Chapter Text
Somehow, everyone survived. Somehow they had outrun rushing water and horrid fish people and a godsdamned devil to make it out alive.
Shadowheart is still getting used to the feeling. The saving people, that is– the wound in her hand is a familiar pain now. The clanky old submarine echoes with thank the gods we’re alive laughter. The smiles around her spark something new and warm in her heart, and she holds on to them like memories she might lose again.
Karlach is recapping the fight like it’s some tavern story, swinging her arms with such abandon that Jaheira needs to duck in her seat. Wyll sits next to his father with a relief that shouldn’t be so obvious on such a young face. Even icy Astarion has a smile as he sits primly across from the Gondians– she’ll have to tease him about his ruined curls later, then.
And… Gale. It had been a close call for him, hadn’t it? Brave, so smart he’s often stupid, Gale. Standing at the ladder and urging her up with fire blazing in his palms. He had tried to give her a boost with the other hand, which honestly was more hindrance than help. But the gentle way his hands hovered at her calves was so endearing in its misplaced chivalry.
In the end it had been her that had pulled Gale up and onto the deck.
“We must stop meeting like this,” she teased as he tumbled on top of her with a stammered apology.
His hand in hers was still warm with magic as the door clattered shut behind them.
“Couldn’t agree more,” he countered with a smile.
When he laughed she could count the crinkles around his eyes. Etched into his face from years of joy, with many more to come.
Neither of them moved. The chaos was all muted voices and bodies around them as they both seemed to take stock that they had, indeed, made it out alive.
But now, with all their limbs accounted for and the engines whirring to life, Gale’s hand is still in hers. His thumb absentmindedly strokes across her wound just as it begins to flare up. The arcane heat of his skin is a balm against the bone-deep pain, and for a moment Shadowheart just breathes through the penance of another good deed.
Gale meets her gaze, kindness and worry brimming over in those big brown eyes. He must see the pinch of her brow, the flare of her nostrils, the way her shoulders are drawn up upon a string. And for once in his life he seems to understand without it being spelled out. He squeezes her hand, thumb covering the wound as if it were never there.
Gale is close enough she can smell the campfire in his hair and the lingering rosewater-ozone Weave upon his robes. He’s still awkwardly sprawled on top of her, catching his breath in short little huffs that disturb wayward strands of hair against her face.
Without reason beyond the wild beat of their hearts, Shadowheart finds herself overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him. She wants to capture his lips in the kind of thank the gods we’re alive embrace from the novels she snuck between cloister teachings. She wants to just… want, without worry, in the safety of Gale’s long hair curtaining them away from the world.
But then they both look down at where they are holding on to each other for dear life, and she starts to laugh. She can’t help it: it’s a bubbly, delirious thing that can only come from cheating death. Gale joins her a beat later. His own laugh is warm and rich but no less lost to madness.
He collapses on his back next to her. The moment fades to nothing but another pleasant memory. They lay shoulder to shoulder, watching the water rush down in frothy rivulets down the glass top submarine as it ascends. It’s… nice.
And suddenly Shadowheart decides that nice can just be nice, for now, without some looming penance to be paid in kind.
So as they dock in that dingy old warehouse, she takes Gale’s hand again. She hoists the bewildered wizard up like he weighs nothing– because in all honestly even soaking wet, he’s nothing compared to chainmail and the crushing weight of godly machinations on her shoulders.
“Fine work back there. We might have use for you on the front lines yet.”
“Ah! For you I’d don the longsword and plate, my lady,” he says with a little bow. “Though… I don’t suppose you know any dwarves? I might collapse under the weight of anything heavier than mithril.”
She laughs. “Expensive taste. And here I thought I was finished with funding your lavish lifestyle.” She grazes his collarbones: a tease, just a tease, in the comedown. “You might have to start earning your keep.”
“And here I thought I’d done just that,” he replies, ducking his head in a bashful sort of way that makes her want to tip it back up. Anything for another moment of those warm brown eyes on her.
She smiles instead. “You’re adorable. Don’t worry– I’m not one to keep a tally of debts owed.”
And then, because she’s feeling particularly brave (or maybe particularly stupid, but she’s coming to realize it they both taste the same when soaked in hot adrenaline) she rises up on her toes to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“How about I just call you my hero for now… and perhaps I’ll keep your gracious offer in mind. For safer times.”
He’s quite pretty when he blushes, isn’t he. The kiss is lost in the reverie of freedom around them but that? That’s all for her.
“Of course.”
She can only enjoy it for a moment before Karlach’s resounding fuck yes bounces all around the sheet metal walls. Another round of we’re alive, thank the heavens and hells we’re all fucking alive laughter echoes around the warehouse.
The Steel Watch hums to life somewhere outside the thick doors. Instead of quieting, their laughter just gets wilder because– of course it does. Luck has run its course today and now all that’s left is lightning-hot adrenaline from cheating death. Of course they’re all godsdamn cursed, born under the full moon so they can run wild in the dark, meant to be here, like this, teetering on the edge of the dark like babes lost in the woods–
Gale’s hand slips into hers again and they run for their lives for the second time that night.
The warehouse doors swing open and Shadowheart is hit with a gust of ocean-chilled night air. The party splits with a wordless promise they’ll meet back at The Elfsong. She pulls Gale forward, following Astarion and Jaheira’s white shocks of hair in front of them as they dash through the shadows.
Minutes later, when they’re catching their breath in some alleyway that smells of sick and ale, Shadowheart looks up to see the full moon. How Selune– maybe– is smiling down on them, as silvery cards of moonlight upon elvish hair that the Steel Watch could never see.
“Hush, all of you.” Jaheira’s voice is commanding, even if it is hissed through her teeth. “We are not out of the woods yet. Or the city, sadly, but we must pick our battles.”
“It’s not me who needs reminding,” Astarion whispers back.
How odd it is that Gale cannot see the three pairs of elven eyes staring him down in the dark as he gasps for breath. Shadowheart casts her gaze up, her arms hugged to her own breast, in something between a prayer and a curse.
She wonders if it’s some terrible divine answer, that she can still see Astarion’s hair in moonglow silver as he presses himself into a crook in the alleyway without a care for the rest of them. If it’s Selune or Shar that cloaks her in shadow when she ducks behind some forgotten cart. She has to wonder who guides her hand to Gale’s robes as she yanks him down with her– to a safety that Jaheira nods approvingly at across the way.
When she slips a hand over his mouth, though, she knows that’s her own doing.
Gale’s eyes go wide and he lets her pin him to the alley wall with just her palm. She can feel his breath come in short, hot huffs across her knuckles.
And suddenly Shadowheart wants to do far more than just kiss him.
They are safe, after a few tortuous beats. The danger fades as the pneumatic hiss-thunk of the Watch moves on to easier prey. Somewhere to her left, Jaheira sighs and sheaths two swords Shadowheart hadn’t even seen her draw.
“With luck the old rust buckets might be foolish enough to walk into the harbor, hm?” She chuckles and the sound puts Shadowheart at an immediate ease. “Come. These old bones have done enough running away for one night.”
“Agreed. I didn’t exactly dress for late night escapades,” Shadowheart says.
She moves to let Gale go, but a sudden spectre on her right is tutting far too close to her ear.
“Ah– just a moment, darling,” Astarion grins and she sees Gale’s eyes dart to where he’s suddenly standing over them. He hums, swaying a little on the balls of his feet with a content little grin.
Shadowhart cocks her head. “What is it?”
“Why, I’m enjoying the silence.” He puts a hand over his heart. “It’s not often we have a moment where Gale is so… otherwise occupied. I’d be a fool to take it for granted.”
There’s a beat. She can feel Gale swallow. His eyes flick up to hers, awaiting freedom, and it sends a shock down her spine. Shadowheart drops her hand from Gale’s mouth and tries not to think about how the warmth of his lips and the prickle of his beard lingers on her skin.
“I’m glad one of us can be so glib in the face of death, Astarion,” Gale sneers as she helps him up. “Oh, wait. Forgive me, you’re already–”
“Come now, you two. Play nice.” Jaheira commands. She is already stalking through the alley, tracking pathways that had only seen Harper’s soles for some time. “You think I am not above boxing you both across the ears?”
“You heard the woman, Gale,” Astarion tosses back over his shoulder as he follows.
Gale shoots her a good-natured eyeroll and, with an after you gesture, they are off once more.
A giddy mixture of exhaustion and elation sits heavy on Shadowheart’s spine as they follow Jaheira’s lead. The alleyways are dark, even with her elven vision, and long shadows stretch out underneath the cover of stone walls and dilapidated wooden archways. Each cut of moonlight bathes them in an almost ethereal glow that lasts for only a heartbeat before they delve back into the shadows, Jaheira’s pace practiced and unforgiving.
Gale’s hand, softer than she ever expected, grips hers tight as he rolls an ankle on the old cobblestone. Belatedly, she realizes that he can’t see like this. Had he simply been too embarrassed to admit he needed them to slow down?
“Think you can manage yourself until we get back to the Elfsong?” she asks, knocking her shoulder against his just to watch him catch himself from falling again. His palm is warm, a lifeline connecting their bodies in the darkness. How kind of him to trust her. “Perhaps I should carry you. Which would you prefer: bridal style, or slung over my shoulder?”
“While those are both quite titillating prospects, and I am loath to deny such a generous offer, I’d like to enter the establishment with my dignity intact.”
“What, you don’t want to be my spoils of war?” Shadowheart teases. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but she swears Gale’s cheeks are flushed.
“I didn’t say that,” he replies matter-of-factly, though his voice drops to something only for her. She doesn’t tell him that no matter how quiet he is, elven ears will pick up even the lowest whisper. “I simply have a reputation to uphold.”
“What are you two lovebirds twittering about? Try to keep up, now.” Astarion jeers. “Or need I remind you of the merriment we’re missing out on? I know booze and bosoms don’t hold the same appeal as books and your bedroll to you wizards, but some of us like to enjoy life’s little pleasures.”
“Do you think so lowly of me, Astarion?” Gale replies as he massages his ankle, hissing in discomfort before standing straight again. “While I am guilty as charged on all counts for crimes of academic betterment, I can assure you I am quite familiar with debauchery. Why, you should have seen me in my academy days. My dance card at the Blackstaff Ball was full by the turn of the evening.”
Five paces ahead of them, Jaheira snorts. “Ah, Gale. You reminisce like some sad retired hero, you know. Enjoy your youth. Trust me that there is plenty of time to be a bitter, grousing old man.”
“Why Jaheira, he simply can’t help it! He’s an old soul.” Astarion says, twirling on his heel to appraise Gale. “Yes. An old, brittle, dusty, decrepit soul.”
Then, as if showing off, Astarion glides through the lower city alleyway– quite a picture, in his natural habitat; all bone white curls and half-second glints of blades.
“Besides,” he drawls, leaning against some old crates as he blocks her and Gale’s path like some lech in a tavern. “I was talking about dancing of the more, mm, horizontally inclined type.”
Shadowheart cocks her head. Something unfamiliar blooms in her chest– something that has her stepping in between the two men despite standing a head shorter than them both.
Though she’s less and less a friend of the dark nowadays, she can work just as well as he can with a little moonlight guiding the way. With a swift kick to the rotting baskets beneath, Astarion’s flirtatious lean turns sour as he gracelessly tumbles forward with an undignified squeak.
“Oops.”
He catches himself easily enough. For a moment she’s afraid she’s really offended him– the look on his face is all hurt– before he breaks into a hearty chuckle.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had laid claim to flirting with the wizard.”
What? I haven’t– Shadowheart wrings her hands on instinct. Her first instinct is to defend. To retreat with a none of your business, thank you very much. But there’s no snarl or switch awaiting the truth now, is there. There’s only Astarion’s easy laughter, Jaheira’s good-natured eye roll, and the addictive flush of Gale’s cheeks.
So instead she flicks her braid over her shoulder and grins back. “I haven’t entirely. I’d wager you just need better lines.”
Astarion pouts. “Shouldn’t dear Gale be the judge of that?”
“Oh, please, don’t fight on my account. There is room enough on the card for you both,” Gale jokes back, though his laugh is decidedly more nervous than normal. Shadowheart can’t help but giggle when he seems to realize what he’s implied. “Er– that is not to say– colourful metaphors aside, I mean–”
“If the three of you are finished making eyes at each other… we’re here,” Jaheira calls some few feet ahead, half hidden behind a rough-hewn rocky corner. “As long as you don’t mind a little…eh, light legwork, let’s say.”
“Coming mother,” Astarion sing-songs. He leaves them with a wink and a look to Shadowheart that says they’ll be sharing a bottle over these few seconds very, very soon.
She can’t wait.
It turns out light legwork is more light breaking and entering, but it’s not as if any of them have any grounds to complain. Gale puts up a little fight, but he’s quickly silenced when Astarion jokingly asks Shadowheart if she can gag him once more.
Jaheira works a brick on the side of the tavern.
“I knocked this one out during some of my…mm, youthful misadventures, shall we say. I did not mean to send that goon flying right next to the Elfsong’s door but you live and–” The brick comes loose, revealing the Elfsong’s cloakroom behind. Astarion gasps and gives a muted little applause. “- And you learn, and you make some handy escape routes when green little Harpers can’t leave well enough alone in a tavern full of lower city thugs.”
Jaheira snakes her slender arm through the hole in the wall and opens the backdoor with a triumphant click. Then, after an appraising shrug and a smile, she slots the loose brick back in place and gestures to Astarion with a wry smile. “Age before beauty, as I think the saying goes.”
“I will ignore that to say: impressive,” Astarion says, grinning ear to ear. Leave it to him, she supposes. “You little rogue, you.”
“Eh, I am a sneak thief for pragmatic purposes only. Though perhaps I should consider a new career considering the terrible pay such morals afford.”
Jaheira ushers them all in through the secret opening. One by one they step into a cramped little space, full of cloaks and hats that still carry the smokey, industrial chill of the Gate. Astarion leans with his back against the exit door, leaving Shadowheart and Gale in the middle. She shoots him a good natured glare– I know that was on purpose, you little pest– and he responds with an innocent pout.
But she can’t complain. It has her all wrapped up in Gale once more. In the scents that cling to him and the sudden tremble of his hands and heat of his skin.
Does she also look as nervous as she feels? Do her cheeks betray her just as his do, all pink from just some… hand holding?
But as Jaheira steps in and closes the door behind them, Gale’s hand tentatively settles on her lower back. She wordlessly asks permission to crowd him against the coats and he stumbles back. She knows she’s blushing now, chest to chest with him with the strength of his palm keeping her close.
“My. What will people think, the four of us slinking out of the cloakroom like this?” Astarion jokes with an ear already against the door to the tavern’s main hall. The distant bustle of merry laughter and song sneaks through old wood to tease against Shadowheart’s ears like a kiss.
“They will be thinking how four people managed to do much of anything in a two by two closet.” Jaheira deadpans. “I take it you can handle the door, Astarion. Or do you require some more wisdom from your elders?”
“A hands on lesson from the Jaheira? How could I say no?” Astarion teases back.
“You just did. On with it before I die of old age in a dingy cloakroom.”
Astarion offers a dramatic sigh. He shoos them off as he cracks the door just so. A second later, “No scandals for us this evening, I’m afraid. All clear.”
Astarion slips out the view and beckons them all forward. He ushers them out with a showman’s grin and Shadowheart thinks– maybe– that it’s payback for her kicking his feet out from under him.
But the annoyance fades as they enter the tavern proper. Shadowheart can’t deny the guilt-relief-guilt she feels once more when she spots the rest of their party safe at the bar. The all-clear comes from Karlach downing a tankard in tandem with Wyll– both their knuckles curled around the pewter handles brushing as they clinked mugs. She gives them a small wave and sees the relief in their faces, then, too.
Minsc slaps Wyll on the back and Shadowheart wishes she could freeze time. She feels a welcome lump form in her throat when she sees Boo’s hindlegs scurry up to Lae’zel’s shoulder to whisper something in her ear that the gith takes deadly seriously.
It’s almost… voyeuristic, watching the flushed-cheek joy upon their friends’ faces.
Gale is behind her once more– a respectable distance, for a respectable man.
For now.
He smiles down at her with such warmth she almost feels guilty for being out of the shadows. “How wonderful it is to see friends cast off the burdens of the world. Even if only for a night.”
“That cannot be comfortable,” she replies, knocking her chin at the way Minsc pinches Wyll’s shoulders in a bid to ready him for the next round of drinks.
“I can tell you it is not.” Jaheira says from behind them. “Now, no use skulking in the shadows tonight. Go, go. Enjoy yourselves. A battle hard won deserves a harder to face morning, I’d say.”
“We’d be remiss not to buy you a drink. Considering you broke us into your old stomping grounds,” Gale offers.
Shadowheart is still transfixed by their friends at the bar. Teeth and cheek to cheek smiles that curl around her like something she can sink down into. Astarion has already joined them– crinkle eyed and demure as he– oh, there he goes.
“I think Astarion might have this round,” Shadowheart murmurs, watching as he effortlessly pockets one, no, two, three coin purses from the revelers around them. She rolls her eyes. Quite the professional. “And the round after that, and that, and… well. You all have eyes.”
“Ah, a shame. We will have to take it out of his wages,” Jaheira deadpans. “But. I’m afraid the swill of the lower city doesn’t quite agree with this elder pedigreed druid. So, I bid you a goodnight and good luck getting the stink of the harbor out of your hair.”
“Surely you’re not just going to…” Shadowheart pauses, caught between herself and that familiar safe shadow of defense. “I mean to say. It’d be a waste not to celebrate today’s success together.”
Jaheira smiles at her like they share a secret. “Did I say I had no plans for celebration?”
There is something suspended in the air between them. Something that demands a kind of attention, an acknowledgement Shadowheart cannot give– not with Astarion’s fingers in someone else’s coin purse and Gale’s eyes staring down at her looking for answers. She doesn’t want this to end with a collective exhale; not when this dance has just begun. She chews at her lip, lost, somewhere between a leader and follower and entirely terrible at both, before she catches Astarion’s eyes across the bar.
He has both elbows propped up on the stained wooden countertops. Old water stained rings pepper around his arms as little targets to drum his restless nails against. Somehow through the crowd of ‘end of the world’ revelers he catches her gaze and shoots her a wry smile.
Shadowheart returns it with a quirk of her brow. “Jaheira’s right. The bar is a little… rowdy, for my tastes,” she murmurs, before nodding her assent to Astarion.
Astarion holds up a graceful, if a little condescending, hand to the barkeep. He leans back to peer over his companions, counting himself, her, Gale (with a not particularly well concealed eye roll), and, it seems, Jaheira.
Shadowheart flicks her gaze down to his new, shiny coin purse. So he is buying the rounds. A generosity that she’s sure he’ll expect paid back in spades.
She holds up four fingers in return.
Astarion bows and, with a whisper to the bartender, he seems to order…something. She doesn’t dwell too much on her own unknown tastes; she’ll drink anything in green glass as long as it settles warm and safe in her bones.
Astarion points upstairs like it’s a question.
And when she turns to follow the gesture, she sees Jaheira’s already heading up.
Shadowheart squeezes her eyes shut– get it together– before grounding herself in the thrumming buzz of the tavern. She puts up the brave face she’s been wearing for months. It’s a little cracked but still good, still unapproachable, still all Shadowheart without a trace of Jenevelle. For now.
And then, with a kiss blown across the barroom floor, Astarion takes four goblets in two graceful hands and spins on his heel without spilling a drop. She watches as he saunters upstairs behind Jaheira and a pout that says “Well? Are you coming or not?”
“Oh,” Gale finds his voice, but falters on his feet. Like he wants to follow but is waiting for permission.
“Oh,” is all Shadowheart can say. An echo of agreement.
But it’s him that breaks the silence first.
“Ehm. I’d say– and I do hate to be presumptive– that would be an invitation. Stamped in blood and claw.” Gale’s eyes follow the slosh of wine glasses up the stairs.
“...Do you think?”
“Oh yes, do I think. Quite a bit. Enough to get me into all sorts of trouble,” Gale says with a faraway smile. “It’s a terrible detriment to my health.”
Shadowheart laughs. It seems he’s rubbing off on her. Too much thinking, planning, worrying when they just cheated death for the thousandth time and they’re going to wake up and do it all again tomorrow.
Might as well make waking up interesting, for once. Might as well make the all encompassing pain of being good worth it beyond a few congratulations and watered-down ales.
With a small, courageous huff, she wordlessly squeezes Gale’s hand and tugs him through the crowd. They make it to the stairs before someone lets out a whooping cheer behind them.
It seems they are not so blessed with Astarion’s and Jaheira’s graceful skill of goodbyes, then. No matter. Let them wonder, and let them hopefully forget in the wash of tomorrow’s hangovers. Each creaking wooden step adds another note in this strange song that wraps around them all this evening. And Shadowheart just thanks– well, whatever god is watching her now– that Gale blushes so thoroughly that her own is barely noticeable as she drags him up the stairs.
