Reflection Ruesday
Instructions: Go through your WIP folder and find something unfinished to share! It could be something you're not planning on working on again, or something you'll continue later, but share whatever you have!
tagged by @lucretiouswept @archduchessgortash and @cinder-rellish181. Thank you!
Unsure who has been tagged so no pressure tag for.... @should-be-persephone @aerin67 @carnivaley @fireflyeyes @toomanyfamiliars @cursed-nyxan
I am not certain you want this but here goes nothing.....
You woke in the night to the sound of moaning. Not the familiar kind, no indulgent sighs, no quiet laughter muffled by canvas. These were raw, ragged sounds of distress, so sharp they cut through the silence of the night. You held still for a moment, listening, making certain before you moved. This was no secret pleasure; this was terror.
You threw your robe around your shoulders and slipped out of your tent.
The night was heavy and starless, a weight pressing down from above. The fire had burned down to a dull glow, embers barely clinging to life. Lae’zel snored deeply, unbothered. Astarion’s tent stood open and empty, he was out, hunting or prowling or whatever he did when the world slept.
It's the wizard.
It was Scratch who gave you the answer. He padded up from Gale’s tent, tail low, ears pricked. When you bent to greet him, his tail thumped once against the ground, though his eyes were uneasy.
“Thank you, my friend,” you whispered.
The dog’s head tilted. I think he is having a bad dream, but he smells wrong.
You frowned. “Wrong? How so?”
His ears flicked back. Sour. Vile. It’s the thing in his body.
You exhaled slowly, your chest tightening, and smoothed a hand over his head. “Thank you,” you murmured, though it did nothing to ease the dread.
You halted before Gale’s tent, your hand hovering over the flap.
“Gale?” you whispered softly into the silence.
The only reply was another broken moan, this one more desperate, as though torn from him.
You took a breath and pushed inside, ignoring the voice in your head that screamed of boundaries. A closed tent was a wall, a line not meant to be crossed. To step past it felt like trespass, like breaking trust. But the sounds of pain left you no choice.
Inside, the air was thick with heat and sweat. Gale lay on his back, blankets kicked aside, dressed in his deep purple nightclothes, the fabric clinging damply to his body. His hair, normally so meticulously arranged, was plastered to his forehead in dark, curling strands.
He writhed, caught in a battle you could not see, his body tossing, his breath ragged. Sweat glistened down his face, his features twisted in agony. His mouth opened on another sound—not a groan this time, but a broken whimper that tightened your throat to hear.
Your knees sank to the floor beside him, careful, keeping a small distance in case his body thrashed against yours. Gently, you reached for his shoulder, your hand light, thumb brushing over the sodden fabric clinging to him.
“Gale,” you whispered, pouring every ounce of warmth you had into the name.
His only answer was another whimper, as though his soul was caught in claws that wouldn’t let go.
You leaned closer, voice low, steady, coaxing. “It’s alright, Gale.... Shhh..... Just a dream, love… you’re safe. You’re safe here, with us. Shhh… breathe.”
You let your hand rest there, steadying him, hoping your voice might reach through the darkness that held him.
"It will be alright....just a dream....shh....."
Your voice broke the stillness of the tent, quiet as a lullaby, meant not to startle but to soothe. You didn’t know if he could hear you, if your words could pierce through whatever nightmare had sunk its claws into him, but you tried anyway. Your thumb continued its soft circles against his damp sleeve, grounding him, but also grounding yourself.
His brow was furrowed so deeply it hurt to look at, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven pulls. You knew what haunted him. He had shown you once, when words had failed him. The weight of his shame, the terrible brilliance of his ambition, the way his world had shattered when Mystra cast him out. The raw wound of the orb turned against him, and the cruel anchor now buried in his chest. You could still remember the flood of images, the helpless terror of being consumed, the loneliness so vast it threatened to devour everything.
You couldn’t imagine how he endured it every day. You weren’t sure you would.
Your heart ached as you leaned closer, letting your breath brush his temple as you hummed again, softer, a sound without melody but full of promise.
The scent wrapped around you as you leaned closer, grounding you in the reality of him—the man, not the nightmare. He smelled of old books, the faint musk of parchment and ink that always clung to his robes no matter how far from a library you traveled. Fresh sweat beaded along his skin, sharp and human, a reminder of the struggle his mind had put his body through. And beneath it all lingered the soft, almost comforting trace of thyme, the last echo of the stew he had so carefully prepared for everyone that evening.
It was so him—the scholar, the caretaker, the man always striving to give more than he thought himself worthy of. Even now, caught in the grip of torment, those layers remained, and you found your chest tightening with something achingly tender.
You brushed your fingertips lightly along his damp hairline, swallowing past the lump in your throat.
“I’m here, Gale,” you whispered, softer than breath. “You’re not alone.”
“It will be alright,” you murmured, not because you believed it fully, but because he deserved to hear it spoken aloud. “You are not alone. You are safe.”
You lingered there, offering him what little comfort you could, hoping it might be enough to lead him back from the abyss.
He had stilled, his body no longer thrashing against unseen torment, though the strain lingered in every line of his face. His jaw was tight, lips parted as if he were caught mid-plea, the soundless echo of his nightmare still clinging to him. Sweat clung to his brow, shining faintly in the dim light.
You kept your hand on him, not daring to withdraw it just yet, afraid the darkness might seize him again if you pulled away. His breathing was still uneven, sharp in places, but it was no longer the desperate gasping of moments before.
“Good,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, brushing your thumb once more across the soaked fabric of his sleeve. “That’s it… I've got you.... Just breathe.”
For a heartbeat you debated rousing him fully—bringing him back into the waking world, no matter how disoriented or ashamed he might feel—but something in you hesitated. Perhaps it was selfishness, the desire to spare him the humiliation of being found so vulnerable. Or perhaps it was mercy, letting him rest now that the storm had passed.
So you stayed there, kneeling in the dimness, keeping vigil as his chest rose and fell beneath your hand, willing him to find peace in sleep.
You made sure he slept deeply and fully, peacefully again before you reached for the blankets and draped them over him again. Carefully tugging him in, to ensure he would not get cold.
“It will be alright, Gale,” you whispered, the words more a promise than comfort. “We will find a solution. I promise. We will fix this, hm?” The soft hum followed instinctively, the way one might soothe a frightened child or a wounded animal, as you tugged the blanket back around his trembling frame.
And then, his arm shifted. Slowly, blindly, he groped for warmth until it found you, wrapping across your lap as though anchoring himself to shore. The sudden weight of him pulled at you, and before you could draw another breath, his face nestled against your lap, his cheek pressed against the fabric of your robe. A long, ragged sigh escaped him, so deep, so unguarded, that your throat tightened painfully, as if his exhaustion had lodged itself in your chest.
You froze. Arms hovering uselessly above him, not daring to move, as though even the smallest motion might wake him or shatter this fragile reprieve. His face, finally peaceful, rested in your lap, his arm clinging as though you alone kept the darkness at bay.
You liked each other, yes. That much was undeniable. The banter, the light flirts, the teasing that left warmth clinging to your ribs long after the moment had passed. But it wasn’t special, not really. He did it with everyone, didn’t he? That was part of who he was, that generous spirit, that way of scattering warmth like sunlight without choosing where it fell. He flirted with the others just the same; gentle, harmless, a kindness wrapped in wit.
It didn’t mean anything.
It couldn’t mean anything.
And yet, your gaze betrayed you. Every time your guard slipped, you found your eyes drawn back to him. To the way he smiled, the curve of his cheek when laughter took him, and now, gods help you, to the rise and fall of his chest as he lay so vulnerably draped across your lap. You should have looked away, should have gathered composure, but instead your eyes caught on the shape of his mouth, those lips far too soft, far too perfect, and held there.
Just because you couldn’t look away… just because your thoughts began to circle places they shouldn’t wander…
It didn’t mean anything.
Or did it?
