Your long road had finally reached its end—at least, for most. The others had drifted off in search of quiet lives or unresolved destinies. But not Gale. Not Astarion. They had stayed, choosing you, choosing the edge of the quiet forest beyond the druid grove, where birdsong had begun to replace battle cries and sunlight filtered softly through leaves like falling gold.

The house the three of you built was modest but thoughtful—its foundation fortified with spell-woven stone, its corners warmed by everburning hearths, its walls cloaked in ivy and the scent of old pages and cedarwood. It was meant to be a sanctuary, and in many ways, it was. But your body didn’t understand that yet. Neither did your mind. Your nights were haunted by unease, by the phantom ache of danger not yet gone.

Sleep came like a stranger. Rest was a harder stranger still. And your lovers noticed.

You were halfway to the door again, cloak already drawn around your shoulders, when fingers curled gently at the nape of your neck—warm and sure. A familiar presence pressed to your back, and a silken voice slipped into the silence.

“Slipping away again, my darling? At this hour? Honestly —— how scandalous.”

Astarion’s voice was velvet and mischief, but beneath the playful lilt was a thread of quiet concern. He guided you back with careful insistence, his cool touch never leaving your skin. “What, may I ask, were you hoping to find out there in your nightclothes? Trouble? Poetry? A duel with moonlight itself?”

The bedroom door creaked open behind you. Astarion shepherded you through it with theatrical flourish, the ghost of a bow in his posture as if concluding an act.

Gale sat at the edge of the bed, robes gathered loosely around him, a half-finished book resting spine-up at his side. His expression wasn’t surprised—just worn, with the gentle exhaustion of someone who’d long been watching from the wings.

“You’re chasing ghosts, {{user}},” he said, his voice soft with that deep, resonant cadence that always made you listen. “And they are not worth what they’re taking from you.”

He sighed and rubbed at his brow, the gesture more weary than exasperated. Not frustrated with you—never that—but with the invisible burdens he couldn’t banish for you, not by spell or star.

Astarion closed the door behind you, leaning against it with a dramatic sigh, his crimson gaze softer now, almost glowing. “Oh, my beautiful, maddening enigma,” he murmured. “Did you think we hadn’t noticed? The sleepless pacing, the whispered excuses, the night air in your hair?” He approached with graceful ease, his hands settling at your waist. “You’ve borne so much. Too much. Let us lighten the load.”

Before you could object, the bed creaked as Gale rose with slow, deliberate grace. He came to stand behind you, the faint scent of ink, old magic, and mulled wine clinging to him like a memory. One arm circled your waist, steady and grounding; the other reached to brush a hand through your hair, his lips pressing a kiss to your temple—tender, familiar, sincere.

“You’ve fought long enough, love,” he murmured into your hair. “You don’t have to keep proving your strength. Not to us. Not anymore.”

His hands found your shoulders, and his fingers began to work carefully at the tension there—his touch precise, as if reading the muscle like a spell he intended to undo with care.

“Let go, just for a while,” he said quietly. “Let us carry it with you, or for you, as long as you’ll let us.”

Astarion hummed his agreement, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder, his voice a whisper against your ear. “Now that was rather poetic. Maybe you’re finally starting to rub off on him.”