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Stumbling upon a small hoard of gnolls and hyenas had not exactly been part of Gale's day plan. The hyenas and newborns had been fairly easily dispatched, with Astaroth and Astarion taking most of them out with their arrows and an odd blade to the throat if a lucky one got too close. The grown hoard though had been different. While they wouldn't normally have been a problem, they had already cleared out some goblins and rescued the people from Waukeen's Rest and they were all exhausted already. Thankfully they had all escaped with only minor injuries that Shadowheart kindly and thoroughly patched up at camp that night.
All except one. Their leader had gone on ahead as always and drew the gnolls' fire so the others could flank them. He had gone down twice in the fight, and each time he was brought up he kept on fighting. While everyone else complained about their injuries and Shadowheart complained about how exhausted and taken for granted she was, Astaroth limped quietly behind back to camp and promptly disappeared claiming he had only hit his head and needed some quiet.
Gale didn't entirely believe that. He could hear the larger man's usually silent footsteps shuffling behind him the whole way back. His posture was curled into the side and his eyes were tired. No, Gale didn't believe that it was ‘just a headache’ at all. So after he got dinner started and simmering, he went to find the elusive tiefling. He was no Ranger himself and Astaroth had a lifetime's experience hiding so if he didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be. It was alarming then that Gale found him within 5 minutes, sitting shirtless by a far shore of the lake, hidden behind a rocky outcrop with a small campfire set up next to him. Atop it was a small bowl of boiling water, with another sat next to it with a distinctly more pink hue. Astaroth took the bowl off the fire and put it to the side. Gale watched him dip a cloth into the other bowl and watched it turn redder with what was now clear was blood.
He cleared his throat. In a flash Astaroth whirled around into a feral crouch with a violent hiss. Gale jumped back and watched as the Ranger crumpled in on his left side with a groan, clutching at his abdomen. Gale rushed forwards and knelt down beside him, hands out but not daring to touch.
“Roth, what happened?” Gale demanded. Astaroth groaned and curled tighter on himself, obscuring the wound from view.
“Nothing, ‘m fine,” he murmured, “Just a scratch.”
Gale gave him a look that he hoped the other man could feel as he observed the pile of discarded bloody bandages, “I strongly doubt anyone as tough as you could get doubled over by a scratch. Now sit back and let me look at it.”
Gale placed a gentle hand on the tieflings shoulder and immediately he felt every line in Roth’s body go sharp as he coiled in closer to himself, away from the touch. His claws dug into the ground, tail whipping, and Gale felt more than heard the rumbling growl. He wanted nothing more than to run on instinct, but Gale had never had the best survival instincts, so he only held tighter. After a minute in which Gale's heart was in his mouth, he watched as Roth slowly looked up at him, with the fires of all nine Hells in his eyes and spitting from between his fangs.
Gale tried for his softest yet least pitying look, “I only want to help you. It seems you're struggling to wrap it alone?”
Roth shot a look at the bloodied mess off to the side like it had verbally betrayed him. But slowly, Gale felt the muscles under his palm unwind and Astaroth sagged with a heaving sigh. He let himself get gently shoved back to sit on a smooth rock and Gale knelt to assess the wound. Roth very pointedly looked anywhere but the man in front of him and the Wizard got the distinct impression that it was taking everything in him to not run.
When Gale was certain he wouldn't bolt at the earliest opportunity, he removed his hand and sat back on his haunches and took in the damage. Along his side just below the ribcage was a set of three claw marks. They were deep and jagged, one even went down to the yellow layer of fat in some places. They were very well cleaned, but it took all Gale had to retain his lunch.
“By the gods, Roth,” he whispered, “Why on earth didn't you say anything?”
Roth, still looking absently off the side, shrugged, “Shadowheart said she was tired. Everyone else was hurt or busy. Didn't wanna bother no one.”
“You said you had hit your head!”
“Didn't want anyone to worry neither.”
Gale sighed and shook his head, deciding to take a closer look at the wounds despite his better judgement, “I think this will need stitches until you can get them healed.”
Roth finally glanced at him and pointed just to the side. Gale looked down to see a selection of needles and some odd looking twine in the bowl that had been boiling.
“I can do it,” Roth whispered, looking resolutely into the bowl, “Just need a hand wrapping it.”
Gale nodded, “Probably for the best. I never was very good at needlepoint. Can I do anything to help?”
Roth tentatively held a wooden bowl filled with small purple flowers and a bit of red liquid, along with a dark wooden pestle out to him. “Crush this?”
“Balsam?” Gale inquired as he sat back and started grinding it up. Roth simply nodded and set about retrieving the needles, threading it with a surprisingly steady hand considering the alarming colour of the other bowl of water and the long dark patch down that leg of his trousers. Gale watched nervously as he placed a small pair of scissors on his thigh and braced his other hand over his ribs to stretch the skin.
Roth looked up at him suddenly, with almost an embarrassed look, “You don't have to stay for this. I can manage on my own.”
Gale swallowed hard and shook his head and focused thoroughly on his crushing. He heard the other man take a steady breath in and watched him move out the corner of his eyes. He moved with, what Gale thought to be, a frightening amount of certainty and ease. He didn't hesitate as the point of the needle went in. His knots were precise and perfect. His hands never shook when he cut the twine after every stitch. And not once did he flinch or his eyes lose their sharp watch. He had done this before. Looking over the litany of puckered and sunken scars that looked to span the man's whole body and lifespan, Gale suspected he had likely lost count of the times he had done this.
After Gale was satisfied with his poultice he dared look up. Roth looked lost in his work. The two shallower cuts were done, each stitch diligently uniform and none too tight. He almost looked like he was meditating. Gale found it to be deeply unsettling. Seeming to sense the shift in the other man's demeanor, Roth leant over and handed him a few large squares of cloth.
“Soak,” he said, pointing to the bowl and already back to sewing. Thankfully for another task to help his friend - he hoped he could say they were friends - Gale set about soaking the porous muslin-like fabric in the poultice. He looked up as Roth got to the first crater of the wound and a tight but small frown twisted across his mouth.
“Does it hurt,” Gale asked. Roth looked up briefly, expression unreadable but not altogether negative. More like he was stunned to remember Gale was still there.
“I put some numbing stuff in the water so I guess it could be worse.”
“But does it hurt?”
Roth regarded him from the corner of his eye, like he was aware he was close to being caught in some sort of trap.
“Sure,” he bit out. He got to the middle of the wound and blood had begun to slowly pour down his side again. Gale grabbed the cloth from the cleaning bowl and went to dab it away. As soon as his hand entered Roth's line of sight he flinched away, sending the needle straight into the raw side of the wound. Roth spat out a strangled groan and Gale half flew backwards.
“Roth I'm so sorry!”
The tieflings clutched the wound with his face screwed up in pain as he held a hand up, “Wasn't your fault, just… I ain't -”
He seemed to sag in on himself, and Gale didn't entirely believe it was pain from the wound. No. He looked tired, all the strong, sharp lines of his body caving inward. Like a puppet with its strings slowly snapping under its own weight.
Sad. He looked sad.
This time Roth's voice was thin and quiet, “I ain't used to help. Or… been a long time since anyone, you know, anything other than a punch or whatever.”
Gale puzzled at this. “My friend, I can't help you with this if you won't let me touch you.”
Roth had a unique ability to squash all 6 feet and 6 inches into the most ludicrously small spaces. For a man with such a commanding stature and a quiet confidence with his longbow in hand, Astaroth Aldersong seemed dead set on shrinking into himself until he simply didn't exist. Now he looked smaller than Gale had ever seen him, head turned away with a look like shame and sorrow twisting his handsome features.
68 turned scolded 6 year old, Gale thought.
“I know that,” he muttered, “Just, I don't know, warn me next time, I guess?”
“Very well. In that case, may I wipe the blood away so you can see what you're doing?”
He watched Roth watch him, chewing his lip and eyes wide with frenzied panic. He swallowed hard and nodded shakily. Gale smiled with a small bow of his head. Gingerly, he brought his free hand up and steadied it against Roth's ribs at a glacial pace. The full body shiver that wracked the man's body and bitten-off whimper nearly made Gale pull away but he kept still. When he felt the muscles under his palm cease their shaking, he brought the cloth back up and, after waiting a beat, began to very carefully clean the blood away. Roth watched him like a hawk the whole time and Gale did his best to not let his hands shake. After a while he sat back and surveyed his work.
“There, that should tide you over.” Roth stayed stock still, staring at the spot Gale's hand had been. “I, uh – You can probably finish up now. Then we can see about dressing it, yes?”
Shakily Roth picked the needle back up and suddenly Gale wasn't certain he trusted his handiwork anymore. But he took a moment and the shaking stopped and he forged on. The rest of the stitching was somewhat hurried and to anyone else, they would probably say they were perfect. But Gale could see where one was just slightly crooked or a touch too close to the others, or maybe a might tighter. Roth cut the last stitch and dropped the needle and the scissors in the bowl of water, gesturing haphazardly to the soaked fabric in Gale's lap.
“Ah, yes,” he shifted closer, “What is this for exactly?”
“Woundwort and balsam,” he grunted as he rustled around in his pack for fresh bandages, “Stops the bleeding and help healing a bit. Cleans it a bit too. Goes under the bandages.”
Gale hummed and knelt up holding one of the pieces up. He looked pointedly at Roth, who nervously – though Gale noted with no small amount of pride he was much quicker to comply – lifted his arm up and placed his hand behind his head. He turned his head away but still he watched, like he couldn't help himself. Gale placed one end of the strips at the end of the top claw mark, holding it in place and tenderly smoothing it across the expanse of the wound. Again Roth shook but not as violent as before, no longer trying to crawl out of his skin. Satisfied, Gale moved on to the bottom wound and repeated. For the longest and deepest wound, he made sure this piece had the remainder of the poultice spread across it. He was soft this time, though twice as thorough. Smoothing each wrinkle as it came up and gently packing it down to the wound, hand braced against the swell of Roth's ribcage.
“There,” he muttered mostly to himself, “Now the bandages?”
“I, urh – Yeah. Sure.”
Gale raised a brow with a small, questioning smirk. Roth rolled his eyes and grunted as he gestured to the clean roll of bandages next time. Gale chuckled and took them in hand and loosely unfurled the end. Roth, looking very pointedly at his hands and sweating somewhat, gently took the end from Gale and held it in the middle of his body. With the briefest flicker of eye contact, the tiefling nodded with a sharpness that suggested complying to torture.
Gale held the roll away from Roth's body and in line with the wound, as the fingers of his other hand came to rest lightly next to Roth's. He gave the man the dignity of not looking when he heard the shuddering breath and he ignored the thundering heartbeat under his fingertips and the way in which he seemed to curl both away from and into his hands. Roth held the bandage in place with shaking claws as Gale smoothed it round his front.
“Make, urh –” Roth cleared his throat and tried again. “Make sure it's tight enough. Not too much but, yeah. You get the idea.”
Gale hummed in agreement and continued on, pressing his fingers lightly to smooth it out so the Ranger could always tell where he was, and making sure it was taut and strong but not stifling. He went until the roll was out. Astaroth quaked the whole time, like a leaf in the wind or the face of an unsteady mountain. Whatever muscle Gale touched rippled under his hand in something akin to a flinch but too tightly under Astaroth's iron grip to yield so easily. His breath never stopped stuttering and his eyes were wrenched shut, face twisted in a complicated array of emotions. He looked pained. Gale looked down at the loose end in the centre of the man's chest.
“And now what,” he asked. Roth blinked himself out of his stupor and looked down at Gale's hands. Gale watched him look them over like he couldn't form a solid thought, blinking slowly and frowning.
“You… You, erm –” Roth reached down and pulled out a small bone pin and then tapped the top of the bandages.
Gale thought for a second, looking between the pin and Roth's hand, “Oh! Tuck it in and pin it in place.”
Roth sighed in relief and nodded. Gale smiled and set about tucking it neatly into place above his solar plexus. He took the elegant bone pin and made sure everything was secure and safe with a small pat over it. He looked up to ask how it felt and froze, breath caught in his throat.
Through hooded eyes Astaroth looked at him with the intensity of a thousand suns, the dual-toned irises like the meeting of land, sea, and sky. Gale didn't know what to make of that look. If it was angry or afraid. Or simply just intense. If he had to pick a feeling, he'd go with ‘stricken’. Roth's breath was laboured and brief through slightly parted lips and his claws kept clenching at his shaking thighs. The breath trapped in Gale's throat came out as a stutter. Caught under the unblinking gaze of a hunter he felt stuck, unwilling to move lest he be struck unawares. The hand still resting over the man's middle twitched, aching to move, to touch properly, as he felt the thundering pulse beneath it.
He let his fingers curl into a gentle fist on the other man's chest. Roth flew backwards off the rock and landed heavily on his hands, scrabbling quickly into a guarded crouch. Coiled to spring. Head lowered, his eyes flitted over everything but Gale and now his expression was easy to read indeed: ashamed and afraid.
“Thank you.” His voice sounded like it had been scorched by the hellfires of his lineage. “I, urh – Thank… Thank you. Gale.”
Roth was carefully keeping him in sight but even more carefully not looking at him.
“It's my pleasure, always. Our fearless leader deserves someone looking out for him also, does he not?” Roth's face twisted in something akin to shame. “Well… goodnight then, my friend. Do get me if you need anything. Any time you need.”
Roth nodded jerkily, leaning closer into himself and the ground like a wolf waiting to strike. Gale bowed a touch and swiftly went back the way he came, leaving the Ranger to unwind from, well, whatever had got him wound up.
The whole interaction struck Gale as being very odd. Astaroth had no issue with sewing his own body back up, nor any lack of the knowledge and skill to do it. But a simple touch from another person seemed borderline intolerable. And yet he had leant into all of it, and away at the same time, like a war was being waged within him that he couldn't win. Remembering the face of shame he had made at needing help, Gale had the horrific realisation that Astaroth Aldersong likely hadn't received help nor any kind touch for a very very long time. So long that any attempt felt like a threat or an illness. If it was an aversion for aversion sake then Gale could understand and leave it be. But the sweet and strange man had tried to cave into the touch like a starved man at a banquet, and yet had dragged himself away from it like it was poisoned.
Well that simply wouldn't stand. He gave everything for their party, for the realms, and nothing for himself. Not even healing of a possible fatal wound because the cleric was ‘a bit tired’. No. Gale determined then that he would find out exactly how to get Astaroth to accept help at the very least, to get him to believe that the party would be there for him just as readily as he was for them. And if it were possible, he would make him believe that not everyone in the world was out to get him and that not all touch meant pain. If it were the last thing he did, and with the orb it likely would be, he would drag Astaroth Aldersong into the land of family and self-acceptance whether he wanted to be there or not.