Chapter Text
Where does a story begin? When do we realize we cannot stop the inevitable — the dominoes will continue to fall, the momentum is already there — and when do we trace it back to that first fall? When do we stop rushing to the start and realize we are one speck in the middle of an epic far older than all living souls on this planet? Are we just our own story, since our only true end and beginning is our lives? Even so, we rarely have any input on how either of those come to be—
“You think much too loudly.”
“Hm?”
“Your pondering has spilled over into the land of the living, Mr. Dekarios.”
“You could hear that? I wasn’t talking.”
“When are you not?”
“A barb, dear Tara. You wound me. I know when to hold my tongue.”
“Alright - tell me, succinctly, what is it that has you monologuing over there?”
“Now that is a good question. We all know the typical glyphs — put a man to sleep or fry him to bits. However, I am looking into glyphs that use time. Simply, can we freeze a mortal being in a glyph? Now, I’m not talking about petrification or cryogenic containment — but true time freeze within a small glimmer of our plane of existence. That being said, time is one of our mortal constructs that we must abide yet with enough magic we can warp other’s perceptions of it since time itself is not something that can be ‘frozen’ so to speak. Then, we are left with the only plausible explanation. Now, what this has to do with stories…”
Gale babbled on, across the room, as his cat companion’s tail swept lazily through the air — her eyes following his gestures and his face with a love akin to a mother’s.
“He is talking to his cat again.” A statement, whispered. Long ago had it ceased to be a question.
“Either us or her. Which would you prefer?” Tav replied, an eyebrow raised. “Besides, it’s good to see him like this. Like himself. Ever since he returned from the Queen’s service… I needn’t explain to you.”
“Point taken. Though, when you lurk like this — you should understand why father believes you to be infatuated,” Wyll said.
“Gale is Gale, brother. One of my oldest friends and confidantes. Love has everything to with it, but I do not wish to bed him. Why is that so hard to understand?”
“Yes, but father wishes you wished to.”
Tav smacked Wyll on the arm, and the pair stifled their quarreling. Not that Gale would necessarily notice. At least, he did not make it clear that he noticed them sneaking around. That trick he took from Elminster’s book —
Play the well-meaning fool.
His pride did not allow him to doddle as much as his mentor, but it had its perks.
When the siblings decided to emerge from their hiding spot, Gale welcomed them warmly.
“Ah! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Gale smiled, slamming his book shut. “Tav… You look particularly flamboyant. Is today the day?”
“Her debut,” Wyll confirmed.
“And you, dear Gale, have already been recruited. You are my eyes, ears, and assessor. I trust your wit and guile, over my brother’s desire to see good in all.” Tav tried to swish around her stiff skirts, and groaned. “Even though all know who I am and what I look like, I am being dressed up and paraded like a prized pig at auction.”
“Well, you’re at least a degree prettier than a pig. Anyone with eyes would agree.”
“Except for perhaps a pig.”
“You’re very right. To a pig, perhaps, you’re at least a degree uglier than the finest pig—”
“As much as I enjoy the meditative chatter of your squabbling,” Wyll interjected, “Need I remind you that time is of the essence—”
“Quite right, brother. That is why I must get to the heart of why I am here today—”
“Tav, we may be the Duke’s children but that does not mean we are able to—”
“Help me escape, Gale,” Tav pleaded, her tone a bit too pitched and begging for it to be considered in earnest. “I need to escape before the shackles of marriage bind me to some dust-filled home forever.”
“Likely a mansion or a castle you have known all your life,” Wyll reminded her.
“Hush. Help me, Professor Dekarios.”
“I’m not quite a professor—”
“You basically act as one.”
“Fair enough. You know I cannot. Though, I will always be here as a balm. Perhaps not the grand escape you crave, but perhaps enough to sate you?” Gale smiled as he roamed to the partially closed curtains and drew them solidly shut. “Fiat lux.”
Then, a circle of lights sparkled like fireworks until settling into a ever-burning flame and danced around Tav and Wyll. Tav laughed, gingerly following each light with her fingertips and they reflected in her eyes. Wyll watched her then looked at Gale.
“Impressive.”
“Do not speak of this. Lest I be hanged for witchcraft,” Gale joked, but a somber tone tinged his words.
“I do not think someone who has so much favor with the Queen should concern themselves. And, you are not a woman,” Tav remarked as she continued to play with the lights.
At the mention of the Queen, Gale was ever more aware of the ache in his chest.
“What a barb. Now I must take away your playthings,” Gale pouted, waving the dancing lights away and throwing open the curtains. “I will make myself ready to witness this prized pig’s debut.”
“I seek escape in you and you instead offer mere distractions. I should never have trusted you…” Tav joked, before taking Gale’s hands in her own, gloved hands. “Thank you. For the lights. Never leave me alone in this world.”
“Of course.”
“And that goes for you, brother. You’d sacrifice yourself for any cause you believe to be just.”
“Not any cause. Just most of them,” Wyll retorted. “Now, let us make haste. Gale needs to change.”
“...Do I? I was planning on going in this.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Ah. I see. Your Grace,” Gale bowed.
The siblings bowed to Gale before continuing their ever-persistent bickering. It was only after the door shut that Gale collapsed into his chair and brought a hand to his chest. Tara’s tail had stopped pleasantly swishing and her eyes widened with concern, nudging her head against Gale’s arm.
“Oh, Tara. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.”
He reassured her, and left none for himself.
These days the nightmare was the same. The haunted forest, the beckoning voice that degraded and degraded and degraded. A sickening green, swirling tapestry of fog. If he tried to run, the ground swallowed him whole and spat him out in the same spot. Whether he begged, pleaded, or said nothing at all the feeling was always the same: Worthless and hollow.
He always woke hungry as the hells are for souls with his gnawing pit he called a stomach.
The servants of the estate, though they knew to bow their heads and show their due deference, could not hide how they pitied him and how open they were with their condescension.
What would they even be, without me? My family?
He tolerated their hatred. He could not bear the pity. What use was their pity? What good was it without action? He already despised those who claimed to be charitable in public but hoarded in private. What were they giving up that they could not already do without? What was a thousand gold pieces to the richest man in the land?
And so, in their pity, they drew Astarion’s ire. He would not hold back. He could not. He made them wish they never weaponized their empathy so that they could feel better as they watched his life be picked apart and prodded.
The dining room was near overflowing that morning. The richest and rarest of meats, the blood pooling below.
“Eat up, boy,” His father commanded. His voice echoed across the table and compelled him. Not that the compelling was necessary. Astarion was always ready to sate his hunger, by Cazador’s design.
As Astarion held himself back from simply devouring all in his path, he cut the meat up as his father spoke — “I need not impress upon you the importance of not only this day, but this entire season.”
“You do not.”
“The Duke’s daughter is the only debutante of note. You have certainly worked on your charms across Baldur’s Gate — so I have every confidence you will use all that you have learned to finally benefit our family.”
“Of course, father.”
“Do you? There is no better opportunity to secure our station. Every other family in the city knows this—”
“Father. None can match me. You ensured this.”
“That I did. Beauty is a devastating power that few possess and even fewer yield properly. This is your purpose. There is no competition.” Cazador relished in this, all praise directed toward himself. Astarion allowed his father this moment. These moments were rare, when there was only a hint of ire and not the full brunt of it.
“We shall all be at the debutante’s presentation, though. You never know. Perhaps Astarion will not be to her taste. Make sure you are dressed impressively, but not in your best. Do not wear anything resembling Astarion. He must stand out.”
“He already does, Father,” Violet offered, but Cazador slammed his glass down before a cold smile danced on his lips.
“That he does. We better hope he does not distract himself as easily as he did in seasons past. People are fickle, Astarion. Their hearts often lead their heads. You cannot let anyone impede your destiny.”
His other siblings stayed quiet for the rest of the meal. They were beautiful in their own way, but not nearly as striking. They sharpened their wit and talents to a piercing efficiency. Whereas Astarion realized, soon after puberty, that he did not have to work as hard. He made the simplest of jokes or the smallest of compliments, and men and women swooned and blushed hard and fast.
They were born to seduce. They were born to be beautiful.
When Astarion was a child, he remembered playing in the garden — digging up the weeds and dead flowers as he had seen the gardener do many times before — when he came across small, discarded bones. He asked his mother what they were, and she scooped him up and turned his head so that he peered over her shoulder.
“Small animals sometimes crawl up somewhere beautiful to die. Do not worry yourself, my love.”
He remembered he felt a warm droplet or two drip and slide on his shoulder as he settled into his mother’s shaking arms. He remembered looking up at the clouds. He remembered that it must have been the rain.
Gale changed out of his perfectly fine robes into whatever the Facemaker had in stock and claimed to be in fashion.
“As long as I, gods forbid, do not look like a bard.”
“Anything against our hardworking entertainers?”
“Not at all. I do loathe being asked to sing, though.”
It was a bit tight across everything… and that meant everything. The Facemaker himself was surprised at how “firm” Gale was. Gale did not allow for too much fussing though. He did need something more presentable, now that he had promised the Duke, Wyll, and Tav — separately — that he would ascertain all suitors. Somehow they thought his “position” as the Queen’s chosen, however brief, made him more qualified. This, he could not completely object.
While at the palace, he learned all sorts of things about royal life and the many families in the Upper City. He did not discuss them and he did not dwell, but he would not deny his dearest friend his help in finding the best possible match of the season. Even if, today, he had to see the Queen again.
It was unlikely she would make herself available at all events.
And a debut would never happen at the palace. It would happen at Wyrm’s Rock Fortress.
Gale arrived to the fortress just in time, a sizeable crowd of onlookers and the carriages of nobles battling for dominance on the bridge. None could see inside, but a reason to celebrate or protest was always welcome.
The guards recognized Gale and let him through, and suddenly he could breathe again. He steadied himself and slowed his pace as he got to the staircase leading up to the hall. The hour was fast approaching, but he was in no rush to see the Queen’s face again. Not that she would pay him any mind.
He still remembered her unmoving face as he lay underneath the surgeon’s hand, the bar in his mouth muffling his speech so that his cries could not be heard further than a stone’s throw. He remembered her brief look of disappointment before she turned away from him that final time.
The hall was extravagantly and lavishly decorated. Practically bursting with every noble from this city and beyond. Cazador’s composure was at it’s limits.
“The Ravengard’s certainly drew from all corners of Faerun. No doubt the Duke made the ‘secret reveal’ to all who would listen,” Cazador scoffed. Astarion could sense that his father bristled at the idea of not being a part of the secret, but a part of the entire ruse.
“Excuse me. I will freshen up.”
“Make it quick, boy,” Cazador said under his breath, under a smile.
Astarion slipped away and perused the large spread that filled the outer wings of the hall. His appetite was sated, but he pretended to ponder his options.
“Astarion?”
Gods, no. Astarion closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning on the charm.
“Hm?” He turned to confirm that it was who he thought. Sebastian.
“It is a pleasure to see you here,” Sebastian said through a pained smile, before stepping close to Astarion. Under his breath so that the two of them could only hear, “After last season, you… you stopped calling on me.”
“Our family went to the country, like many other’s,” Astarion replied, simply.
“You did not write.”
“I do not write. I do not like the feeling of a pen or a quill or really anything that requires such concentration for what suffices as a conversation. And, might I add, is much quicker.”
“I wrote to you.”
Astarion had a suspicion, but he did not actually realize any correspondence had come through. Likely Cazador read it all. Damn it.
“Come with me,” Astarion whispered, gliding out to the balcony. Sebastian followed him, like a duckling. Though Astarion would have found it deliciously endearing in any other circ*mstance, he felt himself grow irate. Why did this man — beautiful as he is — simply curse Astarion and be done with the heartache?
Nobody was on the balcony — save from a guard or two looking out, so Astarion relaxed a little and leaned against the stone wall that separated him from a devastating fall. Sebastian tentatively positioned himself in front of Astarion, as close as propriety would allow.
“I wrote to you…” Sebastian said, soft and vulnerable.
Astarion’s eyes met Sebastian’s, drifting from his eyes to his lips, then to his neck. Astarion brushed away Sebastian’s long, silky hair to expose the minor scars that he had left so many months before.
His fingertips brushed against the tender tissue, and Sebastian shuddered.
“Look at you. Such a fine man, you are, and here you are… begging…” Astarion mused aloud. Sebastian only nodded, his eyes starting to glaze over - fixed on Astarion. “You would let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”
Sebastian nodded.
“Good boy.” Astarion could not help but smile as he wrapped his fingers around Sebastian’s neck and felt the frantic beating of his heart and the heat that emanated from him. The smile quickly faded, though. Sebastian had his charms, but those all disappeared underneath all the submission he was all too eager to provide. “Then you will stay away from me.”
Sebastian seemed to snap from his reverie.
“You… are my only love. You were my first m—”
“ — and I need not be your last. Sebastian… You will find another.”
“I do not want another. I only want you,” Sebastian cried, pressing his lips against Astarion’s.
Astarion could have protested further. After all, Sebastian was quite powerless against him. There was something intoxicating about desperation. When someone desired him so deeply, they were so malleable to something as simple as a glance. Astarion let himself be wanted for these precious moments, but felt as though his spirit was detaching from him as simple as cutting through the delicate strings of a spider’s web. He was floating, and hot tears dotted his cheeks.
Like rain in a garden.
The creak of the door spurred Astarion to action, and he wrenched himself from Sebastian’s grasp to look at their intruder.
Despite Gale’s best efforts to be out of sight and out of mind, who should be one of the first faces he sees but his Queen’s. Damn it all. He wished Tara were with him. Perhaps she would have been able to knock over a candelabra so that he may make an escape.
Before the Queen could set her gaze upon him, he muttered an incantation and disguised his form. He did not know whether he had conjured the image of some nondescript nobleman or a guard, but all were equally below the Queen’s gaze.
Just as she passed, she paused in front of him. Along with her cohort.
The effort of the bow, the magic, and the sheer stress of it all ached against Gale’s fragile chest.
The Queen took one long look at Gale, her discerning eye swept over him for what felt like hours before she finally departed. He rose again when he did not feel her near.
Damn it. Why was she not hidden away in some room before the actual assessment began?
Gale could feel a whirlpool of emotions bubbling up inside of him. Anger, ambition, embarrassment, disappointment, and despite his best efforts — the desire. Images of the surgical theatre intermingled with the ropes, the sweat, the ecstasy—
All of it welled up inside of him.
He felt like a dog, how easily he would curl up at her feet if it meant feeling again. How shamefully easy it would be to put away his pride for her approval again.
Gale was proud, but power broke down all his pride. Power brought him to his aching knees. The memories were washing him over, the stairs had winded him, the illusion was taxing, and his heart— His heart threatened to burst from his chest—
He needed air. Now.
Gale spotted a door that led to a terrace, and struggled to open it — only to find that he was not alone. Two noblemen were out there, too. Slightly disheveled. Gale could barely assess the long-haired one, as he could not tear his eyes away from the pale one. Strikingly beautiful, were one to pair an image to the definition of the phrase. Dangerously beautiful, the kind that held sway over many people.
Gale did not count himself among such people, though. He knew how such beauty made people empty husks of themselves. Why pour into your own cup, when so many others will do it for you on the hope of a glance?
Whatever his disguise, the pale one immediately disregarded him. Gale must seem as a lowly servant or guard of some sort to his eyes. He bowed quickly and then situated himself to overlook the city. Baldur’s Gate. Not his hometown, but one that had become a home. Knowing he would be done with this charade soon and back home calmed his racing heart. How many times had he found solitude in this view? How many times had this aerial view kept him grounded?
“Please,” the long-haired one whispered, but the pale one simply turned to ice.
“After this act of desperation? I never want to see you again. Get out of my sight.”
“Why do you turn me away like this? After everything?”
There was a pause. “You disgust me. Darling. ”
Gale clearly intruded on the wrong terrace.
“Pardon me. My Lord,” the long-haired man’s voice cracked as he made his escape.
The pale one let a ragged breath pass after the other man’s departure. Gale swore he could hear him curse under his breath, before he adjusted his clothes and brushed a hand through his hair. He took a deep breath. He turned to Gale.
“How do I look?”
Gale turned to him and answered truthfully, “Magnificent, my Lord.”
The man smirked, the compliment imbuing him with an air of overblown confidence. “I know.” He made his exit, practically radiant — if pallor had radiance.
Gale, finally alone, released the spell and nearly fell to his knees. After a few moments of quiet, with only the cheers and raucous commotion from below drifting up with the wind, Gale found the strength to recompose himself. He brought a hand to his chest, feeling the scars.
He had his work cut out for him, but at least he knew at least one suitor he would keep far away from his dear debutante.
