Work Text:
Minthara had long considered what she might say when she saw Gale of Waterdeep again.
There had never been a doubt in her mind that he would live— she was too great a warrior, and he too great a wizard, for it to ever be otherwise. Still, she felt the need convey to gratitude at his continued presence (a difficult concept for one whose mother tongue had no phrase for "thank you"), while also avoiding the overly-saccharine nature of such sentiments. She considered the matter carefully for many blood-soaked days, arranging and re-arranging the words in her mind even as she cut through her foes like butter in the bowels beneath Baldur's Gate. And when they had finally found him, beaten and bruised but alive, she had delivered her chosen words with all the sharpness and acuity she possessed, as was befitting of a true daughter of House Baenre.
"…I am pleased to see you again, wizard."
The look he gave her was one of faint surprise— lips parted, eyes widened and rimmed with heavy dark circles. His beard, usually so meticulously groomed, was unkempt. For once he seemed at a loss for words.
"I…I'm pleased to see you too, Minthara."
And then, like that, he was gone.
It felt far too abrupt for her liking; but the others said nothing, and so she said nothing also. What else was there to say? Their companion had been returned to them through red blood and ruin, their forces were back to their full strength, and Orin was no more. She could scarcely hope for a better outcome.
Despite this, Minthara found herself chafing under the stillness when they returned to their camp. She had never done well with quiet, ill-equipped to handle inaction or indolence, and too often the atmosphere above ground felt uncomfortably close to both. Lying on her back alone in her tent, even the quiet murmurings of her companion's voices far away set her teeth on edge. One by one, they finally faded as they each sought their rest: the shadows had grown long, and the night was growing old. She turned over again, restless, and grasped for the dagger she kept hidden beneath her pillow.
An old habit she had started as a girl: one never knew when the next attack might come in Menzoberranzan. Pulling it out, she ran a finger idly over the edge, staring at the silhouette of the moon through the canvas above her head. Insufferably bright, like everything else on the Surface. He would have cast a darkness spell for her, if she asked; and perhaps even if she didn't. He had always been good at anticipating what she wanted before she knew herself.
With a snarl, Minthara jammed the dagger into the dirt with all the force she could manage.
There were few thoughts in her head as she leapt forth from her bedroll to fling back the flap of her tent. A shameful display, whispered a voice in the back of her mind, but she silenced it swiftly; almost as swiftly as her feet carried her across the camp to where the wizard's tent stood, glowing warm with candlelight like a beacon in the dark. He was awake then— reading, most likely. He did like to read.
She didn't bother to announce her presence. She had never done so before: there had seldom been any more to say than than disrobe, yes, no, or there during their previous trysts. Pushing her way into his tent, she saw no reason that this time would be any different.
The spell that hit her square in the chest proved otherwise.
A choking gasp. The wind had been knocked from her lungs: a terrible feeling, and one she had grown unaccustomed to in her long years as a commander. Her hand rushed for the dagger at her hip— but even as her fingers wrapped round the leather of the hilt, they jerked backward, just short of her goal. Her muscles tensed and trembled, and then with a cry she fell, motionless, to the ground.
The candle in the corner snuffed out.
"M-minthara…?" whispered a breathy voice at her ear.
It was likely for the best that she was unable to move in that moment. Gale's face swam into view over hers: worry, but also fear, painted in the deep purple shadows that fell across his features. A strange feeling, heavy like a stone, sank into her gut.
"Movere."
She sat up at once.
"What was that?" she hissed, taking care to keep her voice low.
"I— I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me, I—"
"—Do not whimper so. I take no offense. If it were not so far outside of your character, I would almost be impressed."
She meant the words as comfort; but he only looked away, his eyes not quite meeting her own.
"A wizard who doesn't know when to hold his spells is hardly impressive," he murmured. "I could have hurt you, had I chosen a more lethal enchantment. I couldn't have lived with myself if—" he paused, suddenly taken aback. "Are you… are you smiling?"
"Forgive me, I forget myself."
"Why are you smiling?"
"How can I not? Even in apology, your arrogance is astounding." She snorted. "You, hurt me? You flatter yourself if you believe you are capable of such a feat."
Gale's shoulders slumped.
"Right as usual, Minthara," he mumbled, turning away. "An absurd notion."
Minthara cocked her head at his tone. He was prone to wallowing, she knew— his months of mourning at Mystra's altar were more than enough evidence of that— but he had never done so with her.
"Come then. Do not be so dour. You are returned to our company, whole and hale, and soon we will free ourselves of the Absolute for good."
Gale remained quiet, his eyes and his body still distant. Her eyes narrowed. Fine. If he wouldn't deign to tell her what was causing him such obvious distress, she would extract the information in her own way.
She tossed her head and cast her eyes downward, feigning disinterest. A ruse, in truth, for she was secretly watching him from beneath her lashes, intent on his every move. It was an old but effective trick from Menzoberranzan: unless otherwise trained, friend or foe alike would often look to what they desired most, and in doing so, reveal themselves to manipulation.
Minthara didn't wish to manipulate him, per se. But she did wish to know what he was thinking. He would be proud if he knew, she reasoned to herself: this was far more subtle than using the worm or casting a spell to see inside his mind. Perhaps she could even teach him, later.
A cloud passed over the moon and still the silence lingered between them. Her fingers hovered over the edge of the bedroll, not quite touching him, looking for the smallest tell that his body language might offer. All was still: save the muscle that worked, nearly imperceptible, in her left cheek.
This is taking too long, she thought to herself, shivering, poised as if to strike. He is taking too long.
And then, when she expected it least, he turned to her.
Whatever plots had been running through her mind evaporated like a morning mist when his eyes met hers. Earnest eyes, wide and deep brown in hue: nothing remarkable, by the standards of her people. She had barely noticed them on their first meeting and had continued to ignore them for some time after. But now— now when he looked at her, there was something in his gaze that made her blood burn hot in her veins.
She climbed on top of him before he could utter a word.
He didn't protest. He never did: not even the first time she had arrived in his tent, unbidden, to take her pleasure from him. He had only looked up at her, half-asleep and half-besotted, and whispered:
"…Are you sure?"
She had laughed at him then. As if she had ever been unsure of anything in her life. As if she would do anything she didn't want to do ever again, when her freedom and her faculties had been returned to her.
Yes. She was quite sure that she was going to thoroughly enjoy taking him now.
She settled atop him with the grace of a cat, spreading herself wide to perch over his thighs. She could already feel him growing beneath her and she groaned, rolling her hips against his even as his hands came up to explore her further. Soft hands. Gentle hands. There was a time when she would have been ashamed to have such hands on her body.
No more. Now she leaned into them eagerly— his feather light touches across her breasts and belly nearly too much to bear. She rode him harder, frenzied, untying the laces at the collar of his shirt as quickly as her own trembling hands could work.
"Off," she hissed.
He moved to acquiesce at once. A quick yank and then his shirt was gone, pulled over his head to disappear in the corner that held his candles and books. As he laid back on the bedroll, he smiled and cocked an eye at her.
"And what about this?" he asked, fingering the hem of her top. "I don't mean to be a miser, but the gentleman would also enjoy a little reciprocation, if it pleases you…"
Minthara might've reprimanded a lesser gentleman, but she was in no mood for further delays. She moved to peel her top off— far less gracefully than he had— fighting the stiff fabric as her impatience got the better of her. An unfortunate chance: for as she twisted herself to and fro, attempting to shimmy out of it, the dagger which had been sheathed at her side began to work it's way loose. One final tug of her shirt and it fell forward, hitting the dirt next to them with a dull metallic clang.
A flicker of fear, naked and vulnerable, flashed across Gale's face.
Minthara stilled her body above his, letting her shirt fall to the side. She frowned— he had never looked at her like that before, even when she had given him cause to. Her eyes took him in— the splay of his dark hair across the pillow, the broadness of his shoulders— lingering a moment longer on the new smattering of thin white lines criss-crossing his chest.
It was only then that she understood.
"…Orin did this to you, did she not?" she murmured.
Silence, heavy and still. Gale swallowed and looked away.
"We don't need to—"
"—I know what it is to feel fear by her hand," she said softly, stopping him before he could continue. Her tone darkened. "Teased and torn and toyed with, until it felt as if my very essence had been stripped away. In many ways it was."
She sat up abruptly, rolling off his hips to lay at his side. She brushed a hand over his chest, following the curve of a scar with her finger.
"…Do you know what I did, when I found her?"
"I saw your mace after. It takes little in the way of imagination to figure out how that reunion might have gone."
Minthara smiled up at him, wicked sharp.
"I can describe it, if you wish. You are not the only one with a talented tongue."
Gale smiled ruefully in return, inclining his head slightly. "And you already know that I would listen to every word, forever and ever; content that it was I you chose to share your lovely voice with in perpetuity."
Minthara snorted. "A fine flattery. But mere words cannot be all that you wish for, surely? I would share the feeling of my mace shattering her skull, instead."
"Would it truly shock you to find that I might prefer words? We wizards are known for our love of language, after all." A flick of his wrist, and a series of conjurations danced to life in light and smoke. "Well-woven words may cast the spell that burns, or the balm that nurtures. Even a simple word does much to nourish the mind and fill the heart."
Minthara waved her hand and the images dissipated.
"…Or an illusion. Nothing more than paper on the wind."
"I…I suppose that's one way to look at it."
Minthara frowned. He seemed morose again— his eyes unfocused and staring at the tent ceiling. Annoyed, she propped herself up on her elbow and grabbed his chin.
"Very well then. Tell me what it is that you wish for. And do not lie."
His beard was raspy against her hand and she immediately fought the urge to stroke it. Instead she bent her will upon him, hoping that through force alone she might intimidate him into revealing his secrets. She was tired of games, of half-truths and half-meanings. Had she not supped on lies enough under Lolth? Under the Absolute? Her grip tightened: but her resolve faltered the longer she looked into his eyes. She trembled, suddenly unsure. It felt as if she had grown smaller in the moments before this, somehow, and she was only just now noticing the change.
"…May I kiss you?" he whispered.
Her breath hitched.
They had never kissed before. She had always considered it unnecessary; a useless addition to the act when there were far greater pleasures to be had elsewhere. Her hand slid down to cup his chin as she considered, but he was already leaning forward, his eyes intent on her lips. She gasped.
"Gale—"
He paused, a scant breath away. Slowly, his hand came up between them to stroke, soft, at her neck and collarbone. A terrible crushing fear smote her heart at the same instant— not that he would hurt her, but that in allowing him this, in allowing herself this, that she might end up hurting herself.
Somehow, it seemed to matter a little less than it once had.
The first brush of his lips was tentative: a question, softly spoken, on the very threshold of a long desired answer. She tilted her head, questioning him back, and was caught off guard by the pleasant warmth of his breath mingling with hers. A tiny shiver sped down her spine and she sighed, her back hitting the bedroll even as he pulled her closer to seek clarity with lips and tongue.
Did you miss me?
…Do you love me?
A jolt like electricity: and then the kiss deepened. Her hands wandered, first over his cheeks and beard, then downwards, across his neck and chest, before moving up once more to begin their journey all over again. He was solid beneath her hands: scarred and sinewy, but strong in ways she had never appreciated before. She felt something warm and wet falling across her cheeks, and sniffled into the kiss.
"Minthara… are you…?"
Heat blossomed in her cheeks and she jerked away, embarrassed of her weakness: but his arms held fast around her shoulders. She struggled futilely against them for a moment more, and then went still in acceptance.
"I-I… I am sorry. I don't…"
"There's no need to fret," he murmured, wiping her cheek with his thumb. "I'm here."
"Yes," she snapped— and flinched, trying and failing to filter her anger as if through a sieve. "You are here: but only just! If we had been but a little delayed…"
She paused, jaw flexing. Her voice lowered to growl.
"Let us just say that it was well for Orin that you yet live. Had things been otherwise, I would have half a mind to resurrect her for the pleasure of killing her a second time— slowly."
To her surprise, Gale only chuckled.
"…Does my wrath amuse you?" she asked, annoyed.
"Never."
"Then what?"
"I was beginning to worry that you might be as heartless as you had once seemed. I see now that we were merely…communicating in different ways. A problem of vocabulary and grammar, perhaps: but not of intent."
She huffed. "Your mind is strange, wizard."
"Perhaps. Though I think yours may be the stranger."
"Impudent words. Kiss me again."
To her delight, he did.