sharp and vivid as if no time had passed. It was before they reached Baldur’s Gate, before the confrontation that would sever Cazador’s hold for good.
The air around them was thick, heavy with the clinging curse that turned the very light into a fragile, fleeting thing. In the meager glow of Gale’s enchanted lantern, Astarion’s sharp-edged elegance appeared muted, the shadows clinging to him like the weight of centuries he refused to acknowledge.
“I need you to look at them,” he’d said, his voice quiet, almost brittle. “The scars. Can you read them?”
Gale had hesitated—not from reluctance, but from the weight of the moment. His fingers ghosted over the jagged lines etched into Astarion’s skin, the infernal runes that seemed to pulse faintly under his touch. “They’re written in Infernal,” he murmured. “But I can’t fully decipher them. Not yet.”
Astarion’s laugh had been harsh, brittle enough to crack the stillness between them. “Then it seems Raphael’s offer grows more tempting by the hour,” he said, turning away, his movements stiff with tension. “A devil’s help for a devil’s script—it has a certain poetry, doesn’t it?”
Gale frowned, his chest tightening. “You can’t trust him, Astarion.”
“Do I look like I have time for trust?” Astarion snapped, though the anger lacked its usual edge. His shoulders sagged, his voice faltering as he added, “We’ll be in Baldur’s Gate soon. Cazador—” He broke off, the name hanging heavy in the air. “He’ll find me. And if he does…”
“He won’t.” Gale’s voice was steady, his hand resting on Astarion’s shoulder with deliberate care. “You’re not alone in this. Cazador won’t find you alone.”
For a long moment, Astarion stood silent, as if the words needed time to sink through the layers of armor he always wore. Then, slowly, he turned his head, crimson eyes meeting Gale’s with a rare and unguarded intensity.
“You’re insufferably noble, you know,” he murmured, his tone softer, devoid of its usual bite.
“And you’re insufferably stubborn,” Gale replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “We make quite the pair.”
For a fleeting moment, the darkness seemed and the oppressive gloom of the Shadow-Cursed Lands seemed to ease, the lantern’s fragile light burning just a little brighter between them.
The memory faded, leaving behind the lingering warmth of that shared moment. Gale’s fingers traced the edge of the frame again, his gaze settling on the portrait. Here in Waterdeep, the scars no longer defined Astarion. On the canvas, they were faint lines—mere remnants of a man who had stepped from the shadows into the light.
The enchantment that allowed Astarion to see himself in mirrors had been Gale’s most cherished work. It had brought tears to the vampire’s eyes—tears he had quickly dismissed as a reaction to “excessive dust in this absurdly cluttered study of yours.” Gale could still hear the quiver in Astarion’s voice as he deflected, and the memory pulled at him with bittersweet clarity.
Years ago, one winter when the portrait was still fresh and Astarion vibrant with undeath, Morena had understood immediately. She'd stood before the painting, her expression soft with approval. "He sees you," she'd said quietly, squeezing Gale's hand. Then, louder—because she knew it would make Astarion splutter—she added, "My talented son has quite the artistic eye."
Astarion's indignant preening, paired with his half-hearted protests against Morena's maternal claim, still brought a faint smile to Gale's lips. That memory had been one of her last winters with them—a time before spring's cruel surprise years later, before time split into before and after.
“Dramatic until the end,” Gale murmured, his voice rough from disuse. The sound echoed strangely in the quiet study, a reminder of how long he’d kept his silence here. Speaking felt like disturbing a tomb—or perhaps preserving one, as though his words might somehow hold the fragile amber of memory intact.
Even the creak of the floorboards seemed to echo with shared moments: the patches that squeaked no matter how gracefully Astarion tried to move, the spots they learned to avoid during late-night reading sessions. Outside, the ambient hum of the city barely reached the walls, leaving the room in a pocket of stillness where memories felt more tangible than reality.
The seasons had shifted in his absence, with spring’s early blooms giving way to the golden light of late summer. Yet within these walls, time seemed frozen—a silent testament to a life left in stasis.
The soft chime of bells announced Tara’s arrival, the sound heralding her presence even before an empty inkwell rolled lazily across Gale’s desk. She wore the jeweled collar Astarion had gifted her with an almost reverent devotion, as though the trinket anchored his memory in the present.
Even now, the study seemed to hum with their shared presence, the way they had seamlessly learned to move within the space together. Astarion’s lithe, graceful frame wove effortlessly around Gale’s solid presence, their every brush of contact deliberate yet unspoken—a dance that spoke of familiarity and unerring partnership.
With a light leap, Tara landed on the desk, scattering stray papers she clearly deemed beneath her notice. Stretching luxuriously, she managed to exude the same theatrical flair Astarion had mastered so effortlessly. “Three weeks,” she declared, her voice breaking the heavy silence.
Gale, lost in thought, barely registered her words. His gaze lingered on the portrait. “What?”
“It took him three weeks to finish that masterpiece,” Tara explained, her tone tinged with affection as she gestured toward the frame. “Made me sit with him every night while he worked. Said he needed ‘a sophisticated audience to match his unparalleled muse.’”
Her mimicry of Astarion’s dramatic drawl was so spot-on it coaxed a laugh from Gale—a sound foreign but welcome.
“And I suppose the salmon treats had nothing to do with your loyalty,” Gale murmured, a flicker of warmth touching his lips.
“Obviously not. I have standards.” She stretched again, deliberately knocking over another inkwell. “Though he did have excellent taste in bribes. Almost as good as his eye for detail.” Her gaze softened as it turned to the portrait. “You should have seen him, you know. The way he’d step back, tilt his head just so, muttering about how the light caught your eyes during spellcasting. ‘It’s the exact shade of autumn sunset through brandy,’ he’d say, as if that made perfect sense.”
“He never mentioned you were his artistic consultant.”
“Darling,” she purred, mimicking Astarion’s tone perfectly, “some things must remain shrouded in mystery. Though between us…” She sat up, her expression growing serious. “He painted you the way he saw you. The way we all see you, really, when you’re not too busy doubting yourself.”
The observation struck closer to home than Gale expected. He reached for his tea, found it cold, and set it aside with a sigh. Tara watched him with knowing eyes, her tail curling possessively around the portrait frame.
“He used to talk to me about you, you know,” Tara said, her tail curling around Gale's wrist. “Late at night, when he thought you were sleeping. He'd go on about how your magic felt like sunlight under his skin - warm and bright and terrifying in the best way. Rather ruined his carefully cultivated air of aristocratic aloofness. Not that I'd ever tell anyone else, of course,” she added primly. “We felines have standards to maintain.”
His joints creaked in protest as he lowered himself into his favorite chair—how long had he been standing there, lost in memories? The leather was worn thin in places, comfortable in the way only well-used things could be.
His fingers brushed against the desk drawer, hesitating for just a moment before pulling it open. Inside lay a stack of letters tied with a silken ribbon, each one carefully dated and sealed with silver wax that shimmered like moonlight. His own meticulous script marked the topmost envelope: To my dearest dramatic darling, for when the inevitable finally occurs.
The irony squeezed his chest like a vice. He had written these letters over decades, preparing Astarion for the day they would inevitably say goodbye. In his mind, it had always been the other way around—Astarion reading them centuries later, his voice echoing through the empty halls of their home, his laughter a fading memory.
But fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor. Astarion, the immortal vampire who had survived centuries of torment, was gone. And Gale, the mortal wizard who had spent years preparing for his own departure, was left to grapple with the silence of their shared eternity.
With trembling hands, he broke the seal on the first letter, the crisp crack reverberating in the stillness. A cloud passed overhead, dimming the golden light, and Gale squinted to read his own writing through blurry vision:
My dearest starlight sovereign,
If you’re reading this first letter, I’ve likely committed the gravest of social faux pas by dying without properly scheduling it. I can already hear your indignant protest: “Really, darling? And after all those lectures about proper planning and preparation.” I know how you despise impromptu departures, my love—particularly the permanent kind.
The brittle crackle of the seal still echoed in Gale’s mind as his hand stilled on the parchment. A soft, broken laugh escaped him, the sound catching in his throat. He could hear Astarion’s voice so clearly, the dramatic emphasis on particularly , the way his words curled around permanent like a caress.
Do you remember the day your frame arrived? You called it ‘merely adequate,’ then spent hours positioning it until it caught the light perfectly. “If one must immortalize perfection,” you said, adjusting your cuffs with that insufferable smirk, “one simply cannot skimp on presentation.”
I suspect you’re already planning to frame this letter in something equally elaborate. Go ahead, love. Make it as gaudy as you like—though perhaps consider sparing it the fate of my spellbook. Remember that incident with the “atmospheric” candle arrangement? You were so concerned about my reaction, yet all I could think was how perfectly YOU it was—bringing both beauty and chaos into my ordered world of magic. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
You’ll have centuries ahead of you, my impossible love. Centuries to perfect your art, to scandalize nobles, to make the world more beautiful through sheer force of will and impeccable taste. Don’t allow my departure to cast a shadow over your radiance. After all, what would the nobles of Waterdeep do without their most demanding tailor? Who would keep their fashion sense from descending into utter barbarism?
Forever yours, in every thread of light and shadow,
Gale
Gale folded the letter, his hands trembling not with weakness but with the weight of memory. He placed it atop the others, not as a relic of the past, but as a promise to honor the love they had built. His gaze lingered on the portrait, the painted version of himself caught mid-spell, alive with the vibrancy Astarion had always seen in him. He wondered, not for the first time, what Astarion would say now—whether he would mock Gale’s silence or tease him for his inability to move forward.
The soft chime of Tara’s bells broke the quiet as she leapt gracefully onto his lap, curling up with practiced ease. Her tail flicked lightly against the desk, nudging the portrait frame as if to coax Gale back to the present.
The golden light that once streamed through the windows had long since shifted with the seasons—from the crisp chill of autumn to winter’s biting stillness. Now, the faint warmth of spring hinted at renewal, though it had yet to touch the air within these walls.
“You know he’d mock you for the dramatics,” Tara said, her voice tinged with affectionate exasperation.
A soft chuckle escaped Gale, catching in his throat. “He mocked everything, Tara. It was his way.”
“And yet,” she purred, pressing her head gently against his chin, “he loved how much effort you put into these.” Her tail swished idly as she added, “Not that he’d ever admit it outright.”
They sat together in the deepening quiet, the study steeped in memories and the faint, lingering scent of bergamot. The air felt heavy, alive with echoes of a presence now gone, yet too powerful to ever truly fade.
Outside the window, the first stars began to appear, twinkling like the tears Gale could no longer hold back.
But time, indifferent and unyielding, continued its march. Seasons shifted, as they always did, and the nights grew colder, creeping into every corner of the study. Still, Gale remained, a solitary figure against the tide of time, holding fast to a love that lingered in every shadow and every ray of fading light.