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It was impossible to live in Waterdeep and not know of Gale of Waterdeep.
Archmage. Composer of the weave. Chosen of Mystra. Gale.
She even knew his little used lastname. But that is where her insight into his life ended.
Once she had visited Waterdeep’s fish market early in the morning, too early for most. As if by fate – no, coincidence – she had spotted his brown head of hair three stalls down. The recognition was instant. Unmistakable. She could recognise him anywhere.
He does not know me, she would remind herself. Yet, secretly, even a healthy dose of reality could not repress the spark of delusion: We are linked by an invisible thread.
Time was irrelevant to an infatuation founded in so little. She could not tell you how long it had been, except that it had been years. It almost didn’t matter either. He was worth longing for. Worth comparing others to.
When men courted her, she remarked quickly what they lacked. They were less well-read. Less ambitious. Less remarkable. Their eyes were not as kind. Any little flame was easily snuffed out by the gust that was Gale.
She tried not to share her thoughts with others, self-conscious and self-aware, but even she could not resist the bubbling fountain of suppressed emotion from spilling over after a few glasses of wine. I am so embarrassed about this, she would preface. But I think Gale of Waterdeep is the perfect man. When her unknowing confidant scoffed at her secret, it lifted a little shame from her shoulders: Who doesn’t?
Who doesn’t? she would think to herself on the way home, smiling. I am human after all.
But it was more than that. She did not just wish to admire him. Whether instinct or limerence, she could not deny the feeling that he was uniquely suited to her. I don’t love him yet. But I could.
While crushes can be thrilling, all this need with nowhere to go occasionally gave her the courage to put an end to the infatuation. She would tell herself that she had to make an effort to be known to him. Rejected by him. Still, every part of her resisted the attempt for the latter.
She would attend public events where she knew he would be in attendance. The explicit reason for her attendance was the unrealised mission to end her infatuation. Once he caught her eye and politely smiled at her before turning back to his conversation. The stress of the moment almost floored her. Am I harassing him? she would worry, and rush out immediately. He did not seem that interested in me.
Somehow convinced he knew of her delirious fantasies, she would shun him for another unknown stretch of time. She did not wish to bother him. Not him.
The papers of Waterdeep sustained her for those periods. She followed his career and academic work with keen interest. She learned much about the arcane, much about the goddess Mystra. To outsiders, she seemed well-educated, but she would wave off any compliments, painfully aware of her less than pure motivations.
Once she was tempted to send him a letter, commenting on one of his essays. She tried not to obsess over its contents, not to spend weeks perfecting it, and then potentially rousing suspicion by writing in relation to such an outdated publication. When she sealed the envelope and sent the letter, she skipped home, excited by the prospect of a response. But it did not take long for dread to settle in, and she felt ill at the thought of having disturbed him with her bumbling musings.
She never received a response, and she did not blame him. While most adult women would not have forgiven a man for taking so little initiative, she understood. He does not know me.
When the news and his works dried up, she was heartbroken. And concerned. But time was irrelevant to an infatuation founded in so little.