[ It's the nature of the passage of time, one might say, to bring the future ever closer, but their thoughts attune as to what that means, a distant image of Waterdeep becoming ever clearer in the mind's eye, all the more real for how warm domesticity feels here, in a house ever on the cusp of another danger. That's not to say that a future in FaerΓ»n would be completely carefree, but it'd be more manageable, he thinks β easier to bear with than the whims of a seemingly all-powerful and ill-tempered god.
Something like escape awaits them, eventually β Gale had caught up to him, in time β someday, somehow. Then again, if they were forever confined here ... it'd hardly be the worst fate, so long as they remained together. He thinks of the wreath, moved to the door of a well-appointed house. The earring, glinting in the light of a torch rather than an electric lamp. Things that exist here that he's not sure they'd be able to take with them. Just things, in the end β hardly as important as the bonds they've forged. (Gale would mourn the loss of Nick, of Armand, all those he's grown close to. Astarion would, too.)
And, again β none of it important, truly, so long as Gale remains near.
How strange. Once, he'd thought the imperative thing, having gained his freedom, would be some measure of material comfort. Control. Power. He'd thought it even here, the idea brought to the forefront of his mind by his dalliance with ReSculpt.
The apple of his throat bobs as he looks at Gale, nostrils flaring in a sudden heave of sentiment. He knows, in that moment: he'd give it all up, even revenge, for him. ]
You'll have to put a ward on it, [ he says, letting his gaze fall, trying to hide the tremulousness that threatens to break through his breast. ] I don't mind if it dries, butβ
[ In case someone tries to take it, to touch it. ]
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Something like escape awaits them, eventually β Gale had caught up to him, in time β someday, somehow. Then again, if they were forever confined here ... it'd hardly be the worst fate, so long as they remained together. He thinks of the wreath, moved to the door of a well-appointed house. The earring, glinting in the light of a torch rather than an electric lamp. Things that exist here that he's not sure they'd be able to take with them. Just things, in the end β hardly as important as the bonds they've forged. (Gale would mourn the loss of Nick, of Armand, all those he's grown close to. Astarion would, too.)
And, again β none of it important, truly, so long as Gale remains near.
How strange. Once, he'd thought the imperative thing, having gained his freedom, would be some measure of material comfort. Control. Power. He'd thought it even here, the idea brought to the forefront of his mind by his dalliance with ReSculpt.
The apple of his throat bobs as he looks at Gale, nostrils flaring in a sudden heave of sentiment. He knows, in that moment: he'd give it all up, even revenge, for him. ]
You'll have to put a ward on it, [ he says, letting his gaze fall, trying to hide the tremulousness that threatens to break through his breast. ] I don't mind if it dries, butβ
[ In case someone tries to take it, to touch it. ]