Archive of Our Own

The ink had hardly begun to dry on the page before Gale’s critical thoughts began to flood in. He’d been sitting at his small desk for what felt like hours now, and was convinced that his words were beginning to taunt him. He cast a glare down at the page, until the words themselves began to smudge in his hazy vision.

Rubbish, Gale thought. This is far from poetry, this is pure rubbish. She’s not going to be interested in your ambient thoughts — you want to impress her, blast it, not scare her away!

Into the bin it went, beside the desk, crumpled and discarded with other fragments of prose that he’d tossed aside. There was no need to peer into the bin and see his other failed attempts, and yet, he did anyway.

Gods, he was off to such a good start with that one, but couldn’t find the words to finish it. He sighed, and pulled the piece of paper out of the bin. With a languid movement Gale smoothed the crumpled paper out, his chocolate brown eyes still looking towards the bin.

He tutted and looked away. What a piss-poor attempt at a haiku, he thought. Surely I can do better… right?

While poetry was easy when he wrote it for himself and himself alone, it was exceedingly difficult to write with someone special in mind. Gale’s fanciful prose had always been kept under lock-and-key in contrast to his orchestral work. It was private, and while there was no world where he wouldn’t want to share his most private of thoughts with her, it still felt foreign and unusual.

His lips pursed together as he tried to remember why he had been so hellsbent on writing her poetry in the first place. As his mind gave way to the memory, he continued to sit stiff as a board, staring dead ahead at the lovely little clock that hung above his desk, a gift from her. The minute hand marched ever-forward — reminding him how time’s arrow bent for no one. Not even for a man in love.

Gale could remember his own laugh, how it filled what little space hung between the two of them. It had been ages since he’d experienced such merriment, such elation — and it was all thanks to Helena. She seemed to lean in, really taking every note of his laughter. It had been a long time since he’d laughed in his home, in the company of someone special. Mystra had made it exceedingly difficult to enjoy the little things in life — including foolish jokes and quips.

“Oh, you’re a witty one,” Helena beamed, laid up next to him on his brown leather couch. “Let me get this straight — you’re a maestro, you can compose, you’re well-read and well-spoken…”

He could feel the apples of his cheeks begin to feel hot. Helena had a way of flustering him quite like no other. Gale held his pointer finger upwards with a flourish.

“Poetry,” he added on. “I’m quite a novel poet. Let’s not forget that.”

“Poetry?” Helena questioned, raising a white brow. “I would have remembered if you mentioned that you were a poet, Gale.”

He nodded, his cheeks burning even hotter now.

“I — yes. I occasionally dabble in poetry. It’s more unstructured than my compositions, though. Letters to nobody. Little haikus, sonnets. Things of that nature.”

Helena ran a soft, periwinkle hand over his. His heart could have stopped on the spot, struck by her arrow of love.

“Unstructured or not, you’re quite the man of many talents, Gale Dekarios.”

Gale could tell that she truly meant it. Helena actually wanted to hear some of his poems. She’d never been the kind to mince words, or say things without purpose. Helena was intentional, deliberate — and in a world so careless and cold, it was the warmest gesture one could make.

Helena cared. Helena always cared.

“Gale Dekarios — man of many talents,” he huffed a laugh, and adjusted his glasses. “I quite like the sound of that.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. I’m interested in hearing some of this poetry — that is, if you’ll share it, of course.” Helena smiled, her hand still laying atop his. Gale squeezed her hand gently, and she squeezed it back.

As he gazed into her eyes, his throat burned, hotter than any flame. It licked just behind his Adam’s apple and he moved to clear his throat, breaking the connection between the two of them.

“Would you really?”

Helena nodded, her white ponytail swaying behind her as she did so. Gale’s heart throbbed in his chest relentlessly, like a war drum reverberating in his chest. The burning persisted and he tensed.

“I’d love for you to read my prose — but I’d like to prepare something special for you, if possible.”

Her eyebrows raised up, and Gale could swear that he could see the tips of her pointy ears wiggle. “Really? You’d write something for me?”

“Absolutely — a million times over. Give me a tenday, and when you come over next, I’ll have the most fabulous piece of written work your gorgeous eyes ever laid upon.”

The twinkle in her midnight eyes could have steered ships. Even as he recounted the memory, Gale continued to feel weak at the thought of her.

“Most fabulous piece of written work my arse,” he muttered. “You could have written her a symphony, for no ears to hear other than hers — but no, you had to flaunt your prowess in prose, didn’t you? Bah.”

Across the room, on the back of the couch, he could feel Tara’s golden eyes drilling into his side. With a swift movement, he turned towards his furry companion.

“Do you have anything to say on the matter? Any well-timed quips? Anything funny, Tara?” He raised a brown eyebrow towards the feline, who rather than respond, gave him the cheekiest of looks. He huffed, and gently set his head atop the paper. Maybe if he willed it so, the words would appear from his mind onto the page, ready to be read aloud to her.

“I greatly enjoy her company, Tara,” he mused. The paper felt cool against his warm forehead, and he frowned. “If only I could share my thoughts with hers. I’d love her to truly see the garden I’ve planted in her name.”

Gale was desperate to let Helena in on the secret symphony of his mind, and yet he couldn’t cross this invisible self-imposed barrier. He’d been shot down before, and it wasn’t fair to Helena to have such trepidation about bearing his soul to her.

It had never been an issue to perform his feelings in song, but poetry was something different. The world needed to hear the inner workings of his mind via sound, not read it on a page. But Helena wasn’t the world. She was the cosmos, the stars that hung in the heavens far higher than he could ever reach. The planets that swirled around him, the comets that brightened up the sky. She wasn’t the world, but rather, everything that cradled it.

“You’re the most breathtaking comet I’ve ever seen,” he muttered to himself. Gale could feel his heart hammer against his chest at the sheer thought of her, nestled beside him. Her warm, periwinkle skin, laid against his. The smattering of freckles that dotted her face. Her silken hair, as white as the brightest moonlight…

Gale shook his head, his chestnut-brown locks swaying against the back of his neck. As much as he’d love to ruminate on the soft curves of her body, the perfect pout of her lips, and the beautiful melody of her laugh, that didn’t put letters on a page.

“You can do this. It’s a simple poem. You’re a well-accomplished maestro and academic — you could write ‘Helena, I adore you’ a thousand times over and she’d be ecstatic!”

Gale stitched his eyebrows together and hummed, closing his eyes as tightly as possible. In the confines of his mind, he could visualize what he wanted this poem to convey — how her arrival into his quaint, little life, felt like the greenest spring after the most fierce storm. In places where dark clouds once reigned supreme, sun finally shined.

As the sun finally eclipsed over the dark spot in his mind, an epiphany came to him. He’d been going about this in the wrong way. Writing to her was one thing, but compositing for her was another. Why not do what comes more natural and compose?

Helena, Gale thought, the fiberglass baton in his mind taking flight. Gale could hear the orchestra in his mind begin to warm up, the hums of the strings, and the soft blows of the winds. Her voice brought to mind the full sounds of a well-cared for flute, with notes smooth and chocolatey. The complexities of her mind brought along the soothing plucks of a harp, and her gentle, loving nature the softest piano.

If there was one true symphony, it surely must have been her, every inch of her. Gale sat upwards with a jolt, and clamored for his pen. It began to glide across the paper far easier than it had before, piloted by his heart rather than his mind.