#i look forward to finding out more abt astarion

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.9}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) – (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

A/N: so very completely off topic but Minthara is so hot & i just wanted to mention that. she's not in this chapter or anything, im just thinking abt her.

Word Count: 3k

“Oh, gods,” a masculine voice cringes, carrying a thick, posh accent, accompanied by a twinge of what sounds like disgust. “A maimed hand. What a… horrific display. Unfortunate.”

“It’s not a–” A female huffs, her irritation clear. “It’s a portal. Move aside,” she directs. “Hello?” 

“A little help would be appreciated!”

“Oh– Right. One moment,” the woman replies. There’s a quiet mumbling of some ritualistic magic spells, and the vortex swirls, easing the pressure it had been constricting on a purple-robed arm. 

“A little pull should do the trick!”

A pair of hands grab onto the arm and pull, gentle at first, and then suddenly yanking it, sending a brunette flying through the other side, hitting the dirt and huffing out an anguished groan as he was promptly reminded of a bleeding wound in his shoulder. Both him and the woman who pulled him out brush themselves off and rise to their feet, locking eyes once they’ve checked themselves over. 

Immediately, the man reaches forward and shakes her hand, met with a concerned minor recoil from the woman, not expecting the contact. He bows his head, his other hand clasped over his wound, and he grants her a wide smile. “My deepest gratitudes. I believed I’d meet my fate in that whirlpool of weave – Gale of Waterdeep, at your service.”

“I see. I’m Shadowheart, and this is…” She glances over her shoulder at a white-haired man behind her, and Gale releases her hand.

He hesitates, placing a hand on his hip before waving his hand and sighing, conceding. “Oh, yes, the name is Astarion. What in the hells happened?”

The three look towards the scene of fiery, bloody destruction a few yards away, and there’s an awkward exchange of contemplative silence. 

“I haven’t the first idea,” Gale confesses, surveying the surroundings. “I’d have been quick to blame a particularly exciting wild mushroom for the things I’ve witnessed today, though unless you’re also mere voyagers of an imaginative hallucination, I doubt I’d be so fortunate as to be dreaming.” 

“Quite the twist of events,” the pale elf replies, looking back towards the brunette, his eyes hovering for a moment too long on his bloodied wound. “You’re bleeding.”

Gale looks at the wound as well, and he waves his hand dismissively. “Ah, yes, I…” He hesitates, recalling the events prior to his sudden abduction, unwilling plane-hopping, and forceful infection. “During the crash, I met an all-too-friendly shard of debris rather attracted to my shoulder. The least of my worries, I must admit. You two were aboard the nautiloid as well?”

“Yes, we were. Never before did I think I’d ever come face-to-face with mind flayers…” The woman sighs, recalling her own experience. 

“The mind flayers are hardly the biggest of our issues. I’m not sure about you two, but I’m a little more worried about the literal tadpoles in our skulls!” Astarion huffs, and Gale’s eyes narrow. 

“Then I wasn’t the only one. Do either of you happen to be a medic, or a cleric? Or know any? Or… have any clue where exactly we find ourselves?” He asks.

Shadowheart hesitates before answering with “I’m a cleric, but if I knew how to cure myself of whatever these little beasts are, I would’ve well-past done so by now. I could take a look at your shoulder, at least.”

He thinks over the offer before shrugging, and then wincing at the irritation, and he removes his hand. “Quite the savior, you’ve been. I assure you, I’m more than appreciative.”

Mostly ignoring the praise, Shadowheart steps closer to him, closing her eyes and lifting her hand, muttering another phrase under her breath. Gale recognizes segments of the words, but before he’s able to focus on exactly what they are, he’s distracted by a quick sharp pain in his wound, followed by immediate release as his flesh is pulled together once more, though the cut in his robe remains. 

Astarion breaks his attention away from the scene as Gale runs his hand over the spot, double-checking to ensure it’s fully closed. Gale nods once he’s sure, and he looks between the two in front of him. “Finding a medic – as darling as you’ve been, Shadowheart, we do need someone more proficient in our afflictions – is our first rule of business.”

The male elf scoffs, raising an eyebrow. “Our?” He asks, and Shadowheart and Gale both look confused for a moment. “Oh. Oh dear. You mean to stick together with him?”

“The more the merrier, no? Strength in numbers,” she reminds, and Gale quickly realizes that rejection may very well mean death, as traveling alone in unknown lands is a recipe for certifiable disaster.

He clears his throat, stepping forward and standing up a little straighter. “Have you any clue what happens, should we allow these maggots to complete gestation behind our eyes? I assure you, it’s not a fate we will want to meet. I’ve read extensively on the topic, and it involves an excruciating process of skin-shedding, organ arranging, and tentacle sprouting,” he defends, swallowing his anxiety in an attempt to mask how desperate he is. “I’m also quite the seasoned caster, and should we engage with any danger, I’ll be more than able to pull my weight.”

“Not seasoned enough to travel alone? Darling, in numbers we lose stealth. All of that stomping about is sure to attract danger,” Astarion purrs, rolling his eyes, and Gale feels his heart skip a beat, but Shadowheart is quick to jump in.

“We’ll need all the help we can get. You’re welcome to venture off on your own, Astarion,” she replies, and Astarion thinks over the possibility for a moment, but eventually sighs and gives a nod of irritated approval. “We should move quickly. I’d like to be rid of the monsters before any of those unwelcome effects manage to set in.”

“Fantastic,” Gale exhales, chuckling to avoid accidentally revealing his immense relief. “I reckon following the riverside north may be our best hope of coming upon civilization. And, ideally, a cure.” 

The other two agree, and the three set off towards the river, each occupied too greatly by their own thoughts to bother with small talk. Gale’s mind is busy, as it always is; Aside from the parasite, he feels impeccably normal. 

The orb rests. 

It sleeps.

Never before has it been so silent. 

Something is wrong.

–   –   –

“You’re sure?” 

“Oh, for the gods’ sakes, dear, for the last time, I wouldn’t have told you to begin if I lacked faith in you,” she groans, peeking her head out from a round metal shield that had been propped up against the post of a lamp, providing shelter and protection to the small creature. Whatever faith she did have in you was clearly limited, as she flinched every time you moved your arm, terrified that somehow you’d manage to ignite her in a fiery blaze despite the fact that you were facing the opposite direction. 

“If you say so,” you hum, giving a small shrug. Looking down, you line your feet up like how Gale had directed you a few days ago, inching your right foot forward until you were both comfortable and felt the slightest twinge of battle-readiness, or at least what you imagined it would feel like to be ready for battle. 

See, even before you’d been interested in actually learning magic, you’d always found it pretty amazing that people were able to conjure and cast some of the huge, deadly spells you’d heard about. The sorts of spells that Gale told stories about. 

You’d only ever seen him cast small spells, as he stuck usually to quick, simple flicks of his wrist to conjure up a small mage hand to grab a book, or sparking flames from the tip of his finger to light a candle. Easy things. Sort of impressive, but you got used to seeing them after a while, and they appeared entirely effortless.

But he talked about other ones. And you’d read about some. He spoke fondly of his days at Blackstaff academy, and hells, he’d managed to summon a lifelong cat with wings at the ripe age of seven. He seemed nothing short of a retired prodigy at this point, but you could certainly believe the stories he told.

Channeling the creations of Talos to send ship-sized rays of lightning to wreak havoc on the path before him. Pulling living, writhing coal-black tentacles from the earth to ensnare unsuspecting enemies. Or hailing a storm of sharp, freezing shards with no more than a phrase and a swipe of his hand. It was all magnificent to hear about, and you couldn’t imagine the kind of power that he – and all spellcasters – must have felt, having that sort of destruction at their disposal. A great payoff to years of practice, it seemed the stuff of legends or the sorts of tricks that only the greatest deities have in their arsenal, and yet he spoke of it as if it had been just another academic lesson. 

To say you felt admiration for him would be a bit of an understatement, but it was perhaps the best word still. It was motivational, knowing that, one day, you could somehow be on the same level of such unfathomable, incredible power. 

There were other spells too, obviously. Like protective shields that fed off of astral fuel rather than steel, or transpositional spells – things like that. Way less interesting things, in your opinion. But he spoke pleasantly of them all the same. 

Plus, having that kind of knowledge in your back pocket was way more effective than any dagger or greatsword – and far less obvious. Not that you’d ever engaged in any battles or even minor fights, but you assumed that knowing spells would automatically give someone the upper hand. A sword or a hammer would be obvious– but couldn’t a wizard feign cluelessness? Pretend to be unprepared, and then right when they’ve been underestimated, strike at their foe’s vulnerability! 

Point was, it was pretty cool to think about. The closest thing to fighting that Gale had ever mentioned engaging in was during his exploration of ruins, back when he had to actively hunt for artifacts to feed off of. Now, you couldn’t imagine how a man who smelled like Waterdeep’s finest candles and had a closer relationship to books than any person could have possibly been embarking on tomb-raiding, bandit-battling adventures, but maybe he’d been something of a spell savant in his younger days. 

After all, he claimed to have helped lead the quarterstaff martial arts extracurricular club, and while you didn’t really understand what that meant, you assumed he meant that he was good at swinging the magical sticks littered around his tower. Or, at least the ones that used to be littered around the tower. The ones that you’d eventually thrown out. The ones that he’d consumed every last lick of weave out of, the ones who were reduced to just fancy sticks, ‘magic’ entirely lacking. 

You’d always wondered what he’d been like prior to the orb. If he’d been more powerful before, if the invasion had weakened him. Or if it had strengthened him, if it had opened his body up to new avenues of the weave otherwise unexplored, but he’d merely lost touch with it because he’d stopped practicing. You’d never asked. Always worried it would be a sore subject, and he didn’t like talking about it in any other context, if his constant dismissive statements and tendency to quickly change the topic was anything to judge by. 

He consumed the weave. Consumed raw magic like you would scarf down a salad. He did not merely understand the weave, or learn to speak with it – he was the weave. He was magic.

It was unfortunate. He could’ve been the strongest wizard in Faerûn, and yet he used his power to pluck story books off of shelves out of his reach. You only wished you knew why. 

He’d gotten himself into a bad situation. Yet, when the reason for said bad situation up-and-ditched him, he never bothered to find a new reason. Why he didn’t make the best of his circumstances was beyond you. If you were in his shoes, you would’ve certainly made a point to prove to Mystra that you didn’t need her.

Who the hells needed a goddess when he had his own piece of the weave? Weave that she didn’t have. Weave that was out of her control. Weave that was entirely his to shape and use. 

He could’ve had a million reasons, and it was likely that he’d simply never bothered to share them with you. But that lack of knowledge kept your mind wandering, and curiosity only ever snowballed. 

You raise your arm, eyeing the target, looking over the black smoky imprint you’d given it last time you were in this position. Small, but visible. Making sure you keep your finger pointed at the mannequin, you make a mental note of its position in relation to your own, and let your eyes close, attempting to swim through whatever scenes come to you in search of inspiration. 

Initially, you figure you could always return to the same memory you’d used during your first practice, but what you find first is your discussion with him from a few days ago, in which he revealed the truth behind the orb. It’s pleasant at first, revisiting the closeness with him, his gentle tone, the feeling of his hands on your arm. The warmth of his chest and the mellow beating of his heart. 

But you follow the moment, recalling the heat beneath your palm when you truly pressed it to the mark, the pining of the orb that you managed to tap into. How insatiably hungry it was. You remember being intimidated, but now, looking back on it, you feel no fear – instead a strange, silent understanding. An understanding of what, exactly, you’ve no clue. It seems as though understanding heeds no requirement of knowledge, as though the connection runs deeper than a mind could possibly reach. 

You touch not the orb, but rather his skin, yet you feel it all the same. Breaking the bounds of physicality, it hums, and you feel the power against your fingertips. The power in the weave, but you feel no power in the man. 

If anything, he looks entirely powerless. And you realize that, in the moment, you’d been feeling him. Focused only on his emotions, his being, his existence. 

But here, he’s hardly present. Rather, it is you and the orb. It burns, and it swirls, a pocket-sized vortex protected behind a cage of bones. You know it is dangerous because Gale has told you so. 

You would not have known otherwise.

It’s sweet. The energy it crackles with is no more harmful than the flames in a fireplace. Its desires are but a child’s ambitions. It is contained, and it is obedient, and it is a tragic tale. 

Does it feel?

Does it understand?

“Ignis,” you call, and the orb hears, and it responds. There is a surge, magnificent and pure, in your arm, shooting to your index with the rush of your blood, and you open your eyes in time to watch as the entire upper section of the mannequin is cascaded in a flowing, raging garnet hue that engulfs the humanoid frame and singes the protective chainmail, proving it to be a weak barrier at best. It melts the metal in an instant, staining it against the terrorized cloth underneath, and the mannequin stumbles, threatening to fall over with the storm of heat, but then it steadies. The flames flicker out after a few seconds, and the torso is left a mess of momentarily liquified steel and burnt, lifeless fabric. 

Then there’s silence. You feel your mouth pull into a smile. You eventually lower your hand and turn back around to Tara, nodding. 

“How was that?!” You ask, laughing excitedly, and Tara peeks out from behind the shield, her ears flattened against her head. 

“I’d bet to say you’re just short of ready for Avernus,” she chuckles, and though there’s a strong sense of anxiety about her tone, you pass it off as a side effect of her worry for her own fur. 

“Damn, I wish Gale was here to see that. Did you see how big that flame was? Like, practically the size of the mannequin! Or a dwarf! Oh, he’s gonna be so impressed,” you giggle, having to contain a squeal of pride at just how skilled your casting was. And it was only your second try! Who knew what you could be capable of with more practice? With the amount of practice Gale had? Oh, the possibilities were endless.

Tara slinks out from behind the shield, double-checking the area to ensure it was safe, and she sits, looking at the ruined target for a few extra moments before turning her attention to you. “I do so hate to imitate the wizard too closely, though my curiosity is certainly mewing – I assume you found your flame elsewhere this time?”

Your smile falters, and you think about being honest – admitting that you drew energy from the perceived villain of Gale’s story – but you don’t wish to concern her. So you tell a half-truth, because it’s not quite a lie, and therefore warrants no guilt. “I, uh, got it… from Gale, I guess.”

Tara’s tail flicks, and she purrs for a quick moment, standing up once more and walking across the room, a certain proud air about her. “How precious. No surprise that he encouraged such mighty flames,” she teases, and you quickly shake your head, believing her to have the wrong idea.

“Not– not like that, uh, I just mean that he’s really inspiring, so… I thought about him and his directions, and tried to, y’know, follow them,” you laugh nervously, but Tara hardly seems convinced. 

It makes you think. Her assumptions – they’re food for thought. You know what she suspects. 

And maybe it’s okay for her to believe that. 

Maybe it’s okay. 

Because the alternative is not.

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