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Karlach went to bed early tonight, clutching her arm and hiding a wince as she wished you goodnight. Shadowheart had already done more than enough to help her; casting a spell to alleviate her pain so that you and Wyll could wrap the burns skating over her bicep. They’re likely to scar - something that Karlach lightheartedly chuckled at.
“What’s a few more, anyways?” Is what she said to you.
Never before had you done anything like what you just did today. When Gale advised you that The Annals of Karsus could be found within Sorcerous Sundries, you had naively believed that you could obtain the manuscript just by asking the clerk at the desk. But she had rebuffed you, warning you that even speaking of the ancient book like some sort of novel you could check out from a library was almost lewd in nature; a disservice to the chronicles of King Karsus and the warning he penned.
But it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve had to sneak around.
Gale had assured you confidently that he needed this book. Your party had to understand the crown of Karsus and find a way to deprive the Netherbrain of it before it could fall into the wrong hands. Again. If the Dead Three (Dead Two, now) could control a being as powerful as a Netherbrain with it, who knows what someone like Raphael could do with that power. Gale told you he could learn it, stop them, wield it. Each time you’d ask, his answers about his intentions would shift away from innocent curiosity. First, he wanted to know it, to study the crown and learn how to deprive the Netherbrain of it. Then, he insisted that things might be different; Gale could do what Karsus couldn’t. There would be no ‘Folly of Gale,’ no grand ending of self-destruction. But then… maybe he could wield it. Maybe he could recreate the crown, he just needed this book.
And what a dutiful lover you’d been, risking life and limb to violate the vaults beneath Sorcerous Sundries. No doubt, your heist had exposed a crack in their security that might be easily taken advantage of by others. By those less well-intentioned than yourself.
How well-intentioned must you be, though? What you did was dangerous, more so than most things you’ve done before. Standing up to beasts and evildoers was dangerous, but with a good purpose. But when you set The Annals of Karsus within Gale’s calloused hands, you couldn’t help but wonder if the sparkle behind his eyes was anything other than altruistic. And, not to mention, the obvious: your companions had gotten injured. You weren’t unscathed, either, having been cursed by some damned old scroll that could only be cured with the last of Shadowheart’s well of holy magic.
Gale had told you, after you gave him the book, to give him time to pour over its details, and to meet him later that evening to discuss. You weren’t sure if you’d like what he’d say. But, then again, Gale was no stranger to the bitter taste of misplaced ambition. The Netherese Orb within his chest was evidence of that. Surely, in his infinite wisdom, Gale would read the book and realize that he was betting on the wrong horse. That was what kept you hopeful.
After that long day, ready to retire, you pulled your aching body away from the warmth of the campfire to amble toward Gale’s tent. Turning the corner, your eyes fall upon a tall figure, clad in a vibrant robe. He’s speaking to Gale in hushed tones, waving his hands erratically as if chronicling some childish bedtime story. But you know this man, and so does Gale. It’s Elminster Aumar, Gale’s longtime friend, colleague, and mentor.
“... Karsus’ pestilent crown,” the old wizard hisses. “The very tool with which its eponymous creator unmade an empire, and magic itself.” You’ve heard it all before through your many conversations with Gale. It seemed as though there wasn’t a single wizard worth his salt that hadn’t yet heard of Karsus. Your ears prick as you stand away, listening in on their intense conversation. Gale seems indifferent, bored of hearing the words of warning that he’s long since learned he could push as he liked.
“What are you saying?” Gale presses after a moment of conversation. “Or, rather, what are you not saying?” His arms cross, his head tilts to the side, and Gale is once again left to wrangle Elminster into spitting out the truth of the matter. But despite Elminster’s propensity for feigning aloofness, the old man speaks his next words with conviction.
“Mystra knows you defied her, Gale. Of course she knows - she’s Mystra. She bids you come to her holy shrine in the Stormshore Tabernacle. There, she will grant you an audience at last.”
It’s difficult to stave the sinking feeling within your chest when you see Gale’s eyebrows shoot up just so. That name has come to haunt you; you feel as if you live in Mystra’s shimmering shadow, and the way Gale seems to be on the edge of his seat every time she’s mentioned never fails to trigger a deep-seated feeling of inadequacy within you.
Gale blubbers for a moment, his eyes wide in surprise. “Would she really be willing to hear me out?” Gods, you feel sickened at how hopeful he sounds. Mystra has always been the key to helping cure Gale of his condition; that’s never been lost on you. How could you ever expect the dedication of a man who literally draws his magic and stays alive due to the protection of his former lover?
“Trust in yourself, Gale,” Elminster chides softly. “Trust in the Weave. If you are willing, trust in Mystra. There is a conclusion yet to be written in this sorry tale, Gale of Waterdeep, and yours is the quill that will write it.”
With little fanfare and a flick of his sleeve, Elminster disappears before your very eyes. Without the old wizard blocking his view, Gale can now clearly see you, standing by the corner and listening in. He looks at you with exasperation (likely due to Elminster’s endless riddles), then a soft smile graces his face. For a second, you’re relieved that he greets you with such reverence in his eyes. But then, he speaks.
“So… all it took to get Mystra’s attention was to learn how to reforge an artifact that once destroyed her?”
Your eye twitches. Your hands wrench into the fabric of your shirt by your sides. Of course, you tell yourself, he’s excited to have Mystra’s audience once again. You approach, though not by your own volition. If you had any inkling of self preservation left in you, you’d leave the conversation there and retire to bed for the evening. You’d save yourself from the heartbreak of hearing the man you love speak of the woman who came before you. You’d tell Gale to state where his loyalties lie before your mind can sing of nothing but wedding bells.
And yet. You approach.
“How could she possibly know that we read a book?” You ask, incredulous. “Hasn’t she got more important things to worry about?” Maybe if you speak it aloud, it’d be true. You could manifest a reality in which Mystra was not a jealous goddess. In which she never felt the need to toy with Gale at all, like a cat with a one ball of yarn in a million. It’s a wonder how your ire for this goddess hasn’t led to her striking you down in a burst of magical flame. Gale simply smiles.
“The Weave is a highly sensitive magical network threaded through all life on this plane. It’s much like a spider web, in a way. Any shift in magical energy - no matter how small - is akin to a beacon, alerting Mystra to its cause. And,” he emphasizes, “much like a spider, Mystra can zero in on any little bug that gets trapped in her web.”
“But still,” you huff. “You’re not the only one on this plane, Gale. She must have millions of bugs to catch, all more fruitful than that of an old book about King Karsus.”
Gale’s gaze softens on you, as if his impassioned analogy was somehow lost on you and you need his further guidance. He always had a knack for lecturing like a professor.
“The Annals of Karsus was no ordinary book, my love. It was akin to us shooting a firework spelling ‘look at us, Mystra’ directly into the skies of Elysium.” His brows furrow for a moment.
“She knows.”
Your jaw tenses, and Gale takes that moment to continue.
“This is a conversation that is long overdue on both sides. I owe it to her to hear her out, come what may afterwards.”
Owe it to her? You can hardly believe what you’re hearing. Your response is swift and sharp, like the words are stolen from your mouth without being filtered beforehand.
“So that’s it then? You’re going to go to her again despite everything that’s happened between you two? There’s not an inkling of a thought that it may be a bad idea?” Your words are bitter; vitriolic. You can’t pretend like you aren’t immensely displeased at the prospect of them reuniting. The look on Gale’s face betrays him - he’s shocked. Your arms cross in front of your chest, tightly coiled like you’d strike him with lightning depending on his next words. You know you’d never, despite what the basal part of your infected mind seems to chant.
“Well… yes,” Gale responds. His head tilts, like he’s sizing you up. Like you’ve got two heads all of the sudden. “She’s the answer, my love; why wouldn’t I? I don’t think you’d be so inclined to deny your own goddess should she ask that of you, would you?”
“Except she hasn’t,” you snap. “She’s never given me a bloody orb in my chest, either. She’s never compelled me to blow into smithereens for her own amusement, nor has she drawn my eye from what and who is most important to me.”
The air is stiflingly thick once the words leave your mouth. Distantly, you hear crickets chirping, unbothered by the domestic dispute they’re witnessing. You’ve no doubt that there are at least a few sets of ears keened in your direction; waiting with bated breath to see how this pans out. Gale, however, looks beyond perturbed. There’s a flash of surprise, then indignation, then betrayal that skirts by the skin of his face in split-second intervals. But he schools it - better than you ever could - closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“My love, it’s-” Gale pauses, tongue laving over his teeth as he parses out what to say. He swallows. “It’s not like that. I promise you.”
Your face feels hotter than the Hells. You’re not sure if it’s from anger or embarrassment, but you’re burning up like a dying star. Fizzling until you’re just a flicker, before there’s a roar of vengeful light, bursting at the seams. You’re not sure if you’ve yet reached the height of your upset. It might just depend on Gale’s response.
He steps close with outstretched hands. His palms are up in placation, silently asking to reach for you. When you don’t step back, Gale takes it as acceptance, though not invitation. He’s gentle when he places his hands on your biceps, squeezing with gentle affection. Your eyes falter, then, just for a moment. Gods, maybe there isn’t anything to worry about.
“I… I understand why you’re worried,” Gale murmurs. His eyes twinkle with concern. “Truth be told, I can’t say I wouldn’t react the same if you had an old lover asking to speak with you privately. It’s difficult, I get that.” There’s an aching regret blooming in your chest, replacing the heat of your words with an ugly shame. He sees it all, with or without the tadpole’s help, and somehow that exposure feels much worse than bottling it all up. With your feelings laid so barren, it’s impossible to hide yourself from the fear of rejection.
But you never feel its sting.
“I’ll admit, I’ve been foolish in my pursuit to win Mystra’s favor yet again. Foolish to think that I could stumble toward it without seeing if you’d follow behind. I should have taken better care to make sure you were alright. For that, I apologize.” His apology sounds sincere. No, it is sincere; there’s no guessing that needs to be done. You relent with a soft sigh, arms untucking at the same time one of his hands skates up to cup your cheek.
“It’s been hard,” you admit. “Between Mystra and the crown, I feel like you’ve completely changed directions. I felt blindsided, Gale. I always thought that it was about saving yourself from the Netherese Orb.” When your eyes finally stay firmly on his face once again, you find that Gale is softly smiling down at you. It’s fond, loving.
“I know, dear,” Gale says. “I mustn't lie: the Crown of Karsus has occupied my every thought since I learned of it.”
It felt nice to hear him admit it.
But-
“If I can seize it, use it… the possibilities for the both of us are infinite.”
“Gale-” He steps back, hands moving to grasp your own.
“Words alone are not enough. Please, my love, permit me to show you. If you will, all you need is to close your eyes. Indulge me.” His smile turns expectant, then. But despite the understanding that you’ve seemed to come to, your eyes only close after some hesitance. Gale squeezes your hands, muttering something under his breath that you can’t catch. It’s similar to the first night you ever spent together, hearing each incantation whispered softly out of earshot to maintain the illusion he had cast over the Shadow Curse Lands. But now, the warmth that spreads over you like a blanket feels unnatural. You almost wonder if you’ll break out into a sweat.
You should know well enough that you haven’t even really left the spot you were standing in. But it all feels different now. What was once steady ground rocks back and forth beneath your feet, compelling you to sit. Gale follows you down while your eyes are still closed, being the only certain thing within this illusion, yet what you lack the most confidence in. You hear… creaking. It gives way to the gentle lapping of water, to and fro. Whatever waves you’ve found yourself stranded amongst are calm.
Gale speaks slow and soft. His voice fills your brain even deeper than where the illithid parasite can reach. Like his thoughts are your own, or the narration of a book that’s already been written.
“Few mortals ever glimpse what you’re about to see,” he whispers. “Don’t be alarmed - I’m here with you. Now… open your eyes.”
The first thing you see is Gale. He’s staring at you, just as before, but beyond him lies a distant sea of wonder. Mystical blues and purples paint the sky, reflected back in the crystalline water on which you’re floating. The boat that you’re in shimmers; it would seem like nothing more than a simulacrum were you not sitting in it just then. Stars litter the celestial landscape, burning brighter than you’ve ever seen them before. It seems that wherever Gale has taken you is closer to the greatest stomping grounds of the gods than you’ve ever been. It’s fantastical, breathtaking, and almost enough for you to forget every reason why you’re having this conversation in the first place.
One of your hands reaches out, freed from Gale’s gentle grasp, and touches the air. It shimmers between your finger tips, sliding over your skin like silk and magic. And that’s what it is. All around you is nothing but pure magic; it’s the very air that you’re breathing.
Gale basks in your awe for a long moment, content to watch your gaze shift around as you grasp at the illusion he’s conjured. For you - it’s all for you. He almost feels bad for breaking the silence.
“The Outer Planes. This is where gods dwell. Where they observe us from afar.” Your gaze flicks back to him. Such a place of remarkable beauty, only meant for the most divine; it makes perfect sense. You can’t imagine any mortal who wouldn’t want to covet the peace of this realm.
“... Where they make play-things of us.”
And that’s all anyone is to a god, right? Just a doll, just a pawn. So unremarkable to those in charge, but yet so beautiful. You can’t help but feel a sense of thankfulness, for a short moment. To be allowed such a small life - to know that there will always be something beyond you, and yet, always a home to return to. To know that you have a spot, among all things, and that it matters where you are and if you are missing. Gale sees it as being a play-thing, but to you, your mortality is the greatest gift you’ve ever been given.
“And what’s so bad about that?” You breathe. “This is beautiful, but it’s not home. This only makes me more thankful for all I’ve seen, not resentful for what I have.”
Perhaps Gale likes that about you. The fond look he shares with you has never once faded since your eyes opened. Maybe he finds your hope naive, or maybe he finds it refreshing. You’re unsure.
“But they’d keep it - all of this - from us. The power, the possibilities. They only want us to serve them, pray to them, and ultimately… die for them.
“But what if we didn’t need them? What if we wielded their power instead, and helped ourselves in all the ways they refuse to? My love,” and he says it so sweetly, “I could make that happen. I could make this illusion a reality, with you by my side.”
Oh. That’s what this is.
“Gale, you…” your expression begins to sour. “Are you talking about ascending? Becoming a god?”
He says no, and insists upon it. You want to believe him. You want to believe that your Gale has learned from his mistakes, has found comfort and peace in his limitations. You’ve hoped and prayed for months now that whenever his eyes fall on the Netherse Orb in his reflection, he treats it like a lesson. He says no, but you’re not sure he means it.
“I don’t want to join them, I want to better them. A god’s powers, paired with a mortal conscience, a mortal heart.”
“But that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” you retort. “Gale, what you’re striving for is godhood. Godhood with… with fancy bells and whistles attached. That’s not something you can pick and choose. We’re supposed to be stopping the Netherbrain, not becoming it.”
Gale shakes his head, leaning in. “But that’s just it! The tadpoles, this orb - these threats to our existence - the gods could aid us if they wish, but instead they cower behind Ao. I want to be different. We can be different, as long as we act ourselves.”
“The Crown will corrupt you, Gale-”
“- With the crown, our foes would be rendered impotent. Any obstacle would be dwarfed by our might!”
“And then what? When all of our obstacles are out of the way, our work will be done? Is that what you’re saying, then?”
“By then, we can solve all of the world’s problems. We can do what the gods couldn’t, what Mystra refuses-”
“Oh, so it’s Mystra, again?”
By the way Gale’s words fumble, you can tell that you’ve caught him off guard. You’ve struck a nerve that you wished wasn’t there in the first place. And, like the sick bastard you are, you just keep digging. Though whether it’s your grave or Gale’s, you’ve yet to know.
“This is about undermining Mystra, isn’t it? Proving to her that she was wrong about you, that you’re good enough? You just couldn’t feel good enough by my side, so you have to take what power you can to peacock it in front of her?”
“Gods, no! Beloved, you’re misunderstanding me-”
“No, I’m not!”
Suddenly, you stand. The boat sways violently, yet by your dexterity or the grace of Gale’s illusion, you keep your balance.
“That crown will kill you, Gale! I don’t understand why you can’t see that! If it can bend the mind of a Netherbrain, how could a mortal man be any less susceptible to its power?! Karsus, the very man who made it, cast the world into primitive darkness for years because of it! You’ve spent all this time with the consequences of your actions, and yet you’re blind to the natural path that your ambition is leading you down! And all of this, to impress your lover?!”
“Mystra is not my lover!” Gale springs up, defensive. There’s a fire behind his eyes now, fists clenched at his sides.
“I’ve done all this to show you that I don’t need her anymore! I’m better than Mystra. There was a time that I’d readily die for her forgiveness, but I’ve grown! How come you can’t see that?”
“I can’t see it because she’s all you ever talk about! Either that, or this stupid crown! I’ve seen this too many times before, Gale. Too many people are blind to their own hubris, and it leads to their downfall. You’re so concerned about what she thinks, or the look on her face when she sees you with the crown. I’ve done so much for you, but all you do is for Mystra!”
“All I do is for you!” He insists. “All Mystra is to me is the source of my magic, and the very reason why I’ve nearly died more times than I can count now! The only thing she’s invoked from me has been ire and recklessness. You showed me just what I have to live for.”
You can’t convince yourself that any of it is true. The months pass by you in a blur. The twinkling of Mystra’s symbol hanging from Gale’s ear. The illusion of her face held in his open palm. The campfire stories of their trysts. How it seems that he cannot acknowledge your beauty without invoking her name. There may be love for you within Gale, but he has yet to separate it from his attachment to Mystra. The idea of coexisting with her makes your stomach twist.
“Gale…” You plead, as if you might snap him out of this stupor.
“Please, my love. Please believe me. With you, I forget my goddess. I love you.”
Gale reaches out for you, catching your hands in his own once again. He hopes for the same grace that you showed him earlier, but feels his anxiety spike when you’re nothing but stiff in return.
“Please,” he whispers. “Tell me you feel the same way-”
You do. You do love him.
“- Tell me you want what I want.”
But that. That you cannot confess to.
With a long, shaky breath, you shake your head.
“I love you, Gale, but you will lose yourself in the pursuit of this crown. You will lose yourself, and you will lose me.”
Your hand drops from his. Gale’s eyes widen, and you watch as the stars reflect in it for a moment before fizzling away with the rest of the illusion.
You’re standing in camp again. There is no celestial boat, no gentle water, no painted sky. It smells faintly of dirt and blood. Your eyes sting with tears.
When Gale says nothing, you turn and walk away.