#god!gale

Chapter 1 - Denial

The moment he lets go of your hand, you already know.

Deep down, you have always known, haven’t you?

The truth has lingered beneath the surface, buried under layers of hope and denial.

You told yourself a thousand stories, each one carefully constructed to shield you from the inevitable.

But as his fingers slip from yours, that fragile shield shatters, and the truth rises, raw and undeniable.

You call out to him before you can stop yourself.

Your voice trembles, heavy with everything you cannot bring yourself to say.

You are frozen in shock and fear, your body unwilling to move.

Your mind unable to comprehend.

He turns, just for a moment, pausing long enough to offer you a smile.

It is so simple, so heartbreakingly beautiful.

For a moment, you forget to breathe.

The setting sun frames him in golden light, softening his sharp features and making him look almost ethereal.

It is the image that will haunt you.

You know it, in this moment, you just do not realize it yet.

A fleeting, fragile instant where he is everything you love, bathed in a golden glow too perfect to last.

If you could freeze time, you would choose this moment.

And then, he is gone.

He will return, you tell yourself.

He promised.

There’s no reason to doubt him, is there?

He has set out on a task.

An impossibly hard one, perhaps, but one that only he can complete.

He will reforge the Crown, perfect its design, and present it to Mystra.

She will take it, and in return will free him from the orb’s suffocating presence.

He will come back to you.

Surely, he will be Mystra’s Chosen once more.

This is what you tell yourself.

Over and over again and again.

This is what was promised.

The task ahead of him is monumental.

You remind yourself of that, too.

It is not a simple spell or a quick ritual.

It is arcane physics intertwined with Netherese magic, a discipline so complex that you cannot even begin to comprehend it.

He is an Archmage, one of the finest of this age.

His skills are nearly unmatched, and now, after everything you have faced together, he is closer than ever to regaining his former brilliance.

If anyone can succeed, it is him.

So, you wait.

Halsin’s invitation to accompany him to Reihtwin is kind, thoughtful even, but you decline. His eyes linger on you for a moment longer than necessary, and you feel the weight of his unspoken concerns. He holds you longer, presses you closer and adds a quiet kiss to the top of your scalp when he departs.

When Karlach and Wyll ask you to join them in Avernus, the temptation to escape is almost overwhelming, but you shake your head again.

You stay.

You wait.

At first, the distractions help.

You throw yourself into the city’s recovery efforts.

Jaheira and Minsc are tireless in their mission to rebuild Baldur’s Gate, and you work alongside them, coordinating resources and workforce with Ulder Ravengard.

You ensure aid reaches those who need it most, fight off scavengers who prey on the vulnerable, and oversee the Flaming Fist as they restore order to the streets and clean up the remnants of the Steel Watch.

The city begins to heal faster than you expect.

Streets that were filled with rubble and despair last week, hum with life today.

Taverns reopen, markets buzz, and laughter returns.

For most, life resumes its rhythm.

But for you, the days blur into a hollow monotony.

Your lute sits untouched in the corner of your room at the Elfsong Tavern.

You have not picked it up in weeks.

The melodies you once played with ease now feel distant, tangled with emotions too raw to face.

Instead of creating, singing, or writing, you retreat into the estate Astarion secured.

It is a stunning property in the Upper City, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea. The sweeping views of the horizon and the luxurious comforts it offers are undeniable.

Yet, the beauty feels hollow, a constant, aching reminder of what you are afraid to loose.

Every morning, you watch the sunrise, and every evening, the sunset, standing on the balcony as the light shifts across the water.

But the sight doesn’t bring peace.

It only sharpens the ache of his absence.

By day, you throw yourself into the city's recovery efforts, shaking hands, attending festivities, coordinating rescue operations, and wearing a smile that feels more forced with each passing week.

At first, the façade holds.

But as time drags on, the weight of it grows heavier each day, and even pretending becomes an exhausting chore.

When night falls, the city becomes your escape.

You join Astarion, wandering the lively streets, visiting bustling taverns, and exploring vibrant markets.

People recognize you, their greetings warm and full of gratitude.

Free drinks are pressed into your hands, flirtatious smiles and whispered invitations offered in abundance.

Each time, you decline with the same response. “I have someone waiting for me.”

The words spill out automatically now, a reflex more than a conviction.

Yet, every time you utter them, you notice Astarion’s gaze lingering on you a little longer.

His concern is palpable, though he says nothing.

Instead, his demeanour changes.

He becomes gentler with you, careful in his words and actions.

At first, the tenderness was only shown during your shared nights.

A bottle of wine he genuinely enjoys, conversations that tiptoe around deeper truths.

But gradually, it becomes his everyday behaviour.

His glances linger, his tone softens, his patience stretches impossibly thin, all without him saying a single word about what he sees.

And in his silence, you feel both comfort and excruciating guilt.

Every morning, you walk to the docks after ensuring Astarion is save asleep.

It becomes a ritual, a small act of hope you cannot seem to abandon.

You stand there, staring out at the endless expanse of water, searching for any sign of his return.

You tell yourself he is taking the time he needs.

That the intricacy of his work demands patience.

That he is ensuring every aspect of the Crown’s reforging is flawless before presenting it to Mystra.

As he promised.

But as the days stretch into weeks, and weeks into months, the weight of waiting grows impossibly heavy.

Each step back to the house feels slower, more laborious.

You cling to the belief that he will return.

He has to return.

The alternative is unthinkable, so you push it aside, burying it under the same hope you have carried since the moment he let go of your hand.

Still, doubts creep in at the edges of your thoughts.

They whisper to you in the quiet moments, in the hours before sleep.

What if he doesn’t come back?

What if the promises he made were never meant to be kept?

What if his plans do not include you afterall?

What if this was his plan all along?

What if there were signs you were too blind to see?

What if you saw the signs and chose to ignore them?

You shake those thoughts away each time, gripping tightly to the belief that he will keep his word.

Because if you let go of that, what else is there?

So, you wait.

Seasons change, but the ache in your chest remains the same.

You tell yourself he is taking the time he needs.

That the complexity of his task demands patience.

That he is ensuring everything is perfect before he can return to you.

But deep down, that tiny voice inside you whispers doubts you refuse to acknowledge.

You wait.

Clinging to the promise he made, even as the weight of it threatens to crush you.

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