#curses!

The Beatles interview with East At Six Ten (1963)

-6- (alt) Cursed -7- Ambush

“Ooh, new jewelry! I’ll take this ring. The rest is useless.”

Gale peered into the open chest and retrieved a handful of coins and a bottle of half-decent wine. Hurrying to stow them in his pack, he urged, “Astarion, let me have a look at that ring. You read the same parchment I read—doomed lovers were buried here, and if that’s one of their rings it may have some less-than-lovely magic lingering about it.”

Nearby but with his back to Gale, searching for the best light by which to see the red-stoned ring, Astarion impulsively slid it onto first one finger, then another, trying to make it fit. “Hmm,” he wondered, “Pretty.”

Gale bent to take a last look in the chest—they were in no position to leave behind anything potentially useful—and in a shattering instant, he sensed a frenzy of incoming motion and felt a hot, stinging pain at the back of his shoulder. Reflexively, he reached for the smarting spot, felt that his robe was wet. At once on guard, he pivoted, sought out attackers. There was only Astarion--wild-eyed--shining, blood-stained dagger in hand. He slashed again, aiming for Gale’s neck, but Gale managed to dodge by side-stepping out of the way.

“What in the hells are you doing?” he cried, and found space to back away from Astarion, who bared his teeth, menacing. “Astarion, stop! You’ll kill me!”

Terrifyingly, Astarion only raised his eyebrows, lips curling into a satisfied sort of smirk. “I know,” he said, low and even. As he adjusted his grip on the dagger’s handle, Gale caught a glinting glimpse of silver metal and lava-like stone—the damned ring. Astarion lunged forward, and though Gale half-spun out of range, the blade whizzed a gash along the back of Gale’s hand. A sliver of red appeared, then blood quickly began to run over his wrist; a familiar, sickly aroma wafted up from the wound—necrosis. More than a mere cut, then—there was some damaging dark magic in Astarion’s attacks. Gale shouted a spell that whisked him instantly out of Astarion’s reach, threw his pack down where he arrived, and crouched to rifle through it. He flicked his glance from Astarion to his collection of scrolls and back again. Astarion sheathed his dagger, but then reached behind his back for his bow and an arrow.

“Astarion!” Gale called frantically, hoping the sound of his name might help Astarion remember himself. “You don’t want to hurt me. I think that ring is cursed.”

“Oh. Curses,” Astarion intoned, the word thick with sarcasm. He was laying the arrow in place, raising the bow to shoulder height. Gale could live through a couple of shallow stab wounds, but Astarion was masterful with the bow, and if he let the arrow fly, Gale reckoned he’d be dead before he hit the ground.

“Please, Astarion, take off that ring. Put down the bow. It’s me you’re aiming at.” Gale’s voice was becoming frantic, and even as he found the scroll he needed, he cast his glance all around, looking for quick cover. If they survived this, he was going to prioritise committing this spell to memory. Astarion’s penchant for grabbing at any pretty thing without examining it for wards, curses, hexes, or poison made it seem likely they could end up in a similar situation in future. But first, Gale had to get them through this one, intact.

Astarion paused—perhaps in response to Gale’s pleas—and he tilted his hand to look closely at the ring, but rather than taking it off—throwing it away—he gave another pleased little grin and resumed taking aim at Gale, steadying his narrow gaze, drawing back the bowstring. The two inhaled simultaneously, but while Astarion held his breath, Gale gathered his focus to a pinpoint, carved a gesture in the air, and shouted the three-syllable incantation. There was the expected blue-green flash, but Gale closed his eyes, braced for the piercing arrow to strike his chest, or throat.

Astarion muttered, “Shit,” and Gale ventured to look at him. Dropping both arrow and bow to the ground as he ran toward Gale, Astarion’s expression softened and bent with anguish. He was himself again. When he reached Gale, he grabbed for the wounded hand, pressed the cut to his mouth, licked at the blood to clean and staunch it, then pulled Gale into a hard embrace. “I’m sorry!” he sobbed. “I don’t know what happened.”

Gale held him, hushed him. “It’s all right,” he assured. “I’m all right.”

“I would never,” Astarion began, and stood back to look Gale up and down, trying to reassure himself his injuries were not mortal. "Well. Perhaps not never."

“Ah, you’re back,” Gale said. “Any and all curses successfully removed.”

“But I can keep the ring?”

Gale gave him a scathing look, and held out his hand, palm up. With obvious reluctance, Astarion wriggled the ring off his finger and pressed it into Gale’s palm. He made a motion as if he might throw it into the forest, but Astarion looked so distraught, Gale decided instead to pocket it.

“I’ll have it examined by at least one other wizard, and perhaps a cleric or two. Once it’s deemed safe—”

Astarion smiled expectantly. Gale took his hand and traced the length of one pale finger with the tip of his own. “Once it’s deemed safe, perhaps I’ll slide it back onto your pretty finger.” It might only have been his imagination, or only the noise of a small forest creature nearby, but it seemed to Gale that Astarion gave a little purr at the intimation.

“For now, though, please promise me: no more impulsive interactions with found objects.”

“Well. . .”

Gale frowned.

“I’ll try.”

 “Good. Now. I need an anti-necrosis potion, and a healer.”

yes!! I have a bit of the fic written already actually. I think I'll fully work on it after I finish the Jason + the defenders second part!

Well, Rapunzel was kind of in superstitious mode, and she was finding all sorts of things that seem crazy. Also, she is, even at that stage in the journey, gullible (it's something she's working on), and she's mostly willing to believe what people tell her at first. She had no reason not to believe that it was actually Shorty's tooth.