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They find Elminster outside of Sorcerous Sundries as they leave. He looks serious, dour even. The moment he sees Gale he strides towards them, face set. “Gale, m’boy-“ he freezes. “What have you done?” The old man looks terrified, his serious mien giving way to horror.
Their entire party comes to a stop, forming a semicircle with Gale in the middle, keeping the crowd a few steps away. “Elminster. What do you mean?”
He steps even closer, putting his hands on Gale’s shoulders, shaking him. “Your soul, m’boy. What have you done to it?” His voice shakes as he speaks, carrying more dread than it had even when delivering Gale the news of his impending death.
Gale grabs at his arms, stilling him, and behind him he hears his party moving closer, preparing to intervene. He knows they wouldn’t be able to do anything against the archmage in front of him, but the knowledge that they would is heartening. “I- how do you mean? What is wrong with my soul?”
Elminster draws in a breath, seemingly steeling himself, yet he still looks devastated when he speaks. “It’s in pieces.”
Behind him, Astarion huffs. “I think pieces is a bit of a strong word. It’s just two.” Neither wizard reacts though, and he can feel Gale’s fear and upset pulsing in his chest. He is doing better, but his encounter with Orin still affects him. It’s easy to step up next to him, to offer support, to thrum the strings of light suspended inside of him and send some comfort to his partner, even when facing someone so much stronger than him, someone he’d much rather run away from.
He feels a responding thrum from Gale as the wizard shuffles a half-step closer. “I- Elminster, please speak plainly.”
“You have split your soul boy.” The despair is giving way to anger, incongruent with his usual kindly demeanor.
It takes a few seconds of intense silence, of Gale and Elminster locking eyes in silent conversation before Gale looks away, blushing. “Ah.”
“‘Ah.’? Is that all you have to say?” He throws his hands up, scowling. “You are informed that you have sinned so gravely that your very soul is dying in its shell, and you respond with ‘Ah.’?”
Gale falters. “I was aware that a piece of my soul was… otherwise occupied.” He shifts in place, shuffling his feet in clear discomfort, one that rings loud through their bond. “I wasn’t aware of how visible it would be to the trained eye, though.”
Elminster sighs, deflating, once again taking on the appearance of a disappointed mentor. “I know Mystra’s rejection is a hard blow, but Gale, becoming a lich is not the answer.”
For a second the very air around them seems to still, the entire party freezing in place with it before Gale sputters, blinking furiously. “A lich?!”
The older wizard levels him a flat look. “You are storing part of your soul outside of your body,” he deadpans.
Gale’s hands come up defensively, palms out as if to fend Elminster off. “I- yes, that is true, but I have done none of the other things necessary to become one.”
“Then how did your soul end up in there?!” He points an accusatory finger at Astarion.
“Oh, I’m allowed to be a part of this conversation now?” He’s almost pressed up against Gale’s side, closer than is maybe advisable if this ends up going the way it seems, but he needs to be close if he wants to be able to step between them, to take the blow. Gale was there for him when confronting Cazador, and Gale needs him to be here now, when confronting his past.
“No.” Elminster glares. It looks wrong on his kindly face. “I will not speak to a phylactery. Animated or otherwise.”
Gale bristles, sparks popping along the skin of his hands as he shuffles a half-step in front of Astarion. “He is a person!”
The look Elminster levels him with is almost pitying, it would almost be compassionate, the way you look at a child who doesn’t understand what they’ve done wrong, if it wasn’t filled with so much contempt. “It is an undead abomination that you are using to store your soul.”
“‘It’ can hear you, you know,” Astarion pipes up from over Gale’s shoulder, refusing to be talked over. He has spent so long convincing himself he’s not an object, he won’t let some old man come in and take all that progress away, especially not one who treats Gale like this.
Elminster waves a hand, and he feels magic curl around his throat. It digs in, sharp, and when he opens his mouth again no sound comes out. Attempting to speak is like coughing up shards of glass, sharp and painful and useless. The pressure around his throat isn’t anything like a hand, but the shade of Cazador’s fingers still clutch at him, reminding him of other times when he wasn’t allowed to speak.
A sharp flare of something sweeps through his chest, warm and soothing, feral and biting. “Elminster! Stop it! He hasn’t done anything!” As he speaks, Gale’s magic flares up around him, a bright purple-blue-pink-silver shroud.
Off to the side, Karlach turns to Shadowheart and mumbles. “What the fuck is a phylactery?”
Shadowheart turns to her, facing away just enough that Elminster can’t see her mouth, trusting Karlach to watch her back. “It’s the thing a lich puts their soul into.”
Karlach makes a face, scrunching her eyebrows together in confusion. “But… Astarion’s not a thing? And Gale’s not a lich?”
She lets out a soft huff, glancing over at Astarion before responding. “That’s what seems to be the issue, yes.” With that, she turns back, facing Elminster again, face set.
Gale’s magic winds up Astarion’s body, warm and gentle like a hug. It settles over his throat, and the pain lessens, just slightly. It doesn’t stop, though, and no sounds escape his mouth, every attempt cutting and tearing. The pressure settles harder now that the pain has softened, choking him, preventing any air from getting into his lungs. He doesn’t need to breathe, but the sensation of choking still ignites a panic in him, the memory of a larger body, a harsh hand, an even harsher voice.
A loud voice cuts off his attempts to breathe. “Him existing is the issue!” Magic more powerful than any they’ve encountered so far on their adventure whips up around Elminster. “What have you done to yourself, boy?”
“Wasn’t a lich that thing that that ‘Mystic Carrion’ was?” Karlach continues, not so much ignoring the threat as simply compartmentalizing it. If Elminster is upset that Gale is a lich, simply proving he isn’t should be a good enough solution. “Gale doesn’t look anything like that.”
“I- he holds a piece of my soul, yes, just as I hold a piece of his.” He feels Gale’s desperation growing, sitting heavy in his own chest as Gale shuffles even further in front of him, now blocking him almost entirely from Elminster’s view. “He is a person.”
With a start he realizes that the thing Gale is upset about is not, in fact, getting mistaken for a lich, but Astarion being referred to as property.
Gale is so stupid. Gods, does he love him.
He presses at their connection, unsure if he can communicate anything more advanced than vague feelings. They could, when he was carrying Gale inside of him, and have managed small things before, but he doesn’t have the focus to remember how. He does his best to press a sense of ‘I’m okay’ across it, because he is, even if he’s in pain and being talked down to. Gale is here, he’s fighting for him, and that makes it okay. When Gale turns to look at him he does his best to replicate it on his face, pushing down the pained grimace with practiced ease. He’s not sure if it works, but Gale nods at him before he turns back to Elminster.
Even without seeing his face he can tell Gale’s mind is racing, scrubbing for anything to correct their course, any solution that leaves them alive after this confrontation. They all know they won’t win this fight, not like this, not when already exhausted from fighting Lorroakan. Probably not even if they were fully rested. He feels the moment something clicks, maybe in him, maybe in Gale, but he can tell they both came to the same conclusion at the same time. There’s a reason they were just fighting Lorroakan, after all.
Gale squares his shoulders, eyes locked on Elminster, projecting far more courage than what Astarion can feel he possesses. “We have an aasimar paladin traveling with us. I think she, at the very least, would have noticed if someone in our party became a lich.”
Elminster seems to actually consider his words, not backing down, but not advancing against them either. After a moment, he hums, stroking a hand down his beard. “Very well, I would like to speak to her, in that case. Her insight on this situation might be valuable.”
“We would be glad to bring you to her.” Gale’s voice is hard. “If you would be so kind as to also give my companion his voice back.”
The magic coiling in his throat snaps out of place, leaving behind a continued feeling of crushed glass even as his voice returns. “In Gale’s defense, it wasn’t really clear what would happen at the time.” It comes out hoarse and croaking, but he can speak again, and that’s what really matters. No one is choking him. No one is stealing his voice. He has full control of his body.
The look Gale sends him tells him that his input very much is not helping.
Still, the party joins them on their way back to the Elfsong. They all seem confused about the proceedings, and he can tell that Karlach wants to pull him off to the side to ask what’s going on. She waits though, as even though Elminster has removed his spell, he watches Astarion like a hawk, magic simmering just below his skin. He feels the mage’s eyes burning into him the whole way back to their camp.
The walk is awkward and tense, but luckily calm. Outwardly calm, at least. In his chest their bond beats with steady thrums of anxiety, his or Gale’s he can’t tell. At this point their feelings flow together more often than not, a constant lapping of waves, mixing and melding, only the peaks of the breakers meriting attention.
The inn is far too used to them coming and going at odd hours in odd groups for anyone to give them more than a glance as they arrive.
In their rooms it’s easy to spot Aylin, standing by Isobel in her usual spot, almost glowing with victory, the joy of a battle well fought. She turns to them with a grin, though her face falls slightly as she takes in their strained mood.
“Companions, what ails you? We have fought well and won, what misfortune drags your spirits down so?” Her voice carries its usual booming cadence, but her eyes flick wearily to the arch mage in the midst.
“We were approached with a… concern…” Gale speaks haltingly as he leads the group further into the room. Aylin steps forward as if to meet them, placing herself between them and Isobel, gaze locked on Elminster.
The arch mage clears his throat, clasping his hands in front of his body. “Were you aware of the situation regarding Gale and his…” He pauses, looking almost pained. “His companion.” There’s a clear note of distaste in his voice when he says it.
Aylin’s wings puff up as she straightens further, posture just a hair from battle ready. “Their love is pure. What is your quarrel with their relationship?”
Elminster straightens in turn, his hands falling to his sides in what, on anyone else, would have been an unthreatening pose. “The very nature of it-” He’s cut off by an angry noise from Aylin.
”Do you quarrel with love? With companionship?” Her posture is now overtly aggressive, one hand resting on the pommel of her blade.
”Not at all! Simply the… I do not enjoy saying this, as you might well tell, but it needs to be said, to be spoken so that the matter might be put to rest. Please, ease an old man’s mind. What have you discerned of the nature of their more… metaphysical bond?”
She sneers at him, face hard, and for a moment it seems as though she’s going to attack him right then and there. Then, her entire body slumps slightly. Not in a way that decreases her readiness, but as if the anxious tension has been cut out of her in one fell swoop as pale fingers curl around her shoulder. She glances back at Isobel, wings swooping back to cover her more completely, and speaks. “Their bond is as pure as their love. I have seen it. Whichever worries you may have, lay them to rest. They are in no danger from their bound souls.”
”But he is a lich.”
Aylin cocks her head to the side, letting her eyes trail over Gale. “Is he? He seems very… pure, for one such as that.”
Elminster lets out a frustrated groan. “Why is that the response I keep receiving from you people? His soul is in pieces!”
She gestures to Astarion. “And those pieces seem to be well taken care of and content. There has been no trace of dark magic on either of them, not that they have been the source of. There is more to souls than you know, mage.” Her eyes lock with Elminster’s. “You do not know everything simply because your mistress claims to.”
Her words seem to hit Elminster almost physically, and he steps back. “I do not see it this way, but I will bow out to your superior expertise in this matter. This once. If he becomes a danger, know that I have warned you, and that, until he becomes the world’s problem, he will be your problem.”
With that, he turns on his heel and marches out, not even sparing Gale a glance as he leaves.
The moment the door slams behind him Gale sags, all the fight going out of him at once, the release of tension knocks through Astarion too, leaving him breathless. “That could have gone better.”
He shuffles closer to Gale, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It could have gone a lot worse, too.”
Wet brown eyes meet his, not crying, not quite, but desperate. “He wants you dead!”
”Many have.” The hand on Gale’s shoulder trails upwards, cupping his cheek. “None have succeeded. None will.”
The bond is taut with despair, heavy and almost suffocating in its intensity as Gale tilts his face into Astarion’s palm. “There’s so much- We have so much we need to do. How do we even deal with this?” One of his hands reaches up to grasp at Astarion’s shirt. “We only just defeated-“ His breath catches in his throat, but he soldiers on. “Defeated Orin. We barely have the time to handle Gortash. When are we supposed to handle this?”
He threads his hand into Gale’s hair, tugging him down so his forehead rests on Astarion’s shoulder. “We will handle it afterwards. Because we will make it through. We will win this, and then we will have forever to make sense of everything else, okay darling?”
Gale’s breath hitches, and he slumps forward into Astarion. “After.” He drags in a slow shaky breath. “After we make it through.”
His arms wrap around Gale’s back holding him tighter. “And we will.”