Archive of Our Own

The wizard was a problem.

While certainly this group was still finding its footing together after a few weeks on the road—barely enough time for the nasty cut Shadowheart had sustained on her cheek in the nautiloid crash to finally heal—Ilaia was no stranger to diplomacy. She’d traveled with enough troupes and theater companies and, occasionally, circuses to be familiar with the dynamics: a pretentious blowhard here, an arrogant narcissist there, and nearly always a self-appointed leader with all the actual leadership skills of a turnip. She had begun slotting this lot into their roles within minutes of meeting each of them. Wyll, the people’s champion, desperate to prove himself and more than a little afraid of coming up short. Lae’zel, the zealot, the force of nature, the very tough nut to crack. Astarion, the charmer with a mile-wide bitchy streak and clearly no small amount of trauma in his past. Karlach, the…well, really just the gods-damned delight, to be honest. Nobody could resist Karlach, not even the man contractually bound to murder her.

Ilaia knew how to handle nearly all of them. It wasn’t complicated; just figure out what they want, decide how friendly to be, prove yourself useful in battle, provide some tunes of an evening as everyone licked their wounds and contemplated their tentacled doom. She had won most of them over by now—secretive Shadowheart had shared a bottle or two of wine with her, gleefully trash-talking their campmates, and even laconic Lae’zel had cracked something approaching a smile in her direction once or twice. Somehow, against all odds, Ilaia had found herself drifting into the leadership role. (She wasn’t at all comfortable with it, to be honest. Not a position a gangly, itinerant tiefling bard had ever really anticipated for herself.)

But then there was Gale.

Upon first meeting, when she’d yanked his flailing arm out of a malfunctioning portal, Ilaia had been a little bit charmed—relieved, even. Oh, good, she’d thought. Someone with manners and hygiene. He was handsome, and thankful for her assistance, and when he’d proposed tagging along, she’d agreed readily over Astarion’s protests. (If she had listened every time Astarion objected to adding a new campmate, the party would have consisted of herself and Astarion alone. Never mind that of everyone, only he had pulled a knife on her at first meeting.) It could be nice, having a wizard around. Someone to talk shop with, and to hurl the occasional fireball as needed.

She’d regretted it later the very same day. Gods above and fiends below, the man was just so full of himself. Every time he spoke, he made reference to what a gifted wizard he was and who he’d studied with and by the way, did everyone know he’d been romantically attached to Mystra (as in, that Mystra)? The self-aggrandizing was bad enough that Ilaia’s eyes had begun to hurt from the strain of rolling all the time. She knew it was a coping mechanism—the only people who constantly rambled about their own greatness were deeply, deeply insecure ones—but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with. Nor did she enjoy handing over valuable magical artefacts for him to—eat? Consume? Whatever it was he did, they were gone afterward, and Ilaia still mourned the pair of web-proof boots he’d guilted her into handing over during their first week as traveling companions.

Ilaia likely could have endured all this in silence, or something like it. Astarion had a tendency to walk beside her on their travels, and if nothing else, he could always be counted on for a clever little remark under his breath when Gale started in with his grandstanding. (One of the things Ilaia appreciated about her vampire friend: he was just catty enough to say aloud the things she often thought to herself.) Gale wasn’t even the most pretentious man she’d traveled with, not by a long shot. And he was, at least, an exceptionally talented wizard.

(If only she could convince him of that, so he’d stop blathering about it.)

No, the problem with Gale wasn’t his bragging, or his long-windedness, or his tendency to repeat the same stories. It was the way he constantly second-guessed and overexplained at her. If Ilaia used a spell in battle, he would find her as they rinsed the blood off their blades and babble at her about which famous wizard had developed it; how the theory of Dissonant Whispers was really tied closely to both Vicious Mockery and Phantasmal Killer; how if she enunciated a bit more clearly, she might get a more consistent rate of success. It went on, and on, and it was nearly always directed at Ilaia, and the infuriating part was that she knew all this shit already.

Well. Not all of it, truth be told. She knew the famous wizards, the Elminsters and Silverhands of the world, but could rarely connect them to their best-known spells. She had little patience for theory, and she was fine with that—she was a performer, first and foremost, and her interests lay in the practical and useful. As for her enunciation, it was crystal-clear. The pompous arse could learn a thing or two from her, she thought acidly. It wasn’t like he was landing every single spell he cast. (She took a petty, undignified pleasure in watching him try to throw cantrips in darkened locations; human eyes were so inadequate, even when attached to a wizard. Though the pleasure usually evaporated when the missed target decided to hurl one back.)

Compounding Gale’s wizard-splaining problem was the fact that Ilaia had come to rely on him, loath as she was to admit it. When it was time to leave camp for the day, and all her myriad companions inexplicably looked to her for their marching orders, more often than not Gale found himself on the docket. Annoyances aside, he was useful. He knew a dizzying array of spells, and learned more with a startling ease. He had a head for strategy—or at least a well-developed sense of self-preservation—and tended to stay up out of the fray without her having to remind him to do so. And he provided another important function, too.

“I say we kill it,” Astarion hissed into Ilaia’s ear.

“I agree,” Lae’zel growled into the other. “It looks helpless, but looks may be deceptive.”

“I’ll remind you both that we are speaking about a child,” Gale said. They looked at the defiant little goblin before them, standing over his parents’ corpses with bloodied boots and clenched fists. “Perhaps jumping straight to infanticide without so much as a conversation feels…a tad extreme.”

Around this ragged bunch of miscreants, Ilaia tended to feel like she was losing her mind. Was she soft? She hadn’t thought so, particularly, but the bloodlust most of them exhibited had begun to make her think otherwise. Wyll had been the exception, but in all honesty, he leaned toward the other extreme. It was all well and good that the “Blade of Frontiers” had taken an oath, or whatever, but they actually did have to survive here. Gale provided a refreshing middle ground—generally on the side of good, helpful, compassionate choices, but with just enough pragmatism to provide some moral flexibility where needed. Ilaia was afraid to leave him behind, lest her little collection of shoulder devils talk her into something she’d regret.

Sometimes, she thought Gale’s aggravating habits might be more inept flirting than anything else. By his own admission, he’d been in seclusion for a very long time; maybe he’d forgotten how to talk to women so thoroughly, this was what passed for a seduction attempt? He was good-looking, certainly. And surprisingly good- smelling, for a man who spent all his time traipsing around in the wilderness and wiping goblin blood off his robes. But if this was his way of trying to charm people, then, gods, Mystra must either have absolutely no standards—or their breakup had truly done a number on him.

And so she and Gale had bickered, argued, debated, sniped, and fought their way to the Shadow-Cursed Lands—where, of course, moods had soured and tempers had only flared higher. Things had improved a little once they’d stumbled upon the Last Light Inn, but it still wore on them all, the constant darkness and chill. Karlach, normally the happiest face in camp, became quiet and withdrawn; Astarion’s typically harmless jabs took on a decidedly below-the-belt edge. Lae’zel and Shadowheart stopped speaking at all, unless it was to comment on the task at hand, complain about each other, or criticize someone.

(Privately, Ilaia really hoped those two would throw in the towel and just fuck already. The sexual tension between them was the only thing thicker than the shadow that surrounded them. But that was none of her business.)

A week into their time in the shadows, they sat around the fire at camp, nursing cups of their dwindling wine supply and recovering from an exhausting day. They had infiltrated Moonrise Towers, and while Ilaia felt perfectly confident in her ability to keep up the True Soul ruse, she worried constantly about which one of her less charismatic companions would give the game away. Already, Wyll had been caught sneaking off to the dungeons to search for his father, and only an incredibly persuasive series of lies from Ilaia had kept him from being tossed in a cell himself.

“Gods, what a day,” Astarion groaned, stretching his long legs in front of him. (He drank from a goblet like the rest of them, and its contents certainly looked like red wine, but Ilaia doubted very much that grapes had ever entered the equation.) “I’m dead on my feet.”

“More so than usual?” Karlach quipped, prompting a laugh from Shadowheart and Wyll. Astarion threw a pillow at her, unbothered. She batted it away and it landed in the dirt, smoldering gently.

“Seconded,” Gale agreed, yawning. “Performing magic in this place takes twice the normal effort. I feel entirely depleted.”

Could it be? Were they all getting along, for the first time in the last week? It was hardly groundbreaking—just a bit of communal bitching—but she would take what she could get. Maybe she could even extend the olive branch to Gale. “It is exhausting, isn’t it,” she agreed, in a sympathetic tone. “I only cast a few spells today, but I could sleep for a week.”

The wizard—gods, she should have predicted it—gave a noncommittal hum, tipping his head. “Well, they’re not exactly comparable, our spells,” he said. “But I take your meaning.”

Ilaia knew: no good would come of starting an argument here. Gale was being affected by the shadow curse, as they all were. None of them were their best selves. The best course of action would be to ignore him and move on. She was their leader; she could set the example.

She said: “Why not? We’re both using magic.”

Whoops.

Gale looked embarrassed—why, Ilaia couldn’t put her finger on—and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “We are, of course. I certainly don’t mean to suggest your brand of magic is worthless, or anything of the sort. It’s just—it’s different, isn’t it? Evocation, that’s reaching into the Weave, shaping it to your vision, pulling it into the material plane. Bards’ magic, it’s—performative. It’s built on the same principles, but the skills required are entirely different, the casting is nowhere near the same—”

“Gale, we both start talking and enemies die,” Ilaia said irritably. “Wyll, Halsin, Shadowheart, back me up here.”

“Apologies, but there’s a little more to manipulating the Weave than talking,” Gale said, a definite edge to his tone now.

“Oh, of course,” Astarion chimed in. “There’s the hand movements, too.”

Ilaia couldn’t help it: she burst out laughing, while Astarion took a sip from his goblet and generally looked far too pleased with himself. She noticed a few other hastily cleared throats and little coughs around the fire as well, their companions disguising their laughter. Only Wyll and Lae’zel sat silent, apparently unamused or unwilling to show it. (Just as well: Ilaia, Astarion, and Karlach had a running bet on who could get Lae’zel to laugh first, and Astarion would be entirely insufferable if it went to him.)

Gale glared around at everyone, looking betrayed. “Right, then,” he snapped, “if you’ll excuse me.” He turned on his heel and stormed away from the fire.

“Gale, come on, it was just a joke,” Ilaia called, placating, but he ignored her. They stood silently for a moment, listening to his receding footsteps crunch through the gravel.

“Guess that one hit him in the soft parts,” Karlach commented, looking torn between amusement and guilt. “Shouldn’t be marching off like that, though, it’s not safe here.”

“I’ll go and fetch him,” Wyll said, rising halfway to his feet, but Ilaia waved him off.

“No, I’ll do it, see if I can’t unruffle some feathers. Back soon.”

He wasn’t hard to find; Ilaia was no master of stealth herself, but Gale was too honest to be sneaky and left footprints an elephant would envy. All the more reason for him not to storm off into the shadows, Ilaia thought. She found him sitting on a half-rotten crate, staring determinedly into the darkness and pretending not to notice her approach.

“Nice night for it,” she said, though it was absolutely anything but. The only misery lacking from their journey through the Shadow-Cursed Lands was a nice pissing drizzle. She perched beside him, not missing the way his posture tensed. “Glad you found a spot to stargaze.”

“By all means, amuse yourself,” Gale said irritably, still not looking at her.

“I am sorry for laughing at you.” The wizard’s shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly, though he didn’t turn. “It wasn’t the moment for a joke, when you were already in a state. What can I say, Astarion lacks my professionally-honed comedic timing.”

Gale heaved a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll admit he has a special talent for getting under my skin.” He paused, while Ilaia bit her lip and fought with all her might not to laugh. “Oh, gods. Not literally under it, fortunately for both of us. I doubt I taste very good.”

His slip acknowledged, Ilaia thought she could safely let out a little chuckle, and did. “What is it about him that bothers you so?” she asked, striving for gentleness. Many people disliked Astarion, but Gale was, for all his faults, an affable sort of fellow; she didn’t understand why he had become so bristly at the vampire’s jibes.

“Hm.” The piping along the edge of Gale’s robe was, apparently, deeply fascinating, given the attention he now lavished on it. “I suppose it’s. Well. It just seems so… easy for him. Speaking to people, charming them.” He did chance a look at her now, across his face. “Much the same way it is for you. I, myself, fret about what to say for a tenday, then say the wrong thing anyway.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Ilaia said.

Gale snorted. “As though I don’t put my foot in it nearly every time I speak to you.” He sat quietly for a moment; despite his assertions to the contrary, Ilaia had no idea what to say. “I spent so long locked away in my tower, thinking I would do anything to rejoin people again. Desperate to talk to anyone besides my tressym— not to say that Tara isn’t excellent company,” he added.

“I’m sure she is.”

“And now I’m among people,” Gale said, waving an arm back toward camp. “Some of them friends, even, if I haven’t entirely deluded myself. And yet…my words and I often find ourselves at cross purposes.”

Gale was being vulnerable. Gale was sharing his fears and worries. Ilaia knew she ought to be a friend, ought to reassure him, ought to let their earlier argument be water under the bridge. But her pride still stung, despite his current state of melancholy, and she couldn’t quite resist the opportunity to make her point. “So, if I’m hearing you correctly, you’re saying…that all this talking lark is more difficult than it looks, hm?”

He turned to look at her, saw the glint in her eye, and instantly his dejected look morphed into one of exasperation. “Really?” he exclaimed, flinging his arms wide. “This again? Why did you bury the hatchet if you were just going to immediately dig it right back up?”

“I apologized for laughing at you, not for disagreeing with you!”

Gale leapt to his feet. “So you came all the way out here just to continue arguing with me?”

“No! I came out here to keep you from being murdered by shadow creatures!”

“And to have the last word, apparently.”

Ilaia found herself on her feet, too, though she couldn’t recall having decided to stand. “I just don’t understand why it’s so bloody hard for you to admit that my magic is just as legitimate as your magic. What does it matter that I use a lyre to cast it, when goblins and gnolls are just as dead?”

“I never said it wasn’t legitimate,” Gale insisted. “I said that the more academic schools of magic—evocation, abjuration, what have you—have a rich tradition of study and innovation stretching back centuries, and while they may be less flashy than bard’s magic—”

“I am literally a performer, Gale! Flashy isn’t a bad thing!”

“—I think you’ll find the spells you cast are deeply rooted in the work of historical wizards and sorcerers, and would not exist today had they not first been discovered and shaped by extensive experimentation on behalf of—”

“Gods! Do you ever stop talking!”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from a bard,” Gale snapped, hands curling into fists. “Need I remind you that you literally talked three people to death this week? Three Thorms in the grave, without a sword nor staff lifted! I can't tell if you wove a spell on them, or they were simply desperate to stop your tireless tongue!”

“Thought a lot about my tongue, have you?” Ilaia said acidly, and to her great surprise, Gale flamed scarlet from his collar to the roots of his hair.

“That is—you are deliberately misrepresenting what I—mmph!”

She hadn’t known she was going to do it until her mouth was on Gale’s, her fingers in his hair. In the first moment she was surprised at herself, but then she thought clearly: well, that’s one way to shut him up. All that passion and frustration simply had nowhere else to go; it was either this or take a swing at him. She was equally surprised at how instantly and desperately Gale surged back against her, arms around her waist, lips parting without hesitation. He tasted—oh, gods, he tasted marvelous. Like wine and cinnamon, but like something else, too, something golden-bright and sparkling. Like magic itself, perhaps. His body was warm and solid against hers—a perfect body, she thought, strong muscle beneath a welcoming layer of softness from long hours in his library—and his hands sent delicious sparks zinging up her spine. She hoped he wasn’t actually setting her aflame, but she couldn’t be bothered to check.

It was all going very well until she found herself shoved away, five feet of sudden space between them. Gale’s chest heaved, his eyes wide and shocked, and she made a valiant effort not to let her gaze drift to the front of his trousers.

(She failed, miserably. If anyone questioned it, she could blame Volo’s blasted eye.)

“What are you—we cannot!” Gale insisted, though the flush of his skin begged to differ.

“Why not?” Ilaia asked. She ventured a step closer, but Gale matched it with a step back of his own, and she desisted.

“Why—we are talking about you and me,” Gale hissed, gesturing between them as though there might be someone else present. “I understand the fashion of the time tends toward more casual encounters, and not everyone feels love need enter the equation, but I cannot believe you would deign to share your body with someone you don’t even like!”

“I like you,” Ilaia protested.

“And furthermore, you—what?” Gale stared at her so hard, she wondered if she had grown a second head in the last thirty seconds. “You don’t!”

“I do!”

“You never,” Gale growled. He began a furious pacing, like a caged animal. “It’s not possible. You only open your mouth in my direction when you wish to argue.”

“Well, likewise,” Ilaia pointed out. “I thought it was a sort of—banter. Flirting, even. You know. The intellectual equivalent of pulling pigtails in primary school.”

“That is an absurd notion,” Gale said.

“You wouldn’t be the first—”

“If I were flirting with you,” he continued, “you would know it.”

Ilaia blinked, utterly wrong-footed. “So…you haven’t been, then.”

“I have not.”

“Oh.” She felt very foolish. But she hadn’t imagined the way he kissed back, the way his arms went around her. Had it been mere instinct, a natural reaction to a warm and willing body against his for the first time in years? “So that’s…hm. You’ve not…you aren’t, then. Interested. In me.”

“I did not say that,” Gale countered, his tone oddly strained.

“Gale, you are speaking in riddles. Stop being such a—a— wizard, and—”

“You are among the most vexing people I’ve ever encountered,” he interrupted, ticking items off on his fingers. “You could charm the scales off a basilisk, you befriend people everywhere we go, and yet you bicker with me on everything from the proper casting of Otto’s Irresistible Dance to the color of the sky. You are undoubtedly beautiful, but in exactly none of the ways I’ve ever considered to my taste; yet in your presence I cannot think what beauty I ever saw in anyone else. You have enough talent for story and song to take up comfortable residence in any city you could name, yet you spend your days courting danger and plucking strings for the benefit of half a dozen bedraggled misfits in the wilderness. And don’t blame the tadpole,” he insisted, as she opened her mouth to argue. “The search for a cure may have brought us all together, it’s true, but I know this life suits you. Can you truly say you would trade your road boots for bejeweled slippers, if the opportunity arose?”

“There are many things one can’t find in cities,” Ilaia said, quietly.

“Indeed. I spent nearly all my life in Waterdeep, and never found my heart’s desire until I left.”

“Heart’s—” Ilaia’s own heart pounded, unaccountably, against the inside of her ribs. “You cannot mean— me?”

“You see? You do think it absurd.”

“Only because—Gale—” She floundered, waving her hands as though she might snatch words out of the air. “You're hardly shy about what you want. If you wanted me, surely you would have said something!”

“If a man is starving, a single taste can only serve to worsen his hunger,” Gale said, turning his face away. “I did not flatter myself you would share so much as a night with me—which I concede, now, may have been in error—but even if I had, it could not possibly be enough. I wanted not only your body, but your brilliant mind, your courageous heart. I wanted all of you, or none at all.”

Ilaia took all the moments of their acquaintance, holding them up to be examined in this new light. Seen through the lens of Gale’s desire, it all looked different: a dozen bragging tales became genuine attempts to impress her; a hundred arguments transformed into passionate debates between intellectual equals; a thousand lectures on putting herself in danger shape-shifted into a thousand times Gale worried she would be hurt. His long stares across the campfire while she played her lyre—she thought she’d been a nuisance, distracting him from his reading, but all the time he had been admiring her talent. Admiring her.

And the truth, which came to her with a startling, blazing clarity, was that she admired him, too. Oh, he was arrogant; he was pompous; he was often quick to forget that she was an accomplished magic user in her own right; but he was also genuinely brilliant, and truly passionate about his craft. He was kind to lost children and injured animals. He had a strong moral compass, a deep wellspring of bravery, and a curiosity to match her own. He also had kind eyes, a lovely smile, and a body with which she very much wished to become better acquainted. He had been right: she had taken a single taste, and she was famished.

“Have me, then,” she found herself saying, before she had really formed the thought. “All of me, as you said.”

“Have—I—” Gale looked back at her, but rather than pleased, he seemed almost indignant. “I am talking about a relationship, Ilaia, not a night.”

“You made that clear,” Ilaia said, unruffled. “I understand what you’re asking, Gale. I can’t promise we won’t be an utter disaster, but isn’t it worth a try?” Gale looked thunderstruck, and Ilaia pressed ahead. “Would you prefer to wait until we’ve sprouted tentacles? If it’s only that you’d rather wait for my body until you’re sure of my heart, I don’t mind. Truly. I can control myself; just tell me I can kiss you some more,” she added, dropping her voice into what she hoped was a sultry octave.

“Don’t make promises so flippantly,” Gale warned, with almost a pleading tone. “I cannot believe you would throw over all the others on a whim. And I’m afraid I am not the kind of lover to share.”

“What others?” Ilaia asked, genuinely confused.

“What—I am no fool, Ilaia. Do you think I don’t see you slipping into Astarion’s tent every other night, emerging exhausted, sleeping late the next morning? If anything, it’s been more often since we entered the Shadow-Cursed Lands, and—what? Why do you look at me like that?”

“Gale,” she began, exasperation and amusement warring for dominance, “Astarion is starving. There are no rodents here, no bandits, not even a crow that hasn’t been corrupted by the curse! You’re a smart fellow; use your head! What is he meant to eat?”

Now it was Gale’s turn to stare blankly. Against her will, Ilaia felt a surge of helpless, ridiculous affection. The silly wizard. Apparently, he’d spun himself up over some fantasy of Ilaia and Astarion making passionate love every night. No wonder he was prickly toward the vampire. She would have to tell Astarion; he would laugh himself sick.

“You’re.” The word came out squeaky and cracked; Gale cleared his throat and tried again. “You’re…feeding him?”

“As much as I can spare,” Ilaia said, pulling back the collar of her shirt to expose the bite marks. “Not as often as he’d like, I know, but it’s hard on the constitution, being someone’s bloodbank jar.” Gale looked vaguely green, and Ilaia thought she had better nip this in the bud. “I won’t stop,” she warned him. “He needs help, and I can be both a faithful lover and a good friend. If you would have me be otherwise, I’m afraid this ends now.”

“I—I would not ask that of you,” Gale said faintly.

“Good. Anyone else in our merry little band you’ve been losing sleep over, or can we get on with it?”

Gale fidgeted, obviously feeling sheepish but not entirely mollified. “Weeellllll…”

She softened a little, circling his wrist with a long-fingered hand. He stared down at it as though she’d performed a previously undiscovered spell. “Gale. For all my teasing, you must know I truly do care for you. There are no others who can claim my affections. If you have doubts, let me lay them to rest.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, not meeting her eyes. “I thought perhaps—Karlach,” he said. He glanced up at her through his lashes, begging her silently to deny it.

“Karlach is a dear friend,” Ilaia said. “One of the dearest of my life, to tell the truth. I visit her often, for a laugh or a confidante, or to offer her the same. Sometimes I cast cooling spells for her, when she can’t take the heat of her engine. I adore her, and I flatter myself she feels the same. But her heart, such as it is, burns for Dammon; there is no romance between us.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Gale said, sincere despite his obvious embarrassment. “Karlach needs—deserves—a friend like you.” Ilaia waited, feeling the matter was not quite closed, and she was right: Gale glanced away, blushing, and cleared his throat. “And Halsin?”

“Ah, Halsin,” Ilaia said, chuckling a little. “Well, you’re not wrong there, at least on the matter of his regard. I’m fairly certain that one is interested in more than just my singing.”

“Ah,” Gale echoed, looking dismayed.

“But I haven’t climbed that particular tree, no,” Ilaia said cheerfully, and Gale’s head snapped back up. “Nor will I, if you and I decide to give this a try. I prefer to give all my attentions to one lover, myself. Fewer complications that way.”

Gale’s worry was beginning to give way, now, and something else was showing through the cracks—hope, or perhaps even the seeds of joy. “Well,” he said. “I suppose I was mistaken, when I insisted I wasn’t a fool. I seem to have misread your intentions toward very nearly everyone in camp, myself included.”

“Not everyone,” Ilaia countered. “Lae’zel still terrifies me, and I imagine you read that just fine.”

Gale laughed. Ilaia silently thrilled to hear it, after all the tension of the past few minutes. “She terrifies everyone with a modicum of intelligence, self-preservation, or good sense, and you possess all three. I’m not surprised.” His gaze softened, head tilting slightly. “I mean that, Ilaia; I do see your cleverness, your talent. You are one of the most gifted spellcasters I’ve had the privilege to know, and your skills at negotiation—and, when needed, deception—impress me all the more. I only ever intended to share my knowledge with you. If I’ve given you any other impression with all our bickering, I can only beg your forgiveness, and promise to rein in my academic fervor in future.”

One of Ilaia’s last remaining doubts melted away, leaving only a blooming warmth in her chest. She hadn’t really believed Gale thought her shallow, or stupid, but she was glad to hear it all the same. “Oh, don’t rein yourself in on my account,” she said breezily. “If I didn’t enjoy a good verbal spar, I could never be friends with Astarion. I don’t need you to always agree with me, Gale; I only need to know you respect me. If that’s the case, then by all means, ramble at me about Elminster’s Enduring Flatulence, or whatever new spell has your mind in a tizzy this week. I assure you, I’m more than capable of holding my own.”

If Gale had laughed at her earlier joke, he nearly choked with glee at this one. “Please don’t ever say those words again,” he begged, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “That is one spell I’ll be very contented never to know. But…yes. Of course. Of course I respect you. I hold you in the highest esteem, truly. If it ever appears otherwise, I implore you to tell me, so I can make amends.”

Ilaia smiled. “You know I can do that.”

Her hand was still wrapped around his wrist; Gale turned his hand over to gently thread their fingers together. Ilaia nearly shivered at the warmth of his palm, at the sense of inexplicable rightness that flooded through her. “I can scarcely believe this is happening,” he confessed, eyes on their joined hands. “I’ve spent more nights than I can count lying awake in my tent, explaining to myself the thousand reasons I could never hope to earn your affection.” His gaze met hers, and the depth of feeling there sent Ilaia reeling all over again. “But…you truly wish to…”

His words seemed to fail him. (Some jobs, after all, were simply meant for a bard.)

Ilaia stepped closer, enough to feel the heat of him radiating through his thin robe, enough that he had to tilt his head back slightly to meet her eye (why she found his shorter height so ridiculously endearing, she would never know). She rested her free hand on his waist, loving the way he swayed toward her. “I wish to kiss you again,” she whispered. “I wish to follow you back to your tent, and hold you, and drive every one of those thousand reasons from your mind. I wish to…” She smoothed her hand up from his waist, over his chest, fingertips resting at the triangle of exposed skin there. “...To undress you. Taste you. Touch every inch of you.” Gale looked positively hypnotized, but there was something important to establish. “Assuming you want the same, of course,” she added softly. “I’d very much enjoy the opportunity to take you to bed, but it’s not a requirement, if you don’t enjoy such things.”

“I do,” Gale blurted gracelessly, and promptly turned red again. Ilaia let out a little laugh, not of mocking, but of fondness. Gale’s lips curved in a sheepish smile.

“Wonderful,” she murmured. “Then, yes, I wish for all those things. And then I wish to wake up beside you, and greet the day with you, and see how our hearts and minds might fit together in the light.” She traced the upper curve of the orb stained on his chest, not missing the pleasurable shudder that went through him. “Is that what you had in mind?”

Gale kissed her.

It was not much like their first kiss, Ilaia thought, except for the warmth and wonder of it. His mouth was soft against hers, closed and chaste; one of his deft, capable hands cupped her jaw, and the other slipped around her waist to hold her close. When her lips parted, he mirrored them with his own, and let out a sigh as though all the world’s problems had been lifted from his shoulders. Eager for another taste of that cinnamon-wine-magic flavor, she angled her head to deepen the kiss, but Gale turned out to be surprisingly talented and assertive in this department: he traced the sensitive inside of her lower lip with his tongue, teased deeper contact before drawing back, pressed closer to reclaim their earlier heat. His hands roamed along her back again, tracing the ridges of her spine through her shirt, and her own fingers were irresistibly drawn to his hair. She found herself wanting to make a terrible mess of him, to muss his hair and mark his neck and rake her nails down his shoulders. Somehow, she doubted he would mind very much.

The kiss was building to something, tipping over from heat into urgency. Ilaia pressed her body against him firmly enough that they stumbled, and without breaking away for a moment, Gale spun them and pushed her up against the trunk of a nearby tree. She lifted a long leg and wrapped it around the back of his thigh, pulling him even closer, her arousal surging at the feel of his hard length pressing against her through their layers of clothing. If she had been surprised by the skill of his kisses, it was nothing to her shocked delight at suddenly finding herself in midair: Gale seized her thighs, hitched them up around his waist, and pinned her against the rough bark that way. She was already the taller by several inches, and the change in angle widened the discrepancy enough that their kiss broke apart, but Gale was undeterred; his mouth wandered down her throat and chest to the low neckline of her shirt, lavishing attention on as much of her skin as he could reach.

“Gods, Gale,” she moaned, her arms tight around his shoulders. The sound of his name seemed to bring him back to himself, just slightly, and he looked up at her with an expression wavering between desperation and apology.

“Ilaia, my beauty, my darling, you—you deserve better,” he panted, while paradoxically grinding his length against her center. Sweet Hells, he felt big, had he been hiding a world-class cock under those bookish robes all this time? “Say the word and I can transport us away from here; we can be one in the Weave, I can show you pleasures you’ve never dreamed of—”

“No,” Ilaia insisted, a hand flying to his head to keep him in place. Gale resumed kissing over the exposed tops of her breasts, though he held her gaze, which really should not have been as astonishingly arousing as it was. “Not this time, please. I’m—you can show me, another time, I promise, but tonight I only want—you. The man, not the magic. Please, Gale.”

Gale groaned, gripping her hips even more tightly. “Gods above, my name is music in your mouth,” he rasped. “All right. If you’re certain—”

“So certain, believe me—”

“—then let’s at least go somewhere more private.” Ilaia was sorely tempted to insist he fuck her right up against the tree, so desperate was her need, but she knew their current locale was neither romantic nor safe. She nodded, preparing to unwind her legs from his waist, and was caught off-guard yet again: he spoke an incantation, traced a one-handed shape in midair, and then with a flash of arcane power she found herself spilling backward onto the bedroll in Gale’s tent.

“Really?” she laughed, as she recovered from the momentary shock. “You used Dimension Door for that? We could have walked, you know.”

“Any complaints?” Gale asked, kneeling above her and already tearing at the fastenings of his robe. She shook her head, eyes rapt on him as he undressed.

“Not a one. Top marks.”

“Excellent. Then perhaps you’ll excuse one more brief interruption.” He paused just long enough to lift both hands over his head, murmuring a spell she hadn’t heard before; it clearly did something, she felt the frisson of magic, but nothing appeared to change. At her questioning look, he explained, “Eavesdropper’s Foil. A very old ritual, not often taught nowadays, but a useful one. I intend to hear every sound your gorgeous voice can make, and none of them will carry outside this tent.”

“Bedding a bookworm has its perks, I see,” Ilaia said breathlessly, as Gale wrestled his robe off his—by the Nine—really quite broad shoulders. She was delighted to see she’d been right about his body; his chest and stomach were firm, but nowhere near as chiseled as the fighters in their camp, with an invitingly soft layer above the muscle. A generous dusting of dark brown hair began at his chest and trailed, enticingly, below the waistband of his loose trousers. Amidst it all was the mark of the Netherese Orb, a blackened ring splashed across the skin of his chest and neck. She knew he would prefer not to have it at all, but in truth, she thought it rather suited him. “I don’t suppose you’ve any cantrips to remove clothing faster?”

“None that would allow us to retrieve them again,” Gale said, smirking, “but at any rate, I prefer to do some things the old-fashioned way.” He set about demonstrating, his hands working at the laces of her shirt before she could think of a suitable reply.

Ilaia watched him work, aching with need and thinking on the marvel of their mutual attraction. She wasn’t sure she had ever wanted someone so badly, and wasn’t that a surprise? Had all their endless bickering really just been misplaced lust? Or had each argument merely thrown a log onto a dormant fire, waiting for a spark? It hadn’t been instant—she had thought him handsome, when they’d met, but in a sort of aesthetic-appreciation way, rather than with intent— but now she could no sooner keep her hands off him than she could stop breathing.

There was a sudden chill across her chest and belly—her shirt falling open—and the Gale was sitting back, looking as though he’d glimpsed the Divine. “Ilaia,” he said, his voice gratifyingly hoarse. “Gods. You are…I’m…there are no words.”

She was tempted, so tempted, to remark upon the accomplishment of rendering a wizard speechless, but he was reaching toward her with careful, reverent hands, and she dared not interrupt their trajectory. He touched the arch of her ribs, ran his palms up her sides, cupped her breasts. The warmth of his palms was delicious, and she arched her back into the touch, humming with pleasure low in her throat.

“You feel like nothing else in this world,” he whispered. “May I?”

He didn’t specify what he wanted, but Ilaia didn’t care; she would have let him do anything, anything at all, as long as he kept touching her like that. She nodded, and he shifted to lay just beside her, one arm around her waist. He dipped his head, bringing his mouth to her chill-peaked nipple with utmost care.

“Ah!” she cried, burying her hands in his hair again. His tongue swirled over her sensitive flesh, flicked it, savored it in a way no lover had before. Each time she thought he must be ready to move on, he returned, driving her to distraction. The sensation of his soft, plush mouth combined with the rough scrape of his beard was utter bliss.

“Gale,” she gasped, as he ventured further afield to her other breast, “where did you learn to do that? Don’t answer,” she warned, and he gave a low chuckle that she could—deliciously—feel reverberate through her flushed skin. “Not now, anyway. If you remove your mouth I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Gale, wisely, kept his mouth just where it was. Ilaia’s long nails scratched through his hair, awash in sensation. When he finally did lift his head, with a final feather-light kiss to her breast, she barely held back a whine of disapproval.

“What if,” he asked, kissing over her ribs, “I were to remove my mouth…” He trailed his tongue down the ridges of her sternum, toward her navel. “...and promise to put it right back…somewhere else?” He paused with his chin on her lower belly, fingers resting on the laces of her trousers. A clear request for permission; Ilaia felt a pulse of warmth and wetness soaking between her thighs at the very thought.

“Please,” she whispered, and he closed his eyes for a moment as though overcome.

It was no surprise he was a renowned magical prodigy, Ilaia thought hazily, with such clever hands. Though he moved with tenderness, even reverence, he had her trousers and undergarments off before she quite knew what was happening. Her pulse pounding, she watched him settle on his belly between her thighs. The long, bare expanse of his back seemed to almost glow in the twilight filtering through the tent, and she thanked whatever deities were listening for her excellent darkvision.

In the next instant, all deities were driven from her mind beyond a sharp “Gods,” as Gale lowered his head and began exploring her. There was no other word for it: he moved his mouth over every inch of her inner thighs, trailed his tongue up the crease where those thighs met her body, pressed his lips to her just shy of where she truly wanted them. Though she knew the ferocity of his own need—she had felt it, vividly, pressed against her among the trees—he acted as though he had nothing else on his agenda, nowhere else to be for the foreseeable future. It made a nice change from the dozens of lovers who had rushed directly to the “main event,” as it were. She revisited her earlier sentiment: there were apparently many perks to bedding someone with an insatiable academic curiosity.

The first soft touch of Gale’s warm, wet tongue against her slit had her writhing on the bedroll; when the tip parted her folds and licked gently into her dripping cunt, she let out a gasp loud enough to alert the entire camp and reflexively clapped both hands over her mouth. Gale chuckled against her—what a sensation that was—and reached up, gently tugging a hand away.

“No one can hear you but me,” he reminded her, so close she could feel the words against her skin. “And I would hate to be deprived of your lovely singing now.”

Ilaia dropped her hands from her mouth, and Gale returned to his work with a hum of satisfaction that she felt to her core. And she did mean work: he seemed to have satisfied his curiosity for the moment, and now he focused single-mindedly on bringing Ilaia pleasure. That talented tongue traced around her sensitive clit, flicked over it, then delved inside her just deeply enough to make her wish for something bigger. When she had gone nearly mad from needing more, he returned his attentions to her clit and started the whole process over again. It was the sweetest kind of torture, giving her just enough to set all her nerves alight without bringing her close to the edge. One moment she thought she could do this all night, and the next she thought she would lose her senses entirely if it went on another moment.

Quite without meaning to, she found both her hands clenched tight in Gale’s hair. He hadn’t made a sound of complaint, but surely she must be hurting him. “Sorry, sorry,” she panted, making to remove them. Gale’s hand shot up and caught her wrist, his eyes dark and hungry on her face.

“Don’t change a thing,” he growled. Her heart thudded against her ribs, and she threaded her fingers back into his brown-and-silver strands; when she tightened her grip, experimentally, he let out a low moan and closed his eyes.

The hair-pulling seemed to have unleashed something within him (she hastily filed this away to revisit later). He thrust his tongue inside her with new fervor, a preview of the act still to come. When she convulsed against the bedroll and cried, “Gale, please,” he mercifully took her meaning: he returned his lips and tongue to her clit, sliding two fingers into her slick, aching cunt with almost no resistance. This was no lazy exploration, no gentle torment. This was a man Hells-bent on bringing her to the sweetest imaginable ruin, and soon.

Under this onslaught of pleasure, Ilaia felt she could be forgiven for hurtling over the edge as hard and fast as she did. She all but sobbed Gale’s name, pulling his mouth tight against her, as her hips bucked and her walls clenched around Gale’s fingers. He moaned into her as wantonly as if he were the one being driven to the orgasm of his life, grinding down mindlessly into the bedroll as he worked her through it. Somehow, that was just as hot as anything else he’d done to her all evening.

Ilaia drifted on waves of pleasure, feeling delightfully unmoored in the aftermath of the best release she’d had in years. She could feel Gale down below, his beard scratching softly against her inner thighs; he hadn’t moved an inch, apparently, just lying there and trailing gentle kisses over her skin. One of his hands shifted, and his fingers gave a tentative, experimental stroke to her tail. She shivered violently, laughing from overstimulation.

“Sorry, sorry,” Gale said hastily, withdrawing his hand. “Not for touching, I see.”

“Oh, no, by all means, touch it,” Ilaia countered with a lazy grin. “Just not immediately after, if you please. It’s rather sensitive.” A thought occurred to her, and she propped herself up on one elbow to look at him. Gods, he looked incredible sprawled between her thighs; she wished she had the talent to paint him like this. “Have you never bedded a tiefling before?”

“Ah, well.” Gale turned slightly pink, ducking his head. “Not as such?”

“Meaning…?”

“Not at all.” Gale smiled ruefully up at her. “I hope that isn’t off-putting.”

“‘Course not. There’s a first time for everything. As long as I’m not some box to check for you, I don’t care. And if I am just a box to check, then, wow, have you been putting in the effort.”

That sheepish smile widened to a grin, and he propped his head on her thigh. “I should think you’d know better than that,” he said. “But I’ll gladly put in as much effort as you like, and then some more, for good measure.”

“Mm. I’ll hold you to that.” She reached out, stroking gently through his hair; he tilted his head into the touch, eyes closed. “In the meantime, though, perhaps something a bit more mutual?”

Gale’s eyes opened, his gaze unmistakably hungry. “Only if you’d like,” he said, in contrast to his obvious interest. “Whatever you’d like.”

“I’d like to get those trousers off you, as soon as possible. They’ve overstayed their welcome.” Gale turned his face into her thigh, letting out a low sound that might have been a prayer—Ilaia could only hope it wasn’t to Mystra—before pressing a kiss there and getting to his feet. His fingers went to his trouser laces, and though Ilaia was quite keen on undressing him herself sometime, she contented herself with lying back and enjoying the show.

And by the Nine, what a show it was. Though she didn’t concern herself overly with size (or even presence; Ilaia cared little for what shape her lovers’ genitalia took, as long as they were enthusiastic and generous in bed), she couldn’t deny that Gale’s robes had indeed been hiding something impressive. He was beautifully formed: the gentle, sloping lines of his iliac furrow and the trail of dark hair below his navel, all leading the eye down to the most gorgeous cock she’d ever seen. She almost regretted suggesting they get on with it; her mouth watered at the sight. Whatever her face was doing, it had an effect on Gale, and he groaned aloud as he stroked a hand down his hard length.

“You cannot imagine how I’ve dreamt of seeing you look at me like that. And I do mean dreamt—I would never let my waking mind picture such vulgarities, but my sleeping one was…quite outside my control, I’m afraid.”

This was so endearing that Ilaia nearly giggled like a schoolgirl, but she reined herself in; no sense in killing the mood at this critical moment. “Well, consider permission granted to picture me however you’d like,” she said instead, grinning lasciviously. “It seems a shame to keep that marvelous mind of yours under such strict confines.”

Gale flushed delightfully pink again, and Ilaia made a mental note to ask him about these dreams of his in greater detail at a later date, assuming they all lived long enough. She opened her arms in invitation, and Gale rejoined her on the bedroll, lowering himself into her embrace with a very touching—and entirely unnecessary—amount of care. She threaded her fingers into his hair again, pulling him close enough to kiss; the taste of herself on his tongue sent a fresh wave of heat through her core. Gale kissed her as though he wanted nothing else in the world, but in this position, she could feel him pressed tantalizingly against her entrance. And she had never claimed to be a patient woman.

“Now, darling, I need you,” she breathed in his ear. “Please.”

His breath caught. He pulled back a little, and seemed to be searching for something in Ilaia’s gaze; whatever it was, he must have found it, because his own brow relaxed. He reached down with one hand, never taking his eyes from Ilaia’s face, and then—and then—

“Gale,” she gasped, as his cock slid—slowly, gently, but inexorably—inside her. He let out a groan that sounded as though it came all the way up from his toes, or perhaps his soul. It seemed to take longer than Ilaia had expected, but then, it had been years since she’d bedded someone quite so gifted in the size department (oh, gods, he was still going— had she ever had a lover this big?). When at last his hips were flush against her, all that delicious length fully buried inside her, the two of them exhaled deeply in unison.

“You feel,” Gale said in a gratifyingly hoarse whisper, heavy-lidded eyes on Ilaia’s face, “I’m…you are…beyond description.”

“Mm,” she sighed, twisting pleasurably on the bedroll, and gave him a dreamy grin. “Not for an especially talented bard, perhaps— ah!”

Her little jab had done its job, and goaded Gale into moving: a single thrust of his hips, so wonderfully deep inside her she nearly saw stars. He rolled his eyes, but he was grinning too, affection written all over his face. “A pity you can’t experience your own perfection this way, then,” he said. “I know of no other who could do you justice.”

A compliment to her body and her work? This man was learning her weaknesses alarmingly fast; she was going to have to be careful, or she’d never win another argument against him. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she cooed, and then forgot what they were talking about entirely as Gale set about rolling his hips in a deep, insistent rhythm.

“No—flattery—needed—my darling,” he managed, as he drove sweetly into her again and again. “You are—perfect, like this. The way you look—the way you feel—”

“Ah! Please, Gale, I need—closer—”

She was babbling, nonsensical—how much closer could they be, with him inside her?—but Gale took her nonsense as command, his gaze darkening. He wrapped his arms beneath her, bringing his mouth to her ear. “Bend your knees,” he murmured, and without a second’s hesitation, she did.

The next moment, she found herself pulled upright into Gale’s lap. His knees spread beneath her, supporting them on the bedroll; her own legs shifted without a conscious thought, wrapping around his waist. Like this, the difference in their heights was noticeable again, but Ilaia could not have minded less: she held tight to his shoulders, ducking in to capture his mouth once more. Gale moaned against her lips, and her own keen of pleasure soon followed, because the change in position had driven him impossibly deeper and sweet Hells, how was she meant to waste her time saving the world when she knew how this felt?

She shifted minutely in his lap, making his next thrust land just a bit differently, and her head flew back in a breathless cry. Gale’s mouth was against her throat in an instant, hot open-mouthed kisses lavished from her collarbone to her jaw. She clutched at his hair again (it was really a shame he had no horns, they made excellent handles; she’d have to show him sometime) and abandoned any attempt at coherent speech or thought. She was entirely consumed by the here and now, a creature of pure need and sensation. There was only Gale’s breath and tongue and beard against her neck, Gale’s strong hands across her back, Gale’s gorgeous cock inside her, Gale’s pistoning hips beneath her heels. And then there was Gale’s voice, too, murmuring “Ilaia, Ilaia,” against her throat.

“Gale,” she responded, and he made a sound as though his name in her mouth was more than he could bear, “it’s—I’m—it’s so good, so good, you’ll make me—”

“Yes, please, with me, with me,” he begged, rearing back to look into her face again. “Can I—do you want—”

“Yes!”

His skin gleamed with sweat, his brow drawn and lips parted, and he looked so altogether ruined that Ilaia felt herself rushing, very suddenly and unexpectedly, toward another climax. Her nails raked into his shoulders, her legs tightened around his waist, and then she was coming, coming, so hard she scarcely knew which way was up. Gale fucked into her hard, harder than he’d dared before, and she nearly laughed from the dizzying heights of her pleasure. Just as she began to descend, he cried out “Ilaia,” thrust up once, twice, three more times, and then he held her tight against him as he flooded her with his release.

They were still, except for their heaving breaths. The air in the tent was thick with exertion and satisfied lust. Ilaia’s head tipped forward until her forehead rested against Gale’s; his eyes slid shut, leaning into the contact. Ilaia could feel his pulse beneath her hands, galloping as hard as her own. They stayed this way, wrapped up in each other and entirely unwilling to move, until their heartbeats began to slow. When she opened her eyes again, Gale was watching her, his gaze soft and shining.

“I—” Gale said, at the same time Ilaia said, “That was—,” and then they both let out an undignified sort of giggle. When they quieted, smiling, she cupped his jaw in one long-fingered hand.

“Yes,” she said softly, “I know.” She dropped a kiss on the end of his nose, and then—with great reluctance—began disentangling herself from her wizard.

After, everything was quiet—not just in the tent, but strangely, in Ilaia’s mind. For the first time on their little journey, she was not worried about the tadpole. Or the Absolute. Or the shadow curse. Or anything at all. She lay facing Gale, head pillowed on her arm, their ankles tangled together. Her tail was doing something—tracing over Gale’s calf, maybe—but she didn’t seem to be in control of it. Nor did she particularly care, truth be told.

“You were incandescent,” Gale whispered, breaking the silence.

“Gods, so were you,” Ilaia sighed dreamily, without a trace of flattery. “What in the world have you been doing in that tower of yours? Keeping that all to yourself for so long must qualify as some sort of crime.”

“Well.” Gale’s cheeks tinted pink, and he gave her a broad, guileless smile. “What can I say? Leaving aside the threat of detonation that forced me indoors…I’m choosy. My standards are quite difficult to meet, you know.”

“They were, certainly. Going from a goddess to a bard, though, some might say they’ve taken a bit of a tumble.” Ilaia had only meant it as a joke—she wasn’t particularly insecure, though knowing The Ex was a literal deity was quite a test of one’s confidence—but Gale lifted his head off the pillow, shaking it vehemently. He took her hand in both of his, staring intently into her eyes.

“You are the most beautiful, the bravest, the most brilliant lover I have ever had,” he insisted. “I will not have you compare yourself to her—and certainly not unfavorably.”

It had only been a joke, but Ilaia was touched by his assurances all the same. She pressed her lips to his knuckles, giving his hands a reassuring squeeze. “It’s all right, dearest,” she said. “What’s to compare? I’m here with you, and she isn’t. Her loss.”

Gale gave her that look again, the one that suggested he couldn’t quite believe his luck at finding Ilaia in his arms. She doubted she would ever tire of it; as far as she was concerned, the Netherese Orb was a far less devastating force than Gale’s puppy-dog eyes. She stroked over his hair, marveling again at the circumstances that had led to lying side-by-side with this wonderful, maddening, beautiful, aggravating man. How had she mistaken her feelings for so long? How had she been so convinced she wanted to kill him, when it now seemed entirely obvious she had wanted to kiss him senseless instead?

Well: the genius wizard hadn’t worked it out, either. Perhaps some mysteries were too great even for the scholars to unravel.

“You seem to be thinking rather loudly,” Gale said, and though his tone was light, she caught a glimmer of anxiety peeking through his expression. “Anything you’d care to share?”

“I think I may be rather desperately fond of you,” she confessed, loving the way the anxiety on his face melted away into jubilation. “I admit, it took me by surprise.”

“You and I both,” he agreed, and they muffled a fit of laughter into their pillows.

It subsided, after a time, and Gale was still watching her with those eyes. “I had not thought I would ever love again,” he said softly, tracing the line of Ilaia’s jaw. “I am gladder than I can say to have been wrong.”

“Mm.” Ilaia rolled closer, pulling Gale in with a lazy arm draped over his waist. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Sorry?” Gale blinked at her, confusion written across his face. As her smile turned distinctly mischievous, his confusion gave way to dawning comprehension. “Oh, don’t start.”

“No, no, it’s only I can’t have heard you correctly, because it almost sounded as though you admitted you’d been—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve had your little joke,” he sighed in exasperation, rolling away (to hide the start of a smile, Ilaia could see). As he reached for his trousers, she propped herself up on an elbow, grinning.

“I only wanted to be sure of what I’d heard! How else can I commit it to song?”

“I had thought you might change your tune once we became lovers, bard.”

“You were wrong there, too,” Ilaia laughed. “Don’t worry. Happens to everyone once or twice.”

“Gods preserve me, there really is no way to stop that mouth, is there,” Gale said, giving up his quest to dress in favor of a full-body eye roll. Ilaia seized him by the hips, tugging him back down to the bedroll and nuzzling his bearded jaw.

“Oh, I don’t know, darling,” she whispered. “You seem to have discovered at least one.”

The Wizard of Waterdeep was wrong, occasionally, but he was no fool. He kissed her silent, and when she resumed making sounds a few moments later, he did not seem to mind.

Ilaia wasn’t sure what she had expected upon their emergence from Gale’s tent, many hours into the next morning. Some good-natured ribbing, perhaps, some wolf-whistles and waggling eyebrows. Perhaps a chk in their direction from Lae’zel, who undoubtedly viewed such things as a waste of valuable enemy-slaughtering time. Astarion—oh, gods, Astarion was going to be impossible to deal with, but then he always was. Karlach, at least, she could count on to be happy for her.

But as she stepped out into the sunlight, leading an adorably bed-headed Gale by the hand, there was a startling cacophony of cheers and…groans? Karlach pumped a triumphant fist in the air, Halsin laughed, and Astarion gave a patronizing little opera clap that she knew better than to take seriously; Wyll and Shadowheart, on the other hand, wore deeply sour expressions, arms crossed tightly over their chests. (Lae’zel continued sharpening her greatsword, projecting a determined air of above it all.)

“I’m sorry, did our nice evening disturb you lot somehow?” Ilaia demanded, as Gale stood speechless beside her. “Because a very talented wizard assured me it wouldn’t.”

“Didn’t disturb me a bit,” Karlach said gleefully. “Thrilled for you, mate. And for me. Pay up, you two!”

Ilaia thought for one very strange moment that Karlach meant her and Gale, but then Wyll and Shadowheart brought out their coin purses, grumbling mutinously. There was a brief kerfuffle as money changed hands, and then Astarion, Karlach, and Halsin were grinning at them, their purses noticeably heavier.

“Do I want to know what just happened?” Ilaia asked, though she had a sneaking suspicion she already knew.

“You didn’t think we were going to put up with your frankly endless bickering without getting something out of it, did you?” Astarion drawled, examining his nails.

“Getting—something—” Gale sputtered.

“You two were obviously going to end up either murdering each other or going at it like Icewind hares,” Karlach said. “We’ve had the pool going for ages—since before Halsin got here, even! Can’t believe it took you guys this long to crack.”

Ilaia wasn’t sure whether to be mortified, livid, or impressed. She settled for laughing instead, turning to Gale, who had apparently landed squarely on mortified. “You weren’t in on this, were you?” she teased him. “Trying to tip the scales in your favor? Because if you were, you may have overdone it a little, darling. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me now.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, my dear,” he assured her, smiling beneath his blush.

A sudden silence fell over the camp, so impenetrable Ilaia wondered if the curse had finally found them here. It hadn’t, if Scratch’s unbothered stroll around the perimeter was any indication, but—

“No,” Astarion said, in apparent horror.

“Well, this is quite a turn,” Shadowheart chimed in.

“Aw, come on,” Karlach groaned, slapping a hand to her forehead.

Ilaia stared around at all of them in bewilderment, still hand-in-hand with Gale—and noticed that of everyone in the camp, only Lae’zel looked pleased. She held out a hand, smirking. “My prize. Now.”

There was a second, larger flurry of coin purses exchanging hands, and this time, all of them congregated on Lae’zel. Astarion in particular grumbled about it, handing over not only his previous winnings but also a pristine bottle of wyvern whiskey he’d acquired from gods-knew-where.

“Sorry, have I missed something?” Gale asked politely, brow furrowed.

“We were all split on whether you two would end up fighting or fucking,” Karlach repeated, “except one, who bet on you getting together-together. Like, a relationship, not just a get-it-out-of-your-systems thing.”

“And that person was Lae’zel?” Ilaia asked incredulously; she could not think of a single less likely candidate, including Scratch. Lae’zel barely glanced up from counting her winnings, though she wore a deeply smug expression.

“I am familiar with the pathetic attachments formed by races other than my own,” she said. “It was obvious this would occur, to those with eyes.”

They all stood for a moment, absorbing this.

“And besides,” she added, “I propositioned the wizard the night of the tiefling celebration, and he declined. He had located the bottom of at least one bottle—I suspect more—and attempted to explain at great length the depth of his feelings for the bard.”

Ilaia whipped around, staring at Gale, who had turned a truly alarming shade of magenta. “I…ah…” He cleared his throat, then cleared it again, and when his voice emerged it was still every bit as strangled as before. “I don’t exactly, ah, recall that…incident…”

“I assure you, it occurred,” Lae’zel hissed scornfully. “Until I ended the conversation by walking away.”

“Mm.” Gale nodded thoughtfully, as though she’d told him a mildly interesting fact. “Well. That’s. Would you all excuse me for a moment?”

“Absolutely not,” Ilaia said cheerfully, holding tight to his hand and foiling his escape.

“Wait, that’s not fair!” Karlach interjected. “You had insider information!”

“Tsk’va! If one has the high ground in battle, one does not give it up simply to be fair,” Lae’zel countered. “I had the advantage, and I used it. It was a sound tactical choice.”

“I’m only sorry you spent the evening alone, Lae’zel darling,” Astarion simpered, striving for his most annoying tone. “What a terrible waste for you.”

“I did not spend it alone,” she countered flatly. Everyone glanced around the loose circle at each other, looking for the culprit—or victim, possibly; to their collective shock, Halsin gave a small, unbothered wave. “The druid was amenable. We shared a pleasurable evening.”

“Halsin?” Apparently Ilaia was just going to be exclaiming everyone’s name today. “You didn’t even want to rescue him! You thought it was a waste of time!”

“A hunter may oppose the pursuit of a certain prey,” Lae’zel said, “but if the meat appears on her table, there is little sense in wasting it.”

Halsin grinned, and Astarion raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re the meat in this scenario, you do understand,” he drawled. “How are we feeling about that?”

“Very well indeed,” Halsin replied.

The expression that crossed Astarion’s face was grudgingly impressed. Karlach gave the burly druid a thumbs-up from across the fire, and he tossed her a wink in response.

“Speaking of Halsin,” Lae’zel said, holding her bottle of whiskey aloft. “Spoils of victory, she’lak. Do you wish to join me?”

“I do,” Halsin rumbled, and then the two of them disappeared into Lae’zel’s tent without so much as a backward glance.

It was a day of rest, mostly, while they spoke to the Harpers and planned their grand prison break from the Moonrise dungeons. Jaheira—who Ilaia thought she liked, though at this point her prickliness could be playful banter or genuine obstinance, it was hard to tell—thought it would be wiser to wait until they’d finished their reconnaissance of the Towers, and she was probably right, but Ilaia couldn’t go on sleeping soundly in her bedroll while her fellow tieflings shivered in cells. That was assuming Ketheric Thorm or that bloodthirsty orc woman didn’t get fed up and execute the lot of them sooner rather than later.

All things considered, it was a good thing that they had a relatively low-stakes day, because Ilaia was hopelessly distractible. She’d forgotten how it felt to have a new lover—the memories of the previous night coming to her unbidden, the impatience for night to fall so she could see if Gale might want to repeat it. It was even worse when their paths crossed throughout the day. Every so often she would feel eyes on her, and glance up to find Gale watching her with poorly-veiled hunger. Only consideration for the downtrodden Last Light inhabitants kept her from storming across the room, seizing Gale by the collar, and kissing him against the nearest wall until his knees turned to jelly.

She wanted to do more than kiss him, really. There had been little time for conversation since last night’s discovery of his feelings for her. She wanted to talk to him: to find out when, exactly, he had started looking at her that way; to ask about his family, and childhood, and all the other things she didn’t know; to tell him about her own life, about her studies, about the strange journey that had brought them together. She wanted—the realization hit her like a thunderbolt—to share the burden of leadership, to tell him of her dilemmas and fears, her uncertainty that she was doing the right things, and to know that he had her back.

And, yes, she absolutely wanted to take him to bed again.

The day passed with agonizing slowness, while she ran hither and thither and tried to solve two dozen people’s problems for them. The discovery that Rolan had set out alone to find his siblings proved enough of a crisis to drive Gale from her mind entirely—at least until they located and rescued the surly tiefling. It was a brief but hard-fought battle, shadows closing in on them from every direction just outside Reithwin Town. Ilaia felt something like elation at the end, in spite of her fear—it felt good to help, even if Rolan slouched off with poor grace, and she had fought especially well—and she turned to Gale with a grin on her bloodied, sweaty face. She was caught up short by his expression, which was so thunderstruck she wondered if another shadow creature had crept up on her unawares.

“Everything all right?” she asked, stepping closer, while Astarion and Karlach picked over the insubstantial remains of their enemies a short distance away. Gale ran a hand through his hair, looking sheepish.

“Oh, yes,” he said quickly. “You were—that was—most impressive.”

Ilaia raised an eyebrow at him.

“Invigorating,” he added, through an audible swallow.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, suspicion dawning.

And now he wouldn’t look directly at her, which was only giving her further evidence for her theory. She felt a laugh bubbling up and fought it down mercilessly as he kept speaking. “I, um. I once read a book,” he said haltingly, “that explained in some detail the, ah…effect…that a brush with danger can have on one’s desire for—other…forms of stimulation.”

She kept silent with great effort, wanting to see how long this would continue. He was visibly crawling with embarrassment now, feet shuffling in the dirt. “Have you ever…read anything on the subject?” he ventured, finally stealing a sidelong glance at her face.

“Gale of Waterdeep,” she asked with delighted glee, “are you telling me that watching me fight made you want me?”

“You needn’t look so shocked about it,” he said defensively, “you were extremely impressive, your use of Shatter was the finest work of that spell I’ve seen, and you already know that I find you more beautiful than anyth—”

Ilaia was a capable, responsible, determined leader, but even the most ironclad restraint had its limits. With a quick glance to ensure their companions were otherwise occupied, Ilaia seized him by the robes, hauled him behind a crumbling brick wall, and kissed him the way she’d wanted to all day. Gale, bless him, got with the program immediately, his mouth hot and eager while his hands roamed up and down her spine. She kissed him until they were breathless, broke away for air, and then dove back in, half-mad with need. What was it about this silly wizard that drove her out of her senses?

“Here?” she asked between kisses, not moving more than a millimeter away. “You want me here, covered in sweat and blood? Shadows all around us?”

Gale made a sort of growling noise and flipped them, pinning Ilaia against the brick. This was so wildly arousing that she nearly threw a leg around his hips and begged him to take her on the spot. “No place exists that could turn my heart from you,” he rasped in her ear, and then ran his tongue up to the point. She shivered violently, clutching at his back. “Cursed or otherwise. Particularly when you put on such a stunning display of skill.”

“If we were back at camp, I’d show you skill,” she growled, and Gale made a sound as though she’d knocked the wind from his lungs.

“Children,” called Astarion’s voice, and it was as effective as a bucket of cold water: she and Gale sprang apart as if they’d been caught by the headmaster at school. “Not that I’m not just thrilled for you, but this is hardly the place. Let’s get back to Last Light before something tall, dark, and hungry finds us, shall we?”

Ilaia let out a rueful little sigh, and Gale chuckled as he reluctantly let her go. She ducked in for one final peck, resting her cheek against his for a moment. “The moment we’re settled in camp, I’ll come to you,” she whispered.

“No you won’t, you promised I could feed tonight,” Astarion called back—damn him and his vampiric hearing. She made an aggrieved sound, and Gale shook with silent laughter.

“Right you are, Astarion, dear,” she called back, sickly-sweet. To Gale, she added, “After, then. Wait for me?”

“Always, my darling. Anytime.”

She really should have known that wouldn’t be the end of the conversation.

“The best you’ve ever had,” Astarion repeated flatly.

“Don’t tell me you’ve grown so ancient your hearing is going.” Ilaia brushed fingers over her freshly-bitten neck to check for blood; finding none, she tugged her collar back into place.

“Ouch, my sweet. Who’s biting who tonight?” They gazed out of his tent at Gale, who was reading a book so intently his mouth had dropped slightly open. It oughtn’t be endearing, Ilaia thought. It wasn’t, probably, before she knew what that mouth tasted like. “It’s difficult to believe, is all. He doesn’t look like he’d have anything in his trousers more interesting than a handful of tressym treats. Or the skill to make up for it.”

“It’s raw talent, as far as I can tell,” she sighed, propping her chin on her hand. “And no small amount of enthusiasm. Poor sweet bugger spent all his evenings entwined in the Weave with a literal goddess; it’s bound to give one a bit of an inferiority complex, isn’t it?”

“You may have a point. I must say, though, I’m beginning to regret not taking that one out for a little spin when I had the chance. Given that, apparently, he spent the night of the tiefling party making sweet, passionate love to a bottle of Esmeltar red and a book.” He eyed Gale in a distinctly hungry fashion, which would have been alarming coming from a vampire, had Ilaia not just fed him. “Pity.”

“You assume he would’ve jumped right into your bedroll.”

“Well! He jumped into yours. And we all know I’m the true beauty of the camp.” 

Ilaia smirked. “I’m glad your humility has stayed intact through these trying times.”

“Oh, humility,” Astarion scoffed. “Humility is a concept invented by ugly people to make themselves feel virtuous, darling.” He turned his gaze on her, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “Although I certainly don’t count you among their ranks. You have your own…charms. Perhaps there’s more than one opportunity I’ve squandered.”

Ilaia threw her head back, laughing hard enough that Gale looked up from his book. He smiled, shyly, and gave a little wave; she and Astarion returned it in cheerful unison, and he turned pink and returned to his reading. “Don’t even try it. We both know you only want into my veins, not my trousers.”

“Guilty as charged.” He slung a long, cool arm companionably around her shoulders; she leaned against him. “So. Will you be trotting off to his tower when all’s said and done, then? Shall I be on the lookout for performances by the famous Missus of Waterdeep?”

“Ha. Oh, yes, of course. Assuming we even survive that long, what esteemed old clan wouldn’t be thrilled to welcome a one-eyed tiefling bard of no family, property, or title?” She grinned, but to her surprise, Astarion pulled back and scowled at her.

“Then they would be an esteemed old pack of idiots!” he declared, stormy-browed. “If they can’t see how wonderful you are, then hang the lot of them. You’re better off.”

“Goodness, where is this coming from?” she asked, a little breathlessly. “If memory serves, you once responded to the very idea of touching me with open revulsion.”

“That was about personal taste, my dear, not about objective quality. Just because you aren’t my type doesn’t mean you’re not the best person I know.”

This compliment—delivered in standard Astarion fashion, buried under half a ton of insults—struck Ilaia squarely behind her sternum. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling tears prick at her eyes. “Astarion…”

He glanced at her across his face, then gave a huff of disdain. “Ugh, gods, don’t take it to heart. Everyone I know is a vampire, dead, or one of this bunch of half-wits.” In counterpoint to his words, though, Ilaia felt his arm tighten briefly around her shoulders.

“It’s too early for that talk, anyway,” Ilaia said at last. “We’ve only had the one night together; let’s make sure we’re not actually going to kill each other when the novelty wears off.”

“Very sensible of you. I must say, though, it makes a nice change. You two are much quieter when you’re joined at the lips.” He fixed her with a glare. “Mind that wizard of yours keeps up whatever little spells he used last night. These pointy ears aren’t just for decoration, and that’s one sound I really do not need disturbing my beauty rest.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a long moment, enjoying each other’s company and the relative safety of camp. She could hear the Harpers in the near distance, shouting and cajoling each other as they finished their evening meal. It was strange, she thought, how content a person could be even when all the odds were stacked against them. Everything pointed toward their imminent deaths, whether from Absolute cultists or ceremorphosis or the Shadow Curse, and yet she felt…peaceful. Here, in this odd little group in this cursed place, she had found something like a family. It was almost enough to make one feel optimistic.

Across the fire, Gale looked up from his book, and Ilaia wondered what had disturbed him; then, Karlach’s tall, faintly flaming form strode into view. She seemed to be asking if she could sit beside Gale, who looked politely puzzled, but slid over on his log and gestured for her to join him.

“What are they talking about?” Ilaia whispered, huddling conspiratorially with Astarion.

The vampire listened for a moment, then cracked a mischievous smile. “Oh, my,” he drawled, as though savoring every syllable. “Seems our fiery friend has decided to give Gale The Talk on your behalf.”

“The—as in—?”

“Shh,” Astarion insisted, flapping a hand at her. He listened for another moment, leaning forward to hear better. “Some congratulations on winning your attention…sincere wishes for his and your continued happiness…assurances that she thinks Gale nearly worthy of you…”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Ilaia said, grinning. On the log, Karlach leaned closer to whisper into Gale’s ear. He had looked pleased, but whatever she said next made the smile drop off his face and his eyes widen.

Astarion bit back a laugh, muffling it behind his hand. “And some very creative threats, well done, Karlach. He won’t forget those in a hurry.” Karlach stood, beaming down at Gale, and clapped him heavily on the shoulder before walking away; he seemed too dazed even to notice the slight smoking of his robes. Astarion made a thoughtful noise, relaxing back against the pillows again. “You know,” he said, “I take back what I said before. I think that terrifying woman might actually be the best person I know.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” Gale, apparently recovering, disappeared into his tent. Ilaia stood, giving Astarion’s hair an affectionate ruffle as she went; he made an irritable noise and slapped her hand away, but she could see him hiding a smile. “I’d better go and rescue him before he runs off into the woods again.”

“Enjoy yourself, darling. Just not too loudly.”

“Good night, Astarion.”

When she pushed back the flap of Gale’s tent, she paused for a moment just to observe him. Though it had scarcely been two minutes since she’d left Astarion—stopping by her own tent for a bottle of wine—Gale had already gotten lost in another book, sprawled back over his bedroll with a little mage-light floating overhead. She loved to see him like this: dark eyes intent on his reading; the lines of his body relaxed, the day’s tension long gone; his strong hands, cradling the book like a priceless treasure. She almost hated to disturb him, except that she’d been waiting all day to get him alone, and his desperation on the edge of Reithwin suggested he’d felt much the same way.

“Knock, knock,” she said softly, and he looked up with a start. The book tipped from his hands, forgotten; he gazed up at her with something akin to awe.

“Gods,” he said. “Every time you leave my sight, I convince myself you cannot possibly be as stunning as I remembered. And then I get the pleasure of seeing you again, and being proven wrong.”

Ilaia felt her cheeks flush at this, the dusky lavender of her skin darkening. “You might have missed your calling as a bard, Wizard of Waterdeep, if this is how you talk to girls.”

“Not to ‘girls,’” Gale countered, eyes creasing in a smile, as he reached up a hand to her in invitation. She took it, settling down beside him on the bedroll. “Only to you.”

He leaned in and kissed her then, nothing like their earlier kiss: soft and slow, glancing up through his lashes before pressing his lips to hers. Ilaia was no less affected for the gentleness of it, and she lost herself in it for a long moment, hands sliding to cup his bearded jaw and draw him closer. Somehow or another, they wound up lying flat, Gale’s hair fanning across the pillows while Ilaia lay propped up on his chest.

“I still cannot truly believe you’re here,” he murmured. “I half convinced myself it was a dream, a fit of madness from too long locked away in my tower.”

“I’m here,” she said simply, and gave him a little pinch for good measure. He laughed softly, his chest rising and falling beneath Ilaia’s folded arms.

“And you’re…” He trailed off, his expression clouding a little. She reached up, stroking his hair back from his face and waiting for him to find the words. “You’re certain you want this, then? I promise not to be the sort of lover who requires constant reassurance,” he added quickly, as though worried she would get up and leave. “Only, the nature of our relationship changed…rather dramatically, and very quickly. It would be understandable if you were having. Well. Second thoughts.”

She could see what it cost him to ask the question. All the lovely looseness had gone out of his body, and the line between his brows had deepened in worry. Not for the first time, Ilaia cursed Mystra. How could someone ever be secure in the love of a goddess? How could there ever be equality, when he was only one among her throngs of worshippers  and she had been his world entire since boyhood? “I’m not sure it was quite as drastic a change as it seemed,” Ilaia said gently. “The more I think back, the more I believe it was already there. I couldn’t see it for what it was—I didn’t know I was going to kiss you until I’d done it—but once I had, it was more of a realization than anything else.”

“You realized I was more handsome than you’d thought?” Gale teased, though the uncertainty still lurked around the edges of his smile.

“Oh, no, darling, I always knew that,” she assured him, laughing. “I thought you were gorgeous from the moment I pulled you out of the portal. But then you had to go and open your mouth, and ruin it all.”

Gale was laughing now, too, the tension in the air dissipating. “I do tend to have that effect on people,” he admitted. His hand was stroking the ridges of her spine, down between her shoulder blades; it felt so heavenly she nearly lost her train of thought. But this was important.

“I’m so rarely certain of anything,” she said quietly. “Not of myself. Not of the decisions I’ve made on this journey. Not of what tomorrow will bring. I can’t pretend to be certain that this will all work out, that we’ll survive Ketheric Thorm and the tadpole and Baldur’s Gate and whatever awaits us there. And I can’t pretend to be certain that you and I will live happily ever after. But.” She shifted forward, looking into his beautiful eyes with her own mismatched ones, and hoped he could see the sincerity there. “I’m certain I care for you. I’m certain I want you. And I’m certain I want to try. More certain than I’ve been of anything in ages.”

It was the best honest answer she could give, and she wasn’t at all sure it would be enough; but Gale wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight and burying his face in her neck. “Then I want that, too,” he whispered, muffled against her skin. She pressed a kiss to the side of his head, clinging to him, letting him feel the assurance in her touch.

When she felt the atmosphere shifting—felt that Gale’s sudden concern had passed—she decided to venture a little further. “Is that all you want, then?” she asked, as he lifted his head in confusion. “Only, I seem to remember someone telling me all about his desire for stimulation after the battle earlier.”

Gale smirked; Ilaia had never been so pleased to see it. “Oh, my desire, is that what you remember? Because I recall being pushed up against a wall—quite rudely, mind, and—”

She kissed him again. (Some tricks were worth repeating.) Lovers or no, it seemed they were destined to argue, as natural as breathing. They would bicker in bed, on battlefields, across the campfire, across the lanceboard. They would, undoubtedly, drive every one of their poor companions entirely mad.

And she would have it no other way.