fae

tagged as ordered via taglist:

The fog makes ghosts of the reeds. Morning has not quite arrived. It only presses itself faintly against the sky, thin and silver, blurring the edge of the marsh until the whole world seems unfinished. Gale stands before her with his coat damp at the shoulders, his hair loosened by mist, his face drawn into that solemn, terrible tenderness she has learned to fear more than anger.

Deia should say something. She has always had words. Too many words. Sharp ones, pretty ones, cruel ones, clever ones. She has hidden behind them, thrown them like knives, dressed wounds in them so no one would see the bleeding underneath.

But now Gale looks at her as if all his learning has brought him to this one foolish, fragile conclusion, and every clever thing in her turns traitor.

“My feelings have not changed,” he says. His voice is quiet, but it does not shake. That is what undoes her most. The certainty. “Nor my wishes. But one word from you, and I will trouble you no further.”

Her throat tightens.

“Gale…”

“No,” his mouth curves faintly, without humor. “Let me be brave enough to finish, at least once.”

She stills. He draws a breath. Fog pearls in his hair. The morning catches along the tired lines of his face, the silver at his temple, the open collar of his shirt. He looks less like the prodigy of Waterdeep now and more like a man who has walked too far in the cold because love left him no other road.

“If your heart remains closed to me, I will accept it. I will not argue. I will not dress my wounded pride as reason,” his eyes hold hers. “But if there is even the smallest chance that it has changed…”

Deia forgets to breathe. Gale steps closer. Not enough to crowd her. Enough that she can see the warmth fighting the cold in his hands.

“Then I must tell you that you have undone me completely.”

The words settle into the fog like sparks into ash.

“Body and soul,” he says, softer now. “Thought and magic. Pride and ruin. All of it. I love you. I love you, Deia. I do not wish to spend another day pretending distance from you is wisdom.”

She looks at him. For one wild, impossible moment, she wants to laugh. Not because it is funny, but because the feeling is too large and her body does not know where to put it. Her eyes burn. Her mouth trembles toward a smile and fails halfway.

He has given her the whole cathedral of his heart, and she has no prayer prepared.

So she reaches for his hand. His fingers are cold. Damp from the mist. Stiff with waiting. Deia folds both of her hands around his and looks down, hiding the damage in her face.

“Your hands are cold,” she says.

Gale exhales. It sounds almost like pain. Almost like laughter.

“Yes,” he whispers. “I rather noticed.”

She looks up at him then, and there it is at last: the answer he feared to hope for, not in words yet, but in the way her fingers tighten around his. In the way she does not let go.

“You are an incorrigible man,” she murmurs.

His expression breaks open.

“Is that a favorable verdict?”

Deia’s smile appears slowly, small and helpless and bright enough to make the fog seem less certain of itself.

“Come here before you freeze.”

Ah, yet again no idea who to tag. I will do exactly what I did last time and tag my most beloved @vasiliquemort and the writers that I happen to follow (or those who I think do write): @actualdeathcleric @starryselenaria @forthosewitheyestosee @fandomjumper @dr4gonwriter @faeriiefire and back at ya @optimisticgrey