Archive of Our Own ^beta

You were gone. 

You, his finest civil servant, who he trusted implicitly to manage his most complicated projects. His best educated staff member, his highly skilled steward, who kept his assets and properties running smoothly. 

His most valued household asset. 

His…

…

His secret, unrequited love for seven melancholy years- a woman who was his match in body, mind, and Soul, yet would never feel the same way about him. One who felt herself firmly ‘beneath’ him in that comfortable, implacable human way.

You had vanished into thin air, with every evidence of a terrible accident. 

It was driving him fucking insane. 

You'd left his grounds that morning in absolutely pouring rain, the tail end of the monsoon season, to go and inspect a broken dam on the western plains. Having left before sunrise, taking your usual mount from his stable and a traveling pack of foodstuffs from his kitchens, Gaster hadn't even seen you go. He, the Lord High Engineer, cousin to the Dreemur line and Divinity of the Monster race, had slept through your departure like a useless, lazy hound, drooling on the doorstep while a thief stole all that was precious to it. A late night was no excuse. 

And then word had come two hours ago…two hours after sunset. Your horse had been found, soaked and miserable, still tied beneath a sacred tree right next to the top of the three-hundred foot tall damaged caementicium dam. She'd still been loaded with all of your usual traveling necessities, her bridle still on, as if you'd only just arrived before vanishing…which was the first unusual bit of evidence. He knew you were soft on the beasts, preferring to take the bit from their mouths if you were going to leave them somewhere for more than a few minutes. The second, more concerning by far, was a tacky, browning splash of human blood on the inner side of the broken crenellations, blessedly shielded from the rain by the angle of the structure. He knew it was your blood, and that it had been shed in a moment of panic and terror, for Snarl (the Dog Captain of his household guard) and a small team of his best-nosed guardsmen had confirmed it as such the moment they arrived on site, following Gaster's mad, borderline-unstable translocations as quickly as they could on horseback. 

Gaster's panic-concealed-as-fury immediately called Crown investigators, search parties and scent hound teams alike, to heel; scouring the area as he himself simply stood and stared at that blood on the caementicium, absently restraining your horse as she danced and paced at the length of her reins. She knew something was wrong with her mistress, had witnessed whatever it was- be it a mysterious accident, be it foul play or the acts of lawless men -but there was no one alive who retained the ability to speak to the beastfolk that could ask her what had happened. 

Thank all the Stars in the sky that the guards on the dam had at least thought to send a report at end of day, when you didn't speak to their station before leaving the project area. Their message runner had been a young Jackalope, bright-eyed and fearful as he'd approached Gaster on his porch.

“Lord High Engineer, I bring concerning news from project site thirty-one.” The young Monster bounced in place as they quickly spoke, amped up on the speed spells they'd cast on themselves and haloed by the downpour behind them. Gaster, peacefully sitting behind a portable desk as he wrote formal letters to that year's prospective students at the University, looked up quickly in concern. “Report.”

The Jackalope took a steadying breath, and that made Gaster privately, immensely concerned. What, was the dam damaged more than it had appeared at his initial inspection? It was never good when a servant hesitated to deliver bad news…

“Sir, your head assistant…she did not report back to the guardhouse at the end of the day, or at any point after her initial check in. My superior found…human blood, relatively near where we located a horse tacked with your house emblems, and sent me to inform you immediately. We cannot find her- we have searched the project site. Her coins and documents are still in her saddlebags. She's gone.”

Gaster said nothing for a moment, as he felt his world drop out from beneath him.

Now the broken dam stretched out before him in the dark, huge in its majesty and a testament to the engineering skills of the Monsters- it allowed for magical power generation, and created a new river basin to further bolster wet-field farming in the surrounding lands. The recent monsoon season had caused tremendous damage from a series of lightning strikes of all things, shattering a large portion of the top walkway and sending a fissure down one hundred feet into the thick caementicium and costly steel reinforcements that made it up. 

He clenched his fists in mixed dread and relief as those first, most fearful searchers came back blessedly empty handed sometime around midnight- your body had not been found at the base of the dam, in the thickly swirling depths there. Two other human citizens, in the past thirty years, had leapt from its heights to commit suicide, and both times their corpse had been found trapped at the base, pressed to the river's treacherous, stony bottom by the unnatural currents and deadly barrel undertow the dam created. A pair of powerfully-built River Otters had searched the area as thoroughly as he could ask for, and swore they'd found no trace of you. At his side, Snarl sighed with relief.

Next came over-ground searchers. Despite a guarded perimeter, it was always possible that enemies of the Crown could have snuck onto the property, and that splash of your blood was a poor omen. Roving guard and scent hound search parties found two ragged groups of human bandits relatively nearby, but every member of both bands swore under threat of death and heavy truth spells that they hadn't gone near the dam- they'd been in wait to target travelers on the roads nearby. Gaster waved them and their captors off for magistrate justice, uninterested in their mundane cruelty any further. The scent hound handlers did their best, but each looked hopeless when they circled back to him. The age of the blood was a poor omen for those who searched by scent, as was the sheer power of the rainfall. Each apologized profusely, bowing on their knees with their foreheads touching the muddy ground, as they explained that the dogs could only do so much in such conditions, compounded by running water and so many magical scents in the area from the tremendous wards placed on the dam itself. The head of them, a trustworthy goldbrushed human named Bernard and his hound Achoo, had quietly shown Gaster how to age human blood by color, texture, and smell. “It must have happened early this morning,” he'd explained, dragging his fingertips through the tacky fluid. “Hours and hours ago, around dawn. In this weather? Sir…”

Gaster had dismissed him with nothing more than a single, curt motion, turning away to grind his teeth as he stared out over the boiling river far below.

…

Long after your disappearance on that first day, the Lord High Engineer rode your horse back to the city in the sickly glow of a drizzling false dawn, his mind racing and his Soul sick with dread. 

Where could you be?

Where could you be?

-

By midday of the next, word had spread. By night? 

It was the talk of the fucking city. 

Everyone commented, in murmurs and whispers, about how honorable it was to see the Lord High Engineer, Divinity of his people, so concerned for his steward. How he was truly an exemplar of noble chivalry, of a Lord's responsibility to protect his sworn servants and peasantry. He even received a few letters throughout the day, all of them written with the latest sympathies, and expressing condolences in the same way they might have if he'd lost a prized hunting hound, or a particularly priceless piece of art. 

It made him want to scream. 

Damn all of them to the starlet void, he didn't care. He felt sick, felt mad and rabid, and he didn't care. The fucking city could burn around him, so be it- he needed you. Needed to find you, need you to be alive. Stupid fool, stupid idiot; why had he never put a protection or tracking spell on you? He had nothing to hunt you down by, nothing to seek you with, and he knew from a long conversation late into the night some months ago- a conversation he might never get to have one like again -that you preferred not to wear most store-bought magical charms or talismans on your person. So there wasn't even the possibility of that little bit of cheap magic to search for. Crown scent hounds had been dispatched twice more, each batch of them magically enhanced to the point that they could track a gnat through leagues of swamp in better conditions, and nothing had turned up within leagues of the dam in any direction, or five miles downstream! Stars above, even if you were dead, they should have been at least able to find your…

your…

...no. 

No, he couldn't stand to think about it. You were alive, you had to be. He demanded of the universe that you were alive.

Worse, it was getting unseasonably cold outside, each recent evening and night dipping low enough that the orchards were wrapping some of their more prized trees in thin linens before sundown, hoping to get one last harvest. That was the most dangerous thing of all. Humans could survive without water for two or three days, could survive tremendous injuries and infections for even longer. But a few hours of severe cold would kill. The night before had stayed merciful, lukewarm throughout. But now, as the sun dipped low in the horizon once again, he felt the wind blow with a terrible chill across his face, and grit his teeth on something like a single, short, explosive sob of frustration and fear.

Damn him…coward, fool. If there'd been even a chance that you would consider returning his…emotions…then even that connection alone could have been mined for information, could have been followed with the proper blood magic enacted. What did he care if he'd have to prick his soul to do it? But no, he had languished as a coward for these past seven years, never daring to confess what he felt for you, fearing your rejection more severely than anything he'd ever feared in his life.

And now it could truly be too late. 

He clenched his fists so hard that he lost HoPe from his Soul, fracturing a bone in his palm. What would it feel like, if one of the seeking teams turned up, solemnly bearing your empty shell? What would it feel like, to never hear your exasperated admonishments or low, soft laugh again? Would it be numbness, like the loss of his parents so very long ago? Would it be cold depression, like the loss of his elder sister, gone nearly a century?

Or would it be pain, a lance through his heart? 

In an uncharacteristic, outward display of emotion, for just a moment, he raised his hands to his mouth and pressed them there tightly, jumping his leg while his mind scrambled over a hundred terrible possibilities and self-flagellations…

…which was how Snarl found him.

Gods all help him, he didn't even have the energy to send the man away, to prevent him from seeing a Divinity of the city in a state such as this. No, he only glanced over at him, then turned away again to face the dark, cloud-covered sky above the city wall. The pounding rain of the day before had given way to a miserable, cold mist.

After a long few moments, Snarl took a breath… started to say something and stopped himself… then sighed hard. When Gaster didn't react, he slid down with a creak of leather from his scout armor to kneel on the ground beside Gaster's bench.

“I was still in the city guard when we got a report that a few citizens had gone missing. This was…oh, nine years ago.” His voice was soft as he began unlacing his bracers. “Two unknown folk…and a woman named Marble.” Gaster peered at him for a moment, a dull spark of interest burning away the malaise in his Soul for a bare moment- Marble was Snarl's wife, unless this story was about a different woman. “I wasn't supposed to see it- the second the city guard finds out you’re soft on somebody, they won't let you take cases that relate to them. But the runner didn't know, and I was at the station desk at the time.” Snarl blew out of breath, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the wall behind him until the points of his ears brushed it- his paws still moved deftly, removing the bracers as he must have thousands of times before. “I felt sick. Like a trapped animal, like I wanted to kill somebody, shake ‘em to pieces and rip ‘em apart, and maybe that would help her. We weren't even together then, she had no idea I was interested. Just old acquaintances, thanks to our mothers.”

Gaster clenched his hands into tight fists, wanting very much to kill something indeed. He knew he probably shouldn't encourage such familiar behavior from Snarl, but what did it matter? What did anything matter without you? The cold wind dried the unshed tears from his eye sockets quickly. “...what did you do?”

“Oh, my sergeant found out about it. Tanned my ass and threw me on wall rotation as punishment. Meant I had to stand there for eight hours a day, staring out at jackshit nothing, and thinking about her without being able to do anything about it. I didn't sleep, I didn't eat hardly. Every second that I had free, I spent searching all outside the city with my brothers and sisters- they could tell I was going nuts.”

“...am I to assume that you found her, then?”

The other man took his head. “Nope. Searched until I was sick, caught a freezing fever and had to be taken to the healers. They found the three of them without me a few days later. They'd gotten trapped in a cave-in, searching for pigments up along the Sunridge. Survived thanks to her using the trail rations they'd taken along to bait rats in. The Stars’ mercy, there'd been a trickle of water, so they'd had enough to survive.”

Straining with all of his considerable magic, Gaster dashed a hand through the air with a crack of power and rent the cloud cover for a short moment, affording them both a view of an arm of the mother galaxy, and of the constellations she passed through. “Sometimes that's all you can get,” he whispered. “Just enough of something to survive.” He stared at the constellation of the chariot, briefly uncovered by him, and imagined the frantic driver of legends, fording the fathomless Mother River of stars in desperation to save his kingdom. He had died for his efforts; a self-sacrifice, the legends said...the strength of his body and the will of his steeds holding the roof of the chariot itself forever in place, a broken, bloodied dam for the Celestials to cross the treacherous river. Despite his efforts, countless Gods had still washed down, down into infinity and down to earth itself, becoming Divinities to travel the Endless Roads forever in their quest to return home…

Washed down the river, eternities away from where they were meant to be…

Gaster took a breath. “The search teams, they have searched for five miles around the broken dam, yes…but what is the chance that it broke further under her and she wasn't caught at its base?” The more he hypothesized out loud, the more he knew he sounded desperate…so be it. “What if she fell, and it washed her so far downstream that we simply haven't looked far enough? The river is high and fast, engorged with rain…” 

Snarl blinked. “Well…the surveyors said it looked no different than it did before her disappearance…but if we haven't found her near it, well.” He cocked his head, his blue eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “They can't possibly remember every single broken brick n’ slab, and it would only take one bad step, especially with how the river's been running lately. You'd know far better than me, sir- is it possible for someone to get washed away, rather than trapped at the base?”

Gaster ground his teeth. Possible? Technically. 

Likely?

“The roll-over current is…extremely powerful. There is…a slight chance, yes, but even so…even if she escaped it and surfaced again, I-”

“Good enough.” Snarl stood, bowed low, then offered him his hand. “Downstream then, my Lord. Until we find her.”

Never would Gaster find such a man as this one again. Loyalty in every speck of his dust.

“...until we find her.” Gaster let the Captain pull him to his feet. 

-

First, to Cook. The woman had been his chief medic for decades of skirmishes and wars. He knew human biology as far as how to best kill them in combat. But she understood how to save them.

“You will take this,” the old Salamander said after he roused her from her bed, putting a small leather satchel in his hands that she took from a locked chest in the corner of her private sitting room. “Though I warn you know, my Lord, you ride out to find a corpse, not a woman. Not in this weather.” Gaster was shaking with the need to leave. While he trotted back outside, he opened its flap hastily, frowning at what was within. A single, wax-sealed crock, packed in wool to cushion it from the ride. “Itzi, I have a few standard medical supplies, though we have little remaining. What is-”

“This isn't standard.” She snatched it back from his hands and began fixing it onto your horse's saddle, packing it between an oiled sheet and a thick, rolled blanket. “If she lives- and I doubt she does -she will be near death from cold, lack of water, and wounds. Humans cannot recover easily from such things. You must heat her immediately, until she shivers so hard you fear her bones will break.” She continued on in the same, gruff way, explaining the brain death you faced, the way your heart could tear itself asunder from the force needed to pump cold, thick blood through your veins, the way that the fluids of the body could absorb sugars through the gums if a body was unconscious. It was horrible…but like all horrible things that had come before in Gaster's life, he bent his head and bore it, committing her instructions to memory as she jabbed a finger at the now-secured decoction. “Half of this until the shivers stop. The other half, a few minutes afterwards. It is bitter and disgusting with powerful herbs, minerals, and molasses, brewed with soda water from the hardest of the mineral springs. But it will save her life, if anything will. Force her to drink it. Even if she vomits. It is a terrible potion…one of last resort…but she will be in a terrible state.”

She bent and whispered to your horse for a moment, stroking its nose gently…and then he was off, with Captain Snarl and four of his guardsmen behind him.

-

He wasn't sure what instructions he'd expected Snarl to give the other men, but the simple efficiency of the Dogs surprised him. They were next to the sacred tree where your horse had originally been found, at the very top of the dam, and Snarl had circled up with his men for a moment, all of them wrapping their various buckles and bits of metal tack in cloth to silence their jingle. 

“Search as to your instincts. Ride silent. Keep your weapons close. We meet back here at dawn.”

Gaster had no desire to ride silently. Let any enemies of the Crown come forth- he would relish the chance at bloody relief. Once they all remounted, his guardsmen offered him a low bow…and then they split off, two of them trotting toward the bridge to the jungle on the other side of the dam, two staying with Snarl as one of them pulled a map out. 

Gaster simply turned your steed and made for the long length of the river. It was a relatively easy ride, all things considered- the natural flood cycles had cleared the land some five-hundred yards on either side of the wide, raging waters over the centuries, leaving a sort of quasi-natural grassland for your horse to easily trot through. For his part, he sank into a sort of battle meditation for the better part of three or four miles, his mind focusing on nothing more than the soft sound of her hooves and the jingle of her tack beneath him. It was foolish, hoping the animal could find you when no others could…but were not horses one of the five elder beasts, the third of the five species to first ally themselves with mankind? Perhaps she had some bit of horse magic that he didn't know.

“We must find your mistress,” he murmured to the mare after some time, leaning forward to scratch at her shoulders. “She is the one who sneaks you extra treats of sugarcane when the hostlers aren't looking, who pads your saddle with lambswool and hissed like a queen cat until they took the spade bits from our stables and gave them back to the blacksmith. She is your caretaker, no? You would miss her.” 

She flicked an ear back to him, listening, and bent to drink from a small stream that flowed from the jungle on its way to join the river. Feeling like a mad man and not caring in the slightest, Gaster nodded wisely. “Ah, you would miss her. Yes, imagine having to carry a man about instead, for the rest of your days...a stinking, loud, brash, filthy man.” 

Both ears went back, and she turned her head to give him an evil eye. He grinned, feeling the lack of sleep for the past two days like a hysterical urge to giggle. “You see? We simply must find her. If my ancestors washed the whole way to earth from the great river, then surely she could have been washed further downstream than a mean five miles. Let's go.” 

She picked up her pace by her own accord, as if horrified indeed by the impropriety of carrying a man on her lovely, unbesmirched hide. The weather was getting colder still, the warmth of the day and even the previous weeks turning to a dearly chill, and Gaster began to pray softly, chanting to the stars above him, begging his distant ancestors to shine their light of clarity. The wind began blowing in his face, shocking in its cold…

…and the mare stopped, her nostrils flaring. Gaster waited, wary- predators in the jungle, perhaps? None were a threat to him, but she didn't know that…

No. Her ears went up in interest, not alarm, her sides billowing as she took deep breaths through her nose. He bit his lip, not wanting to distract her, but full of unimaginable hope- stallions could smell their home herds from miles and miles away. Could she smell you? Cautiously, he pressed his knees to her sides, very gently urging her forwards…and she began to trot of her own accord, her ears twisting and turning on her head, stopping every once in a while to breathe in the wind. Whatever she sought, she knew exactly where it was, or at least where its scent was coming from- Gaster cast a dim golden star into the air some twenty feet above his head, enough to give her just a bit more light without adding to the shadows. He swore silently that he would give alms to the Circle of the Herd for the rest of his days if this creature, equipped by her Gods with tools he himself did not have, could find you. 

He had no idea how much ground he had covered- the full Moon had begun to set from her zenith, slowly curving back down to meet her lover below the horizon. The terrain itself was also beginning to slope gradually as if copying the divine pair, dipping toward the distant great jungles that truly circled Ebbots furthest borders. So distracted by the sight of that far-away mist was he, by the fog that eternally rose from the great jungles of Faeri, that when the horse stopped for a moment he urged her forward without even looking down. She balked, shooting him a filthy look from the corner of her eye, so he actually glanced down…and grimaced. The ground dipped hard here, a ridge of stone nearly one-hundred feet to its base. He'd been urging her into a suicide jump.

“Apologies, my Lady,” he murmured, turning her to begin searching for a suitable path down. It took some circling, but at last, the two of them found a path down that required only minimal skidding and sliding in the mud left behind by so much rain, and looked relatively promising to climb back up.

That done, the mare definitively turned back toward the river…and nickered as she came within sight of its waters. Gaster froze…she did it again, trotting even more quickly toward the reeds until the ground became too unstable, frightening her. He threw himself off your horse, letting her back up a few steps to more solid ground and running almost before he even touched the earth…what was that shape that she stared at? Pale and horizontal amongst so many vertical water plants, almost glowing in the dim light of his star…

When he got closer, he stopped dead in his tracks for just a moment, horrified. What he'd seen was the long edge of a piece of the thick wooden railings at the top of the dam, broken off like a six-foot long letter ‘E’ with the cross beams still attached. The wood had been painted white to waterproof it, which obviously had contributed to its buoyancy, to get this far down the river in one piece…

…and your body was laying atop the makeshift raft, your tunic and wide pants sodden with river mud, your pale-green sash wrapped around your wrist and its center pole again and again. You'd somehow found a chance to tie yourself to it, doubtless to keep yourself at the surface of the river's mad rapids. 

Gaster tried to struggle through the thigh-deep mud of the flood plains to reach you, swearing and making oaths to any Celestials listening…but it was impossible. Even his own slim form sank into the muck knee-deep with every step. Finally, he cast out a lash of pure magical energy, looping it around one end of the make-shift raft you'd bound yourself to, and tying the other around your mount's pommel. Then he slowly backed the mare up, step by step, until the wood slid free of the mud with a sickening squelch, sliding along the surface and dragging you along with it by your wrist. Your body was completely limp, and the way you were laying face down, your hair soaked and matted with muck, made him hiss through his teeth with panic.

The moment he could reach you, Gaster fell to his knees in the wet soil, pulling a tiny, polished silver mirror from a pouch on his waist and holding it in the small gap between your (blue, pale, oh Stars oh Gods please, please) lips and the dirt…

A tiny bit of misted moisture appeared there, and his head roared with desperate hope. Alive, you were alive! It was the work of an agonizing few minutes to gather enough wood to make a fire, using magic to simply blast the wet wood until it dried and caught, and to build it big enough to be almost painful to sit near. The moment it was burning merrily, he ran back to you and felt along your head and neck for protruding bones, cut your hatefully swollen, purple and black wrist free of your hastily-made lifeline, and sliced the freezing clothes from your body with a whispered apology for the impropriety and roughness. The myriad lacerations, bruises, and brushburns on every inch of you made him want to scream, but he bit back his own hysteria until he had you limp, waxen, and bare in his arms. Strangely enough, there was a soaked, rough bandage wrapped above your left elbow- the fabric matched your tunic. Quickly pulling a blanket from his saddlepack, he wrapped you in it, making sure to tuck your blue fingertips and toes within, then sat as near to the fire as he dared, holding you to his chest and praying as fervently as he ever had in his life. After a moment, he unbuttoned his overcoat and tucked you within that as well, wrapping its billowing, quilted edges around your body and hoping you could somehow steal the life from his own body. Here too, was a last laugh from the trickster stars- if the two of you were bonded, if he had asked you to be his love, then he could have literally done so. Could have taken some of the vitality from his own Soul, and pushed it into your own. As it was? 

He could do nothing but wait. 

For an agonizing, empty, measureless period of time, nothing happened- you stayed limp against his chest, your beautiful cheekbones bruised and battered in the firelight like a soldier after a war, your lips and eyelids as blue as a corpse. Gaster began to rock you, cradling your head in the crook of his arm like he had his own sons in their infancy, watching as your hair dried and frizzed in the heat. He pressed his cheek down to it, then turned slightly to breathe its scent- herbs and jasmine, beneath the smell of the river and your own blood from countless little scrapes and scratches. It made tears rise in his eyes. Gods all help him, he loved you, he loved you, and it was too late. You were freezing cold, doubtless on death's door; to translocate you would kill you, but an hours-long ride at the gallop would be little better. He had to get you warm first, had to move the blood through your veins. “I don't know what to do,” he confessed in a whisper, choking on the words. “I don't know what to do…I'm so sorry, I lov-” 

…

-a tremor ran through your body, so feeble and weak he almost didn't notice it. He froze…and it happened again, harder…and then, like a switch flipping, you were shivering in his arms unlike anything he'd ever seen before, the movements wracking and seizure-like in their severity. Hope flared in him like a watchfire, but he tempered it harshly. Cook had mentioned these shivers, the first, perilous stage of reviving a mortal near death of cold- they could break your bones, could stop your heart. It was time for that terrible potion, the one that even Itzi had grimaced over as she handed it to him. He reached into a saddlebag with a magical hand and pulled forth the bottle she'd given him, shoving it down into the wet earth at his side to keep it upright and breaking the wax seal one-handed. His next action felt invasive and crude to do to a woman, but his old friend's instructions had been brisk and clear- he dipped the edge of a clean handkerchief into the thick, almost syrupy brown liquid within, and parted your cracked lips to swab it onto your pale gums and tongue. It reeked of molasses and herbs, with an overwhelming stench of something metallic and bloodlike to his over-clocked senses. He moistened all of the tissues thoroughly, then gently rubbed his fingertips across your throat until you finally swallowed unconsciously. Then he put a few drops of water between your lips and did the same, just as the Salamander had instructed.

He did that again and again, back and forth, praying that her concoction would keep you stable and alive in his arms…and realized after an agonizing hour or so had passed that your shakes had faded to more normal shivers, your unwounded hand twitching weakly against his chest. Painful, agonizing joy leapt in his Soul when you made a sound in your throat, fearful and cracked- he began speaking to you softly, bringing the decoction-soaked fabric back to your lips. 

“I've found you, you're safe. You're cold because you fell into the river, there's a fire lit and…and you're slowly recovering. You're wounded from head to toe, but I did not see anything immediately l-lethal.” Gaster's voice broke- he rallied. “Cook has sent this potion along- she said to suck it from this fabric if you can. It will keep your heart steady and your brain safe from the toxins of drowning. Here now, that's it. Good job.” The words left him in a constant rumble of praise and gentle instruction, coaxing you to weakly swallow drop after drop of liquid. Gaster himself had to brace against the surge of emotions that roared up at the sight of you obediently opening your mouth time after time, faintly suckling the decoction from the soft linen, whimpering in your throat like a wounded creature of the wood. It made him feel absolutely insane, like a wild beast himself, mindless with sincerity, affection, and desperate concern. “I know, I know it hurts, I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry, I couldn't find you, I didn't know where to look…it was so wise of you to tie yourself to the wood, so that you would float. Brilliant, my brilliant goshawk, I am so proud of you.” His private nickname for you slipped from his tongue unbidden, as it did every once in a while when he was feeling particularly emotional. Finally, you finished Cook's potion to the halfway mark within the bottle, and he stoppered it as she'd instructed, setting it aside, giving you only water then. A tiny movement against his chest made him glance back down again…and his Soul melted in his chest. You were weeping, so weakly that your body didn't even have the strength to sob, your lips so dry that a crack in the lower began to bleed slightly as they pulled into a grimace. Gaster hushed you, pouring water from his canteen onto another handkerchief one handed, then holding it out to the fire to warm for a moment before using it to wipe your face of tears, dried blood, and river mud. Your skin, while still chilled, was beginning to get some color in it again. “Shhh, all is well. I have you, you're safe. Be at ease.” 

With one trembling, barely-raised hand that you slid tortuously free of the blanket, you slowly, shakily finger spelled, “Don't think less of me” in military sign against his arm. 

He shook his head, pulling you somehow closer. “I do not, at all. You saved your own life. You did everything you could. Excellent work, excellent job.” Then concern made him arch back to stare down into your face. “Can you not speak?” 

“Screamed. Hurts.” 

Tears burned up in his eyes at the thought of you screaming for help until you couldn't do so any longer. He fought them down again. “Where on you hurts the most? Now that you are awake, I must get you back to Cook.”

Your answer was even weaker, your fingers barely moving. “Leg. Wrist. Ribs. Broken. Breathing. Arm cut.” 

By the Mother above. It was a miracle that you'd survived. He nodded, weighing his options. “I must hurt you further, to save your life. I know translocation sickens you, but a ride could punch a broken rib through your lungs. Please forgive me.”

You nodded weakly …and after slowly finishing the rest of Cook's ‘potion of last resort’, Gaster began to gather more power than he had in a long time. The grasses and weeds beneath him became a riot of growth, practically glowing with life. Your horse backed away, her eyes wide- he would send Snarl for her as quickly as he could, and redirected a bit of his magic to brand a painless rune on her flank.

Then, taking a breath and tensing like a great dragon about to take flight, Gaster vanished with you in his arms, the brilliant flash of magic leaving a crater of molten glass melted into the sandy soil beneath where he'd been.

It was terrible. He sat at the huge kitchen bread table with his head in his hands, listening impotently to the ragged, nearly voiceless screams coming from the large infirmary attached to the back of the building when Cook realigned the bones of your leg and wrist. One of her assistants hurried back past him with a tiny vial of something, and soon your cracked sobs of agony faded to tiny noises of confused discomfort. Cook scolded her in low, venomous tones for not having the numbweed ready on hand. “Agony can break the mind,” she hissed at the young servant. “She can withstand little more suffering. When I drill you all in preparedness for medical emergencies, this is part of the drill. Obviously, you haven't been listening to any of it, stupid chit- where is the clean bandaging? Where is the tremaroot decoction? You have served here for three years. Three years of monthly drills! You had hours to prepare!” 

“I-I got scared, ma'am, I didn't-” A loud clatter of glass bottles- one crashed to the floor, judging by the sound. Someone pushed past Gaster- he glanced up to find Cook's youngest daughter running in, breathless and windswept, her mottled blue and black amphibious skin glistening in the low firelight. “My Lord,” she murmured, bowing quickly, before sweeping into the next room. “You, girl, out. Now. Momma, I came as fast as I could- had to borrow Chuni's horse.”

The older Salamander let out a sigh of relief, as a young Ixi scuttled out of the sickroom, avoiding Gaster's acidic glare while she sprinted from the building itself. “Ah, Byrnai, praise the Stars. The leg is set, the wrist is…well, the best it will be for now. We may have to rebreak it, once the swelling reduces. Help me with these cuts- the bottom of that river is shale. Her skin is in ribbons.”

Gaster couldn't help it- a soft noise of simple sorrow left him at those words. Sorrow for your future, sorrow for the pain you might have to go through a second time. Sorrow that, had he found you sooner, it may have been prevented. 

Some minutes passed, with the two women talking softly as they worked. Finally, he heard footsteps approaching again. “We must wrap the ribs,” Cook said softly to Gaster, ducking out into the kitchen proper. “Fractured, but not displaced. No surgery needed. The wrist and leg are the same. I…believe she will retain use of the hand. Damage was severe, and the blood flow was restricted for a long time. We shall see. The other arm has a deep puncture- she bandaged it with the wood still within, clever girl, or else she would have bled out. Though when she did it, I have no idea.” She took a long drink from a nearby tankard. “We have cleaned it as carefully as we could, and stitched both the artery and the flesh itself- all we can do now is fend off infection, to save the arm. I have given her the last of our boneset on the leg- it, at least, will be whole by morning. But the other bones, the flesh, the sinews and veils…they will take many, many days to heal without more of it.”

He nodded without looking up, pain wracking his Soul at her words. “If you say so, Itzi, then I must trust you.” The woman was a genius in her own right, one who had invented countless medical procedures and surgeries. She'd retired to do the cooking and herbcraft she loved so much, once she could no longer stand the sight of the battlefield. “No one could do better than you.”

Her hand came down to rest on his shoulder. “You have not slept in two nights, old friend. You have not eaten much in that time, either.” Her voice was kind and firm. “If you weaken, she will not be able to depend on your support. The great houses will smell a weakness. And the worst is yet to come for you.”

The rest of the night kitchen staff had made themselves scarce the moment he'd apparated in the middle of the room, gasping for breath from translocating countless miles in one leap, and holding your bleeding, broken body. Cook's daughter ended up serving him bread and cheese, and some soup set aside in cold storage that she quickly reheated. He watched with interest as she held the crock directly in the flames of the kitchen fire to boil- Salamanders could not be burned by anything less than pure plasma, but it was one thing to know such things, and another to see someone demonstrate them for you. That done, she sat it before him along with the bread and cheese, then scuttled right up the wall to the fine wine storage beneath the roof after catching the key her mother tossed to her. Cook's methods of securing his fine vintages from errant sticky fingers and skilled lock picks were remarkably effective: she simply kept them where no one else could easily reach. 

He stared at the food, and soon drink, before him…and knew all of it would taste like ash. Still, he forced himself to eat methodically, shivering as the magically-enchanted wine hit his Soul. Brewed from the golden apples of his Cousin's orchard, it renewed power better than any tincture or unguent. He hadn't even realized how weak his own Soul was until he’d taken that first sip- the price of translocating himself and another person so far in one huge jump rather than risking several smaller, easier (but more dangerous to you) steps.

“The shakes will start next, my Lord.” Byrnai knelt beside him, a crystal hagstone held to her obsidian-like eye as she peered at his Soul. “You have scarce little power remaining. Should…should momma call for the Queen Mother?”

He shook his head; sure enough, his fingers began to tremble. “Toriel and Asgore left yesterday for Iren'Toril, for an emergency at the Grand Temple. A fire has killed hundreds there already, she has taken every drop of ambrosia and medicine possible from this city to try to save those she can.”

“Oh…I'm so sorry, my Lord.” The young woman looked horrified at the idea of the Grand Temple burning. “I'd heard there was an emergency…but…” She grimaced. “If you were a common Monster, there's things we could do. But even the strongest strengthening tinctures would be as nothing to you.” She bowed until her forehead touched the floor. “This will not be an easy time for you either.”

-

It was horrible, like ice crawling through his very bones. Gaster writhed in the grip of a cold-fever for another full day and night, his Soul cracking and booming like thick winter ice under the strain of having burnt so much magic in such a short time. Snarl recovered your mare after receiving Gaster's emergency message carried by an enchanted pigeon, trained to hone in on a charm the captain wore, and had measured the distance back.

Nineteen and a half miles. 

The longest single translocation Gaster had ever attempted in his life before had been eight miles, on his own, at full strength. 

Nineteen and a half miles, with another person along, after two days of turmoil and shorter jumps? 

Agony. 

Cook was by his side for much of it, scolding ceaselessly and pouring him tiny sips of golden apple wine whenever the shakes abated enough for him to quickly choke the sweet nectar down. Not wanting any others to see a Divinity so disposed, she'd simply set up a cot in the infirmary room connected to yours, hanging a curtain in the open doorway to afford you some privacy whenever the myriad bandages and stitches on your body had to be checked, cleaned, and rebandaged anew. Gaster thought he'd been silent, not wanting you to witness him in such a pathetic state…but he heard your faint whisper late that second night, when the shivers had begun to slowly abate. 

“Did I do that to him? Is it my fault?” Your throat was still so swollen that you could barely get noise past it. “I…I'm sorry, Cook, I'm so sorry, I-” 

“Shut up.” Itzi's murmur was as harsh as the rest of her, though the shadow of her hands remained gentle as she helped you sit up, a noise of pain in your throat from your ribs. “Apologize when it matters- do not waste them when there is no fault.” She dipped a cloth in hot water, and ran it over your back. “He will do what he will do, and blessed is his name; it is not for you to question.” A slight note of apology came into her voice once she'd finished bathing you. “Now, you must walk. Or else you will drown in your own lungs.”

Gaster clenched his fists at the pained noises torn from your chest, the wheezing breaths and shuddering sobs, as you agonizingly took one step after another, up and down the length of the room. When Itzi couldn't be there, one of her three eldest daughters took her place, making you stand and walk every hour no matter how badly it hurt your ribs. The Royal Healers had emptied the city's stores of medicines and unguents in preparation for the catastrophe at the temple, even martialing private stocks from the noble houses and merchant compounds. It meant Cook had little numbweed on hand, and scarcely three doses of night bloom potion to make you sleep. “I must keep them aside,” she'd told him lowly the evening of that second day, as Byrnai woke you. “In case the wrist must be broken and reset- it is too swollen for us to tell if a great channel of blood is caught in the fracture or not. She does not sleep, so she does not heal…but I have little other choice. I have no fireblight vine to dry her lungs, no numbweed for her wounds- the stupid little twit of an Ixi made off with a basket of our few remedies left, I believe, once I dismissed her from service. I will deal with her later. We must do warmedicine now for your little bird, and little else.”

Gaster narrowed his eyes, grinding his teeth in frustration and pity. He almost felt sorry for the young Monsterette that had robbed them of their medicines- he doubted the Salamander before him would be merciful.

By the next afternoon, the third day since he'd found you, he had blessedly recovered enough to make a big show of leaving the infirmary in a flurry of activity, calling Cook, Captain Snarl, and a squad of guardsmen to his side the moment he reached the stables. The city had been emptied of medicines, yes…but there was emptied, and then there was emptied. 

He was welcomed by Lady Sanai and her two young sons when his party arrived at their gates. He had quickly purchased toys for each boy on the ride over, and smiled as they whooped in glee, chasing the little magically flying birds and dragons carved from parchwood. For Sanai, an old friend and Elder of the city, he presented a chest of cut emeralds from his household treasury, notoriously the woman's favorite gem, and an ancient scroll of enchantments that would allow her to call down a firestorm from her parapets in case of attack. 

“I know medicines are precious in wake of the temple tragedy, with the Widewalker fleets not arriving until spring, and Nelenta a four-day ride away.” He bowed to her respectfully, admiring the graceful, grave figure she cut on the throne of her receiving room. “But I gave of my stock of remedies most severely when the Temple put forth the call, as to set an example for my people. Then, not a day later, a severe calamity struck my steward, and she is trapped in agony, unsure of life or limb. In the same span, a thief has made off with much of what we had left.”

The human woman nodded thoughtfully, her severe face and the lines around her eyes softening. “And so you have come to avail me of my own short supplies.”

“I’m afraid I have.”  He motioned to the gifts he'd brought her, each separately worth a fortune. “I know what I ask. Yours is an honorable house- when the Crown called, you would have kept only what is absolutely essential for the true emergencies of your household, until your servants can return from Nelenta. My own servants left with them yesterday at the city gates, so I am assured of the severity of your need as well.” Gaster sighed, trying to keep the weariness from his face and the shakes from his hands- his Soul was trembling again, fluttering with the pain of overstrained action. “But I have come to make the request regardless. Because I must. My steward will not survive a tenday's wait.” 

For a long few moments, the Great Lady stared over his head, her lips moving as she made a quick count in her own mind. At last, she nodded grimly. “My stewardess will accompany you. Take what you must…and remember us, Divinity, when next you give blessings.” 

He bowed again. “Attend the next service, my Lady, and I will pass a Greater Benediction upon you and yours.” ‘And feel sick for a moon after, if I am forced to attend to the temple so soon in absence of my Cousins,’ he thought dryly, for the next temple service was in scarcely a ten-day itself, and such benedictions were not easily given even at full strength. Still, a promise was a promise. 

Her stewardess was shrewd, but not miserly; the woman worked closely with Itzi as Gaster looked on, even allowing the cook to pull from the household herb supplies as well as their ready-made remedies and medicines. Then, Itzi gasped softly as a servant came running in, opening the small chest he held for the Salamander's approval. 

“Dreamseed incense, Holy Divinity,” he murmured shyly up to Gaster, not daring to meet his gaze. “Given from the lockbox of my Lady herself. Lit in a room, it will keep the inhabitants in a deep and healing sleep.”

He recognized the name, though not the preparation- dreamseed was so severe a narcotic that only true, licensed Healers of the university could possess it. How had it slipped his mind, until that very moment, that Sanai was one of those very Healers, fighting beside her late Lord Husband as his chief hospitalier and warraven during his long career as a commander in the infantry?

Itzi took the box reverently, latching it and adding it to the bundle on her back. 

Their ride back through the city was concerning, despite Sanai loaning two additional squads of her household guard to accompany them. The commonfolk watched them pass with desperate eyes, all of them fearing that a tragedy would befall their families before the Widewalkers arrived to restock the city's merchants and Royal Hospitals with spare medicines- few of them wanted to brave a tenday's journey on dark jungle roads to Nelenta, especially during bandit season as it was. Dark-garbed thieves looked on from the alleys and shadowed side-streets- the city was not at the point of desperation yet, but as time passed, medicines would become worth a fortune. 

He hoped Nelenta had enough to spare- he'd sent his people with writs of withdrawal from the neighboring city's goldbanks, and instructions to buy as many medical supplies as they could possibly find, hoping to disperse them through the Temple, and to bolster Ebbot's hospitals’ own efforts to do the very same. Of course, the Royal Hospitals would have sent their own caravans to bring back supplies the moment Toriel, Asgore, and their entourage had left for Iren'Toril, but by the Queen's law, they could not barter for the goods they sought. His own people would very well be able to purchase far more for less funds, depending on the greed of their neighbor's merchants in this time of crisis. Plus, it would bolster the name of the Star Temple to do charity…and that was always important. 

As his group neared his grounds again, something stirred against Gaster's Soul…and he had to bow his head to hide a smile, touched. Some of his people, led by…perhaps Byrnai, if he recognized her unheard voice, had gathered in the small temple on his grounds, and were offering an Akathist to him, and prayers for your healing. The young Salamander's voice rose in his Soul like the flight of a gull at dawn, singing her devotion to him and the stars. 

Hail, Star-Touched Wanderer, Exile of Heaven.

Hail, Shaper of Iron and Stone.

Hail, Lord of the Climbing River.

Hail to the Warchief.

Hail to the Hiereus.

Hail to the Constellations above Him.

Like a trickle of water flowing into an empty ocean basin, the strength of her devotion bolstered his Soul the tiniest bit, and he sat straighter in his saddle. Beside him, Snarl was counting prayerbeads in one hand, as he often did on rides, and Gaster felt the low, wordless hum of the man's meditation like a rock at his back, his silent chant on each an offering for your health and recovery.

Cook wasted no time at all on prayers- she rode her horse straight to the kitchens, throwing herself from its back and racing inside. Gaster followed closely- nodding to the bows the staff offered. Her second daughter, Ava, was helping you walk up and down the room, singing softly to soothe you as you wept. Gaster froze in the doorway, horrified by the gray cast of your skin, the purple bruising visible on every inch of you not covered by your simple gown. 

“Here, sit.” The older woman stopped her daughter with a hand, and helped you to slowly, painfully, settle down into the bed again. “Our Lord has delivered you. Ava, go and help with the roasts. We are entertaining the sons of House Carain tonight, and the summer contract for granite depends on their good graces. ”

There was feverish devotion in your delirious eyes as you glanced up at Gaster. It combined with the prayers of his household to make his head spin. “I knew he would,” you murmured, your voice cracking. 

He watched as Cook measured out fireblight vine tincture, tilting it drop by drop into your mouth, following it quickly with a hefty dose of numbweed. “You will cough as you never have before,” Itzi warned. “And you must. There is infection in your lungs, born of river water and cold, and of shallow breaths from the bandages on your ribs. Cough to save your life- the fireblight will sear it from your tissues, but you must expel it.” 

You nodded, squeezing your eyes closed for a moment as the numbweed doubtless hit your belly, then motioned to Gaster with a pleading expression on your face.  Cook hesitated, then shook her head, a bit of pity coming into her voice. “I need him here, I can't send him away. My daughter must help with the evening meal, and I cannot hold you up on my own. I promise you, he's seen worse.”

“But not of me,” you whispered brokenly, your eyes filling with tears of shame. Gaster started to say something…but chose not to, waiting instead until your expression went blank, your head lolling on your neck as the drug took effect.

“There,” Itzi whispered. “Finally, the poor thing.” She motioned for him to come over. “Quickly, while the numbweed has made her completely insensate.” She showed him where to hold you, to support your body and shoulders without squeezing your broken ribs, then took a breath. “Ready?”

He nodded…and the other woman snapped her webbed fingers, a tiny spark appearing on the tip of one. She held it to your nose, watching as you breathed in…and then Gaster had to grit his teeth, using more of his strength than he'd expected to hold you upright as it burned the fireblight within you, and you hacked fluid up into the fabric Cook held before your lips. It was horrible, wet and agonizing, and you wept from the pain in your ribs even as you choked, even as your eyes fluttered from the drug she'd given you. 

Finally, your coughs faded to clear breaths, the fireblight doing its duty and burning the infection from your lungs. The Salamander held a copper cone to your chest, listening closely, then nodded. “Good. I wish to light a stick of dreamseed. Will it affect you?”

He shook his head, and she gave him a brisk nod as she coaxed a nearby glass of water into you. “Then I must attend to dinner. House Carain are out sporting beyond the walls- join them at sundown.” She winked. “I hired dancers and tumblers for while you eat, and a storyteller for after the meal. Their wine will be unwatered. You won't have to say scarcely a word.”

Gaster stroked his fingers through your hair, clean thanks to Itzi or one of her daughters and hanging loose around your face…then he realized where he was and who could be watching, and yanked his hand back. But Cook had already turned away, lighting a stick of the precious, jet-black incense and setting it in a bowl of sand beside your bed. Then she left the room in a hurry before it took effect, closing the infirmary door behind herself. The narcotic gave off an astounding amount of smoke, yet stopped at the open windows of the small room as if running into a physical barrier there. It put you to sleep almost immediately. 

“Do you see how much I need you?” He pushed your hair away from your cheek, wincing at the myriad cuts and bruises across your skin, his voice soft. “My staff know to hire performers if I must entertain guests on my own, I am a useless decoration. You must recover.” 

You murmured nonsense, turning to press your skin to his palm with your eyes closed, and Gaster's Soul cramped with love for you. “My goshawk, my blade. I'm so sorry, for all of this.” He knew he was taking advantage of your sleep-drugged state to be close to you in an entirely inappropriate way, but it had burned like a brand to hold himself apart from your side these past few days, surrounded by people who would wonder why their Lord was so intimately concerned about his steward. His idiot, useless instincts said that it didn't matter if you loved him or not. He loved you, and therefore he must attend to you, must aid and assist you. 

Minutes passed like that- Gaster, basking in your presence, and you, sleeping deeply for the first time in days. Then a drop of water on his wrist made him glance up at your face, and he winced- you were crying in your sleep, your brow furrowing, and Gaster swore under his breath. It was always a risk, with dreamseed, that the literal dreams it brought could be nightmares, depending on what had occurred prior to its use. 

He hesitated for a moment…but your need for comfort was irresistible. Flicking his fingers, Gaster cast a lock on the door, then pulled the shutters closed on the two windows, before scooting his chair close enough that he could sit half on it, half on your narrow bed. Then he put one arm under your neck carefully, leaning in and over until he was embracing you as gently as possible while you lay propped up beneath him. He closed his eyes, reveling in your warmth and the soft feeling of your breath on his cheek; when you turned your head slightly to breathe him in subconsciously, your lips pressing to his shoulder in your sleep and your tears fading, Gaster smiled like a lovesick fool. 

Which he was.

After a further tenday had passed, Cook felt confident moving you into your own housing again on his property…but by nightfall, a servant approached him in his office as he stared sightlessly down at a book, too worried to read.

“My Lord?”

He nodded without looking up.

“It is, um…she…” The girl took a breath. “She would like to stay here. In her office, within your palace.” 

Gaster fought very hard to keep from smiling at the request. “And why does she wish this? Did she say?” 

She shook her head hurriedly. “No, my Lord. But…please, I beg forgiveness for her- she is scared, sick and wounded. She has little to distract herself at home.” The longer the servant talked, the faster she talked, as if afraid she wouldn't get all the words out. “She is your highest civil servant, my Lord, the steward of your property. She has spent years busy at all hours of the day. Now she has nothing to do but sit and feel the pain of her wounds- she tries to hide her weeping when I am nearby, but…but…”

Gaster made a show of sighing for a moment, staring out the open shutters before him, before nodding. “Have a cot and her clothespress, and any other things she may need, moved into her office here. If quiet rest does not suit her-” he'd known it wouldn't, but Cook had insisted they try “-then perhaps more involvement in the usual day-to-day will. And be quick about it.”

The servants were quick about it. Within an hour, you'd been set up in your office-turned-bedroom on the administrative side of his home, whispering your thanks to the strong hostler who'd carried you over. The serving girl tried to stay the night, but you put her out firmly, saying that you needed solitude and rest.

Once his home was empty of interlopers again, Gaster stood in your doorway, his brow arched. “And am I expected to nurse you in her stead?” 

You snorted faintly. “I have seen what happens to the houseplants you attempt to raise every few months or so, Divinity. I would rather you not try so with me.” Then, quieter, “I have everything I need. And I can walk now. Cook put boneset on my chest and sides three days ago- my ribs are healed. Now it is just…the bruising, and the damage inside.” You tried to smile for him. “I'll survive.”

He entered, sitting on the chest beside the door- you looked so much better now, almost like your usual self, save for the few deeper scrapes and bruises on your face and hands, and the thick bandaging and splints along your wrist. Your hair hung loose; something he'd seldom seen before this terrible accident occurred. It made you look tiny and frail- he wanted to hide you away somewhere safe like a dragon's hoard. “How are you? And don't lie to me, you know I'll know. Is there anything wrong that is not being fixed by time and medicine?”

You let your head fall back against the pillow behind you, the cot keeping you propped upright a bit. “I…don't know. I am healing. But my mind…it churns ceaselessly over what happened, what I did. If I could have prevented it, if I made the best choices.”

“Tell me what happened.” 

You didn't open your eyes. “It was pouring, and I’d just gotten to the site. I barely had time to walk out and glance at the damage…then the caementicium broke underneath me, and a splinter of the railing pierced my arm. But the section I was standing on didn't fall entirely at first. It drug part of the railing down with it…then stopped there, hanging, stuck on the damaged struts below.” You shuddered, sitting up carefully and staring at your lap. “No one heard me, no matter how much I screamed… and as more and more rain fell, I could feel it slowly sliding, just an inch at a time over minutes. I remembered those two that drowned… so I bandaged my arm, then tied myself to the largest section of loose railing, and brought it down with me, praying it would be enough to make me float.”

He shook his head in amazement. “Incredible. You truly saved yourself, I only found you because of that railing, and your mare. Because the color of it stood out against the mud and muck of the river side.”

“It…it saved my life, yes…but what if I lose the hand? Cook says it rides still on a knife's edge, and I…I…” Tears began to fall to the blanket beneath you, though your hair fell forward to hide your face. “I would be practically useless to you then, I don't…know what I would do.”

“Whatever made you feel fulfilled.” He'd never had to be more careful in his life, had never been closer to confessing his love to you, to falling to his knees and promising you anything you wanted. “Whatever you wished. A scribe would be easy to obtain for you, if it came to that. Or…or you could claim your contract payment early, as is promised to all civil servants who are disabled during their work for the Crown, and purchase property of your own. Be free of my misery and bitching.”

“No…I wouldn't want to be somewhere without you. Please, don't even put the idea into creation.” You drew a crescent moon on your chest to ward off the bad luck, unaware that his Soul sang at your words. “Not after you saved me, I…I can never repay you. You saved my life, my Lord you saved my life.” Gaster physically braced himself with his foot against the floor as you lifted your face suddenly, staring at him with a devotion he'd never seen in your eyes before. You had always been loyal, trustworthy to a fault. But never…like this. An almost intimate dedication, a…something emotional. Something he had no name for. “All I remember is wishing it would end, and then you were there, and…and...” 

You bit your lip, cutting yourself off. “Forgive me…the drugs affect me more than I'd expected. I feel as though I am flying, constantly.”

He took a slow, steadying breath, then shook his head. “No forgiveness is needed. You have experienced a tremendous hardship.” 

“The worst-” your voice was cracking, but you didn't look away from him “-the worst was when the railing caught at the center of the river. I must have spent the whole day there, trapped on a pile of driftwood. The current was too strong for me to reach my own wrist, to cut myself free and try to swim for the shore. I'd been able to prop myself in a crook of broken wood for a time, hours...but then it shifted. That's when my wrist broke, and…to feel it grinding, back and forth again and again…” You offered him a wobbly smile. “But…there must have been a hot spring that broke up through the riverbed nearby, the water was warm and sweet, running clear in just that spot. I couldn’t have been luckier, in that way. It saved my life, I'd been so cold. Then the wood suddenly broke free around sundown…and I don't remember much else afterward, I think I hit my head. Just…cold. Endless cold, again.”

Gaster made a silent note to himself to visit the place soon, if he could find it- if a nymph or kelpie lived there in the middle of the river, it was owed an offering. Perhaps even a small shrine, along the banks. Such behavior amongst the spirit folk needed to be encouraged. 

You said nothing else, and after a few moments of silence, reached for the numbweed vials at your side. Gaster looked on as you drank one, and then the tremaroot tincture beside it for infection. That one made you grimace. “Gods above, that's horrible. Almost as bad as the potion you gave me along the river…what was that? It felt like fire in my stomach, like the strongest liquor I've ever had.” 

He shrugged. “I have no idea. Cook had it in storage, seemingly for tremendous emergencies involving cold. It reeked like-”

“-like blood,” you finished along with him, nodding. “It tasted like blood, too. Blood, mixed with sugar, and moonshine. Horrible.” Then you sighed, trying to move the fingers beyond your severely injured wrist- they twitched a bit, barely able to curl due to the swelling. “Gods this hurts. Even with numbweed.”

“We have twenty more sticks of dreamseed to use for you. Would you like me to light one?” 

You bit your lip, hesitating… it was plain that the answer was yes, but with a caveat. He leaned forward, his voice as gentle as he could make it. “What's wrong? What do you need?” 

“Light a half-stick, my Lord…but talk to me. Please, talk to me first. Don't leave me to the dreams of the water, and the choking.” You sniffed wetly. “Please. It's all that kept happening in the infirmary, it was horrible…I didn't complain, how could I? They all did so much for me. But god, the nightmares…anything, I don't care. Read me the damn hay and horsefeed imports for the lower sector if that's all you can think of. Anything, please.”

Gaster stood, walked over, and clasped your shoulder gently. “Of course.” It took but a moment to break a stick of the incense, to light it and let its smoke fill the room. And then he began to talk, pointing to the rafters above your head as your eyes drifted closed. “Here, above you- did you know the carvings in this office are of my ancestors? Trajan, Lord of the Grave, and his wife Ninhura, Lady of Coin. The legends said that when he fell from the river of stars, he fell right into her gardens, as she planted seeds in spring.” 

Your voice was a slurred murmur. “I always wondered…but I didn't know if they were…private…or secret…from humans.”

“Not from you.” He pointed to the great beam that intersected the wall to your left. “This pattern- it is repeated in my architecture, for it is the pattern of her footsteps as she fled from him, reemerging from her house with a burning torch, fearful that he was a demon of the night. He found her so beautiful, that even her footfalls in the grass enchanted him.”

“I…can't see it, my Lord.” You frowned sleepily, turning your head and half-opening your eyes. “I'm sitting too low. Describe them for me.”

Gaster hesitated…oh, to hell with it. Who would know? Gently, broadcasting what he meant to do in case you protested, he lifted you into his arms and carried you around the room instead. “These timbers were carved almost one hundred and ninety years ago.” The warmth of you in his arms was so delightful, Gaster wanted to purr like a crotchety tomcat being brushed- he didn't dare look down at your expression, lest he be overwhelmed by the desire to kiss you. The half-stick burned for but a few minutes, and he held you for the last few directly over its smoke, hoping it would deepen your sleep as he told the tale of the Hay Cutters engraved on the ceiling above. 

Once it was gone, and the last of its smoke had disappeared gently into your parted lips, he worked his way down the long halls and areas that separated the administrative sections of his house from his main, public sitting rooms. “Here is Gong'Luia, the Charioteer, forming the bridge over the river of stars for my ancestors to cross.” You reached out and brushed your fingers over the carvings, almost smooth with age. “Here is Xola the Wanderer, who let herself be washed downstream, so her family would have her light to follow in exile.”

He had no idea how long the two of you spent like that- him, holding you as he went around his minor palace and telling the legends of his bloodline and constellations carved there, and you, looking on in sleepy interest and tracing your fingertips over the images as he described them. Finally, as he told the story of the Bullthrower for whom Asgore was named, he glanced down and realized you'd fallen fully asleep at last. 

He carried you back to the cot set up for you in your office, closed the door, and laid you out gently there. And then he sat on the floor beside it, resting his head on the mattress beneath you. When he woke sometime around false dawn, it was to the feeling of you gently running your hand across his skull in your sleep, tracing his features.

He wished you would do it forever.