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Talking to Gale somehow felt like it was both the easiest and the hardest thing to do in the world.
Easy, because Gale loved to talk. And nine times out of ten, Rhune genuinely enjoyed listening to him. By now, Rhune knew exactly the right questions to ask in order to prod Gale into telling a story, or send him on a long, winding tangent. He knew what to say to get under Gale’s skin and start a heated debate for the fun of it. How to ask for Gale’s opinion when they were planning their next move as a group, on the off-chance that Gale hadn’t readily volunteered his thoughts at the start.
Rhune was still learning how to apologize when he struck a nerve too harshly, or too deep. How to tell Gale that he was important. That Rhune loved him. Those were much more difficult things to say.
But those, for some reason, all paled in comparison to the thing currently haunting him, the words stuck on the tip of Rhune’s tongue that refused to budge, no matter how hard he tried.
Maybe because Rhune had so much to lose now. More than ever before.
Hells, even talking about his strange, murderous urges felt easier than this: addressing the alarming note Rhune had found in the depths of the mind flayer colony under Moonrise. Penned in blood. All of it, except for a tiny addition at the very bottom of the page, in Rhune’s own handwriting.
He wasn’t entirely sure how he knew that it was blood, just from a glance— only that he did. And a thin scar on his left wrist had tingled and ached when he’d first read it, as if his veins and skin both remembered the quick slice, the sting, the crimson spill.
His brain didn’t actually remember anything about it, of course. Which was part of the problem. The note— a confession? A prayer?— read like the fevered ramblings of a madman. Obsession, cataclysm, destruction, slaughter.
Everyone will die. Everyone will die for YOU. I will make you proud.
Whenever he thought of it, whenever he struggled through the headache, clawing back at the void with bloodied fingernails to try to force himself to remember anything about it at all, Rhune felt like he was staring into one of the cracked mirrors in Shar’s Gauntlet, the ones that ate the light instead of reflecting it. The note held some of the answers Rhune had so desperately sought— about who he was, and where he’d come from— but all of the wrong ones.
He’d been working alongside them, before. With their enemies. This was how Ketheric Thorm had known who Rhune was. How the Absolute had known who he was. Her voice still curled like poisonous mist in the empty pockets of his mind, chilling him: Dark Urge.
The weight of this discovery gnawed at him incessantly, an unreachable itch he couldn’t satisfy. So much, that Rhune was beginning to wonder if the others suspected something was wrong.
Despite all of this, now that he had a little piece of his previous life in his grasp, Rhune felt hesitant to dispose of the evidence. He’d immediately crumpled the parchment up and shoved it into a pocket of his robes, ashamed, confused, yet greedy for it. Then, later, made a point of rearranging his pack where no one else could see him, so that it lay folded up at the very bottom, buried by supplies.
He should have just left it tucked away in a book somewhere in Moonrise. Even better, burned the fucking thing— it would be so simple with a cantrip, sparks leaping like hungry hounds from his fingertips. But something always gave him pause. It felt like actively destroying a part of himself that he hadn’t even realized existed. Though it painted a horrifying picture, Rhune found that he wasn’t ready to relinquish his hold on it yet.
And what a portrait it painted. “Father” and “Orin’s sibling” scrawled on the same page…
Rhune’s dream guardian had guessed that Orin, the strange woman they’d witnessed wielding one of the Netherstones, might be a Bhaalspawn. Rhune wasn’t clear on all of the specifics of what that meant— only that everyone else had cringed or shuddered at the very sound.
If Rhune was one as well, as the note seemed to suggest… how would the others react to that?
How would Gale react to that?
Would he still allow you to touch him, to place your hand against his neck and feel the steady thrumming of his pulse beneath your palm?
How easy it is, to send it speeding at your command, entirely at your mercy.
How easy it would be, to still it completely.
It would be disgustingly easy. He could slip a blade between Gale’s ribs and pierce his heart without Gale even realizing what had—
Shit— No.
Rhune inhaled sharply, and blinked down at what he was supposed to be doing: setting up Gale’s tent— the tent that Rhune now shared with him— while Gale got a head start on making food. Both of Rhune’s hands shook where he gripped tightly onto one of the thin wooden poles, the grain rough against his skin.
He slowly relaxed his hold. Blood worked its way back into numb fingers, and he took a much slower breath in and out again, heart beating loud in his pointed ears.
Still. Calm. Focus.
Think about something else.
It was difficult, though. Rhune felt like the violent daydreams, the impulses, were becoming increasingly unruly, fighting against his self-control in a way they never had before the night he’d been compelled to try to kill Gale, even counting that first excruciating day off of the nautiloid. Like he was being punished for resisting.
Forgive me, Father…
Gale had recently told Rhune by way of a whole bunch of overwhelmingly sweet words that, no matter who Rhune might have been before his memories were erased, Gale would remain by Rhune’s side. Would still love him. It was a foolish thing to promise; Rhune had even said as much. It didn’t make any fucking sense. And yet, in typical Gale fashion, the damn adorable wizard insisted that he knew what he was doing, what he was committing to, and gently brushed Rhune’s protests aside.
Gale knew about the urges, and the nightmares. Gale knew about Rhune killing poor Alfira in his sleep.
But would Gale have promised the same, if he was aware that Rhune might be a child of the Lord of Murder?
He was afraid to find out if there actually were limits to Gale’s seemingly unending affection, and his grace.
And even if no one happened to bat an eye about Rhune being a Bhaalspawn— what about all the rest of it?
Rhune was apparently one of the reasons why the majority of his current companions— his friends, people he’d grown to care about, people he trusted with his life, and who trusted him in turn— had magically-altered mind flayer parasites happily stewing in their skulls. How and why Rhune ended up the same way was still a mystery to him. But it was clear that he’d been initially involved with the plans. That he’d helped to orchestrate the horrors that had stolen so many others from their homes. That, at some point, he’d been fully aware of the nature of the Crown that Gale kept talking about. That Rhune had intended to use it to eventually bring about the end of everything.
Could he even mention this revelation in conversation, without the others immediately turning on him? “Sorry about the mind flayers and the cult, everyone, that’s my bad?” Just thinking about it made the dull background murmur of his frequent headaches grow into a blinding, stabbing roar.
And again: what would Gale say?
Lae’zel might call Rhune a coward, for keeping this to himself. Shadowheart and Astarion might instead respect the fact that he’d been biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity.
Regardless, how could Rhune stand to face them all, if he said something? Wyll, whose father had been kidnapped, then tadpoled before their very eyes, unable to do anything about it without giving up their position? Or Karlach— what well-deserved wrath awaited him, if Rhune told her that he’d worked with, even admired, the person who’d sold her to the Hells?
Had he once been aware of that facet of Gortash’s plans? Had Rhune hovered passively on the fringes while Gortash made the deal with Zariel’s people, waiting to congratulate him for obtaining gods only knew what the Banite had gotten in exchange?
Worse: had Rhune actively encouraged it?
There was a sudden clatter from clear across the campsite, quickly followed by Karlach’s vicious, creative swearing. She’d been busy with her own tent, attempting to put it together one-handed; Karlach’s recently-broken arm was in a sling while it finished healing naturally, at Shadowheart’s insistence. And the tent supports had collapsed in front of Karlach as soon as she’d started to drape the canvas over the top of them.
Rhune was almost grateful for the distraction, plucking him from the murky water of his rapidly spiraling thoughts. He stood up to go over and help her— then stopped short at the sight of Isobel also rushing to Karlach’s aid, with Dame Aylin on the cleric’s heels.
In the days since the two women joined their party, Rhune had been attempting to avoid any interaction with them beyond what was absolutely necessary. Not because he disliked them. The intense, all-consuming desire to mangle and murder Isobel, specifically, had eventually fallen silent, even before they’d departed the Shadow-Cursed Lands. But he didn’t want to risk it returning.
Rhune gulped, trying to decide what to do. Karlach seemed to have all the help she needed. He looked down at the disassembled pieces of the tent at his own feet for a moment, then decided he would come back to it later, since there was plenty of daylight left, the sun still well-above the horizon.
They’d been making fairly good time since leaving Reithwin, and had observed burnt out structures, felled trees, and other signs of the Absolute’s war force the entire way so far. This afternoon they’d spied a plume of black smoke in the distance, and as a precaution to make sure they didn’t stumble completely unprepared into the tail end of an army, they’d stopped earlier for the day than normal, a handful of the others breaking into two groups to scout the immediate area.
Rhune wasn’t the best at sneaking around, as Astarion often liked to remind him. So he’d stayed behind, to help set up camp.
Some help he was turning out to be.
He sighed, and resisted kicking at the mess of tent poles and canvas on the ground before wandering over to where Gale was busy preparing food for their evening meal.
At least, that’s what Rhune assumed Gale was doing. Gale had been particularly excited about one of the things they’d pilfered from the Moonrise kitchens: flour, he’d called it.
Now, Gale had his hair tied back and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and sat on a low stool with a tree stump directly before him. The flat wooden board he usually used for chopping vegetables was placed on top of the stump, while a mage hand clutched the far edge of the board to keep it steady. Rhune stood nearby and watched as Gale first measured out some of the flour onto the board, then emptied a small dish of what looked like raw scrambled egg into a shallow recess at the center of the pile of white powder. Gale took a moment to recast the cantrip when the mage hand disappeared, before he began to mix the flour and egg together using all ten of his fingers.
“What’s that you’re making?” Rhune asked. The whatever-it-was looked a bit gross, honestly.
Gale startled, and he turned to look over at where Rhune stood, his brown eyes wide, lips parted in surprise. Gods, he was adorable. Rhune wanted to step close, crouch down, and kiss him. But he also knew that Gale didn’t like being disturbed like that while he was in the middle of cooking.
“Gods above, I didn’t hear you approach— how long have you been standing there?” Gale was saying. “Perhaps you should have gone with the others after all, you’re far stealthier than I realized you were capable of.”
“Maybe you were just distracted. You are concentrating on a spell.”
Gale scoffed. “Hardly. I could concentrate on a cantrip such as this in my sleep.” He paused for a moment, as if waiting for Rhune to contradict him. Then shyly admitted, “Besides, under most circumstances, you are the distraction.”
“Oh, is that so? Can’t keep your eyes off me?” Rhune couldn’t help but grin as he moved to stand right across from Gale, on the other side of the improvised work station. Coming over to bother him was a good idea. Rhune felt a little better already.
Gale ducked his head and returned his attention to the board in front of him, pointedly avoiding Rhune’s teasing questions and his gaze. “I would assume since you’re loitering here, you’ve finished with assembling the tent?”
“Uh. No, not yet.”
That made Gale pause what he was doing to look up at Rhune again, brow furrowed with sudden concern. “What happened?” His eyes flicked down to glance at Rhune’s left thigh. “Is your leg wound still troubling you?”
During the fight against Myrkul’s avatar, Rhune had ended up within range of that giant fucking scythe. While Rhune typically healed quickly, this particular tear was taking its sweet time, even with the aid of magical healing. Especially with the aid of magic. Halsin had at first suggested some lingering necrotic energy from the weapon was to blame. But on closer inspection, the druid hadn’t been able to sense any, and no one else seemed to be similarly affected.
Which was annoying. But, thankfully, Rhune’s leg had barely ached all day. Maybe he was finally on the mend.
He shook his head to answer Gale’s question, then said, “You just looked like you could use a kiss. Or several.”
“See, that’s precisely the sort of distraction I mean. If this dough dries out, I’m blaming you.” Gale waggled a finger at him, hands coated in a shaggy mess of flour and egg. But he was smiling, and Rhune could see the evidence of a rosy blush heating the tan skin of his face and creeping down past his beard to his neck. “Keep your hands to yourself, you incorrigible scoundrel.”
“What about these?” Rhune said innocently, pointing at his lips.
“Those as well. For now, anyway.”
When the Gale-conjured mage hand disappeared right afterwards, Rhune cast the cantrip instead, directing it towards the board to keep it level. He grinned again, noticing that Gale hadn’t immediately objected to his help. “I think you like that I’m a bit of a scoundrel, wizard.”
Gale huffed and looked away, his blush darkening further. “You’re not wrong. However, I imagine the others will be very cross with us both, if I’m too thoroughly distracted from my cooking duties today. Plus, you haven’t finished setting up our tent.”
Rhune laughed. “‘No tent’ hasn’t stopped you before. But fair enough.”
He stood and observed, occasionally recasting whenever the mage hand ran its course, while Gale explained that he was preparing egg noodles to add to the soup he’d planned to make for the evening. Somehow, Gale turned the crumbly mixture before him into a cohesive ball of dough, then continued to work at it with his hands. When Rhune asked why, Gale’s eyes lit up, and he launched into a more thorough explanation about how kneading improved the structure and the finished texture, making sure that it bound together and held its shape once it was rolled out flat and cut, instead of falling apart once it hit the liquid of the soup.
“Surprised you’re not doing that bit with magic,” Rhune said. He gestured with his hands, trying to mimic Gale’s movements. It felt familiar, somehow.
“Ah, well, I’ve tried that before. Several times, in fact.”
“Of course you have.”
Gale smiled up at him, somewhere between playful and sheepish, silver earring glinting in the golden afternoon light. “For whatever reason, I’ve found that the finished product doesn’t turn out exactly right if I don’t do it myself. Without calling upon the Weave.”
Rhune grunted in acknowledgement, his attention drawn to Gale’s hands again. There was something about those godsdamned hands— the way they touched him, of course, but there was more to it than that.
The way they looked, the way they moved… maybe because the first part of Gale that Rhune ever saw was that hand, reaching towards him. Maybe it was something else entirely. Rhune watched the muscles in Gale’s bare forearms flex as he kneaded in a continuous, almost rhythmic motion, mesmerized by the slight spread of Gale’s fingers, the way he kept the tips curled in towards his palms.
Then, Rhune felt suddenly like he was transported elsewhere, watching another person do this very thing. An older woman’s strong, wiry forearms moving forward and back in an almost sinuous dance. The heels of her palms repeatedly pressing and reshaping a ball of dough on the surface of a smooth wooden board. Thin, clever fingers with knobby joints, dusted with flour. Rhune could clearly see the tendons along the back of her hands protruding as she worked, the deep lilac skin stretched across them thinning with age.
He blinked, and the feeling— the memory— was gone. But he could now remember other things, too. Flattened circles of dough, nearly the same color as the tiny splotches of vitiligo on his then-child-sized palms. Spooning ground meat mixed with foraged mushrooms and herbs into the center of each circle, pinching them closed, then rolling them into a ball, ready for steaming in the large basket that balanced atop a pot of water set over a cookfire.
“Do you know how to make steamed buns?” Rhune asked, breaking the comfortable silence.
Gale paused, obviously surprised. “Steamed buns?”
“Yeah. With— some sort of meat inside.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever even heard of such a thing.”
“Oh.”
“Why do you ask?” Gale’s eyes glimmered at him, alight with curiosity. Rhune had never once made a request when it came to the food they ate, even when they had an abundance of rations and the luxury of choice.
“I… I don’t actually know,” Rhune said. “Something about watching you just reminded me. I think maybe I had them a lot, when I was a child.”
Gale was quiet for all of a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line while he processed what Rhune told him.
Then: “It shouldn’t be too difficult to improvise something— that is, if you wanted me to try at some point?”
“You don’t have to do that, Gale.” Rhune felt a rush of embarrassment over bringing it up in the first place.
“I’m perfectly aware of that.” Gale’s expression was soft and full of affection as he spoke. “But I would. For you.”
Now. Rhune knew that he should try to say something. That he should mention how he’d found something important, back at Moonrise. That he should tell Gale they needed to talk about it, privately.
You think he would understand?
That he wouldn’t betray you? Or cast you aside?
It didn’t sound like something Gale would do.
But the fear of it was enough.
“I’ll… keep that in mind, Gale. Thank you.”
Gale came to his feet with a low groan, and cleaned both hands with magic before he reached up to touch the back of Rhune’s tattooed neck, standing on tiptoe to meet Rhune in a kiss.
Rhune felt the beginnings of a dreamy little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, echoing the one that graced Gale’s face as Rhune broke the kiss and slowly pulled away.
“I thought you were still cooking?” he said.
“I decided that I could, indeed, use a kiss from you, my love.”
The endearment hit Rhune like an arrow to the gut. He didn’t know what to do with it.
Would Gale still call him that, if he knew? When he knew?
Fucking hells. Rhune needed to say something, needed to tell Gale that he… he…
“Just one?” is what he said instead.
Gale laughed, and shook his head. He gently brushed a few of his knuckles against the smooth skin of Rhune’s unscarred cheek before he withdrew. “After I get this soup on the fire, you can kiss me as much as you’d like.”
“A dangerous thing to promise.”
“Yes, well, I believe I’ve proven myself more than capable of handling a bit of danger.”
For now.
That voice was whispering to him again.
Rhune tried his best to drown it out.