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Karlach laid Therin, delirious from his injuries, down on Gale’s bedroll—on the insistence of the wizard himself, who followed closely behind, along with the party’s resident cleric, steeling herself for a night of difficult healing. The bard was battered and bruised, deep wounds in a number of places that made him groan every time he moved a single muscle. He shivered violently, barely able to keep himself warm in the desolation of the Shadowlands. Karlach’s hands fumbled as she removed his armour, coated with the deep crimson of both their enemies and himself. Therin had jumped in the way of a sword meant for Gale—a flourish of his rapier had thankfully ended the battle with Marcus, just before the bard fell to his knees in pain.
As soon as the elf was laid out on the bedroll, Gale began fussing over him—gathering up his warmest blankets, lifting his head gently (to which Therin hissed, as the motion pulled on a burn from an errant firebolt) to tuck the wizard’s fluffiest pillow underneath. Shadowheart knelt at the bard’s side, already casting her strongest healing spell. Karlach readied a canteen of water, and a morsel of the bard’s favourite cheese, should he feel up to it once he was healed, before retiring to her own tent, giving them some room in the wizard’s tent. The companions were silent as they carried out their ministrations around the leader of their little group. The remainder of their party tended to their own wounds around the fire, a worried tension in the air as they listened to Therin’s cries of pain.
When Gale was sufficiently satisfied with the cushioning surrounding his, the party’s, bard, he came to sit at his side. Therin’s face was contorted from his suffering, wounds painfully stitching themselves together with all the speed of a snail. They were grievous, indeed—his armour had just barely kept the man from spilling his guts all over the floor. He muttered feverishly, pleading quietly for Shadowheart to stop, for the pain to dissipate, for some modicum of relief, as sweat beaded on his brow from exertion.
The sight terrified Gale. Fear crept up his insides, froze in his blood, at the thought of what nearly occurred—had they gotten to camp a moment later, and the bard may have very well perished. He felt utterly powerless in the moment, unable to heal Therin, unable to stop Marcus and his winged horrors—he cursed himself for not paying more attention to his healing lessons. He would never forget the face that Therin made, the sound that escaped him, as he’d crumpled to the floor. The elf suddenly cried out in pain, causing Gale to jerk back in surprise. Shadowheart’s magic had reached the ugliest injury that decorated his torso—a deep puncture through his belly.
“Please, stop!” Therin begged hysterically, trying desperately to squirm away, chest heaving with the effort of his breath.
“Shadowheart, be careful! You’re hurting him!” Gale chastised, a little too loudly, concern bubbling away in his chest, about to boil over. The bard thrashed away from Shadowheart’s touch, teeth chattering, shoulders hunched over.
“Gods, Gale, I’m doing the best I can! Hold him still!” Shadowheart exclaimed with an annoyed tone, maintaining her concentration on the healing spell. Gale immediately jumped at the opportunity, barely registering the cleric’s frustration, shifting himself to sit at the elf’s head, pulling it into his lap. He began to comb his hands through Therin’s short hair—he brushed the sweat off his brow, rocked back and forth in an effort to soothe him. Tears ran down the sides of Therin’s face, only to be met with Gale’s thumb coarsely rubbing them away.
As if incepted by Mystra herself, Gale suddenly recalled a trick of his mother’s, when he was sick as a young lad and restless. He silently thanked whatever being helped bring the memory to the forefront of his mind, and encircled the elf’s face with his palms. Gale began to mutter the incantation, a faint glow of blue Weave beginning to emanate from his hands. The magic felt cool, soothing to the touch—a damp cloth along a fevered forehead, a river stone on sore feet. The wizard cradled Therin with the Weave itself, imploring the magic to quiet his agony. The effects were nearly instant—the bard’s face relaxed, breathing easing into a shallow rhythm, much preferred over his frantic hyperventilation. His body untensed, making it easier for the cleric to do her work.
“Shh, that’s it, love, just relax, you’re okay,” whispered Gale, concentrated on the spell as if his own life depended on it. He continued murmuring comforting words until Shadowheart drew away, spent from the sheer scale of the healing magic she’d had to use.
“Alright. I’ve done as much as I can, at least tonight. The rest of the healing will be up to him and whatever potions we have left,” the half-elf said, releasing the breath she’d been holding all the while, “he should be stable, though.” The deepest wounds had closed, mostly, and Gale was able to stop channeling the Weave without the bard crying out in pain. Therin had finally entered a trance, body spent from the exertion of the evening.
“Thank you, Shadowheart. Your healing skills are admirable and much appreciated as always. I’m, er—I’m sorry for earlier,” Gale replied sheepishly.
“It’s alright, wizard. What one won’t do for love,” she teased, a bemused expression on her face, though an edge of irritation remained in her voice. “Let him trance. Some rest will do him good.”
“Do you think that, perhaps, it would be apt for someone to keep watch over him? To ensure that he remains well overnight?”
“You don’t need an excuse to keep vigil over your lover, Gale,” ribbed the cleric, enjoying how the overconfident man blushed to the tips of his ears. “Just… ensure you rest as well.”
“I will, Shadowheart. Thank you.”
Gale took up his post at Therin’s bedside. He wetted a handkerchief, using it to gently rub away the blood spattered on what skin of his was exposed. The wizard silently thanked whatever Gods had been watching over them that night, keeping the bard alive.
Worry ate at Gale’s insides as he sat by the elf. He replayed the events of the day over and over again, from their arrival at the Last Light Inn, to the attempted kidnapping of Isobel, to the sight of the bard keeling over onto the wooden floor. Gale had immediately ran to his side, trying to apply pressure to the wound in vain, as the rest of their companions had gathered around to witness the commotion. He’d desperately shouted his name, imploring him to stay awake, though the bard was already disoriented from the blood loss, eyes fixing onto Gale, full of a raw, primal fear. Shadowheart had cast a healing spell as quickly as she could, quenching the flow of blood enough for him to be transported to more comfortable quarters—Gale had barely allowed Karlach to lay hands on the elf to take him back to their little camp, needing to be coaxed away by Jaheira, who assured him it was for the best.
Gale realized he’d never been so scared in his life. Not when Elminister had given him Mystra’s ultimatum. Not when he’d crashed on the Nautiloid. Not even when he’d become host to the orb in his chest, and Mystra cast him away without a second thought. The thought of losing the bard made him feel empty. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes as he contemplated the idea. Therin wasn’t supposed to suffer. He was like the morning light of the winter, filtering through the leaves of a forest, warming the earth—a great comfort, after a long, cold night. What if Gale never saw his smile again? Never experienced his gaze—the way Therin looked at him like he was… something to be admired—again? He’d grown reliant on these things, despite his better judgement, despite the gnawing urge to shove the elf away, sure he could find someone more deserving.
He felt useless. He cursed the Absolute, Marcus, anyone who’d ever put the elf in danger—himself. Gale had failed to keep Therin safe, their party’s leader having to come to his rescue yet again. And then he couldn’t even help him, beyond a simple pain-relieving trick of the Weave. All he wanted was for Therin to wake up, to assure him all these horrible thoughts were untrue, as Therin could always do—the briefest touch filling Gale with a resolve to live, if not only for him. He hated himself for that thought too. He wondered, briefly, if Therin ever felt the same, before dismissing the thought—the elf was far too confident to be so reliant on others. Or at least, Gale thought so. The wizard’s thoughts spiraled, and spiraled, and spiraled—a loathing, frustration at himself rising in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. The feeling was all too familiar, almost comfortable compared to the alternative.
He was far from the great wizard he wanted to be—more of a simple idiot, who could barely keep the man he loved alive and well. Love. He loved him. The realization washed over him, equal parts fear at the thought of Therin dying before he’d even had a chance to tell him, and a certain giddiness at the thought of having the chance to tell him.
Gale’s mind drifted to the verbal thrashing the elf had given him just a week ago, after Elminister had relayed Mystra’s demand of him, at the fact that Gale had even considered blowing himself an option for so much as a second. When he’d finally had enough of yelling, Therin had whispered, “look, Gale, I—I care about you a great deal. We will find another way. I’m not letting you explode at the behest of the Gods. Okay?” The look Therin had given him…
As he turned his gaze to the elf, the anger at himself boiling in his belly quelled. He deflated. Therin was still in trance, face peaceful despite the gore of the day. Before he could stop himself, he leaned over and pressed a kiss firmly to his cheek. “I love you, Therin,” he whispered into his ear, “more than you’ll ever know.”
Therin awoke slowly, groaning at the ache that permeated to his bones. His last dream still imprinted on his senses—the feeling of rough scratch of a beard against his own cheek, some sweet phrase on the tip of his tongue, though he could not remember what. He blinked his eyes open, adjusting to the dim lighting in the tent, which he quickly realized was Gale’s tent. That explained the profuse amounts of cushioning about him—his collection of blankets and pillows was far sparser than the wizard’s. He found the wizard quickly, sitting at his bedside—he stared out into the distance through the abode’s opening, mind a million miles away.
“Hey,” Therin said weakly, a small smile inevitably gracing his lips as he caught the man’s eye. Gale immediately beamed back at him, indescribable relief washing over him.
“Hey,” Gale replied, the release palpable in his voice, brushing an errant lock of hair out of the bard’s eyes. “How are you feeling, love? Do you want some water? A healing potion? Food? I could cook something for you if you’d like—.”
Therin’s insides warmed at the endearing nickname, at the wizard’s fretting, taking his hand in his to silence the man. “I’m alright. I think I’ve got all my limbs, so it could be worse, couldn’t it?”
The wizard gave an airy laugh, before his face fell, “I’m so sorry, Therin. I—I should’ve protected you. I should’ve protected myself so you wouldn’t have to take a sword for me. Gods, I was so terrified I’d lose you.” His voice was suddenly thick with unshed tears.
“Gale, there’s nothing to be sorry for—I’d take a fireball for you if it meant you’d make it out okay,” Therin propped himself up on his elbows, though the motion tugged on his wounds, to get a better look at the man, “if anything, I’m sorry for worrying you. I should’ve known better than to position myself like that—my teachers at the College would’ve had my head if they’d seen that.” Gale failed to see the mirth in the situation, feeling a pang of annoyance at his worries going unheard.
“Besides, are you alright? You look exhausted—have you gotten any sleep?” Therin’s voice was filled with concern so fond, so genuine, as if Gale were the one laid out on the bedroll, guts barely stitched back together.
Gale looked at the elf incredulously, “Therin, you nearly died.”
“But I didn’t! Let me fret over you,” Therin had a stubborn look in his eyes, daring Gale to challenge him further.
“Just let me take care of you for once, love,” Gale pleaded quietly, “I was worried half to death myself. I’m—I’m just glad you’re okay. Can you lay back down? Do you need anything?”
The fight left Therin at the wizard’s pleas. He took Gale in, taking stock of the dark circles etched under his eyes, the bruises and scrapes that had gone unhealed, all in favour of… worrying about him. Fearing for his life. In that moment, he understood the gravity of the situation—practically felt the tornado of emotions radiating off the man. Therin felt a pang of guilt at brushing his worries off. He settled back into the bedroll, silent permission for Gale to tend to him.
“Alright. I’m sorry,” he replied softly, feeling foolish, “I’m okay, I promise. Maybe a bit cold. Come rest with me?”
Gale gave him a small smile, moving from his seat next to the bedroll to lie down next to the elf. The two lay facing each other, the wizard bringing up a hand to cup Therin’s face, rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone. He held the elf as though he were precious, as though he could disappear in a moment’s notice. “I was so scared I’d lose you,” he whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere, Gale, I promise,” the bard whispered back, placing his arm around Gale’s chest, pulling him close. The wizard welcomed the touch, shifting to allow Therin to rest his head on his chest, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Therin relished the sound of Gale’s heartbeat, the warmth of the man holding him. The Shadowlands had been bereft of such creature comforts—and if Therin were being honest, the last decade before them. He squeezed Gale, hoping the touch would reassure the man he loved. He could feel the man relax beside him, his breath slow and deepen as sleep came inching closer in. Therin pulled a blanket over the two of them, in an effort to shield them from the worst of the shadow curse’s frigidness.
“I’ll follow wherever you go, anyway,” Gale murmured, eyes sliding shut—Therin wasn’t wrong, he was exhausted. Seeing Therin awake, breathing, talking, had caused the adrenaline to drain from his body, leaving only a deep fatigue in its place. The bard took the moment of closeness to steal a kiss, which Gale welcomed, savouring the feeling of the living elf’s breath against his beard—before settling in to drift off himself. Gale raised a hand briefly, creating a small gust of wind to blow the few remaining candles out, before wrapping Therin into a tight hug. He fell asleep quickly, the feeling of his companion’s body against his own balming his worried mind with relief.
“I love you, Gale,” breathed Therin, when he was assured that Gale had drifted off, tucking his soft brown hair behind his ear, “more than you’ll ever know.” Perhaps that was the loving phrase from his dream. He allowed a feeling of gratitude for the wizard to wash over him, the kindness with which he treated him. Therin didn’t know if such a sentiment would be reciprocated, however much the wizard cared for him. A small, fragile part of him worried about how he, a mere mortal, could possibly compare to Mystra as a lover. But he meant it all the same. He dismissed these thoughts for now, indulging in the feeling of Gale’s breath on his forehead, the fact that he had cared enough to worry so much, the way the man had begun to smell like home.
Therin quickly fell into a trance, tangled together with Gale in an intricate dance of lovers—sharing the warmth of each other’s touch.