I’d Burn Through the World - Chapter 1 - thisis_V (2024)

Chapter Text

An arrow sliced through the air, missing Gale’s head by a hair's breadth as he took cover behind a fragmented archway. He screwed his eyes shut and swore under his breath.

The entire affair had transpired into a veritable disaster, devoid of any semblance of their intended diplomacy. Their mission, initially crafted with hopes of persuading the goblin chieftains to redirect their attention away from the sacred druid grounds, swiftly spiralled out of control. Thanks to Astarion’s failed attempt at deception, compounded by his rude and unamusing commentary, they found themselves attacked by two dozen pissed-off goblins before they could even approach the camp's entrance.

In hindsight, the vampire’s original idea of sneaking in and systematically neutralising their adversaries might have yielded a more favourable result. But, quite frankly, even if they had tried, Gale had doubts that the shrubbery surrounding the camp could have concealed Karlach’s impressive stature or that his protesting knees could have withstood the rigours of such a clandestine operation.

Now, separated from Karlach and Shadowheart, with Astarion gods-know-where, Gale huddled in the dirt, deeply regretting all decisions that led him down this path. He prayed for a well-timed divine intervention, but judging by the general state of their recent fortune, the gods had long abandoned them.

His foot slipped, the soppy, muddy grass offering no purchase, and he slid to the floor with a squelching sound. The smell was all-encompassing and overwhelming. Rotting flesh and viscera —in various stages of decay— sprawled across the ground, forming a gruesome tapestry of death. Vomit and Mystra-knows-what-else coated every available surface, a grotesque aftermath of the goblins' putrid feast, rendering the ground slippery and difficult to navigate.

The situation was far from ideal. They had been at it for what felt like hours, and Gale could feel his grasp on magic ebbing slowly as he drained himself. Each spell became increasingly difficult to draw in, and they barely made a dent in the onslaught.

He instinctively reached out to the jewel in his ear, then aborted the movement, fingers curling into a fist instead. His nails bit into the skin of his palm. He tried to calm his breathing, focusing on the way the small indents of the cool stone wall pushed against the knobs of his spine behind him. He leaned into it until it was just shy of painful, anything to anchor himself as he tried to concentrate once again, carefully tugging at the webs of the Weave. Angry irritation welled in his chest as he sensed those strands escaping his grasp.

Just as the dark tendrils of panic began to infiltrate his nerves, a body slid beside him, narrowly avoiding collision. In a desperate bid for self-preservation, he moved to grab a rusty dagger lying discarded at his feet, only to halt as he discerned the familiar form of the vampire. Astarion swiftly slammed his back against the same structure Gale was using for cover, seeking refuge from the rain of arrows.

The elf's appearance mirrored Gale's wretched state perfectly. His face was drained of its usual allure; he seemed exhausted and fatigued. Sharp crimson eyes shadowed by bruise-tinted circles, cheekbones protruding, gave him a hollow and gaunt countenance.

Astarion’s fingers moved with practised ease as he quickly coated his next arrow in poison. He then reloaded the weathered crossbow he had scavenged from a carcass they had passed days earlier.

Another goblin arrow wedged into the ground right next to Gale’s right ankle, snapping him back to the present and prompting him to refocus.

“Are you simply going to sit there and watch, or do you intend to actually do something useful, wizard?" Astarion snapped at him, not even sparing him a glance.

Disregarding his words, Gale surveyed the elf, taking in his cadaverous appearance, "You look like death warmed over," Gale voiced without truly meaning to.

Astarion turned to him. “Why thank you,” he said, his eyes half-lidded, with a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth—entirely out of place given the circ*mstance. "And here I thought you were immune to my charm.”

"I..." Gale faltered, his eyebrows pinched as he tried and failed to decipher the expression on the elf's face. With a great portrayal of intelligence, he landed on a simple "What?” His usually refined vocabulary momentarily forgotten amidst the storm of arrows and the conversation veering wildly off-course before it even started.

Frustrated at how even when resembling someone who had just emerged from a freshly dug grave, Astarion still possessed something dark and rich that burrowed under Gale's skin like an unwelcome parasite, setting his nerves on edge.

"Aren’t you just the paragon of speech, Wizard of Waterdeep," Astarion deadpanned, his gaze constantly darting around in search of enemies. With each target he identified, his teeth sank into his lips in concentration, leaving faint impressions where his fangs pressed against the tender flesh. Only a subtle eye-roll, which Gale caught because he was glaring at the elf, hinted that Astarion was jesting at his expense.

A muscle in Gale’s jaw twitched.

"I understand this notion might be a tad unfamiliar to you, but I need to know how my companions are faring in the heat of battle,” Gale scolded, then pointed at Astarion. “Your aim is faltering, and your countenance... alarming. Care to elaborate before we all meet a gruesome demise?"

The elf’s smirk widened. “Oh, now you’re a marksman as well; how delightful! I do love a man of many talents,” Astarion retorted, voice lowering into a soft purr for his final remark.

Gale’s persistent frown deepened, and a headache born of sheer irritation began to pulse at the base of his skull.

“I have received some training in weaponry in my youth, but I wouldn’t call myself a marksman by any stretch of imagination,” Gale countered.

The elf shot him a withering look, held it for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the horizon with a slight shake of his head.

Astarion’s ability to dodge uncomfortable questions was nothing short of impressive. Gale found that engaging in a straightforward exchange with the elf often felt eerily similar to their current uphill battle against the goblin horde: swift and discomfiting. A verbal sparring match, so to speak, with Astarion pivoting toward cutting remarks and humiliation whenever he felt cornered. Some of their companions have dealt with it better, but Gale could never find the right words, the correct reactions to ensure their interactions remained on a track he was able to navigate.

He fancied himself a patient man, but Astarion had this uncanny knack for goading him into losing his temper and turning even the most casual conversation into a test of restraint. They were playing different games entirely, leaving Gale feeling off-kilter and unaware of the rules.

"I fail to see how any of this is your business," Astarion remarked eventually, a note of tension slipping into his voice. He manoeuvred around the wall quickly and took a shot at one of the guards standing on the rubble-strewn balconies. Missed.

Gale may not have been a healer or a cleric, but even to his untrained eye, he could see the slight tremor in Astarion's hands. The way he carried himself seemed as though his skin was an ill-fitting glove. Gale recognised the unmistakable signs of exhaustion, yet considering they had just enjoyed a decent night of respite, that couldn’t have been the sole explanation.

Oh.

His eyes widened as realisation hit all at once.

Well acquainted with the pangs of crippling hunger himself, he could recognise the fragility in his movements, the desperation in the eyes that he had so often seen reflected in his own mirror.

He was starving.

"Astarion, when was the last time you fed?" Gale blurted out, and the elf spun around, mouth ajar.

"What?!" Astarion spluttered, his fingers tightening their hold on his weapon as if Gale had broached some indecent subject. Then the expression was gone in a heartbeat, "Your profound concern for my well-being is truly heartwarming," Astarion quipped, his smile tight and failing to reach his eyes. He ducked just in time to avoid an axe hurtling their way as he peeked out from their scant cover. "But is this truly the time for such a riveting conversation?"

"When was the last time you fed?" Gale repeated with a little more conviction, allowing his impatience to seep through. "I need not remind you that it's imperative that I survive this encounter.” he pressed a palm to his chest, “Having exhausted the last vestiges of my power, I'm unable to fend for myself, let alone dispatch our adversaries. The instant my heart ceases to beat, you won't need to fret about the goblins any longer, I can assure you."

He glanced across the courtyard, seeing Shadowheart and Karlach surrounded by a tight ring of goblins. He watched as the tiefling lifted her enormous axe, poised to strike, but before the weapon could cleave through the foul creatures, a blow from a goblin wielding a club forced her to her knees.

He couldn’t risk their lives.

Astarion released an exasperated sigh of defeat, “The goblins have hunted the forest dry, and while our fellow companions are surprisingly understanding of my... condition, there's a distinct lack of volunteers for a blood offering.” He confessed, his index finger lightly tapping against the wooden tiller. “I’m just drained, trying to find an opportune moment to sink my teeth into these wretched creatures, but I’m unable to get into … biting distance," He admitted, then fished out a different vial of liquid and dipped his next arrow into it.

"Very well, so what is it that you need?" Gale's demeanour shifted. His mind promptly focused in pursuit of a solution.

A flicker of surprise crossed Astarion’s face. It was evident from his general attitude that teamwork wasn’t something he was particularly accustomed to or adept at, but neither was Gale, and these were desperate times.

"It’s doubtful I have the strength left to muster another spell. Karlach and Shadowheart are completely out of reach, and reluctantly, I must concede that you exhibit a greater chance of getting us out of here than I do presently," Gale explained after an extended moment of silence, gesturing in the direction of their occupied companions, but quickly retracted his hand as a firebolt scorched past them.

"Oh my," Astarion lowered the crossbow, clutching at his chest with his free hand, and let out a feigned gasp. "Are my pointy ears deceiving me, or are you offering a feast from the esteemed former Archmage of Waterdeep? How gracious," he mocked, a smug smile stretching onto his fatigued face.

"Gods…you are serious,” it wasn’t a question. “It could… make a difference, alter the course of this grim affair," Astarion said, briefly setting aside the usual animosity that made itself at home in his expression, for a whisper of genuine concern. "Are you certain?" His deep tone carried a subtle undercurrent of emotion that Gale stood no chance of understanding.

A quick, sidelong glance and a beat of silence followed. Gale realised he was being offered an escape route.

Gale's gaze drifted back to their allies once again. Karlach —her entire form ablaze with the fires of her rage— collapsed to the ground while Shadowheart, in the midst of casting restorative spells, struggled to sustain her for a few fleeting instants. They were in dire straits.

"Every passing second we spend chatting chips away at our chances of survival. Just proceed as necessary," Gale responded firmly.

The elf simply nodded, then placed the loaded crossbow on the ground. He carefully kept it away from the worst of the grime but still within easy reach, should they be interrupted. Gale's chest rose and fell rapidly as Astarion moved closer, swift and purposeful in his actions as always.

Surprisingly, Astarion didn't go for Gale’s neck as he half-expected. Instead, he gently guided Gale's hand, prying his fingers from his staff. Gale willingly complied, allowing the elf to roll up the sleeve of his robe and push the leather gauntlet out of the way, revealing the soft expanse of his wrist. Astarion maintained unbroken eye contact, a hint of uncertainty flickering in his gaze as he leaned forward, offering Gale another chance to reconsider.

Gale remained motionless, and Astarion raised his wrist to his mouth, his breath sending a shiver down Gale's spine jolting him from his anticipation-laden daze. According to Gale's rarely mistaken understanding, vampires typically lacked a biological need for air. However, before he could lend a voice to his intrusive thoughts, he felt the cool press of lips against sensitive skin followed by the sudden, sharp pain of teeth sinking into flesh, and Gale’s mind went blank.

He had to fight back the overwhelming urge to gasp . It had something tightening low in his gut. It’s been so long since someone had touched him that even in the middle of a battle, a vampire feeding on him sent confusing signals through his body.

The initial sting quickly dissipated, replaced by a chilling sensation as Astarion’s vampiric energy flowed into Gale, soothing the pain. The sound of the battle surrounding them dulled in his ears. The air was charged with unexpected intensity and teetered on the edge of an eerie but not unwelcome sense of tranquillity.

Gale leaned back against the stone wall, poised to draw a calming breath and steady his nerves. However, the bubble of serenity shattered when Astarion abruptly recoiled.

The elf’s hands flew to his lips, his mouth agape, an accusing scarlet glare fixed on Gale. "By the gods, what is wrong with you?" he sounded hysterical, and Gale might have found amusem*nt in the uncharacteristic flailing of his arms if instant worry hadn't flooded his mind.

Gale's brow knitted with confusion. "What do you mean?" His reawakening panic must have mirrored Astarion's as he frantically checked the wound on his arm, unable to find anything out of order.

Astarion, though somewhat recovered, still wore an expression of undiluted shock and disgust.

"Your blood tastes like the bile of the cave spiders. It’s revolting," the elf said, his gestures still exaggerated. Despite the circ*mstances, Gale found himself inexplicably offended.

“What in the Nine Hells are you pricks doing? We need help!” Karlach's irritation sliced through the chaos, clearly pissed off as she bellowed at them. Amidst a field of goblin carcasses, drenched in gore and dirt, she stood tall. Her recent bloodlust-induced frenzy just subsided, leaving her body wreathed in untamed flames. Gale couldn't help but take a fleeting moment to behold her wild beauty.

"Aaand there goes my cue," Astarion quipped. “I’m coming, Fire Girl!” he shouted, a light tone filling his voice seemingly out of nowhere. Despite barely having a mouthful of Gale's ‘revolting blood’, it seemed enough to spur him into action. With swift agility, the elf sprang into motion.

Gale had witnessed Astarion in combat in the past, noting his rapid arrow volleys and deft blade work in the chaos of battle. Yet, in that instance, as Gale watched Astarion seamlessly transform into a lethal predator before his very eyes, he was left utterly spellbound in every sense of the word.

The elf’s movements flowed seamlessly, the sinewy muscles of his thighs beneath the tight leather breeches shifting with each deadly manoeuvre. Astarion proved himself a formidable force, effortlessly dispatching three goblins with a single magical arrow. Whether it was the effect of the bite, exhaustion, or simply the first time Gale had actively observed the elf in combat, he was unable to tear his eyes away.

Gale had been grappling with the murky mist of recollection of the past few tendays. One moment, he stood on the threshold of his Tower in the heart of Waterdeep and next, he was falling.

The memories in between resembled a fever dream, where apparitions of otherworldly entities, the sinister presence of illithids, and the unsettling sight of squirming tadpoles danced upon the periphery of his consciousness to the thunderous rhythm of his own heartbeat. Then, there was the sensation of plummeting from a significant height — not an entirely novel experience for him. However, falling out of a nautiloid ship engulfed in flames right after those tentacled aberrations had forcibly implanted a tadpole through his ocular orifice and into the recesses of his brain presented an unprecedented predicament, even by his resilient standards.

In truth, Gale often ended up entangled in situations of rather unwise or unexpected nature, but this, admittedly, might have been the worst one yet. Well, perhaps not worse than the orb fiasco with the threat of explosion firmly tethered inside his chest, but undeniably a close contender for second place. He made a mental note to stop accumulating magical anomalies with a predisposition to swiftly end not only his own existence but also the lives of those within a considerable radius.

In the midst of hurtling towards the ground, however, musings on explosions and tadpoles had to take a backseat to the threat at hand—namely, gravity.

As Gale tumbled earthward, he caught a slight glimmer on the side of a hill. Landing safely was one thing; he needed a plan to shield himself from the impending crash of the ship tailing him.

So, he did the only thing he could think of. Mid-descent, Gale reached out, seeking a bridge to the Weave, to Mystra. Silently pleading for permission, he attempted to interlink whatever access he still maintained with the Weave to connect with the glinting travel portal in the distance. Guided by instinct rather than conscious volition, he wove the incantation in a hopeless attempt to forge the link.

Energy surrounded him, force pulsating around his body. For a breath, it was bliss—the scent of rosewater, a tender warmth enveloping his being, reminiscent of bygone times. He could just about feel her skin under his fingertips. But then darkness crept into his mind, and a struggle ensued. He didn’t stand a chance against the foreign energy, and the orb began rapidly devouring the magic he conjured, siphoning it away along with the remnants of distant memories.

Undeterred, Gale remained steadfast in his focus on the elusive target, even as he became entangled, dragged inexorably into the swirling vortex of magic.

It worked. Sort of. Gale was still alive, as far as he could tell, but he was trapped. The connection he forged with the portal was hasty, rushed, and incomplete. A sloppy job at best, rendering him a prisoner of sorts, incapable of manipulating the energies that ensnared him.

The sensation of being completely drained of magic, a feeling both foreign and unsettling, pushed him to the edge. Cold fear washed over him as he continuously reached out to the unresponsive tangle of webs.

Gale's connection to the Weave was always peculiar; he had mastered the Art as naturally as acquiring speech or perfecting one's first steps. Manipulating the webs had been as natural to him as drawing breath, and until recent events, he hadn't realised how much he relied on this connection. Ever since his major blunder with Mystra, since the volatile orb made itself at home in his chest, his bond with her had been severely corrupted and his access to the Weave compromised. What once felt like crafting delicate art now resembled fighting a battle with wooden swords riddled with splinters. What used to come naturally now demanded twice the energy and concentration, leaving him fatigued much sooner than ever before. What was once a dialogue had become a weary soliloquy.

Gale wondered if this was the typical experience of magic-wielding for others, for those less gifted, or if he was corrupted beyond repair.

This is how he found himself trapped in a portal, his impatience corroding his senses as he awaited the slow resurgence of his magic, battling against the looming dread of what if it never returned. The prospect of a life devoid of magic was unfathomable, yet his concern wasn't just for himself but for the catastrophic consequences a magic-starved orb could unleash, potentially claiming half of the Sword Coast with him.

The approaching murmur of voices forced his mind out of its rapidly darkening spiral. Though drawing nearer, the sound remained unintelligible—distorted, almost like distant speech from beneath the surface of water.

Then, he could sense someone interacting with the portal. A small rip suddenly appeared, and seizing upon the opportunity for escape, Gale thrust his hand through it with desperate urgency, but the opening proved too narrow for him to pass through.

"A hand, anyone?" he tried.

A sudden, sharp sting jolted through Gale's palm as someone on the other side delivered a harsh slap — which was, well, really f*cking rude.

"Perhaps. I should've clarified,” he said, trying to hold his impatience at bay. “A helping hand? Anyone?" He could feel the person on the other end reaching out to the portal's magic, and Gale sensed its grasp on him loosen.

"Whatever you're doing, it's working wonders! Now, a quick little pull should do the trick." the hand clasped his and pulled.

The sunlight poured down, harsh and unforgiving, causing his head to throb relentlessly. His knees trembled, weakened from disuse; then he keeled over. When he raised his eyes against the blinding backdrop of the midday sun, an elf stood there, silver hair arranged in artful curls haloed by the bright light. In a moment of fleeting delirium, Gale entertained the thought that a deity had descended to his aid.

However, as the initial disorienting haze subsided and his vision sharpened, he discerned that another figure, a woman, stood beside them — both strangely familiar. He clambered to his feet.

"Hello, I am Gale of Waterdeep."