Chapter Text
Astarion had faced countless horrors in his centuries of existence—Cazador’s cruelty, the tadpole’s whispers, the crushing weight of immortality itself. Yet nothing had prepared him for the particular terror of watching Gale’s normally steady hands trembling as he set down his quill, the way his lover’s face drained of color in the soft evening light of their study.
It struck him, as it often did, how Gale could look so impossibly brilliant even in moments of frailty. His graying hair caught the last rays of sunlight, streaks of silver weaving through the warm chestnut like threads of starlight, a mortal beauty that stole Astarion’s breath even as dread clawed at his chest.
Oh, how magnificent Gale was when wielding his magic. Astarion could spend hours watching him work, the way power seemed to dance around him like invisible flames, his eyes glowing with inner light when casting particularly complex spells. In those moments, Gale transformed—all his self-doubt falling away as pure arcane energy coursed through him. It was breathtaking, watching him command forces that could reshape reality itself, yet still blush furiously when Astarion praised his skill.
“You have no idea how beautiful you are when you’re like this,” Astarion had murmured once, watching Gale weave spells in their study. “All that power, all that brilliance, wrapped in such a deliciously humble package.” But even as his magic burned bright, there was a fragility to him, a weight to the way he wielded the Weave that spoke of the cost he bore. It only made him more beautiful to Astarion, this mortal man who held such vast power with such quiet grace.
Now, that same grace was deserting him. The quill’s scratch against parchment had been their evening’s melody for hours, until it wasn’t. The sudden silence drew Astarion’s attention like blood in water. Shadows from the fireplace danced across Gale’s face, highlighting a paleness that seemed wrong against his usually warm complexion. The familiar scent of bergamot tea and ink that typically filled their study was overshadowed by something else—a sickly sweet undertone that made Astarion’s predatory instincts bristle with alarm.
“Darling,” Astarion called from his perch by the window, affecting his usual drawl even as unease crept up his spine, his fingers unconsciously gripping the windowsill hard enough to leave marks, “if you’re going to sway like that, at least do it with some grace. You’re making me dizzy.” The joke fell flat as Gale failed to respond with his customary dry wit, instead gripping the edge of his desk with alarming intensity, his knuckles white against the dark wood.
In an instant, Astarion was across the room, centuries of predatory grace forgotten in his haste. His cool fingers pressed against Gale’s forehead, and the warmth emanating from his lover’s body sent a jolt of primal fear through him. He knew mortal bodies ran warm—had spent countless nights mapping the delicious contrasts between their temperatures—but this was different. Wrong. Like touching the sun itself, and just as terrifying.
“You’re burning up,” he managed, his voice sharper than intended. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“It’s just a small fever,” Gale mumbled, his usual eloquence deserting him, just as his knees did. Astarion caught him before he hit the ground, fear spiking through him faster than instinct.
“Just a fever,” he scoffed, but the fear clawing at his chest made the words sharper than intended. “The way you mortals dismiss potentially fatal ailments is absolutely fascinating.” He gathered Gale closer, his arms tightening possessively. “Bed. Now.”
The journey to their chambers passed in a haze of fear, centuries of accumulated knowledge crumbling to dust in the face of mortal fragility. What did mortals need when ill? Heat? Cold? Both? The basic mechanics of human healing had faded from his memory like ink left too long in sunlight.
"Don't just stand there looking decorative," he snapped at Tara, who was watching from her perch with insufferable feline calm. "Make yourself useful. Find those medical texts in the library."
"You could just send for a healer," she suggested, her tail curling with what he was certain was deliberate provocation.
"Absolutely not." The words came out as a hiss. "Have you seen how they practice medicine? Barbaric. Besides," he added, attempting to regain his composure as he tucked the blankets around Gale with perhaps excessive precision, "I am perfectly capable of handling this minor inconvenience."
Tara's skeptical silence spoke volumes.
“This is absurd,” Astarion declared, hurling yet another useless medical tome aside. The book hit the floor with a dull thud that echoed through the dimly lit room. The fire in the study had burned low, casting long shadows across the walls, and the faint light of dawn seemed impossibly far away. “Bloodletting? These so-called healers are barely more sophisticated than leeches.” He paused, considering, the familiar cold emptiness in his chest aching with renewed intensity. “Though I suppose I’m hardly one to judge on that particular front.”
Gale’s weak chuckle drew his attention instantly. “Was that an attempt at humor in the face of crisis?” Gale managed, his voice rough but warm. “You must be truly worried.”
“Nonsense,” Astarion replied automatically, even as he moved to adjust Gale’s blankets again. “I simply refuse to let you succumb to something as pedestrian as a fever. It would reflect poorly on my reputation. What would people say? ‘Oh yes, that’s Astarion’s wizard, the one who couldn’t even manage a proper dramatic death scene.’” His hands betrayed him, though, smoothing back Gale’s damp hair with a tenderness that undermined his feigned nonchalance.
The night dragged on, marked by Gale’s labored breathing and Astarion’s increasingly frantic attempts at caregiving. The familiar coolness of his vampiric nature, once a source of shame and careful distance, became his most useful tool. For centuries, he had cursed this chill that marked him as undead, a constant reminder of what he’d lost. Yet now, as Gale burned beneath his touch, Astarion found himself grateful for the very thing he’d despised.
“The irony isn’t lost on me, darling,” he murmured, pressing his cool palms against Gale’s flushed chest. “That death might help preserve life.” His touch seemed to ease some of Gale’s discomfort, each point of contact drawing away a fraction of the terrible heat. “Though I must say, you’re rather overdoing it with this whole ‘warm-blooded’ business.”
He tried everything: steeping bitter herbal teas, refreshing cool compresses, and reciting passages from Gale’s favorite tomes, his usual theatrical delivery softened to a gentle murmur. Each attempt felt insufficient, the weight of inadequacy pressing heavier with every hour.
“You’re hovering,” Tara observed from her perch, her amber eyes gleaming in the dim light as she watched Astarion fuss with Gale’s pillows yet again.
“Medical vigilance,” he corrected without looking up.
“Right. And alphabetizing the herbs is part of that?”
“Organization saves lives, Tara.”
“As is arranging the vials by hue?”
“Obviously.” His fingers drifted back to Gale’s wrist, counting heartbeats like prayers. He caught Tara’s pointed look but ignored it. “I notice you had no complaints when I organized your salmon by size.”
“The fever will break,” Tara said softly, her sardonic tone gentling as she watched Astarion’s fingers tremble against Gale’s pulse point. “He’s stronger than you think.”
“He’s mortal,” Astarion whispered, the word carrying centuries of fear. His other hand cradled Gale’s cheek, thumb brushing over feverish skin. “So terribly, wonderfully mortal. Do you know what that means, you insufferable creature? Every heartbeat is precious. Every breath could be—” His voice faltered, the unspoken threat too heavy to name.
Tara’s quiet voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “You’re thinking like a vampire again.”
He looked up, startled, meeting her steady gaze. “And what, pray tell, does that mean?”
“You’re focused on the ending,” she said simply. “All you see is the moment his heart might stop. But Gale wouldn’t. He’d see all the heartbeats he still has ahead of him. Maybe you should try thinking like him.”
Astarion stared at her, her words slicing through his panic like a blade. Finally, his shoulders relaxed a fraction, though the storm in his crimson eyes remained. “When did you become so wise?”
“One of us had to.” Tara padded closer, her purr a steady counterpoint to Gale’s uneven breaths. “Though I must say, your methods are… unconventional. I wasn’t aware aesthetic perfection was vital for healing.”
Astarion sniffed, his hands fussing over Gale’s blankets. “Shows what you know. The curtains are crucial for maintaining proper ambiance—vital for recovery, really.”
Tara tilted her head. “And the silk sheets?”
“They complement his complexion,” he replied smoothly, though he faltered as Tara’s purring deepened to a smug hum. “Oh, you insufferable creature,” he muttered.
“Got you to relax, didn’t I?” she said, her tone softer as she headbutted his arm.
He reached out to scratch behind her ears, his touch lingering. “I suppose someone has to maintain their composure.”
“You’re doing an awful lot of breathing for someone who doesn’t need to,” she observed, her voice quieter now.
Astarion’s fingers stilled, betraying a flicker of vulnerability. “Habit,” he muttered. “And… it’s easier to feel he’s still here, this way.”
Tara pressed closer, her warmth grounding. “He’s still here, Astarion,” she said softly. “And so are you.”
The days blurred into a feverish haze, a relentless dance of research and remedies. The acrid bite of herbs mingled with the metallic tang of potions, filling the air with a desperate perfume. Gale’s sweat-dampened hair carried a salt-sweet scent—a cruel echo of their usual intimacy, now tinged with fear.
The heat radiating from Gale’s body wasn’t just warmth—it was an infernal blaze that consumed him, leaving his skin damp and too pale beneath the flush of sickness. His breaths came shallow and uneven, catching in his throat as if each one was hard-won. The dark circles beneath his eyes deepened, stark against the usual warmth of his complexion, and his lips—always quick to curve into a smile or form a biting remark—were cracked and dry.
Astarion worked tirelessly, pressing cool cloths to Gale’s burning forehead, steeping bitter herbal teas, and murmuring soft reassurances he wasn’t even sure Gale could hear. Yet with every gesture, a gnawing sense of inadequacy burrowed deeper into him. What use was an eternity of existence, centuries of cunning and strength, if it couldn’t protect the one thing he truly cared for?
He tightened the blankets around Gale with meticulous care, as though precision alone could stave off the fever’s cruelty. His hands lingered on Gale’s wrist, counting each heartbeat like a prayer—steady, fragile reminders that time hadn’t yet stolen him away. Each beat was precious, a sound Astarion clung to with a desperation that bordered on reverence.
“This isn’t enough,” he muttered to himself, his voice a low, frustrated growl. “It will never be enough.” His cool fingers ghosted over Gale’s cheek, tracing hollows that hadn’t been there days before. Gale looked too fragile, as though the fever might unravel him thread by thread if left unchecked.
The sight of him—his brilliant, resilient wizard reduced to this—was unbearable. Gale, who faced gods and monsters without flinching, now lay defeated by his own human fragility. His usually expressive hands, which wove magic as naturally as breathing, trembled weakly when he tried to move. Astarion loathed the vulnerability etched into every line of Gale’s face, how the fever stripped away the quiet strength he had come to rely on.
“This isn’t just fever,” he whispered, as if naming it might lessen the weight in his chest. “It’s an affront. A violation of everything he is.” His voice cracked, a rare betrayal of the depth of his anguish.
Even in sleep, Gale’s brow furrowed, his body restless under the blankets. Astarion smoothed back sweat-dampened strands of silver-streaked hair, the gentleness of the gesture at odds with his stormy expression. The sight of him like this—so small, so fragile—was a sharp reminder of the precarious balance of mortality. And though he cursed it, though he wanted to rage against the universe itself, he also knew this fragility was part of what made Gale so achingly precious.
Tara padded closer, her amber eyes watching him with quiet understanding. Astarion let out a bitter laugh, though it lacked his usual sharpness. “Look at me, playing at being a healer. A centuries-old predator reduced to fumbling with compresses and tea leaves. It’s pathetic, isn’t it?”
“It’s love,” Tara replied simply, her tail curling around her paws. “And you’re doing more than you think.”
During the worst hours, when Gale’s fever burned highest and he drifted in and out of consciousness, Astarion’s carefully constructed facades crumbled entirely. The confident smirks, the barbed wit—everything he used to armor himself—shattered under the weight of helplessness.
He found himself bargaining with whatever powers might listen, offering anything—everything—in exchange for Gale’s recovery.
“Have you considered,” Tara suggested delicately from her perch, “reaching out to Mystra?”
“Absolutely not!” Astarion snapped, though his fingers never stopped their careful monitoring of Gale’s pulse. “I refuse to bargain with his explosive ex. She’s done quite enough meddling in his life already.”
But as the fever spiked dangerously high, even that ironclad resolve crumbled like ancient stone. Compresses, tinctures, whispered reassurances—nothing could quell the fire raging within his wizard. Desperation sank its claws deep into him, dragging him to the edge of something dark and unnameable.
His crimson eyes flicked to the ceiling, his voice low and trembling as he finally spoke. “You owe him,” he whispered, the words clawing their way past centuries of guarded pride. “You owe him everything. He gave you his devotion, his brilliance, his life—how many others could claim such loyalty? And you nearly destroyed him.”
The room was silent except for Gale’s labored breathing, each rasping inhale a knife to Astarion’s chest. His fists clenched at his sides, and his voice rose, sharp and raw. “You’ve taken so much from him. If there’s anything left of the love he bore you, anything at all, give it back to him now. Give him the strength to fight this.”
His fingers tightened around Gale’s wrist, as if anchoring him to the present. “You can have my dignity, my pride—anything. Just… don’t take him from me. Please.” The last word broke like glass on his tongue, and the room seemed to hold its breath with him. “Not like this. Not when I haven’t even had the chance to tell him…”
The weight of unsaid things settled over him like a shroud, pressing heavy and relentless. For the first time in centuries, Astarion bowed his head—not in supplication, but in love. “He is more than you ever deserved,” he whispered, and though the words were for Mystra, they felt more like an affirmation to himself. “And you will not take him from me.”
Tara watched silently from her perch, her amber eyes gleaming with something softer than her usual amusement. If she noticed the suspicious moisture in Astarion’s eyes, she said nothing. But later, when the worst had passed, she would likely demand an unreasonable amount of salmon for her discretion.
The fever broke just before dawn, on the fourth day of Astarion’s vigil. It was that liminal hour when night’s shadows began to fade, and the first whispers of sunlight threatened the horizon. To Astarion, it had always been a dangerous time, but since meeting Gale, he’d come to think of it as theirs—neither night nor morning, but something precious in between.
He felt the change before he saw it. The infernal heat that had consumed Gale for days finally began to recede, his labored breaths easing into something softer, steadier. Astarion’s cool hand lingered against Gale’s wrist, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the pulse beneath his fingers was strong.
His own breath caught in his throat (a purely theatrical habit, he would insist, since he didn’t actually need to breathe), as the weight of relief crashed over him. Gale’s temperature, once an unbearable blaze, had settled into something blessedly, beautifully normal.
The first hints of dawn painted the room in soft greys and golds, catching in Gale’s silver-streaked hair like promises waiting to be kept. One day, Astarion thought fiercely, he would find a way to share a proper sunrise with this man. But for now, this fragile light was enough—a reminder that they had survived another night together.
When Gale’s eyes finally fluttered open, the fevered haze replaced by clarity, Astarion froze. Relief mixed with disbelief as he searched Gale’s expression, desperate for confirmation that he was truly present.
“You look terrible,” Gale croaked, his voice dry but warm.
Astarion let out a laugh, more a shaky exhale than his usual polished cadence. The sound surprised even him, his veneer of haughtiness cracking under the weight of raw emotion.
“How dare you,” he managed, though the words lacked their usual bite. “I am nothing if not impeccable.”
“He’s been absolutely beside himself,” Tara interjected from her perch, ever the opportunistic traitor. “I haven’t seen him this worked up since Lady Silverwind wore chartreuse to the Midwinter Ball.”
“I do not get ‘worked up,’” Astarion countered sharply, but his dignity was undermined by the way his hand refused to let go of Gale’s. “I simply maintain appropriately high standards for both fashion and the continued existence of my chosen companion.”
Gale’s dry chuckle turned into a weak cough, and Astarion’s playful bravado dissolved instantly. Gale reached up, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped Astarion’s cheek. The vampire leaned into the touch without thought or pretense, his crimson eyes flickering with something vulnerable, something raw.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” Astarion whispered, the words slipping free before he could stop them. It was an impossible demand, and he knew it, but the fear behind them was unmistakable. “I’m not… I can’t…”
“I know,” Gale murmured, his voice soft with understanding. Of course he knew. Gale, who faced gods and monsters with quiet determination, who seemed to understand Astarion’s heart even when Astarion himself didn’t.
As Gale’s breathing deepened, signaling the pull of much-needed rest, Astarion’s hands finally stilled. Yet his mind refused to quiet. The lingering fear gnawed at him, a cruel reminder of Gale’s fragility, his mortality.
Four days of fever, and Gale had survived. But what of the next danger? There would always be something—disease, an enemy, time itself—threatening to take what was his.
Astarion’s crimson gaze flicked to the window, where the faintest rays of sunlight kissed the horizon. Dawn felt like a thief, eager to steal away the stillness of this moment. And yet… there were other threats, weren’t there? Not sickness, but others who dared to covet what was his.
The memory of Lord Blackwood’s brazen audacity had a habit of surfacing at the most inconvenient times, like an itch Astarion couldn’t quite scratch. The Midwinter Ball had been one of their first public appearances together, a dazzling affair of glittering gowns, spell-lit chandeliers, and too many eyes on Gale. Yet amidst the polite chaos, Blackwood stood out—a visiting noble with a reputation for “collecting” rare magical artifacts. And, as Astarion had quickly discerned, those who wielded them.
It started innocently enough, as these things often did. Blackwood, all cultured charm and calculated grace, cornered Gale near the banquet table, inquiring about his latest research. To anyone else, the conversation might have seemed like harmless academic discourse. But Astarion saw the predatory gleam in Blackwood’s eyes, the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long on Gale’s expressive hands as they gestured enthusiastically.
Gale, brilliant fool that he was, remained utterly oblivious to the lord’s true intentions. He eagerly launched into the intricacies of spell weaving, entirely missing how Blackwood inched closer with every word. It wasn’t until Astarion materialized at Gale’s side, his smile sharp enough to draw blood, that the lord’s advance faltered—though not as much as Astarion would have liked.
“Darling,” Astarion purred, one hand settling possessively at the small of Gale’s back, “do tell Lord Blackwood about that unfortunate scholar who met a rather… explosive end. The one with overly ambitious hands, as I recall.” His fanged smile widened, just visible enough to make his point. “They never did find all the pieces.”
Blackwood raised an elegant eyebrow, matching Astarion’s cultured tones with infuriating ease. “How fascinating,” he drawled. “I’d love to see more of your work, Master Gale. My private collection includes several rare artifacts that might interest you.”
“Ah, speaking of collections,” Astarion interjected smoothly, his crimson eyes gleaming with dangerous amusement. “Darling, you must tell Lord Blackwood about the Magister who tried to get his hands on your staff. Such a shame about his… accident. Though I’ll admit, the scorch marks did make rather striking patterns.”
“Oh, you mean the incident with Magister Ervil?” Gale brightened, oblivious to the charged undercurrent. “Fascinating case, actually—a perfect example of why proper magical containment is essential when handling volatile artifacts. You see, the resonance patterns—”
“I’ve always found that the most powerful magic requires a certain… willingness to embrace the forbidden,” Blackwood interrupted smoothly, his voice dropping to a silken purr. His gaze flicked briefly to Astarion before returning to Gale. “It’s refreshing to meet someone who truly understands the value of raw, untamed power. Don’t you agree, Master Gale?”
Astarion’s fangs were fully visible now, his smile more threat than pleasure. “How brave of you, Lord Blackwood. Though I should warn you—” his grip on Gale’s waist tightened— “my wizard’s particular brand of power tends to leave such devastating marks. Not everyone can handle such… intensity.”
“I assure you, I’m quite prepared to be overwhelmed,” Blackwood replied, his predatory smile undeterred.
“Oh, if you’re interested in overwhelming magical forces,” Gale chimed in enthusiastically, utterly oblivious, “I’ve been developing this fascinating theory about channeling multiple spell streams simultaneously. The potential for catastrophic feedback is enormous, but if one could properly harness the convergence—”
“Perhaps over dinner?” Blackwood suggested, his smile widening.
Astarion’s patience frayed like old thread. “I’m afraid we’re quite occupied for the foreseeable century,” he said, voice honey-sweet but deadly. “Darling, didn’t you promise to show me that delightful thing you do with lightning? The one where the sparks dance on the tip of your tongue before everything gets so wonderfully… explosive?” His smile dripped with sin, though his gaze never left Blackwood.
Gale, ever earnest, perked up. “Actually, I’ve been working on a modification to that spell that—”
“If you’ll excuse us,” Astarion interrupted, steering Gale away with practiced grace. But Blackwood, the audacious cur, caught Gale’s free hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.
“Until next time, then,” the lord murmured, meeting Astarion’s glare with unmistakable challenge.
It had taken considerable restraint not to remove those eyes on the spot.
Even years later, the memory burned as vividly as the cursed evening itself. Blackwood’s smugness lingered like an ember, a persistent reminder that some adversaries refused to fade into obscurity. Yet, as much as Astarion loathed the man, he couldn’t deny the satisfaction he felt in Gale’s oblivious loyalty.
“I don’t understand why you dislike him so much,” Gale remarked once, after Astarion had spent an entire evening positioning himself between his lover and the insufferable lord. “He’s been quite generous with his library access.”
“Darling,” Astarion replied, pressing Gale against their bedroom door the moment they returned home, “that man doesn’t want to share his library with you. He wants to add you to it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gale scoffed, though his breath hitched as Astarion’s lips found the sensitive spot beneath his ear.
Astarion’s grip tightened possessively. “Though I suppose I can hardly blame him. You are quite…” His fingers traced the curve of Gale’s jaw, lingering deliberately. “…a masterpiece.”
“You’re being possessive again,” Gale observed, his tone warm and amused.
Astarion hesitated, his smile faltering just enough for Gale to notice. “It’s hardly unreasonable, considering how thoroughly you attract unwanted attention.”
Gale reached for him, his touch grounding. “Or perhaps you’re worried because, deep down, you still believe what we have is something that can be taken.”
The words struck too close, leaving Astarion momentarily exposed. But Gale only smiled, his voice softening. “It’s not. I’m here because I choose to be. And I always will.”
Astarion stilled, the confession unraveling something tightly wound within him. “You are rather fond of rare books,” he murmured against Gale’s skin, aiming for levity but falling just short. “And academic discourse. And those terribly dull lectures about theoretical magic that go on for hours…”
Gale’s hands came up to frame his face, warm and grounding. His touch demanded honesty, but it gave just as much comfort in return. “My love,” Gale said, his words tender yet unyielding, piercing straight through the walls Astarion so carefully built, “I already have everything I could possibly want right here.”
Something in Astarion’s chest tightened painfully, and for a fleeting moment, he let the vulnerability show. “Even if I can’t recite arcane theory like some robe-wrapped prodigy?” he murmured, his attempt at playfulness catching on the edge of something unspoken. “Or conjure reality-warping storms to rival the gods?”
Gale’s thumbs brushed gentle arcs across Astarion’s cheekbones, grounding and steadying him with maddening gentleness. “What need have I for storms,” Gale said softly, his voice filled with that infuriating gentleness that saw straight through Astarion’s walls, “when you’ve already turned my world upside down?”
The knot in Astarion’s chest unraveled, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to admit it. “A wizard with a poet’s tongue. You’re utterly incorrigible,” he drawled, the words almost managing their usual sharpness.
“Only for you,” Gale replied with a soft smile, his gaze impossibly warm.
For a moment, Astarion let himself be still, allowed the quiet gravity of Gale’s words to settle into the parts of himself he so rarely acknowledged. When he finally leaned in, it was with a desperation he couldn’t quite mask, needing to taste the impossible sweetness of a love he never thought he’d have.
When they broke apart, Gale’s voice carried a familiar glint of mischief. “Though,” he added lightly, “if you ever felt inclined to gift me a rare tome or two, I’d hardly object. Preferably something obscure—ideally with a bit of forbidden knowledge. You do have a knack for the dramatic, after all.”
“Insatiable creature,” Astarion murmured against his lips, the relief and love tangling in his chest too tightly to tease apart.
“Says the man who’s been trying to remove my robe all evening.”
“Can you blame me? You’ve been practically indecent, gesturing so enthusiastically about magical theory.” Astarion’s hands slipped beneath said robe, savoring the way Gale shivered at his touch. “It’s really quite scandalous, darling. All that raw power on display…”
The resulting conversation was, as expected, entirely nonverbal and deeply satisfying. Later, as they lay entwined in silk sheets, Astarion traced idle patterns across Gale’s skin. Moonlight painted silver trails across his lover’s shoulders, and the steady rhythm of Gale’s heartbeat thudded beneath Astarion’s palm—a melody he cherished more than he could ever admit.
“I can hear you thinking,” Gale murmured drowsily, one eye cracking open just enough to regard Astarion with amused exasperation.
“Impossible. I’m far too satisfied for complex thought.” Yet his arms tightened around Gale, betraying the lie.
“Mm. And yet you’re practically vibrating with unspoken words.” Gale’s voice softened, his sleepy warmth coaxing. “Out with it.”
Astarion watched the way shadows danced across Gale’s face. When he spoke, his voice was low and fierce. “I would find him, you know. If anyone ever tried to take you from me. I would tear apart reality itself to bring you back.”
Gale’s eyes softened with that particular understanding Astarion found infuriating and endearing in equal measure. “I know you would.” His hand came up to cup Astarion’s cheek, tender and grounding. “But you don’t have to,” Gale continued, his voice steady and sure. “I’m here, Astarion. You’ve already done the impossible—you’ve made me yours.”
His words hung in the quiet, simple and absolute, as if no force in the universe could shake them.
“My devoted wizard,” Astarion murmured, pressing a kiss to Gale’s palm. “So certain of everything.”
“Only of you.” Gale’s smile held that particular warmth that never failed to undo him completely. “The rest is just variables and probability.”
“How terribly romantic,” Astarion drawled, though the faint tremor in his voice betrayed the depth of his feelings. “Only you would compare me to mathematics. I’m not sure if I should feel flattered or deeply insulted.”
Blackwood’s persistence, of course, remained an ongoing irritant. But Astarion had already claimed the greatest treasure of all—not through force or cunning, but through the simple, profound miracle of being loved in return.
In the years that followed, Astarion often returned to the memory of these days—not for the fear or the sleepless vigil, but for the quiet moments of pure, unguarded love. The fever that had once filled him with dread became a touchstone for something far greater: the depth of his devotion, the lengths he would go to protect the one who had given him more than he ever thought possible.
He began keeping meticulous notes on mortal ailments and remedies, his journals steadily filling with observations and formulas. The workshop’s storage gradually shifted to accommodate vials, poultices, and medicinal herbs alongside the fabric swatches and enchanted threads. If Gale noticed the growing collection, he never mentioned it, though Astarion caught the faintest trace of a smile whenever his wizard’s fingers brushed against a carefully labeled jar.
“You can’t protect me from everything,” Gale would say on occasion, his tone fond yet firm as he watched Astarion fuss over yet another preventative concoction.
“Watch me try,” Astarion would reply, his voice light but his crimson eyes blazing with fierce determination. After all, he hadn’t survived centuries of darkness just to lose the light he’d found in Gale’s warmth.
Time had always been his accomplice—a rogue’s ally, a thief’s enabler. But with Gale, it had turned traitor. Each moment with him was a double-edged gift, precious and fleeting. Yet Gale, in his quiet wisdom, had taught him not to fear the ending, but to savor the now.
Astarion held his sleeping wizard closer, the fragile light of dawn creeping into their room, painting the silver in Gale’s hair with soft hues of gold. For all the fears that clawed at his heart, one truth burned brighter than all the rest: love made even eternity worth risking.
Where Cazador had taught him that love was weakness, Gale proved daily that it was strength. His gentle scholar, who faced down gods and monsters with the same quiet resolve he brought to cataloging their library, who looked at a broken vampire and saw someone worth saving, worth loving, worth building a future with.
“I suppose I could tolerate a few more bookshelves in the study,” Astarion murmured, his voice softer than the dawn itself.
But they both knew it was more than just shelves he was offering. He had already given Gale everything else—his trust, his heart, his carefully constructed defenses, all dismantled by this impossible mortal who had somehow made immortality feel like a gift rather than a curse.
In the stillness of their chambers, with Gale’s heartbeat steady beneath his palm and the sunrise casting them in forgiving light, Astarion allowed himself to love—fully, without reservation. For once, the dawn felt like a promise rather than a thief.
And in its fragile glow, he dared to believe in forever.