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sheslikealionimagines · 11 days ago

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Ash and Aether ~ Part 2

Pairings: Gale Dekarios x Fem!OC

Rating: G

Genre: Slow burn romance

Words: 3.3k

Summary: Aryn, a self-taught mage with wild, instinctive magic, crosses paths with Gale, a brilliant but burdened wizard whose life is tethered to a volatile arcane secret. What begins as an uneasy alliance deepens into a partnership of intellect, trust, and unspoken yearning as they challenge each other’s beliefs—and slowly unravel the walls around their hearts. Together, they discover that the most powerful magic isn’t found in tomes or incantations, but in the quiet understanding between two souls brave enough to truly see one another.

~~~~~~~~~~~

In the weeks that followed their first meeting, Gale and Aryn fell into a rhythm that was equal parts study and silent understanding. Mornings began with strong tea and open tomes, the corners of their table cluttered with ink pots, half-formed sigils, and the occasional shared smirk over a poorly translated passage. Their debates were frequent—over spell theory, magical ethics, the nature of weave-born intuition—but never cruel, always edged with mutual respect.

Gale, for all his precision, began to look forward to the way Aryn’s thoughts unraveled aloud, raw and curious, while she found comfort in the steadiness of his presence, the way he always listened before responding. Neither of them said it, but something between them had started to take shape—quiet, tentative, like the first line of a spell neither had cast before.

Today, the old chamber pulsed faintly with power.

It wasn’t large — a circular room tucked into the rear wing of the small hall Gale had claimed for his private study — but it had been shaped long ago for focused magical practice. The walls bore wards etched deep into the stone, dulled by time but still humming faintly with stabilizing runes. Light filtered through high windows in pale shafts, catching the floating motes of dust and trace magic suspended in the air.

Gale stood near the center, watching Aryn with arms folded, his expression unreadable.

She stood across from him, brows drawn in concentration, one hand lifted, the other curled tightly at her side. Her lips moved as she recited the structure of the spell — basic elemental shaping, one of the first exercises in manipulating arcane threads into form — but her voice faltered.

A flicker of violet-white energy sparked at her fingertips.

Then it surged.

Too fast. Too strong.

The spell burst outward in a sharp arc, not a clean line but a flare of uncontrolled force. It struck the warded wall behind Gale with a resounding crack, sending a flash of raw magic scattering like shattered glass. Aryn flinched back, biting down a curse.

Gale didn’t move. But his jaw tensed.

She looked at him quickly, breathing shallow. “I’m— I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” he said evenly.

There was no anger in his voice. But there was something else — a tightness, just beneath the surface. A flicker in his eyes that she couldn’t quite name.

Gale stepped forward slowly, his boots echoing faintly on the stone floor. “Again.”

Aryn hesitated, looking down at her hands. The magic still swirled under her skin, hot and restless, coiling like a tide she barely held back.

“I am trying,” she muttered.

“I know,” he repeated, quieter this time.

She tried again.

This time, she whispered the syllables with more care, her hands steady, her posture rigid with effort. The Weave rose to meet her—eager, as always—but she forced it into a narrow channel, bending it, confining it.

And yet—

Just as she formed the final twist, the spell flared again, lashing sideways, tearing a groove into the floor. She staggered back, eyes wide. Her breath hitched. “I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Gale said, a hint too quickly.

Aryn looked up sharply.

And Gale knew, in that moment, that he’d made a mistake.

Not in choosing to teach her. But in thinking he could do it without tearing open old wounds.

He turned from her slightly, pacing a few steps, one hand brushing over the binding runes carved into the wall. The memory surged, unbidden: himself, younger, raw, brilliant, alone. Power spiraling out of his grasp, over and over, until it finally broke him.

He saw the same edge in Aryn now. That same fire. That same recklessness.

And gods help him, it terrified him.

Because he knew how it ended if no one caught you in time.

He knew what it cost to learn restraint through disaster.

Gale exhaled slowly and faced her again. “You’re pulling too much,” he said gently. “The Weave listens to your intent. But you aren’t listening to it.”

“I’m trying to control it.”

“Don’t control it. Guide it.” He moved closer, voice quiet. “It’s not a beast to tame. It’s a partner to learn.”

Aryn frowned, frustration flickering in her gaze. “That sounds poetic, but it doesn’t help when it feels like I have a storm inside me every time I cast.”

Gale paused. Then, with a quiet breath, he lifted his hand — not to instruct, not to demonstrate.

But to offer.

“Then let me help you feel it.”

She stared at his outstretched palm. “What are you—”

“A joining,” he said. “Just for a moment. My control layered over your instinct. A shared current. You’ll feel the Weave differently through me.”

She hesitated — but then slowly stepped forward, placing her fingers in his.

The connection was immediate.

A pulse. A low hum. The moment their hands touched, the Weave between them responded — surging softly, as if recognizing a union it had long awaited.

Aryn gasped. “It’s…”

“Alive,” Gale murmured. “Responsive. But you have to listen.”

Together, they lifted their hands.

And this time, the spell formed cleanly — the threads folding in on themselves with elegance and clarity, the surge held steady by Gale’s experience layered atop Aryn’s instinct. The arc of power shimmered in the air, perfectly contained.

Aryn’s lips parted. Her eyes shone.

And Gale, standing close enough to feel her magic dancing just beneath her skin, felt something ache in his chest.

She trusted him.

Gods, she trusted him — and he hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone did.

But more than that, she needed him. Not to save her. Not to shape her. But to stand beside her while she learned to wield the storm she carried.

And in that realization came the fear.

Because if she fell — if he failed her — he didn’t know if he could bear it again.

He had failed once before. Spectacularly. He had reached too far, taught himself too little, and paid in blood and shame. And now, with Aryn looking at him like a steady hand in the dark, the question loomed heavy:

What if I lead her down the same path?

But then her fingers tightened faintly in his, anchoring him.

And her voice — soft but clear — said, “Thank you.”

He met her gaze.

And something in him began to shift — not the fear, not the guilt. But the possibility.

That maybe, this time, guiding someone else could lead him somewhere new. Not back to the man he once was, but forward — toward something steadier. Truer.

Perhaps even redemptive.

The last of the arcane shimmer faded from the air, leaving the room quiet again, save for the faint hum of residual energy clinging to the stones.

Gale let his hand fall away from hers.

Aryn held her breath a moment longer, eyes still on the lingering trail of magic that curled and dissipated like mist. Then she exhaled, slowly, her shoulders easing.

“That was…” she began, but stopped, unsure how to name it.

“Enough for today,” Gale said softly.

His voice lacked the usual professorial cadence — not distant, not sharp, but something quieter. Grounded. Tired, maybe, or simply settled, in the way that comes after strain has been given its due.

He stepped back from the center of the room, rolling one shoulder, then the other. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Aryn gave a small nod, brushing her palms together as though shaking off the last threads of energy. She looked at him, studying the lines of his face, the way his gaze lingered not on the spell’s aftermath, but on her. Measuring not the result, but the cost.

“Alright,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

He turned toward the arched doorway that led back to the main hall. “In the meantime, we should eat. I’m not inclined to let the Weave devour both our strength and our appetites.”

Aryn gave a breath of a laugh, one corner of her mouth tilting upward. “You just want an excuse to stop before I accidentally take the ceiling off.”

“Only a little,” Gale said, allowing a faint smile to break across his features. “But mostly, I’d rather not waste good spellwork on an empty stomach.”

She followed him toward the door, the charged air still clinging faintly to her skin. As they stepped into the cooler corridor, the chamber behind them dimmed — wards humming lower now, the stones at rest.

Their footsteps echoed gently through the quiet hall.

And for the first time since the lesson began, there was no tension threading between them — only the shared quiet of two mages walking side by side.

Toward the hearth. Toward food. Toward a moment of peace neither had expected.

The dining chamber was quiet, lit only by the soft amber glow of suspended lanternlight and the low flicker of fire in the hearth. The table between them was modest—an aged slab of dark stone etched with old sigils, likely repurposed from some forgotten tower hall—but the meal laid across it was fresh and warm. Roasted root vegetables glazed with thyme and garlic. Flatbread still warm from the oven. A carafe of honey-gold wine sat uncorked between them, untouched.

Aryn sat hunched slightly in her chair, her fingers resting on the rim of her plate, motionless. She hadn’t taken more than a few bites. Her white-blonde hair, damp at the temples from earlier exertion, clung in soft waves against her cheek, though she hadn’t seemed to notice. Or care.

Across from her, Gale ate slowly. Methodically. Not because he was particularly hungry, but because movement lent shape to the silence—and because she was watching him when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

He waited until her gaze drifted, until the quiet began to bend under its own weight.

“You contained that last casting well,” he said mildly. “The threads followed your lead, even if they strained at the seams.”

Aryn didn’t look at him. “It still went off-course.”

“Even a controlled spiral is a kind of progress.”

She gave a humorless breath, neither laugh nor sigh. “You’re good at that. Making disaster sound like growth.”

“It often is.”

Aryn reached for the bread but didn’t eat it. She tore off a corner and crumbled it between her fingers, chestnut eyes fixed on the slow motion of it falling apart in her hand.

Gale set his utensils down carefully. “You said earlier—it feels like a storm. Inside you.”

Something in her posture stiffened.

“I’ve heard many descriptions for raw magic,” he went on. “Heat. Hunger. Drowning. The storm is… rarer. A specific kind of pressure. One that builds.”

Still, she didn’t speak.

“I’m not asking for answers,” he said more gently. “Just… context.”

That earned him a glance, brief but sharp. “Why?”

Gale met her gaze without hesitation. “Because I see you holding yourself together by force. Because I’ve done it, too.”

Aryn looked away sharply.

Gale didn’t follow her line of sight. He let her have the retreat.

“I didn’t come here for that,” she said, voice flat. “Whatever this is.”

“No,” Gale said quietly. “You came to learn.”

A pause.

“I’m not here to pull the past out of you,” he added. “But I would be lying if I said I couldn’t feel it pressing around the edges.”

Aryn’s mouth tugged downward, and this time, the bitterness showed. “What? You think if I talk about it, the magic will start obeying me?”

“No. But it might start knowing you.”

She shook her head, fingers curling into the edge of the table. “You keep saying things like that—‘the Weave listens,’ ‘it knows,’ like it’s some kind of sentient thing.”

“In a way, it is.”

“That’s poetic. Not useful.”

“It’s not meant to be useful,” Gale said, quietly but firmly. “It’s meant to be true.”

That silenced her.

She stared down at her plate. Her fingers were pale against the stone, as if she’d been gripping harder than she realized.

Gale softened his voice. “I’m not going to ask what happened to you, Aryn. But something did. And if you keep treating magic like a weapon to control—or a threat to be corralled—it will buck you every time. Not because it wants to harm you. But because you haven’t shown it who you really are.”

Her voice, when it came, was low. “And what if I don’t know anymore?”

The question cracked the air between them.

Gale didn’t speak right away. He watched her with quiet, steady eyes—no pity in them, only recognition.

“Then that’s where we begin.”

Aryn’s expression flickered—pain, maybe. Or something rawer. A sudden vulnerability she didn’t have the energy to hide.

But just as quickly, the walls rose again. Her shoulders squared. Her jaw tightened.

She reached for her wine. Drank. Then leaned back in her chair like she hadn’t just let a piece of herself slip loose between words.

“If I’m being honest,” she said, tone dry, “I didn’t expect dinner to turn into a philosophical excavation.”

Gale gave a faint, rueful smile. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

She didn’t smile back—but the edge in her tone dulled. “Do all your lessons end like this?”

“Only the important ones.”

Aryn didn’t answer. She picked at the bread again, slower this time. Not relaxing, but… loosening. Slightly.

Not trust. Not yet.

But she hadn’t left the table. And she was still listening.

That, Gale thought, was enough for now.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, embers shifting like breath beneath the stone grate. The scent of roasted garlic and wine still lingered, mingling with the quiet hum of old magic woven into the walls.

Gale sat back slowly, letting the moment stretch. Across from him, Aryn was quiet again. The sharp edges in her expression had dulled—not smoothed, not softened entirely, but dulled—as though exhaustion had worn through some of the bracing tension in her limbs. She had stopped picking at the bread. Now, she simply sat. Watchful. Silent.

He didn’t press her. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he stood. The movement was unhurried, deliberate—a signal, perhaps, that the conversation could rest here. That she could, too.

“I’ll clear this,” he said gently, reaching for the plates.

She didn’t answer, but he didn’t take it as resistance. Just another boundary—one of many he was beginning to recognize.

He gathered the plates, stacking them carefully. The weight of ceramic and the scrape of silver on stone filled the room with soft, mundane sound. He took his time. Let her sit in peace, in silence, in whatever space she needed to collect herself.

He turned toward the sideboard with the stack of dishes in hand, pausing only to brush the crumbs from his side of the table.

And when he turned back around—

She was gone.

No sound, no farewell, no rustle of cloak against doorframe. Just the empty chair, still angled toward the fire. The half-full glass of wine left untouched beside her plate.

Gale stood still for a long moment, eyes fixed on the space she’d left behind.

Not trust. Not yet.

But she had stayed through the storm. And left, not in anger or haste, but in silence—her own kind of grace.

He let out a slow breath and turned back to finish the clearing. No words chased her. No spells sought her. Some things, he knew now, had to come of their own accord.

And if she returned tomorrow—he would be here.

It was an early, beautiful dawn the next day.

The wind was softer up here — high above the streets and stone, where the hum of the city gave way to the hush of sky. The balcony overlooked Baldur’s Gate in full: rooftops sloping like waves, alleyways caught in shadow, the morning gilding the harbor in golden threads.

Aryn stood at the railing, her cloak tugged close around her, strands of hair drifting in the breeze. She leaned forward slightly, arms braced on the edge of the carved stone, staring into the distance as if it might give her answers.

Gale approached quietly.

He didn’t want to intrude — but he also didn’t want to let the silence between them stretch so far it became something harder to cross.

He stopped a pace behind her. “You vanished after supper.”

Aryn didn’t turn. “I needed air.”

He waited a beat, then moved to stand beside her. The breeze brushed his cloak against hers, and they stood like that — not quite touching, not quite apart — for a long moment.

Finally, she spoke. “Do you ever wonder if you’re the wrong kind of person to hold power?”

The question caught him off guard.

Gale turned slightly, studying her face. She wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was still on the city, sharp and unfocused all at once.

He answered carefully. “I’ve wondered if I was. But I don’t think power draws a single kind of person. Only… certain kinds find it harder to let go.”

Aryn let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I don’t want to let go of it. I want to prove I can carry it. That I won’t burn everything down just because I wasn’t born knowing how to wield it.”

She finally looked at him. “That’s what scares me, Gale. Not that I’ll fail. That I’ll succeed — and still lose myself.”

The vulnerability in her voice was sharp, threaded with a kind of quiet shame.

Gale’s chest ached.

“I’ve always been told I’m too much,” she continued, turning back to the view. “Too reckless, too stubborn, too loud with my magic. I’ve had doors closed in my face before I even knew what I was asking. So I taught myself. I pushed forward. I survived. But that… hunger?” Her hand curled slightly around the railing. “It doesn’t go away. And I don’t know what it makes me.”

Gale was silent for a long time.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. “It makes you familiar.”

She blinked, turning her head slightly.

“I’ve stood in that exact place,” he said, his eyes distant. “Burning for more. Drowning in questions no one had time to answer. Feeling like if I didn’t grasp everything right then and there, I’d never be seen. Never be enough.”

He turned to face her more fully. “And when I finally held something vast enough to feel like enough… it nearly killed me.”

Aryn swallowed hard.

“I look at you,” Gale said softly, “and I see someone standing where I once stood — but with a chance I didn’t have. Someone to guide you. Someone to say: it’s not too much. You’re not too much. You just haven’t learned how to stand still in your own magic yet.”

Aryn stared at him, her eyes shining faintly in the moonlight. “You think I can?”

“I think you already are,” he said, voice rough. “Even if you can’t see it yet.”

Something in her expression trembled, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

The wind stirred between them, and then Aryn, quietly, asked: “Do you regret it?”

Gale hesitated. “Which part?”

“Choosing power over safety. Chasing magic even when it tore you apart.”

His answer came slowly — like something pried from under years of ash.

“No,” he said. “But I regret thinking I had to do it alone.”

That was what cracked her composure.

Her shoulders dropped, her breath caught, and she turned slightly, just enough that her arm brushed his.

“I don’t want to be alone in it either,” she whispered.

“You’re not.”

Gale didn’t reach for her — not yet — but the closeness between them shifted into something deeper. A quiet understanding. A tether drawn taut between two halves of a mirrored story.

They stood there, side by side, as the city exhaled below and the last stars wheeled above, and for the first time in a long, long while, both of them let the silence settle without fear.

Because in it, there was no accusation.

Only kinship.

Only the fragile, impossible beginnings of trust.

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