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"I used to believe Mystra's forgiveness was worth dying for. But I was wrong. You showed me just how much I have to live for. [...] But think what I offer. The vastness of eternity to explore, the Weave at our fingertips... You would really prefer me as I am?"
Much time has passed since Gale had seen her last. Her— Mystra— the goddess who had essentially abandoned him overnight.
The woman who had left her supposed 'lover' in his most vulnerable time— filled with disillusion and grief; with shattered hopes and a sense of loss. She did so because of his stupidity. His human error.
Sure, ignore his good intent, naivete, lack of experience. Leave as he most certainly won't scream: "Come back!" nor will he bring up the unfair— he simply is nothing like that.
Mystra might have called Gale pompous, overtly proud, not to mention careless, yet she had seen centuries by the time Gale knew her as just barely a teen. A young wizard in the making. Essentially just a fledgeling.
And the adjectives thrown his way by Mystra herself had always stuck to the back of his mind— seemed to him the only objective truth; he allowed for her judgement to define his personhood. Gale had made her words his identity, accepted them as gospel, gulped them down like cool water.
He's a prodigy. He's worthy. He's confident. He's dumb. He's subpar. He's perfect. He's Mystra's. He's an over-achiever. He's too innocent. He's smart. He's promising. He's lost. He's a fool. He's wrong. He's not enough. He's loved. He's lazy. He's careless. He's silly. He's emotional. He's irrational. He's handsome. He's disobedient. He's reckless. He's special. He's divine. He's dramatic. He's responsible. He's disappointing. He's needy. He's dreamy. He's...
He dares long for the past to return— for Mystra to provide him a purpose; a hope for a glorious life. To allow him to feel the comfort of her power, her lecturing words. To bask in the warmth of her praise as any complaints disappear with no trace; as they pale in the compliments' light— burn to embers and ash. Only then, could he turn a blind eye to the scars left by her sharp tongue.
Though, in hindsight, Gale mourns the years he could have spent finding himself instead of chasing the goal of greatness, perfectionism had sealed his fate— bound him to Mystra with a whispered promise of a naïve 'forever'. And bind Gale it did, with invisible chains of many layers— of obligation, of sentiment, of hope, of dreams, of identity, perhaps even of nostalgia for the past years. All held over his head like leverage; a threat of the unknown lest he stray off the path so meticulously carved just for him.
How careless Gale was to assume that Mystra, his love, would create an even ground for them both. That he could make their relationship oh so familiar. As though he had never truly grown out of dependence on anyone but himself. Unfortunately, he is no god— solely a human.
There is one thing which Mystra was terribly right about— sentimentality is his curse— he is overly emotional. So knowledgeable, yet so reliant on heart over mind. So quick to act and so reluctant to slow down.
And what a shame it is to dream of greatness in the presence of a goddess who uses humans as tools. One of the many chosen, presented as the only, so that he may stay just one minute longer in promise of becoming special— perhaps even holy. Of surpassing everybody and becoming a source of pride for his loved ones, those who had always had his back no matter the time.
Gale was born longing for becoming more— the most.
Gale was born unsatisfied to be unknown— his potential lost.
"I feel like this has already happened once," a familiar, even calming, voice reaches Gale's ears from behind.
He knows what she is talking about— looking at the night sky and pondering the future and the present, yet slowly but surely letting go of the past. Although, this time there are no illusions sparkling before his eyes and covering the Stars.
"Perhaps," Gale mutters, though his mood involuntarily lifts just because of Frai's presence. Frankly, all too often does Gale notice how light and delicate this relationship feels in comparison to his previous experience. How it makes him feel.
She stands next to him— her shoulders and elbows pressed against Gale's on top of the inn's balcony rail. Unlike that similar night— unlike him right now— she doesn't look up. Instead, she observes her own hands or the trees' crowns.
"It seems to me like she's toying with you, isn't she? As if she's playing with your fate constantly," she almost sighs, though not in sadness nor pity but rather from exhaustion; weariness.
Gale wishes he could feel exhausted about this as well.
As he was. Once.
Since he and Mystra had parted ways, Gale has felt desperate, depressed, indifferent, fine, worried, hopeful, exhausted, regretful. He'd gone through it all, but now he has reached a new stage, a new low— nervousness.
The moment she requested his audience, Gale's heart skipped at least two beats. Now, when he has found a new love; only now, when he has moved on; just after he has given up on wishing for the past; when he has discovered a new purpose in life and decided put it on a different track, did she decide to return. To make him come back. To request he hear her out, even though he doubts she has anything new to announce. She will not apologise nor will she propose a cure most instantenous. She will not offer him any closure. She will not propose a truce. It is not in her style— simple as that. She will discard him like any other time, repeat the same words, promises of: "Gale, I might help you some day." She solely wishes to torture him with her confusing presence.
The moment she requested his audience, Gale's heart skipped at least two beats. Because she is taunting him. Coming and going. Never quite leaving once and for all. And he is a fool, flocking to what is all too familiar to him. Gale is aware of what awaits in that cage and that now he knows better— he wishes to stay right where he is at the moment. Yet, he is a sentimental fool. A man of emotion, nostalgia and heart. He will hope for the impossible no matter the tides. Although, he must remember what he has now. Who is right at his side. Who he mustn't wrong and abandon for a hypothetical life. Somehow, it is tearing him apart. He knows the right answer, and yet the hope, careless selfishness is whispering sweet nothings right into his ear. And, like with Mystra, he hears them out reluctantly.
His heart won't calm down until all of this ends. He has no choice but to talk with her— get the past over with and return to the current day. Acknowledge the loss as well as the gain.
"As much as I loathe to admit, I'm not sure what Mystra hopes to achieve through all of this. She had been my lover, my muse, my everything, and yet, at the moment, I feel like I'd only known her superficially. I remember how to behave around her, how to treat her, how to please her, how to talk with her— there is a whole manual committed to my memory. I can only hope not to lose myself in the baseless fantasy of earning her forgiveness. After all, I don't need it. She came and went— a temporary spell. You're here."
It feels as though ice has moved from Gale's veins right into his throat as the last three words are uttered to the quiet world. And as Frai's lips slowly form into an intimate smile, to him it seems she isn't understanding of this admission's weight isn't quite right. He needs her to know his feelings as a whole because for all that Mystra was, she never cared for his sentiments. Mystra only humoured his whims whenever he spoke of feelings or philosophy— the goddess was too far removed from simple human dilemmas; curiosity.
"No. Truly, I have always had to go beyond myself. I felt I didn't deserve love nor praise if I didn't reach new heights each day. With you, I am able to lose sight of the pressure. I never must impress you nor earn your attention because the Weave is none of your concern. It's all me for whom you care. I suppose I had never considered that someone who I loved could have been supporting my greatest flaws; pushing me in the entirely wrong direction. Sure— there was my mother, Elminster, and Tara, but nothing quite affects one's mind, and growth, like that one special bond: love. You are just what I needed. What I will never stop needing. I fear that, with you, I grow, my love."
During Gale's monologue, at some point, she's begun caressing his open palm, playing with the cuffs of his night gown. The pressure, the warmth, of her body everywhere against his is greater than anything offered by the Weave. Certainly no magic could ever replicate this.
So, Gale drapes an arm around her shoulders like a cape, a blanket. He breathes in her hair's spicy herbal scent, which puts an even ground beneath his feet; helps him stand more confidently. He caresses her pale neck, her back with his open hand— appreciates the imperfection of ridges and scars which are a fleeting sensations under his fingers' pads.
A reassuring massage.
Perhaps this is what has always mattered in life.
"You deserve only more," she kisses Gale's cheek, somehow leaning more heavily against his form. The action lacks any fervour, yet, in his chest, the coldness of the orb fades to plain and disarming warmth.
Frai exhales— the sensation fleeting against his collarbone.
This is so gentle, so scarce, yet so more than enough.
"This is rather nice, though it won't last."
Gale smiles.
"Oh, it's all the nicer for that," he remarks, punctuating his words with a chaste kiss to Frai's plum-painted lips.
The first time they were surrounded by the Weave— it was a conversation so funnily akin to this. But, the sentiment mirrors her beliefs; the one thought to which she will always return. Catch the last rays of the Sun before the Moon dares to arrive and spoil all the fun you wish to have while there's still some time.
"I'm afraid it's getting too late— sleep is creeping on me, Gale. You need the energy too with all the spellcasting you do. Beyond other things," Frai grabs for his hand, and her slightly too long nails scrape gently along his knuckles. "Though, I won't be too far. You are not getting out of my sight," her laughter is almost a wind chime as she points to her blind eye as if to emphasise the hastily made pun.
"I hope you're suggesting we share a bed for the night?" Gale asks, his eyebrow raised, though the answer is as clear as tonight's Stars.
"Whyever would you think that? I would never dare cuddle with anyone," Frai asks back even as she settles on top of Gale like a self-satisfied, lazy cat. Frai— ever the sly, impossible liar.
And Gale has experienced far grander shows of affection in life, however none have yet felt so honest that even 'love' had seemed a word of the rather overly frivolous kind. Sleep may yet come to him easily before he must face the consequences of his naïve dreams about divinity and all things grand.
"So many years I've spent thinking that Mystra is the one— that if it's not her I might as well just die. How funny is that now? She left— commanded I sacrifice my life— and yet, for you, I am desperately fighting to stay alive," Gale muses to the audience of a quiet room, of a night.