[ Finished with his share of the seeds, Gale wipes his hands on a cloth and ducks his head to hide his smile. He doubts anyone has ever thought him particularly mysterious, but he enjoys the accusation all the same. Attention diverted, despite the scratch of pen against paper, assuring him that Astarion is committed to the activity β and to him, in a way.
A brief, shy glance as they trade roles. He wonders if he should ask whether heβs allowed to read it, only to find his eyes drawn to his name on the page before he can do so. My dear Gale. Heart clenched, fingers curling in the vee of his shirt where the orb marks him. Back to the start, then, unable to keep himself from touching the paper, reverent, barely brushing the words to avoid smudging the ink. He hadnβt thought of such things in terms of death and renewal. A new life together, vivid in his mind. Possibilities that were unavailable to a dying man or a living Chosen. He dabs at the corner of his eye with his sleeve.
And he writes.
It takes a little longer than Astarionβs planting, pen hovering as he refines his thoughts. Unable to correct himself as he does when he talks, always favouring progress over perfection. Once finished, he reads it back, flustering himself, but he extends the letter to Astarion upon meeting his gaze, smile lopsided and tender. ]
I write now not as Gale of Waterdeep, but as Gale Dekarios, a man lucky to be in the company of one Astarion AncunΓn. In this time of renewal, it seems appropriate to reinvent β or uninvent β myself. I have much to be grateful for, as I am, yet I must hope for a little more, for myself and for my sweetheart.
I hope and, indeed, have faith that we will find happiness together. I know that I have never felt such contentment, as I do with him by my side.
And so I ask only that our companionship may continue, despite whatever else may come. And that we may make our home together in time, battle-worn boots discarded at long last.
no subject
A brief, shy glance as they trade roles. He wonders if he should ask whether heβs allowed to read it, only to find his eyes drawn to his name on the page before he can do so. My dear Gale. Heart clenched, fingers curling in the vee of his shirt where the orb marks him. Back to the start, then, unable to keep himself from touching the paper, reverent, barely brushing the words to avoid smudging the ink. He hadnβt thought of such things in terms of death and renewal. A new life together, vivid in his mind. Possibilities that were unavailable to a dying man or a living Chosen. He dabs at the corner of his eye with his sleeve.
And he writes.
It takes a little longer than Astarionβs planting, pen hovering as he refines his thoughts. Unable to correct himself as he does when he talks, always favouring progress over perfection. Once finished, he reads it back, flustering himself, but he extends the letter to Astarion upon meeting his gaze, smile lopsided and tender. ]