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Hestia stood at the edge of the camp, the bustle of a dwindling party behind her. They had fought hard today, dismantling the entire goblin camp alone. Priestess Gut had been easy, Arya took care of her while Hestia and Gale made sure Minthara would not be a threat. Meeting in the middle, they were faced with Ragzlin, the brute. They had been smart in their tactics, poisoning the bulk of the goblins outside before picking off the remaining few.
Once inside, they took care to be quiet as they slipped through the ranks, waiting for groups to split before taking them down. It had not been easy, and they were beaten down by the time they had found Halsin. They finished off the last few that trickled in from caves hiding nearby, before returning to the grove, exhausted and fully out of stamina.
Hestia rubbed her aching wrists as she thought back on the bloodshed. It was never easy, but it was better than the alternative. They had saved the Tieflings, hell, they had saved the grove entirely. Halsin had not been angry as they thought he might be when they told him of Kagha, beyond saving. A sneer coiled along her lips, kagha, the brood mother that would risk the lives of the innocent in a shameful betrayal of her god Silvanus.
She didn’t feel bad for killing Kagha. She was disgusted by her, the grove would be better off. Halsin would be sure of that. The tieflings had insisted on a celebration in their honor, and she and her companions had done what everyone thought impossible. And now it was time to rejoice and prepare for the trek forward.
Preparations were to wait til morning, tonight, she was instructed to relax, to enjoy the peace, for the moment.
She took in a deep breath, her eyes dancing about the camp, finally settling on her sister, Arya. She sat at Astarion's camp, they were sipping wine and laughing quietly to each other. A smile tugged at her lips, she was happy to see Arya in such a good mood. It was well deserved, and a much-needed comfort.
She pulled her gaze away as the two leaned into one another in an intimate moment. Her eyes landed on another camp just around the bend, a soft glow of magic glittering behind the thin canvas. Her heart fluttered a moment, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
Gales tent.
She wasn’t sure what it was about him, maybe the way he indulged himself in the weave, or perhaps it was his endless knowledge on all things arcane. Something about him pulled her in, like a cat chasing a string.
Another flutter of her rapidly beating heart. There had been something budding between them, something just under the surface. She drew in a sharp breath. This adventure was proving to be full of hardships and danger, and she could no longer sit on her hands as she had done her entire life.
She pushed herself off the rock she was perched on, straightening the fabric of her dress as she stood. She steadily moved towards the canvas tent, her bare feet brushing against soft grass and damp earth.
As she approached, the opening flap pushed forward, the moonlight seeming to brighten as he stepped out into the brisk night air. Gale stood just a few feet in front of her, arms outstretched toward the heavens, head back in an exhale. His chest was bare, almost glittering in the glow of the camp lights.
Her cheeks flushed as her eyes danced upon his exposed form, tracing the faint tattoo on his chest that delicately painted the nape of his neck and across his broad pecks. A dusting of deep auburn hair adorned his chest, wild and warm against the smooth lines of him. He was rugged, refined, and he seemed to soak in the moon's glow.
She cleared her throat, quietly, bringing his attention to her. Her cheeks flushed as she met his eyes, those deep chestnut orbs that wrapped around her. The hint of magic always glistening, even in the darkest of places. She swallowed hard, her breath catching in her throat.
“Always a delight to see you, my dear. What can I do for you this evening? Enjoying the festivities, I hope,” His voice was soft, endearing. “It seems our Arya has found herself in the company of a most fiendish rogue.” He chuckled softly, enticing a soft giggle from the woman before him.
Hestia nodded, letting her smile spread as she felt her heart calming. She couldn’t explain it, the feeling of relief when he spoke, the way it settled the storm within her. An exhale, letting all the worries slip from her body.
“Are you surprised?” She teased, her eyes flicking over to her twin and her companion. The two were close, shoulder to shoulder. Arya was quietly playing her flute while Astarion and a few Tieflings sat nearby, delighting in her form of magic.
Her eyes trailed back to Gale, to find him still looking at her, not in observation, but seeing her. Her cheeks flushed, the glow of her freckles stuttering under the heat that rose. “Would you join me?” She asked quietly, motioning to a quiet part of the camp, closer to the beach than the party.
He nodded, and she led him to a spot she had set up for herself when they first started camping in these parts. A small part of the camp by the water where she could pray to Mystra, where she could give herself to her goddess away from prying eyes, the sharran in particular.
She was the first to take a seat on the soft, furred blanket, lighting a pair of candles with a quick cast of a spell as she settled. She turned to look up at Gale, the glow of the fire a halo behind her. She noticed the hitch in his breath, the way his eyes flicked about her in this moment. Her cheeks flushed, her hand gently tapping the spot next to her.
He caught his breath, taking the seat carefully next to her — their legs pressed together in this small sanctuary of hers. He hesitated for just a moment — a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. Hestia caught it, unsure if it was awe, longing, or something lonelier.
“This place suits you,” He spoke quietly, afraid to puncture the tenderness of the moment. “Peaceful. Measured. Like your prayers might truly breach the stars.” His eyes lifted, the sky was clear tonight, and the twinkle of the stars danced about the darkness. The bands of the galaxy like a thread weaving in and out of the quiet stillness.
His voice carried a softness she’d not heard before, as if he were speaking not to her, but of her. Like she was part of the night sky he peered into. She watched his face, the way his eyes sparkled as he spoke, the way his hair danced in the soft breeze. She was showing him something deeply personal, and he embraced her.
“We worship Mystra in different ways,” she started, softly pulling his attention from the stars and back to her. “You have a deeper connection than I ever will, yet this… this is where I feel her the most.” Her voice trailed off, a quietness as she looked out over the water before them.
“Here, Mystra is all around me.” She finished, a smile pulling at her lips. She heard Gale let out a soft exhale beside her, his leg pressed against hers in an almost comforting response. She leaned back against the tree behind them, looking up at the sky he had been so enamored with.
“Although our connection is different, you channel the weave through your devotion to Mystra, in a way I could never begin to.” He leaned back with her, letting their shoulders press together in a small moment of intimacy — the most he’d allowed himself up until this point.
Hestia felt her breath catch in her chest, suddenly aware of the closeness of his body, the warmth of him. She let her hand rest between them, their fingers brushing gently against the warm flesh of the others. For a moment, there was a quiet peace, an understanding between them that needed no words.
In her private place of worship, a place where she communed with Mystra, where she prayed to her goddess, the weave was always just a breath away. And in this moment, it felt as though they both sat nestled in Mystras' loving hands. A familiar feeling, a tender breath, a quiet within the storm.
Hestia felt that familiar spark, that tingle in the back of her head, the complete transparency of the weave. Her eyes fell from the sky, descending upon Gale's face again. He had turned to look at her now, his eyes dancing over her. She could feel it, as tangible as his skin against her — the weave lingered between them, encouraging her.
The last time they had enticed the weave, she pictured kissing him, wholly, passionately. She knew in this moment, just as she did before, all she had to do was picture it, and he’d know. As her eyes met his, her thoughts slipped her grasp.
And in a moment, she was picturing their lips crashing together in a moment of urgency. Fingers curling in hair, bodies pressed together seeking warmth, seeking comfort in each other. She imagined how sweet his lips would taste, the tingle of his stubble against her smooth skin. The way his hands would hold her close, as if he needed her, craved her.
“I, uh,” his voice broke through her thoughts, whipping them back into reality. Her cheeks flushed, deep red with embarrassment. Her freckles flickered under the heat, her eyes dropping quickly from his face. A silence washed over them, cold and stifling.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice quaking ever so slightly. Gale was still for a long moment. Then, he exhaled softly, as though releasing something he’d been holding in his chest.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he said gently, his voice warm. “Not when your heart speaks so honestly… and not when mine answers”
His gaze flickered, briefly, almost nervously, as if weighing the edges of what he was about to say. “You’ve pictured it before.” A smile ghosted across his lips. “I nearly forgot how to breathe — and now, again.” He chuckled softly, not mocking — rather, delighted.
But then his expression sobered, eyes dropping to the faint glow pulsing from his chest. “With my condition as volatile as it is,” he said carefully, “I fear any undue, er… excitement may tip it over the edge. So to speak.” He tried for levity, but there was sorrow threaded beneath the smile.
“I hate to have to hold back, to tread so carefully when every parts of me wants to step forward.” He lifted his eyes to hers, meeting the soft gaze of her dual colored orbs, the corners glistening with the threat of tears. She pushed a smile to her lips as their eyes met, an understanding and gentle smile.
“Perhaps there are other ways to be close,” she said quietly, pushing herself to her feet to stand before him. “Ways the weave might not mind.” She held out her hand, palm up, open and inviting.
“Would you honor me with a dance?”
For a moment, Gale simply looked up at her, surprise flickering across his features. But it melted quickly into something warmer, more tender. He reached out for her hand with a kind of ceremony, as if accepting an oath.
“I would be delighted,” he said, voice rich with gratitude. “Though I may warn you — it has been quite a time since I’ve danced a true pavane.”
“Then let me lead,” she said with a smile. He rose to meet her, and she stepped back, not to create distance but to set the stage. Her other hand lifted gracefully, fingers poised, and with a nod of encouragement, he mirrored her. Fingers interlocking, his hand gently resting on her hip as hers braced around his shoulder. The candlelight traced the lines of their bodies as they shifted, falling into stance.
And then, as if summoned by memory itself, Hestia began to move. Not a sway, not a shuffle, but a true dance. One she had thought forgotten beneath the years. A ballroom step, elegant and refined. Her feet barely a whisper as they moved gracefully, guiding him with smooth movements.
Gale followed, a half-second behind — but learning quickly, matching her rhythm as their bodies aligned. No music guided them, only the hushed waves nearby, the rustling of leaves stirred by wind, and of the Weave resting between them like a heartbeat.
She spun lightly beneath his arm, the hem of her dress brushing lightly against his knees like a whisper of a wind. When she returned to his embrace, there was laughter in her breath.
“I never thought I’d dance again,” she whispered, voice brimming with wistfulness. “Not like this, not with someone who knows the steps.” She let her voice trail into the quiet, her eyes lifting to meet his.
“I was taught at court,” he said, eyes twinkling like the stars. “They insisted on it, even for the mages. Apparently, dancing is as essential to diplomacy as spellcraft.”
“Then let us be diplomatic,” she said before taking another perfectly practiced twirl against him.
Around them, the world grew quiet — the beach, the stars, the sea — everything fading but the rhythm of their dance. Their hands fit as if sculpted for each other, their feet tracing lines through time, through memory, through hope.
Whatever danger lay within Gales' chest, whatever grief clung to her past, all of it paused here, if only for a few steps more. And when the last turn slowed, and they came to a gentle stop, they were breathless — not from exertion, but from the magic of what they’d shared.
They lingered in each other’s embrace, breaths heavy, hearts racing. His hand against her waist moved to the small of her back, gently pulling her closer. For a moment, their hearts beat as one, her head nestled on his chest. A long, quiet moment passed between them before Gale let out a soft breath.
He pulled back gently from her, lifting her hand, his lips meeting the soft skin of her fingers. He bowed lightly, lifting his eyes to look up at her once more, as if memorizing her features in this moment, in the glow of their moment.
“Goodnight, Hestia. Though I fear I may not sleep, for my thoughts will be full of you.” His voice was low against her skin, a tender whisper that lingered like a spell. Then, he turned, slipping away into the quiet folds of the camp, leaving her wrapped in the dwindling warmth of the Weave… and of him.
Hestia’s head lifted toward the stars, their soft shimmer dancing in her eyes. She pressed her hands to her chest, as if to hold the moment in place. A silent prayer left her lips, not to Mystra this time — but to whatever part of this world would carry her heart to his.