#roseweave

He rubbed his eyes, trying not to seem annoyed by the millionth attempt by his family to find a partner for him. "That is not the issue, Mother. I simply wish to find my own partner. Someone I can form a bond with through my own experiences, not someone who my mother, sister, or brother-in-law chose for me. Is that truly too difficult to comprehend?" Ugh. That may have been a bit too bitter for his well-meaning mother.

She sighed. She turned back to the stove and placed the teapot on her brass trivet that was shaped like a chicken. "I understand," she said softly. "Oh, you are so like your father at times." Her tone was both joyous and yearning.

Gale couldn't imagine what it must be like for her. His parents had met young. His father, the son of a nobleman who wished to be a chef. His mother, a young woman who was well-off, but not nearly a noble. They met at a gala, neither wanting to be there. They found each other trying to sneak off, and the rest was history, he supposed. Young love that blossomed into a marriage and two children.

When his father married Morena instead of the woman his father had arranged for him, he was disowned. No longer welcome in his family. Gale had no idea who his father's family was. Hells, he doubted his father's family even knew who he was. He knew they didn't care.

They had been each other's first loves. Their only loves. Making a home, raising children, until his father became too ill. Those damn cigarettes caused his lungs to go black. Morena swore that she would never touch one ever again after watching her children grieve the loss of their father.

Though Gale had to admit, there was still a distinct nostalgia he felt at times when the scent of cigarette smoke was in the air.

"Mother." Gale stood up from his chair and walked behind her. He wrapped his arms around her. "You needn't worry about me. I will not live my life alone, as you fear."

She let out a wet chuckle. "I hope so, Gale. Besides, you wouldn't dare deny me your children, would you?"

Morena laughed at her son's long, drawn-out groan.

*****

Gale strode through The Market after dinner with his mother. The sun was setting, but it was still light out. It was a very humid evening. He had a hope that as the sun sank below the horizon, the humidity would dissipate, but it seemed that it would not be one of those nights. He was glad that he was as talented in the Weave as he was. He would be able to return to his climate-controlled tower soon. Perhaps he'd even make himself a cold, sweet treat. That sounded lovely.

He walked past Rosewood's and noticed her closed sign was facing the street, and the shop was dark. He wondered if she always left at this time? He walked past the shop, already thinking of the chocolate he would add to his delightful dessert. He was so focused on his wonderful dessert that he almost walked past Mira's shop!

And what he meant to say was that the shop door opened in front of him, and he nearly ran into the person who walked out.

"Whoa!"

"Oh! Oh, gods, I am so sorry. I wasn't paying any attention."

Gale blinked at the familiar voice. He looked at the patron and saw Yrelia standing in the doorway, looking embarrassed. They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Her curly hair was in a messy bun, she wore a light cotton buttoned short-sleeved shirt that was tucked into her cotton peacock blue palazzo pants, and black sandals. He blinked at her collarbone. Usually she wore her clothes buttoned or laced up to her neck, but today he saw her collarbone. His brows twitched at what seemed to be a scar.

Yrelia cleared her throat and opened her mouth. "Lia! Is everything alright?" Gale heard Mirabella yell from inside her shop.

"Oh, yes, Mira. I'm sorry if I caused distress."

Mirabella appeared in the doorway, and her brows rose. "Gale! So it was you she ran into!" She laughed happily.

He smiled at Yrelia's groan. "No harm done, Yrelia." He raised his arms with a smile to show there really was no harm done.

She sighed at him. "I'm glad." She looked down at the ground at the many boxes that had fallen from her arms. Her lips twitched side to side before bending down and starting to stack the boxes again.

"Luckily for you, Lia," Mirabella spoke up proudly, "I tie all of my boxes before transport."

Yrelia chuckled. "That's true. I would be rather sad if I had already ruined these."

"Oh, don't be so glum! I would happily repair and restore any piece of clothing you have, my dear leatherworker."

Yrelia smiled. She began to pick up the boxes, but Gale cut in. "Allow me, my lady," he offered, and she looked at him, surprised. "I was the fellow who caused you to drop your boxes; allow me to carry them for you."

Yrelia opened her mouth, but Mirabella cut in. "Always the gentleman. You know, Lia, he's been like this since he was but a child. Always doing little things to help out this old lady. He takes after his father, that way."

"Mira, you are hardly old," Gale said as he picked up the boxes before Yrelia could decline. "You're still spry and youthful, as far as I'm concerned."

Mirabella laughed. "Well, go on, you two. I must close my shop. Lia, it is wonderful that you're starting to feel better. Please, we must have tea again soon. I'll invite Gwen, and we can have a nice time just like we used to."

Yrelia blinked and then smiled at her. "Yes, of course, Mira. I look forward to it."

Mirabella walked back into her shop, closing and then locking her door as she did. Yrelia sighed and turned back to Gale with an awkward smile. "You really don't have to carry these for me, Gale. It wasn't your fault."

"Please, my lady, I insist!"

She chuckled. "Well, I suppose if you insist. My home is in the South Ward. If that's too far, then we can just go to my shop."

Gale thought briefly of her clearly buttoned-up and clean shop. "The South Ward is perfectly fine to walk to. Besides, I'm due for a good jaunt around the city."

She laughed. "Perhaps you could join me on my morning jogs," she joked. She took in a breath and let out a light sigh. "Well, follow me. I'm sure carrying those boxes will get tiring fast."

She wasn't wrong. The boxes were fairly light, but holding them still while walking was a bit more energy than he had planned on after eating a wonderfully rich seafood pasta dinner. Their walk was silent, which was…awkward. He supposed they hadn't really spoken much, let alone held any real conversation.

He had been thinking about when she had left the venison with him. About their conversation. He did want to get to know her better. He wanted to be her friend! He had been thinking about puzzles that she might like, but he needed to be sure she didn't already own the ones he had in mind.

Gale followed Yrelia into the South Ward, noting that the people were rather friendly. They waved to Yrelia, some even bid her good evening. He had heard tales of the South Ward being friendly, but he had never experienced it. He tended to stick with his own Wards, never really going into…the…

Oh, he was a rich ass, wasn't he?

"Here we are," Yrelia spoke up.

They stood in front of a smaller apartment building. Two levels, and it didn't seem like there were too many apartments either. It didn't look particularly run-down. In fact, there seemed to be some recent upkeep. Some new exterior wood boards, a fresh coat of paint, and the gutters looked brand new and incredibly clean! How marvelous. It may be a less-fortunate building, but it was in wonderful shape. The landlord must take pride in their small building.

"After you," he said, adjusting the boxes slightly.

"It's on the second floor, is that alright?"

"Of course! Carrying some clothes up the stairs is nothing for a dashing adventurer like myself."

She giggled. "Well, if you say so."

They walked past the first set of rooms on the first level. Gale heard the familiar noise of a cough from someone who smoked cigarettes. His nose twitched and then flared. Ugh. Cheap cigarettes. Nauseating.

"Lia!" A woman with a raspy voice called.

"Miss Deedee," Yrelia said with a smile in her voice. "I can only be a moment. Someone offered to carry my boxes, and I'd hate to keep him waiting."

An extravagant older woman appeared from the apartment on the left with the open door. She had very large hair, up in a curled updo. Thick makeup with bright blue and silver eyeshadow that reached her eyebrows, long black eyelashes, and bright pink blush. She wore tall sparkling heels and a tight blue dress with shiny clouds.

So Yrelia was wearing casual, comfortable summer clothes, Miss Deedee was wearing clothes that told him that she liked to do comedy shows, and Gale felt rather…in the middle. A white button-up shirt with gold buttons, a nice purple vest with gold celestial embroidery, and matching purple pants.

She looked from Yrelia to Gale. Her brows shot up. "I expected Cyr."

"Ah, no. He's with Amber. Miss Deedee, this is Gale. Gale, this is my landlord, Miss Deedee."

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am. I'd shake your hand, but," Gale shrugged and motioned his head to the boxes.

"Yes," Yrelia said with a bit of an urgent smile. "Let's keep going. It was nice seeing you, Miss Deedee! Good luck tonight!"

She placed her hand on Gale's elbow and gently tugged on him, letting him know that she was trying to get them up to her apartment quickly. He dutifully followed her. Nodding his head in the landlord's direction. Miss Deedee bid Yrelia good night before she walked back into her apartment. Notably, not closing the door.

They walked up the stairs and down the hall. He noted that the stairs were not actually inside. In fact, the only thing that was actually inside were the apartments themselves. "That must be quite irksome in the winter," he mumbled to himself.

Yrelia stopped in front of a door with a large sunflower wreath. It was similar to the one on her shop door. She must like sunflowers. Or perhaps it was just because they were in season.

"One moment," she said and started to fish out her keys from her pocket.

She found her keys and reached for the door handle. Gale was quite curious about her home. Admittedly, that was one of the reasons why he offered to help her. Her shop was so clean, neat, and organized! Was she like that in her home, as well? Did she have decor, unique kitchenware, and many different blankets? He was practically boiling over with curiosity!

He took a deep breath after she opened the door. She walked in and sighed. He stepped in after her and stared in awe.

"Sorry for the mess," she mumbled with a bit of shame in her tone.

Gale almost laughed in response. The apartment was flawless. It was like it was an ad for a furnished apartment. It was a small apartment, no doubt. There was the sitting room, which held a small dark green couch that stared at the door, to the left was a wine red chair with dark wood legs, and in front of those seats was a polished dark wood coffee table, which had an unfinished puzzle on it.

Both the couch and chair had perfectly fluffed pillows and a folded blanket on them. Behind the couch was the very, very small kitchen that held a wood stove in the corner. The back wall had four cabinets above and below the counter. There was also a counter with its back to the sitting room, a twin to the one on the back wall, and a sink against the left wall. There were plenty of fruits and vegetables on the counters, along with a set of kitchen knives, a bread box, and an over-the-sink dish drying rack, with a single glass cup.

"Mess?" He questioned, turning as he looked around the room. There was some art on the walls, mostly small floral paintings, and finished puzzles in frames, but there was also a small taxidermied deer head on the wall facing the couch. He also noted a basket of knitting supplies on the end table nestled between the couch and chair. There were also plants…everywhere. Flowers, large leaves, what he assumed was a fern or three. "I'm almost ashamed to have shown you my home, if this is what you consider a mess."

"O-oh! I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to…to say something to imply that you are a messy person." She sighed. "Here, you can place these on my table." She led him to her small kitchen table. It was round, painted sea foam blue, and had four mismatched chairs. "I hadn't meant to offend you, sorry."

"There was no offense," he waved his hand after he placed the six boxes on the table. "Just merely marveling at how spotless you keep your home and shop. My mother would love you."

Yrelia relaxed enough to chuckle. "Thank you. It's not often someone compliments my cleanliness." She cleared her throat. "And thank you for carrying these for me. That was kind of you." She shifted. "Could I offer you something to eat? Tea?"

"I just had dinner with my mother," he said, and she smiled in response, "but tea sounds lovely."

"Do you have a preference?" She asked as she walked towards a cabinet in the kitchen.

"Nothing with caffeine, please. I do wish to sleep tonight."

She laughed in response and picked out a square metal tin. "No caffeine, understood." He watched her reach up to a different cabinet and pull out a copper teapot with a porcelain handle with…painted sunflowers. He opened his mouth to ask where she had purchased that from, but she spoke up first. "So, tell me, how did your dinner party go?"

Gale, distracted by someone asking him to regale the grand tale of his dinner party, immediately started to tell her everything that happened. The guests, the food, the dessert, the games, and the jokes. She presented him with lemongrass tea and some shortbread cookies, which he happily delved into.

They sat on her couch, their tea cups resting on small plates, and the plate of cookies set in between. She smiled at him, listening to him talk, never interrupting him, just listening to him attentively. In fact, he realized she had barely said a word to him after asking about his party, and he felt incredibly self-conscious about, once again, completely taking over the conversation the two of them were having.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but she had stood up with a smile. She took the plate of empty cookies with her as she did. "Would you like more tea?"

He looked at his empty teacup and opened his mouth to agree. He actually wanted to learn more about this…almost friend. He didn't want to keep just talking and talking while learning nothing about her! But then, the clock on her wall chimed, and he realized that it was far later than he had meant to stay out. He had had plans for ice cream and a bubble bath!

"Oh, it's later than I realized," Yrelia mumbled with a smile. "I'm sure you're wanting to scurry off home by now."

"Ah, yes, I suppose I should travel home. Tara is probably wondering where I am."

Yrelia blinked, and her lips twitched. "Oh. I hadn't realized you had someone waiting for you at home. I'm sorry for keeping you."

"Oh, she is understanding. She is determined to get me out of the tower, so I think she'll be forgiving." Gale smiled at her. "Thank you, Yrelia. This was a lovely evening. We must do this again."

"Yes," she said, a bit distant. She cleared her throat, as if she realized something. "Here," she walked behind her kitchen counter and found a small food bag. She placed some cookies in it and tied it shut. "You seemed to have liked these. Take some for the road."

"Thank you. You must tell me where you got these from."

She chuckled. "I made them."

Gale smiled. "Then the next time we meet, you must share your recipe with me."

They walked to her front door and then bid each other goodnight. It was completely dark outside, and it was still humid. Seemed like it was not going to let up tonight. Now he really wished to go home to his climate-controlled tower.

He held the bag of cookies in his hand. He loosened the bow a tad to sneak another cookie out of it. He took a deep breath and smiled. Well, today was a victory! Yrelia became his friend!

"I must tell, Tara. She'll be thrilled!"

Astarion is a laugh and a half, but he sends a quiet shudder up her spine. She’d probably have gone for him if she’d met him in a tavern a year ago, and she doesn’t like what that says about her, especially when she finds out the truth about him. Shadowheart reminds her of Mari and Norie in equal measure—all of Norie’s prickly defensiveness, all of Mari’s overabundant sweetness—and Roslin can’t help but shower her in playful affection, which Shadowheart responds to with stiff, confused appreciation. (Helps that Roslin’s got the good sense not to ask questions. She doesn’t want anyone asking her any, after all.)

Lae’zel is iconic and Roslin’s obsessed with her. She asks Roslin for a tumble, Roslin says that tragically, she doesn’t swing that way, Lae’zel says, “You istik limit yourself outrageously,” and Roslin laughs hard enough that she almost falls over. They drill together every morning—stretches, then sparring—and there’s an incredible understanding there that thrills Roslin’s heart. She’s never met someone who likes the physicality of fighting in exactly the same way that she herself does. 

Karlach is hilarious. Wyll is a sweetheart. Of course Roslin knows him immediately—she wouldn’t be a Harper worth her salt if she didn’t recognize Duke Ravengard’s son—but no one here has figured out her line of work, least of all him, which she prefers. The Harpers aren’t exactly on Ulder Ravengard’s good side. At least, not all the time.

We strive to be equally annoying to every faction. STOP writing things down, Rosalie.

But Gale…

Roslin said she was being nice to him and she wasn’t lying. He’s got that affable wizard charm, kind of like a polished-to-shine version of Marigold. Marigold, But Better, which is a weird and disloyal thought to have about her sweet little baby best friend, but it does stick with Roslin like a burr in her shoe. He’s good at what he does. He’s casting low-level wizard spells with syrupy-smooth frustration, a sort of “this is beneath me, but I won’t let anyone see me bothered about it.” He smiles with the knife-sharp desperation of a man on the very edge.

He is very striking. 

This is an extremely frustrating thing for Roslin to notice. She has a very regimented system when it comes to men. She picks a nice and uncomplicated boy, and when it gets complicated, the universe finds a reason to split them up. She has a mission, or he has to move, or some other wonderful thing that means she got a nice few weeks before it got messy. 

She’s had flings with Harpers, obviously, so she doesn’t have any qualms about getting with a man on a mission, but it doesn’t feel like Gale’s built for that. The sweetness that Roslin is always drawn to is always unabashed in its sincerity. Gale is certainly sincere, but that twist of desperation suggests that there’s a degree of calculation to his kindness. 

Wizards are smart as all fucking get-out, and Roslin picks her battles. She likes a boy she can run circles around, and one look at Gale makes it clear as day that her parlor tricks won’t work on him. She’s not going to waste her time.

+

Gale offers to cast with her. To show her how to cast.

Here’s where Roslin is supposed to say no. She’s certain in that moment that she’s about to say no. But she’s always had this dangerous little “fuck around and find out” part of her that can’t help it in a moment like this—that likes the idea of brushing her fingers against something she’s never touched before. She’s never going to be a wizard. She wants to know, even if only for a night, a fraction of what Marigold and Gale and that stuck-up little prick in the Emerald Grove all find so fascinating about the Weave. 

“Okay,” she says, and shifts from foot to foot, not enjoying the feeling of being on unfamiliar terrain.

Gale’s eyes soften with affectionate understanding and she’s struck with the desire to tear something apart. “I understand your apprehension,” he says. “I’m sure I’d feel quite wrongfooted in your position. You’re a magnificently talented fighter, Roslin—I imagine it’s difficult to envision yourself doing anything else.”

This is why she doesn’t like him. He sees right through her skin and her skeleton into her soft, anxious, squishy brain, which is a one-person-only living situation, thanks. But forcing a smile and pretending he doesn’t see her seems strangely crueler than the cruel truth.

“I don’t like magic,” she admits. “I don’t get it. It takes too much time in a battle.”

“Well, it’s not just for fighting,” Gale points out. He extends his hands—brings them out—brings forward a ball of glowing light. “Shall we?”

Roslin mimics the gesture, feeling more than just a bit idiotic—and some strange thing wraps around her, through her, comforting and fizzy all in one. The tickle of real feeling behind her ribs terrifies her.

“And next—” Gale stops. His eyes flick over her tense mouth, her terse expression. “Roslin,” he says, brimming over with the kind of compassion you’re really not meant to expect from fucking wizards. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah!” she says quickly. “Yeah, just…”

The magic feels like possibility. When has Roslin felt hopeful about actually anything? Can Gale feel the nihilistic hopelessness that she tries so hard not to ever pay attention to? It’s easy with Jaheira, who understands without Roslin ever having to say it. Not so easy with people who don’t know the names and ages and faces of all of her ghosts.

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” she says. Tears sting her eyes. “I wish I really could do it.”

Almost gently, Gale says, “You can, you know. Perhaps not all in one night, but…”

“Years and years of focused study,” says Roslin, trying to let misery tilt into a less real petulant sulkiness. “I’d have to put down my sword.”

Gale’s smile quirks with affectionate amusement and she feels a sudden pulse of vindictive dislike. How dare he look at her like she’s some sweet little cupcake? That’s Marigold, Lenora, silly little rich girls with a safety net to trip down into. Roslin’s a woman of substance. Roslin is a fucking dynamo.

“I can, though,” she says, quickly, a little defensively. 

“I wasn’t doubting you,” says Gale.

“You were, a little. You know people can tell when you’re being patronizing, right?”

Gale’s eyebrows shoot up. 

Roslin sighs through her teeth. “Sorry,” she says, then again, “sorry. I’m not good at being the student. I don’t—like—”

“When people see that you don’t know things,” says Gale. “I do know that much.” 

He does sound a touch irritated, which makes Roslin feel a little safer. She doesn’t like the way he looks at her when it isn’t at least a little annoyed. He’s got the soft eyes of all the sorts of boys she likes to kiss, and she needs to make sure she doesn’t forget—

“Repeat after me,” he says, and she does.

The words feel old and lofty and dramatic. History is a messy thing. Roslin’s has too many dead bodies to count (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine) and she much prefers to live in the now. Being a fighter means you make your own rules. Being a wizard means that there are usually some pretty good reasons for the rules people made up before you, because there were nine to twelve smart idiots who tried the same thing you did and blew up a city in the process. 

Being a wizard means you sort of have to pay attention to your past.

“Now,” says Gale. “Try to imagine the concept of harmony. Best as you can.”

Roslin is all a jumble and she knows that he can feel it. The magic strips her back, layer by layer, which is maybe why she doesn’t like it. Easy for Marigold, whose feelings are always spilling everywhere—easy for that arsehole in the grove made of nothing but confident idiocy—easy for Gale, sweet as a knife someone used to spread out strawberry jam. 

But she’s not going to trip up and fall in the dirt. She wants him to see that she can do this just as well as anything else—see it, and be impressed by it, and, and—

Somehow that’s what she’s imagining. Her on steady ground, sure of herself, no tadpole in her mind gumming up the works and making it harder to swing a sword. Her with borrowed magic at her hands, wandering through a world she doesn’t understand without feeling acutely aware of her own limitations. Harmony. That’s what it would look like.

The tension snaps and bursts and Roslin tastes—

Of course she’s going to think about Marigold in a moment like this. Marigold’s a bakery wizard. Roslin’s tasted magic a thousand times, had it melt in her mouth in a perfectly eclectic collection of flavors, because Marigold needed something tested, because Marigold wanted to give her a sweet treat, because being Marigold’s friend means magic’s sticking to your fingertips in frosting and honey. But the taste has always been sculpted, deliberately refined into exactly what Marigold wants it to be.

This isn’t that. It tastes like what it feels like when you’re a little kid eating flour, or raw eggs, or something else that you know you’re not supposed to be eating—not the flavor, but the feeling. The baffled delight that this strange thing in your mouth can be a cake or a cookie or a whole five-course meal. The flickering understanding that you are holding possibility in your hands and your mouth.

Gale feels it too. He smiles like it’s something he’s familiar with. He glances to Roslin, and something about her face must be different, because his own expression gives way to something newly vulnerable. And she was wrong about him—that pastiche of tenderness he gives out like it’s nothing really was nothing for him to give. She’s never had him look at her like that before.

It’s a flutter of a thought, only a moment, but it reaches him nonetheless. She’s not sure how intentional it actually is. She only knows that she finds herself thinking about kissing him, and then thinks to herself, he ought to know. And then he does.

Gale colors. He says, “Well!”

Roslin takes a step back, mostly accidentally. The night feels much colder.

Gale says, again, “Well! Not that I don’t—I just didn’t think—” and then takes in Roslin’s expression and seems to think better of saying anything at all on the subject of kissing. “Thank you,” he says instead. “Really, Roslin. Thank you.”

“Rosalie,” she says.

With her family gone, only Jaheira has ever called Roslin by her given name.

“Rosalie,” he repeats, a note of soft wonder to every syllable.

“Only when we’re alone,” she says quickly.