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The battle had been awful, though they emerged victorious. It had ended as brilliantly as it had started. Gale had heard the screech of Therin’s flute, echoing notes ringing out along the battlefield, and felt the familiar curl of his bardic inspiration sharpening his mind and aim. Aided by the bard, Gale used the very last bit of magic he could muster to send a dazzling fireball towards Myrkul. Concurrently, Therin had summoned a glyph of warding underneath the God’s very feet. The pair, along with their companions, had slayed the beast—and Myrkul exploded in a dash of green flames.
They did it together. The idea of them together was still so novel. Together, they were stronger—together they fought better than either one alone. Therin equally versed in magic as he was in bows and rapiers—able to sweep an enemy off their feet as Gale delivered the final blow in the form of a firebolt, or whatever spell felt most appropriate. They moved together as one, covering each other where one was vulnerable. Together, they were nigh unstoppable.
Gale had caught Therin’s eye on the battlefield, equal parts relief, disgust, and pure exhaustion. Ketheric Thorm returned to his human form and subsequently burned, allowing Therin to pry the Nether stone free from the centre of his armour.
In the end, the party was left spent, all but drenched in blood from the day’s fight. Each had had a close brush with death, even with Dame Aylin on their side. Gale had a strange… ooze in his hair, the nature of which he hardly wanted to find out. The group emerged from the basements of Moonrise to be greeted by the remainder of their companions, and the Harpers that had aided them in their battle. Even amongst the stench of death and tentative victory, Jaheira suggested a celebration at the Last Light Inn. To ready the soul for greater battles ahead, she had said, pulling the bard into a one-armed hug.
And so, they went. Therin was immediately pulled into the joyful crowd of tieflings and Harpers, gleeful at their encouraging shouts to play a tune. The bard was incapable of disappointing a crowd—so he’d pulled out his flute, joining Alfira in an exciting rendition of some ancient victory tune. Gale had partaken in the festivities, yet exhaustion loomed in his mind—every muscle in his body ached from the exertion of their attack on the Absolute. He slipped away, believing himself to be unnoticed, heading towards the room that had been graciously reserved for him, sandwiched in between Karlach and Astarion.
He was stripping off his robes, taking note of the blood staining its shimmering red and orange hues, when he heard a knock on his door.
“Who is it?”
“An incredibly weary bard, hoping to find solace in his wayward lover,” even after the day they’d had, somehow Therin had the energy to jest. Gale chuckled, selfishly wishing he could bottle that spark—capture the endless vigour in Therin’s eyes and squirrel it away for darker days, all to himself.
“Well, come in then—there’s plenty of solace here for the both of us.”
The doorknob turned, and Therin was before him. Coated in grime, blood, armour still on with a thin layer of gore atop—circles under his eyes, and a darkening bruise along his cheekbone. But Therin all the same. The elf smiled as if he’d found a well in the dessert, beaming at Gale with the joy of a thousand suns. Underneath his cheerful appearance, Gale could see the exhaustion tugging at the elf—a tiredness in his eyes that always lingered, at least since they’d started adventuring.
“We really did it, didn’t we?”
“We did. Though I suspect the worst is yet to come.”
“Yes. But we were brilliant. You were brilliant.”
“Come here, love, let’s get you out of that armour,” Gale huffed a laugh at the compliment, cheeks warming, bashful as ever. He was already moving forward, fingers deft with the familiar clasps and buckles, “this room is already filthy enough as it is.”
A chest plate came off, greaves and gauntlets. Gale eased the pauldron off Therin’s shoulders, movements almost reverent. Piece by piece, he unmade the bard, removing armour, blood-crusted shirt, until only the elf underneath remained. Soft skin and calloused fingers, scars old and new, eyes holding a storm and stillness all at once. “Isn’t that better?”
“You’re always taking care of me, Gale,” Therin’s voice was filled with an immeasurable affection as he gazed upon his wizard, “let me take care of you.”
“I’m quite alright, dear. I just need some rest—though I suspect my weary bones may protest come morning. A day of hurling fireballs at gods does take its toll, even for a wizard of my considerable talents,” he responded, offering a tired, fond smile. Therin’s presence was a balm to any exertion, his eloquence returning to him despite the trials of… well, their entire adventure. “But fear not. A few hours of repose, and I shall return to my usual, scintillating self. Until then… do try not to burn down the inn.”
Therin gave him a look, eyebrow quirking at the sight of the mysterious ooze in his hair, the layer of dirt that seemed to coat the man’s skin, “you, my love, are in desperate need of a nice, hot bath. I can get one ready for you—.”
“Nonsense, Therin—the time it would take to heat the water alone—.”
“As if I’ve never cast a water spell?”
“I’m not questioning your abilities, love—you must be well out of energy to cast any more spells today,” Gale’s own voice was filled with concern.
The bard smiled at him, all mischief and tenderness at the same time. He busied himself at the wooden tub—little more than a sawed-off ale barrel—that sat beneath the window of their small room. With a murmur, a few notes played on his flute, it promptly filled with water—another jig, and the water heated to a perfect temperature. With a flourish, the candles scattered around the room came to life, the larger torches extinguishing. The room was bathed in a gentle glow, alongside the flames crackling in the fireplace—Therin hung a fraying towel at the hearth, letting the fabric imbue with heat. Gale watched the show intently, warmth unfurling in his chest like honey dissolving in tea—the kind of comfort that had little to do with magic, and everything to do with the elf humming to himself as he worked. The ache in his bones softened—not at the luxurious prospect of hot water, but at the way Therin’s brow was furrowed in concentration. As if tending to Gale was a ritual worth perfecting.
The wizard had written entire treatises on the Weave and it’s uses, had experimented with nearly everything the Weave had to offer himself—yet, he’d never observed magic like this. Magic like Therin’s. Less spellcraft than… coming home.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared about him so insistently. A part of him felt guilty—like he should’ve protested more, insisted the elf lay his own weary head for the night. Yet, selfishly, he was starved for the attention, the comfort—every bone in his body felt grateful for the act of giving in.
With a final wave, Therin appeared to be satisfied with his work, a delicate aroma of mint now emanating from the bath. He turned to face Gale, evidently proud of himself, gesturing at the tub. “Now get out of those filthy underclothes and get in here, Mr. Dekarios—that is an order,” he spoke with fake authority, beaming still at his love. Gale had little mind to object, doing as he was told, clambering into the makeshift tub.
“It’s a far cry from the baths you probably have in Waterdeep—but it’ll do,” he said, settling behind Gale’s head, thighs resting on either side of the bath. Therin readied another basin of water, keeping a pitcher close at hand.
“Waterdeep’s marble pools pale in comparison,” Gale murmured, eyes sliding shut as his aching body relaxed. “They lack the most important ingredient: your particular magic—both the literal sort that heats the water, and the far more dangerous kind that warms…” his hand rose weakly from the water, spreading a palm across his chest, “everything.”
Therin made a contented noise, blushing in turn. “Tip your head back, love,” he whispered, already using his hands to guide the motion. With the small pitcher, he poured warm water over the wizard’s curls, the surface-level grime loosening, muddying the liquid. A practiced hand guided the water out of his eyes, before rubbing soap onto his scalp. Gale could’ve made a dozen remarks about the scarcity of soap during their party’s adventures—yet when Therin began to gently scrub at his roots, all he could do was moan.
Gale felt calloused fingertips begin to work through his hair, lathering away the worst of the battle—the crusted blood, sweat, and shadow-cursed dirt that had matted itself in his hair. “Gods, Gale, what is that?” Therin muttered, as he found the aforementioned ooze, washing it away with a slight look of disgust, “did you roll in an intellect devourer?”
“At this point, it truly could be anything,” he mumbled back, eyes fluttering shut again as Therin poured more warm water over him, washing out the remnants of the mystifying material. The bard’s fingers trailed downward from Gale’s scalp, to carefully work through the longer strands at his nape. His hair was tangled, matted in areas—they hadn’t had access to so much as a puddle for the two tendays they’d been in these cursed Shadowlands. Therin slowed his movements, using water and soap to slick the strands before methodically separating each knot. Practiced fingers gently pried apart his locks, taking great care not to pull at his scalp.
The bard began to hum as he fell into the flow of his work, some bawdy tune that Gale recognized from the taverns of Waterdeep—though softened now, slowed, like a lullaby. The wizard may have teased him for it—really, this is what you would choose to serenade me with?—but the words dissolved yet again as Therin’s fingertips brushed against his nape. Hands carded through the long strands, now clean, smelling faintly of the same mint Therin had somehow infused the water with.
Therin’s fingers drifted lower still, cupping Gale’s jaw. “You’ve got enough filth in your beard to cultivate a new ecosystem,” he quipped, relishing the airy chuckle he evoked from the wizard. “Tip your chin up, love, I’m not going to half-arse this,” the elf’s hands were already guiding his chin back, fingers splayed across his throat.
Lathering his hands, he began to scrub slow, small circles into the coarse hairs of the man’s beard. He paid special attention to the hollows of Gale’s jaw, where he could feel his pulse thrumming under his skin. Gale’s breath hitched, which Therin graciously pretended not to notice. The bard’s touch was maddeningly thorough—callouses catching on stubble, fingertips lingering at the corners of his lips, nose, with all the precision of a healer and the grace of a musician. Cupped palms poured water, washing suds away.
Therin’s touch moved to the knot at the base of the wizard’s neck, clever fingers digging in firmly—enough pressure to soothe, to mend, the sore muscles underneath. They moved to tense shoulders, splayed with freckles like constellations across his pale skin, as if tracing a map that only Therin could read. Gale exhaled slowly through his noise, a veritable whimper emanating from his chest, as Therin’s thumbs pressed deep into the tight muscles across the cord of his spine. The bard’s touch was unrelenting, yet careful—no sore muscle was left un-massaged, tense knots letting go.
“There we go, love,” Therin whispered, leaning forward to press a kiss against Gale’s damp temple, hands still on the wizard’s shoulders, grounding him. “I’m sure that feels better.”
“Gods, yes,” Gale moaned against the elf’s thigh. He slumped backward, the crown of his head coming to rest against Therin’s belly, leaving a wet spot on his skin. The last of the tension seeped from his muscles, leaving him pliant and heavy in the bard’s arms. He opened his eyes, gazing upwards at the elf—Therin smiled back down at him, pulling a towel from the hearth. He began to dry the wizard’s locks—pressing the fabric down on his scalp, wrapping long strands and gently wringing them out. Then, he took up a small comb, and began to card through his hair, unravelling the few knots that remained.
“All done,” Therin whispered, as if he’d performed some sacred rite, rather than simply washing a tired wizard’s hair. His fingers lingered at Gale's temples, tucking the last few strands behind his ear with a tenderness that revealed a quieter, rarer side of him—the caretaker within him that opposed the confident, raucous bard.
Gale leaned into the touch, eyes slipping shut again. “Mm, I feel like a new man,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion, “or at least, a less filthy one.”
Therin huffed a laugh, but his hands were careful as they guided Gale upright, out of the bath, coming to meet face-to-face where the wizard stood. Arms wrapped him in the same towel, steadying him. He felt Therin’s lips press against his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, as he hugged Gale. The man caught the elf’s lips with his own, pulling him into a chaste kiss. He could feel Therin relaxing underneath him, his turn to draw comfort from the man before him. “C’mon love—bed’s calling,” the elf’s voice was low, arm slipping against his waist as they stumbled towards the waiting cot. Though small, it felt luxurious compared to the cold ground and bedrolls they’d been calling home for the past tenday.
As soon as Gale’s body hit the mattress, he felt sleep calling. Therin pulled a blanket over his shoulders, tucking the wizard in. The bard turned to leave, begin his own ministrations for the night in a barn attic he’d been promised, but was stopped by a hand on his wrist. “Wait,” Gale mumbled into his pillow, “stay?”
Therin smiled, secretly relieved at the request. Gale just looked so… comfortable—he desperately wished to partake in his relief, perhaps add to it, should he be allowed. His now-clean hair was growing fluffy as it dried, curling attractively behind his ears. He looked positively regal to Therin—more suited to an academy or a ballroom than the dirty, dangerous trails they’d been traversing.
The elf slipped in bed beside him, its narrow width forcing him to cuddle up right next to the wizard, though neither minded. Therin curled against Gale’s back, an arm wrapping around his midsection, pulling him closer until the pair was flush against each other. He pressed a kiss to his nape, earning a contented sigh from the wizard.
Soon enough, they’d both drifted off, collective dreams filled with small comforts.