Chapter Text
"For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love."
— Carl Sagan, Contact
Astarion had built a small new campfire.
By now, the fire was almost entirely spent, leaving only a few pieces of charcoal glowing with a dark-red, rhythmic light deep beneath the embers. He sat with his arms wrapped around his knees and his chin resting upon them. The moonlight dyed his silver hair a cool blue, swaying gently whenever the breeze brushed past. He looked nothing like the tyrant destined to become the Sun King in the future.
Gale watched him from afar for a moment. He stood on the border where the firelight met the moonlight, making no deliberate effort to conceal himself. A vampire spawn's senses were hardly keen enough to miss a living man clad in a deep blue robe.
He walked over, deliberately letting his footsteps fall heavily.
Astarion did not raise his head. Yet near his foot, his hand had already rested upon the hilt of his dagger at some point.
"The fire has gone out." Gale stopped about three paces away.
"Your powers of observation do absolute justice to the wizzard brain of yours." Astarion's tone was as dry as desert stone. "A glaringly obvious physical phenomenon, captured by you with exquisite precision. What's next? Are you going to inform me that water is wet, goblins are ugly, and our little troupe's chances of seeing tomorrow are astronomically low?"
"I could help you reignite it."
"So you can sit right here and continue chatting about pointless drivel, pretending everything is perfectly normal tonight?"
Astarion finally raised his head, his red eyes gleaming with a cold sheen under the moonlight. The corner of his mouth twitched into a sneer—a habitual armor to keep others at arm's length.
"Save it. I've no appetite for human goodwill tonight. In fact, I've never had an appetite for it. You people love playing the hero: you saved the day, you had your grand celebration. Splendid. Just don't expect me to join the choir."
"You didn't care for the people we saved."
Astarion let out a short huff, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Care? Was I the one who insisted on blocking a goblin army at the front gate? Was I the one packing bags for those tiefling refugees? Was I making impassioned speeches in the council to persuade that Kagha woman not to seal the Grove? None of the above. I stood in the back rank shooting arrows because it was the spot least likely to get me hacked to pieces." The tapping of his fingers on his knee ceased. "I'm no hero. I helped you fight because you lot happened to be my best meat shield at the moment. If the goblins had won, I'd be just as dead."
Gale did not dispute Astarion grouping himself together with the goblins. He sat down on another stone beside him. The rock was chilled; even through his robes, he could feel the damp cold of the night dew soaking in.
Silence lingered for dozens of seconds.
"You came looking for me this afternoon," Astarion spoke, seemingly forcing a topic. "What did you want to talk about?"
Gale had no recollection whatsoever of attempting to speak with Astarion that afternoon during the victory feast. "This afternoon was this afternoon. Now is now."
"Ha." Astarion let out another brief, humorless puff of air. "Beating around the bush. Hearing a wizard dance around a point—how refreshing."
Gale ignored the sarcasm. "Who are you waiting for?"
Astarion finally turned his head. His gaze lingered on Gale's face for a moment before shifting away.
"I thought it was obvious."
"Tav."
"It seems I don't need to enlighten you, then."
"She isn't coming tonight," Gale said.
Astarion's fingers froze for a fraction of a second—so brief that anyone not paying close attention would have missed it entirely. Then, he resumed tapping his knee at the exact same rhythm.
"Did she send you as her messenger? Or did you decide to meddle all on your own?"
"I decided on my own." Both statements held truth, but Gale chose the latter. "She told me she had other matters to attend to tonight. With Shadowheart. Their conversation might last until dawn."
Astarion did not answer right away. He tilted his head, inspecting Gale as if examining a newly discovered species, filled with a perplexity that practically asked, Why are you getting yourself into this? The corners of his mouth didn't curl up, but the muscles around his eyes relaxed ever so slightly.
"So, you're here for a chat, then?"
"No." Gale pulled his outer robe tighter; the night wind was chillier than expected. "I simply thought sitting here alone wasn't a particularly good way to pass the time."
"You see," Astarion's voice carried a deliberate contempt, "I know how you lot operate. You need a shared conviction; you invent pretty little phrases like ‘helping each other.' You need a leader. Tav. The grand, benevolent, omnipotent Tav. She has time for every single person who needs help. You and that insatiable thing in your chest, Halsin, Wyll, that Githyanki warrior, even that Shar worshipper who glares at everyone—she's willing to spend an entire night chatting with her. How touching."
"She helps you too," Gale pointed out. "And it seems to me you are observing everyone. I thought you only cared about yourself."
Astarion raised his chin slightly. "Observation is a hunter's basic instinct. You should understand that better than I do—after all, you crouch among piles of books all day observing moldy parchment."
"And what have you observed?"
Astarion looked toward the woods, but she wasn't there—Tav and Shadowheart were already sitting in some corner far away from the crowd, beyond the reach of both the embers' glow and the moonlight. They were in the darkest shade, talking about things whose content Astarion knew nothing about.
"I observed—" he finally began, "that she was supposed to come to me."
Gale said nothing.
Tav had come to find him the day before the portal was prepared; believing those were their final moments, they had spent a great deal of time reminiscing.
"Do you know why Astarion approached me in the beginning?" Tav had said back then. "He thought I was a soft-hearted fool. He planned to wrap me around his finger, then turn me into his willing shield."
Astarion's past dictated that his understanding of human relationships would forever revolve around exploitation and patronage. He was all too experienced in such matters. Over two hundred years, he had done it countless times in tavern back alleys, noble banquets, and underground gambling dens. Approach, smile, whisper sweet somethings in their ears—make them feel special. Once the mark took the bait, he had a patron, a source of blood, and a temporary wall to block Cazador. Tav was the prime target: soft-hearted, kind to everyone, and holding the most sway in the party. Winning her over was equivalent to securing a protective umbrella over the entire camp.
He had assumed Tav was kind, and kind people were easily manipulated. In the old timeline, Tav had indeed fallen into that rhythm. But now, Tav had gone to Shadowheart—the Shar worshipper who despised social gatherings—instead of coming to him, the handsome elf who had repeatedly dropped subtle, flirtatious hints. It upended his entire worldview.
"What? What are you thinking?" Astarion's voice snapped suddenly, laced with suspicion and a hint of poorly concealed unease. "Don't fool me. The corner of your mouth is twitching."
Gale realized the corner of his mouth had involuntarily curved upward; he found the method he was about to use to approach Astarion rather amusing. He hadn't known before that Astarion was secretly observing everyone, viewing them all as rivals competing for Tav's attention. Beneath his irritability lay a far deeper layer of panic: if even the foolishly kind Tav wouldn't take his bait, what good were his tricks anymore?
"I just thought of something," Gale smoothed his expression.
"What?"
"I was rejected by her too. Tonight. Didn't you notice?"
Astarion blinked. This piece of information clearly fell outside his predictions. He leaned against the rock, tilting his head slightly like a cat re-evaluating a piece of prey before it.
"I asked if we could speak in private. She said she already had plans tonight. With Shadowheart." Gale spread his hands. "So, yes. I am just like you—a poor, rejected soul."
Astarion stared at him. The icy defense in those red eyes cracked briefly, revealing a complex, fleeting flicker of confusion beneath. Then he averted his gaze, chin lifted slightly, resuming his customary playful banter.
"So you came to me. Because you were alone too. Not because there's anything special about me."
"Perhaps there is."
Astarion's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. "Look, Gale," he spread his hands. "I'm not some damsel waiting to be saved. Nor do I need a wizard from Waterdeep telling me how to live my life. I've lived two hundred years—longer than your great-grandfather."
"I was merely thinking, since we are both poor, rejected souls," Gale stood up, brushing the dirt off his robes, "we might as well find a quiet place. We... could admire the stars."
Astarion looked at him, his expression intensely strange, brows knit tight.
"Admire the stars," Gale repeated, trying not to sound like a druid. It was an idea he had come up with on the fly. He gestured toward the modest cliff just beyond the edge of the grove. During the day, one could see the entire Sword Coast coastline from there; the thin silver moon hung right above it, illuminating the rocks on the cliff's peak like the spine of some ancient beast.
"The sky is very clear tonight. Once we pass the mountain pass, we won't have many days to camp in such an open space. The Shadow-Cursed Lands won't leave us much room to stargaze."
Astarion sized him up from head to toe, as if determining whether this proposition held a hidden trap. Then he stood up and slid his dagger back into its leather hip sheath.
"Fine. Stargazing." He enunciated the word stargazing so lightly, as though saying it out loud might infect him with a disease. "If you plan on executing any fancy magic, do give me advance notice. I have no patience for sudden auroras or talking constellations. The last time I looked at stars with a wizard, the bastard tried to steal my coinpurse when I wasn't looking."
"I have no need to steal coinpurses."
"That's because you have nowhere worth spending money. You've worn that robe for at least five years."
"Six years," Gale corrected.
Astarion let out a short scoff and walked past Gale, his shoulder almost brushing Gale's arm, though not quite touching. He took the lead, keeping a modest stride—fast enough that Gale didn't need to jog, but showing no intention of waiting, either.
The cliff was not high, roughly thirty feet, extending from the eastern side of the grove toward the coast—a natural observation deck sculpted by wind and spray. The stone at the top was flat, spacious enough for three people to lie down. A few low shrubs grew at the edge, rustling in the night breeze. Goblins' arrows had been stuck in the rock crevices during the daytime, but they had now been cleared away, leaving only a few shallow scratches.
The sea lay not far below the cliff. The sound of waves crashing against the reefs traveled up through the veil of night, sounding like a deep, continuous respiration. The wind blew from the southwest, carrying a salty tang mixed with the faint sweetness of unknown wild flowers.
Astarion reached the top first. He picked the flattest spot and stood still. Gale walked up beside him, smoothed the hem of his robe, and sat straight down, legs extended, hands propped behind him as he looked up.
Astarion did not sit. His outline against the moonlight formed a slender silhouette; his silver hair blew back in the wind, like fibers glowing faintly in the dark.
"Aren't you going to sit?" Gale asked.
"I'm judging the wind direction."
"Wind direction?"
"I need to be downwind. If you have any grand plans—say, casting a charm spell on me—I need to make sure I smell the casting beforehand. You always carry that ozone stench of residual Weave on you." He turned his head, a single eye peering over his shoulder. "Don't think I haven't noticed."
"That's the scent of the orb, as you well know," Gale patted his chest. "It's Mystra's punishment—or rather, a warning. It leaks magic. I will always carry that scent, just as you carry the scent of blood."
"You carry the scent of blood on you too. Did you get hurt on the battlefield this afternoon? The smell of blood can never be hidden from me." He paused for a beat. "So if I sit next to you, I need to know you won't suddenly think I'm scheming something. I wasn't thinking about that."
Gale looked down at his left forearm, only now noticing a wrapped bandage peeking out from beneath his sleeve. He hadn't noticed it at all.
"Come sit down."
Astarion remained silent for a few seconds before slowly turning around and sitting down about an arm's length away from Gale. He did not lie back; he merely sat cross-legged, his knees almost brushing Gale's thigh, keeping his torso upright and hands on his knees, ready to spring up or draw his blade at any second.
This was already far better than Gale had anticipated.
They sat like that in silence. The waves continued to crash against the rocks below. Each sound of breaking water bounced off the cliff face, turning into muffled echoes. A nocturnal bird called out in the distance, then fell quiet. The moonlight painted the sea into a sheet of shattered silver; looking down from the cliff, the horizon dissolved into a silvery sea fog, leaving no clear boundary between sky and water.
Then Astarion uttered a sentence, extremely soft. Had one not listened carefully, it might have been mistaken for the wind: "I could see the stars in Baldur's Gate too."
Gale did not move. He did not even turn his head: "Where in Baldur's Gate can you see the stars?"
"The docks by Wyrm's Rock Crossing. The rooftops in the slums." Astarion tilted his head up. "Not with such clarity though. When you look at the stars in the city, they're small. Blurry. The Lower City burns low-grade coal everywhere at night. The air is terrible. You look up, and the first thing you see isn't stars—it's smoke."
He paused.
"The stars in Baldur's Gate weren't so bright. I don't know how to describe it."
Never before had there been a conversation like this between him and Astarion. On their journey, they had walked near one another countless times, chatting about matters unrelated to their quest. But Gale had never actively drawn near, nor had Astarion. They had spent months together around campfires, yet had never truly spoken like this. And right now, Astarion sat an arm's length away, knees nearly touching his, offering genuine thoughts on the stars.
"Are those your true feelings?" Gale asked softly. "About the stars."
"What do you mean?" A flicker of vigilance darted through Astarion's voice.
"You said the stars here are brighter. Are those your genuine thoughts, or do you think saying so will make me like you?"
Astarion's body stiffened imperceptibly. The elf's ears appeared almost translucent under the moonlight, lined with a fine rim of soft hair that Gale had never noticed before.
"You think I'm lying to you." He finally turned his head, red eyes flashing with anger.
"I think a part of it was your true feeling," Gale softened his tone. "The other part is simply your habit of trying to please people."
Astarion let out a sharp scoff.
"You are very sharp, Gale. Sharper than most, perhaps. Since you're so sharp, you should know I had no intention of using those tricks on you." Astarion's eyes widened, seemingly wounded by the implication. "Those are reserved for prey. You are not my prey. You are some... species I haven't defined yet."
"An undefined species," Gale repeated, finding the phrasing amusing. "A wizard? A human? Someone who happened to stargaze with you for reasons unknown?"
"The last one," Astarion added quickly. "Don't get ahead of yourself. That wasn't a compliment."
Gale didn't get ahead of himself. He shifted his gaze, looking up at the night sky above. The silver crescent moon hung overhead like a thread; its light remained crisp and bright, dampening the brilliance of the dimmer stars around it. But further out, closer to the horizon, the stars clustered densely like salt scattered across black velvet, every single grain crisp and sharp.
The Milky Way spanned from the northeast to the southwest like a frozen, glowing river. One could never see so many stars in Waterdeep—Waterdeep was too grand, its city lights too bright, and the domes of its wizard towers were perpetually casting detection beams into the sky. And it was even less possible in Baldur's Gate, regardless of whether there was an artificial sun.
He raised his right hand, fingers together, and traced a tiny arc in front of his chest. He recited no incantation; the spell was far too simple—a light spell with a slightly modified spectral range and a touch of fine-tuning derived from ancient elven star charts. He had taught it countless times at the academy, and every single time, it had made the eyes of young apprentices from the countryside light up with wonder.
The night sky suddenly grew much brighter.
The brightness of the stars was dialed up, every single one steadily intensifying in its original position, transforming from faint pinpricks into distinct light sources. The outline of the Milky Way became far more defined, spreading across the sky like a detailed celestial map. The starlight reflected on the sea brightened in tandem, the entire ocean looking as if it were soaked in liquid silver, every surge of the waves turning up a bed of shattered light.
Astarion snapped his head up, like a cat hearing a frequency imperceptible to human ears.
"What did you do?" He didn't reach for his dagger. His eyes looked even redder under the starlight. The delicate silver ring around the edge of his irises became prominent in the bright light—a remnant of his elven heritage.
"Just brightened the starlight a little. A very simple spell." Gale shifted his gaze from overhead to Astarion. "The stars are still the same stars, just made easier for you to see clearly. What do you think?"
Astarion didn't answer. He was staring at the sky. Or rather, he simply couldn't pull his eyes away from it for the moment.
The way Astarion looked up at the stars was unlike any image in Gale's memory. The Astarion of the old timeline was forever observing others, his brows knit in subtle calculation over the trajectory of the next sentence. His eyes rarely lingered on things without people attached to them. The night sky, the ocean, the campfire—these were merely backdrops, props used to flatter himself.
"What is it?" Sensing his gaze, Astarion turned to look at him, brows slightly furrowed. "Is there something on my face?"
"No."
"Then what are you staring at?"
"Nothing." Gale averted his eyes, looking back at the sky, hoping his words wouldn't sound overly sentimental. "I was just wondering... when you were in Baldur's Gate, did anyone ever watch the—"
"What are you doing?" Astarion interrupted him.
"I was only—"
Astarion cut him off again, turning his head so his red eyes stared straight into Gale's. "I asked you what you are doing. Tonight. All of this. You sitting next to me, bringing me out to see the stars, brightening the entire night sky—what are you doing? What are you trying to gain?"
"You think everyone does everything to gain something," Gale spread his hands. "I can't deny that's one way to view the world. But it isn't the only way. What I just did wasn't for anything. I simply wanted to look at the stars. With you."
Astarion glared at him. Glared for a long time. Then he suddenly laughed—a brief puff of air squeezed from his chest. Gale thought he would follow it up with a few theatrical bursts of laughter, but Astarion merely stared at him.
"You really are a very strange wizard."
Gale did not press further. He returned his attention to the night sky. After being magically enhanced, a few stars overhead began to show subtle flickers of light halos. The spell wasn't long-lasting; it would likely fade in a few minutes. He raised his hand to inject another wave of energy, widening the light spectrum a bit more. The starlight fragmented into denser specks of light, looking as if an entire sheet of velvet had been studded with tiny diamonds.
Right at that moment, he saw the aurora.
He hadn't conjured it; it was natural. It could occasionally be seen during this season in the northern reaches of the Sword Coast, but the sky tonight was exceptionally clear, and coupled with his magical enhancement of light sensitivity, that pale green band of light became extraordinarily vivid. It rose slowly from behind the horizon to the northwest, floating like a strip of transparent silk blown open by the wind, its edges shimmering with faint halos of pink and orange.
Astarion stood up.
He walked to the edge of the cliff, standing at the spot closest to the sea, looking up. The sea wind blew his silver hair backward; his hands hung at his sides, fingers slightly parted. He was watching the aurora.
Gale sat up cross-legged, resting his hands on his knees. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to shatter the moment; he simply sat on the rock at the top of the cliff, watching the back of the elf whose hair was ruffled by the sea breeze.
In the old timeline, Gale had seen Astarion standing atop the tallest tower in Baldur's Gate. Back then, he had been shrouded in thick, golden light, backed by the most powerful empire in the entire Sword Coast, appearing to possess everything—power, immortality, a sun that would never set. He never looked up at the sky, because he had erased the dark night along with the stars from the city's canopy.
"What kind of trick is this now?" Astarion asked, his back turned to him.
Gale stood up, walked over to his side, and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him at the edge of the cliff, leaving about two paces of distance between them.
"This one isn't my trick," he said. "The aurora is nature's trick. Solar winds colliding with charged particles in the upper atmosphere; the energy excites them to radiate visible light. To a wizard, the math behind it is quite tedious. But to the observer, it is beautiful."
Astarion didn't talk back. He continued watching the aurora.
"I didn't know you could do things like this. Brightening stars. Bringing up auroras." Astarion's tone drifted back toward the border of his customary levity, but his eyes hadn't strayed from the sky. "Is this how you usually pursue people? Back in Waterdeep, did you often bring female students up to the observatory, conjure a field of night sky, and say, ‘This is all prepared for you, my dear'?"
"The observatory was open to the entire academy," Gale explained. "And my ex-girlfriend was a goddess. Conjuring a starry sky for an ordinary girl would seem a bit over the top. As for tonight, it was entirely an impulse. Nothing planned."
"An impulse. You casually thought of turning the entire night sky into an ancient elven star chart on an impulse, then tell me it wasn't planned. Gale, is your lying usually this terrible, or does it only deteriorate under the moonlight?"
Silence persisted for a few seconds.
"No one has ever shown me this before," Astarion said softly.
The aurora in the northwest continued to slowly shift shapes, the green light gradually fading into an elusive dark emerald. The reflection on the sea surface looked as though it were being stirred by an invisible hand; the light bands fractured into countless floating highlights, rising and falling with the rhythm of the waves.
They spoke no further. The two stood at the edge of the cliff, watching the entire aurora from its rise to its gradual dissipation. The starlight returned to its normal brightness after his spell faded. Gale realized that even without magical enhancement, the night sky tonight was still brighter than most nights in his memory.
"There's an almost reverent slience that accompanies the peak of darkness, when you'd almost believe the dawn will never break." he couldn't help but utter. In the old timeline, dawn had indeed come—only that dawn was not a sun, but the Sun King. An artificial, golden, temperature-less sun that never set. Now, standing in a night from thirty years ago, there was no Sun King, no artificial light, only genuine stars and genuine sea breezes.
"You know," Astarion's voice sounded a bit distant after the aurora had completely vanished, "there is one thing about you that puzzles me deeply."
"What is it?"
"You don't ask. Most people in this situation would ask me dozens of questions—even Tav did. What did your m-master do to you? How did you become a spawn? Every question wrapped in the guise of care, but underneath it's all just information gathering."
"Do you want to talk about those things?" Gale could easily understand why his past self hadn't asked. At that time, carrying an orb in his chest that could detonate at any second, he had viewed himself as roughly equivalent in hazard level to a vampire who bit people's necks in the middle of the night. He had plenty of his own secrets he preferred not to disclose, so naturally, he hadn't pried.
"I don't," Astarion answered swiftly. "But usually, no one asks if I want to. They just ask outright. And then I have to answer with something, or I'd look terribly suspicious."
"I won't ask," Gale said. "Whatever you choose to tell me, I'll listen."
Astarion looked at him sideways, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Well then. Let me ask you one instead," Gale smiled softly. "Do you think the stars tonight were to your liking?"
Astarion stared at him for a moment.
"Yes," he said.
The sea wind blew gently; the stars shone bright. Astarion stood beside Gale for a very long time without saying another word. He simply watched. It was as if he wanted to memorize the position of every single star in this night sky.