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Astarion is in the middle of hunting when Gale Dekarios ruins his life for a second time.
His target isn't hugely important, as far as marks go. Some serial killer who's been giving The Watch the runaround. Astarion wouldn't have bothered taking the job tonight, but he was bored and peckish, so why not? It isn't as though he has any friends to visit. Any paramours waiting for him to slip into the sheets. Any partners eager to welcome him home and hear about his night.
It's been a long time since he's felt anything like that at all. Anything like love.
So here he is instead. A payday and a bite to eat. It's about as good as life gets these days.
The serial killer is currently hiding out down the side of The Foundry Apartments, leaning on a railing and smoking a cigarette, looking out over the moon-splashed Chionthar. The bastard's next victim must reside in the swanky new complex, Astarion surmises.
He's hardly been back to this side of town since it was built; the old red brick factory is almost unrecognizable. Gone are its beautiful brass embellishments and ornate architectural details, replaced by sleek lines and chromium and hideous primary color window frames.
Astarion supposes he can't complain — it was he who blew up the original after all.
He's closing in on his target, keeping to the shadows, being very, very quiet… when a loud whoosh obliterates the silence, followed by the tinkling chime of a thousand miniature bells. It's a familiar sound. One he knows very well, though he hasn't heard it in decades… centuries, possibly? It's the sound of the Pillock of Ambition making an entrance.
Refusing to turn around and acknowledge his presence, Astarion resheathes his dagger, putting his hands on his hips and grinding his fangs against his lower teeth in irritation as the disturbance attracts the serial killer's attention. The man drops his cigarette and gasps.
"Wh-who are you?" Then: "…Is he all right?"
"I was the person about to give you a taste of your own medicine, until I was rudely interrup- hm?" Astarion glances behind himself at where a shaking finger is pointing.
His heart, or the withered tissue where it used to be, sinks.
"…Gale?"
It is, as he suspected, the God of Ambition who has arrived. Only, instead of silver and glowing with the self-confidence of a pompous bellend, Gale is Gale-colored once more. He's also leaning heavily against The Foundry wall and clutching at his stomach, where purple robes are turning black with blood.
"Hello, my love," he wheezes with a lopsided smile. Then he collapses onto the cobbles.
"What-" Astarion is at his side almost before Gale hits the ground. "Don't you 'my love' me. What's wrong with you?!"
"My apologies." Gale smiles, his eyes closed. "Old habits die hard."
"No, I mean, what's actually wrong with you? What happened?"
"Er- can I go?" The serial killer's eyes flick nervously between the exit to the alleyway and the vampire who stands — or rather, squats — in his way.
Astarion regards him with mild irritation, wondering if he can get the job done quickly before tending to whatever the hells is going on with Gale. Then a rapidly cooling chest jumps beneath his hands, and the smell of blood strengthens.
"Fine," Astarion sighs, waving the killer away with a red-stained palm. "But just know that I'll be along to finish you off soon, and I will draw out your death by one hour for every murder you commit between now and then."
The man hesitates, as though calculating.
"Leave!" Astarion bellows, tutting as the killer startles and scarpers.
"Do I want to know?" Gale asks when he's gone, a horrid rasp to his quiet chuckle.
"It's probably not the most important thing we could discuss right now." Astarion half-heartedly props Gale up against the dirty bricks, easing sticky fabric away from sweating, pallid skin to peer at the nasty-looking gash underneath. "Finally pissed off the wrong deity, did you?"
"Not quite. A desperate would-be hero who stumbled upon a magical weapon, in fact." Gale wheezes another laugh. "She always did enjoy irony."
"Mystra?" Astarion tears a few strips from the edges of purple robes to press against the wound. Gale's blood — rich and heady with still just a hint, Astarion thinks, of underlying bitterness — soaks through the makeshift bandages faster than he can apply them. "This was her doing?"
He increases the pressure, and Gale's words stutter out through his groan.
"Not- directly- of course," he gasps, eyelids fluttering. "Her newest Chosen — some little twerp by the name of Jayden, of all things. Honestly, he looked hardly more than a child. Have you seen the haircuts they have these days? Like a broccoli attached to the top of his head-"
"Gale."
Gale lets out a long, bubbling sigh. "He took it upon himself to rid his goddess of the irritating thorn in her side. He summoned me to the Material Plane and, wouldn't you know, his attack just so happened to coincide with the precise moment my last follower died, rendering me mortal…"
"Worse luck," Astarion mutters. He gingerly lifts the soaked wad of bandages. The wound, if possible, seems to be getting worse. "Well, I can't do much for you here. Let's get you to Shadowheart — can you walk?"
"Astarion." A clammy palm comes to rest over Astarion's hand, and Gale's eyes open, the only thing that's still warm about him. "Shadowheart died… A long time ago now-"
"I know." Astarion frowns. He knew that. He did know that. Gods, but it's hard to keep track of the time. He's grown so weary of living in the never-ending present. "I meant- we need to get you to a cleric."
Gale's smile is melancholy.
"Nothing a cleric can do for me, I'm afraid." He groans again as he cranes to look at his stomach. "I tried to heal myself, but this particular weapon appears to inflict permanent damage. Some sort of inversion of the Cure Wounds spell, if I'm not mistaken. I'd have loved a chance to study the item and see how it works…" His face falls. "I suppose I shall have to die without finding out. Insult to injury."
"Can you get us to your tower?" Astarion folds his arms around himself, clenching and unclenching his fists to dispel the unpleasant tingling in his fingertips. "Your library might have-"
"Oh, that's long gone. The council must have reclaimed it at some point, turned it into housing; a condominium, I believe, is the word. Besides, I only had enough power, enough time, for one jump."
Astarion's reply comes through gritted teeth. "Then why here? Why me?"
"I wanted to see you again… see that face, one last time-"
"You were a god!" Astarion snaps. "You could have seen me any time you liked!"
"And I did." Gale at least has the decency to look embarrassed. "I watched over you more than I'd care to admit if this wasn't our last conversation. But oh," he sighs. "It could never compare to this…"
He reaches a hand up to cradle Astarion's jawline, wincing with the effort, running his thumb along Astarion's cheekbone and over the shell of his ear to its pointed tip, until his touch makes Astarion shiver.
Gale smiles. "You always did like it when I played with your ears."
"No!" Astarion swats his hand away, springing up and backwards. "How can you- You can't just- How dare you! You utter bastard!" Centuries of unsaid words erupt from his throat and fight to fly his tongue. "How dare you- how dare you come here and- and burden me with your death like this. After everything we- everything you- You promised, Gale! Or has it been so long that you've forgotten? Shall I remind you?" He's pacing now, unable to meet the sad brown eyes that follow. "You promised me- you sat there on the floor of Cazador's dungeon and you promised you'd hold me like that for as long as I needed. Forever. And then you fucked off to Elysium!"
"I wanted you with me-"
"To become the God of Fuck Knows What?! To 'follow your lead'? To ascend??" Astarion questions bitterly. "After forcing me to give up that very thing when I had the chance to do it on my own terms? You didn't want me, you wanted a spawn."
"No-"
"You did. And when I wouldn't bow to you, you chose yourself — yourself and your blasted ambition! — and I had- I had to learn to live in the shadows, alone, again. And now you come back, like this, just when I- it took me decades, Gale-"
"I have regretted it ever since," Gale interjects gently, speaking through shallow breaths. "In my own way. It's strange but I- when I became a god, I think I lost my ability to- The power is so immense, you see, it leaves no room for feelings such as- as remorse or shame. Or even love, as I knew it could be felt. But it all hit me the instant I became mortal again. Grief like you wouldn't believe-"
He coughs — a hacking, rattling cough — and a small trickle of blood escapes the corner of his lips, tendrils of red unfurling to pink as they greet a tear making its way down his cheek.
Reluctantly, Astarion returns to his side, kneeling down and dashing a sleeve across his own eyes before using it to wipe the blood from Gale's mouth.
Gale looks at him in earnest, as though his gaze can convey what his body is struggling to communicate. "Leaving you is… the biggest regret of my existence, Astarion... I swear it. Bigger even than… the orb. I'd take a thousand shards of Karsite Weave in my chest if it meant I could go back to that day and… and choose you instead."
Astarion sits back on his heels, examining the face that was once so dear to him. The full lips he used to kiss as and when he pleased, enjoying the way it made the wizard laugh in pleasant surprise. The broad nose he'd trace a fingertip down as they lay side-by-side on one bedroll, desire stirring his core for the first time since he could remember. The furrowed brow he used to caress until all its little crinkles melted away.
Astarion shakes his head.
"But you can't," he replies quietly.
"…No." Gale's head falls back against the wall behind him, his breathing ragged, tears now flowing freely from his closing eyes. "No, I can't... But I wanted… you to know… nonetheless."
Astarion stares at him for a moment more before settling next to him, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms with a huff. When Gale's breathing starts to slow, Astarion rests his head against a purple-clad shoulder and remembers how warm and comforting it used to feel after long days traveling or fighting. How they'd converse in low murmurs, Astarion enjoying the rumble of Gale's voice against his cheek as they daydreamed about a future that never came to pass. Now, when Gale's arms wrap around him, they're as cold as Astarion's own.
"Where will you go?" Astarion asks. "After?"
"Hmm…" There's no rumble anymore. Gale already sounds far away. "I didn't have much… occasion to contemplate it… when I was a god. I don't suppose Mystra would welcome me… back. And I am... unlikely to be accepted by… any other… The Fugue Plane… perhaps?"
Astarion tucks his face into Gale's neck, trying to summon the once-familiar rosewater and cinnamon scent of him, inhaling only salt and iron instead. "At least you won't end up in the Hells, like me," he mutters.
Gale's embrace tightens almost imperceptibly. "You're not for the Hells, my love..." His words are fading at their ends, the syllables blowing away in the breeze rolling off the river. "You deserve… the Heavens. You're too good, Astarion… too good for me… to love, really… but I did… oh, Astarion, I did… I have loved you… so very much…"
And Astarion wants to tell him how unfair that is. He wants to tell Gale it's too late. He wants to say that Gale hurt him too badly, that he moved on years ago, that he feels nothing for him at all. Only his throat is too tight to get the words out.
"I loved you," he gasps eventually. "I loved you too, Gale."
There's no response. When Astarion moves away to look at his face, Gale is gone.
Digging a fang into his lower lip, Astarion pulls dead arms tighter around himself, curling into an unmoving chest as he watches the moon slowly tumble into the river, chased from the sky by the warming glow of the rising sun.
*
Good gods, but you're a hard man to track down.
It's been a long while since anyone talked to Gale Dekarios. Or, at least, the soul formerly known as.
He is currently surveying the flat, grey landscape ahead, as though it is any different from the flat, grey landscape behind. He estimates himself to be a tenday's walk from the City of Judgment, though the city's central spire remains in the same place on the horizon no matter how far he travels. Still, he is determined to persevere with his methodical exploration. Perhaps with a view to escape. Perhaps merely in a desperate attempt to prevent his brilliant mind from decaying with the relentless boredom of this place.
So, when he hears — or rather 'experiences' the voice, since he no longer has any ears to speak of — he'd cry with relief were he still capable.
No good gods here, Gale responds warily.
No good gods anywhere, the voice counters with no small amount of bitterness. Not that I need to tell you that.
Gale turns to find another soul behind him, a vaguely humanoid shape that shimmers in the air like all the rest of them. This one feels… sharp, however. Hostile. Like the energy of a pair of tightly folded arms or a restless foot tapping in irritation. Underpinning all of it, Gale can sense a sad sort of softness as well. It's too familiar to be coincidental.
A- Astarion?
Before Gale has finished uttering the name, the other soul barrels into him, their edges momentarily blurring together with a tingle that's almost pleasurable.
What the devil are you doing out here? Astarion demands crossly. Do you know how many miserable bastards I had to interrogate in that city to find out where you'd gone? Honestly, you'd think they'd been sent to Baator, the way they carry on. He pulls away, despite Gale's desperate attempts to hold on. What did you say to them anyway? They don't seem to like you at all.
I've been- Gale is still almost too stunned to answer. I think I asked too many questions. I've been trying to find a way out.
There's a rippling sound in the air that feels like laughter. Of course you have.
Astarion, how… Gale reaches for him, frustrated as ether slides over ether. Why are you here?
I'm afraid you weren't quite right about me, in the end. Apparently, I am too good for the Hells… but not quite good enough for the Heavens.
No… Gale's not-wail doesn't echo around the vacant plains as much as he would have liked. How did you- how did you die?
I watched a sunrise, replies Astarion wistfully.
Gale has spent so long feeling nothing at all that the pain is overwhelming. It vibrates through him, threatening to disperse the already loose molecules of his being. …You did this to yourself?
It was so beautiful, Gale. I'd almost forgotten.
Death?
The sun.
Muscle memory — or the memory of muscles — lifts what were once Gale's hands to wipe non-existent tears from his face. Why??
I sat with you, Astarion explains simply. After you died. And, when the sun started to come up, I couldn't see any point in moving.
No… Gale whimpers. I didn't want that for you- I thought you'd… You deserved to go on and find someone better than me, I-
I did, Astarion interrupts, his tone blunt. I did find people better than you over the years. It wasn't exactly hard. But they always made me feel bad about myself in the end. The thing is, Gale, I liked you because you were as much of a bastard as I was. Until, of course, you outdid me entirely and abandoned me for godhood.
Gale's form sinks to the cold, dusty ground.
I have ruined us both, he groans.
The soul in front of him shimmers in a way that suggests: shrug.
Oh, don't worry. Astarion sits too, leaning against him, causing another of those pleasant tingles. I was ruined long before you met me.
They survey the bleak landscape in silence for an indeterminate amount of time before Gale senses Astarion shift impatiently at his side.
So? Only Astarion's soul could sound like it was yawning. How do we do it then?
Do what?
Get out.
I don't- Gale shakes his head. I don't know. I'm not sure we can.
Come on, Astarion ribs gently. There's no way you've been thinking about it for all this time and not come up with at least a few ideas.
Well, Gale sighs. There's always the Baatezu. We could accept a demonic pact, work our way up through the Hells…
Hmm, Astarion ponders. No thanks. I've already escaped the Hells twice; I'm not going to go there voluntarily. Besides, it'd be a crime to turn this face into a lemure.
Gale gazes at where Astarion's face used to be, and the non-tears come again.
Don't cry, darling. There must be other options.
There's no one left who'd resurrect us. Gale shrugs hopelessly. The gods could reincarnate us, but I don't know why they would.
I'm not sure I fancy doing all of that again, anyway. Do you?
No, Gale acquiesces. Not really.
And none of them will claim us?
None that we'd want, at any rate.
Astarion's soul hums thoughtfully. What happens if we stay here?
From what I could gather from the older inhabitants who would talk to me, we'll eventually disintegrate into nothing.
Oh! Astarion exclaims brightly. Well. That doesn't sound so bad.
It doesn't??
Not in comparison to some of the things that have happened to me, no.
Right, Gale replies weakly. Yes, I suppose not.
…How long have we got? Astarion asks, after a while.
I don't know. Forever?
Long enough to talk, then.
Yes.
Long enough even for forgiveness, perhaps.
Yes? Gale turns to him in surprise.
The soul appears to study him in return. It might be Gale's imagination, but — just for a moment — he sees the outline of a long, straight nose, of white curls ruffling in the wind, of ample lips lifting upwards at one corner.
Perhaps, Astarion says.
There's another silence, though it's more comfortable now. The howl of nothingness that blows across the plains has quietened to an empty breeze, and something like warmth buzzes in the places where the two souls touch. Something like love.