[ A perfectly serviceable guess, really; it wasn't as though Godfrey had done much to educate his new friends on the truth of him.
In this respect, he has done them a disservice. This is something that has always perched at the edge of his awareness; always there, but simple enough to avoid. All Godfrey truly needed to do was to remind himself of the simple fact that none of them could know him - that they all had things more important and pertinent to know than the silver-and-gold knight who had just blundered into their lives. They did not need to know him. He could know them, and surely, that would be enough.
This was before the first of them had tried to return the favour by knowing Godfrey as Godfrey had come to know them. Gale, attentive and careful, looking to absorb anything of Godfrey, sits before him. Ready and eager for anything that he might give.
And yet, his tongue guides the conversation in circles. He does not seek an ear nor a shoulder tonight, and he asks not that Godfrey remain sturdy and strong where he cannot. These things are simple; his own strength can stand in for others, and he can listen, and he can take in their tragedies, and he can hope that they weigh a little less on them for how they now weigh on Godfrey himself. Gale asks something else of him entirely. Godfrey hardly knows where to begin. And, indeed, where the others have slowly done him the honour of giving Godfrey pieces of themselves, Godfrey finds himself retreating, clutching those shards in his hands.
Why, Godfrey? He could not say. It was not as though Gale was an untrustworthy friend - and yet he hesitates. Even in the face of his kindness, he hesitates.
Sir Godfrey had sworn an oath. ]
You are kind to say so.
[ This small concession, first. He does not agree, and Godfrey does not hide this. He lifts his glass to his lips and takes a long, thoughtful sip, the bell-curve of its belly glinting in the low light. It hangs loose in his fingers when he finds his thirst satisfied, leaning casually against the inner edge of of his leg. ]
But it was me who lacked pragmatism. I think it will not surprise you to hear that my leadership was a touch... idealistic. I did not always keep in the forefront of my thoughts the well-being of the Temple.
I do confess that my own view of you has certainly been colored by our very unusual circumstances, but no, I cannot say that surprises me a great deal.
[His smile quirks to one side as he drinks deep from his glass, a simple pleasure that he finds himself incredibly grateful for in these trying times. For all of his experiences, all of his talents, all of his elegant taste, it was the simple moments he always found the most comfort in.]
I would go so far as to say that there are times when your leadership is still a touch idealistic, but given that what we face has the potential to lead to disastrously poor choices under tremendous pressure, but the optimist in me rather appreciates the standing reminder to be considerate of the consequences of our actions.
[Gale is rather pragmatic when he needs to be, but he does still like to hope for the best while preparing for the worst.]
[ He lets himself live just a little too long in that moment, studying the way he smiles and his face as he takes that deep drink of wine. Tries to read his thoughts through his closed eyes and the way his chest moves as he breathes, exhaling as he allows the taste to fill him.
Suns himself in this small approval, as he recounts a time when not even his own household fully appreciated his efforts.
Godfrey glances away then. The lingering smile fades as he delves deeper. ]
I like to think that my time in the clergy taught me a thing or two. [ Perhaps more accurate; he likes to hope. ] My heart was well-placed and did not falter, but... well. I prioritized what it told me over what my rational mind did.
[ Here, his gaze gets trepidatious and shy; he glances toward Gale for a thin moment, gauging his reaction in slim seconds before looking away again, allowing the buzz of the night outside to take the moment again. ]
The temple had many... implicit, shall we say, initiatives to help the underprivileged. [ His gaze distances as he rolls the glass in his hand, feeling its weight slosh precariously in its glass belly. ] We offered direct help to the children and the newly born, and that was well. We sheltered travelers and adventurers, for they often proved lucrative prospects and particularly helpful hands. But never the parents of those children. There was an air that we ought not take responsibility for them, that their problems lie with themselves where their children were blameless, that the church ought keep funding our other initiatives instead. It all appeared, to me, rather... self-serving.
[ And the hesitation is no trepidation regarding blasphemy - the Morninglord uses His clergy first and foremost to revise the old traditions, that Lathander may be improved continuously as His priests use Him for their own betterment. Criticism and debate of scripture and its use is, always, a healthy part of any good Lathanderian worship. ]
It was my assessment that a man cannot be expected to improve himself when he knew not where his next meal came from, or when he had no cover from the sun or the rain. And it also was my assessment that our scripture demanded we pull those around us in our wake, tow them toward a tomorrow ever brighter. That this was our divine duty. I followed this call. I became the Temple's Dawnlord, and I fought to keep its doors open to the poor and the destitute.
[ He exhales, slowly, through his nose. His shoulders fall, and his brow tightens a little. The note of the statement swings downward instead of upward. ]
[Gale's brow furrows as he echoes the paladin, having watched his expression carefully as he told his tale, that exhale alone a great indicator of a turning point to come. He grimaces, his own smile having faded, and he shakes his head as he lowers his glass, eyebrows knit together in disapproval— not of Godfrey, but of those who would take advantage of his ideals.]
I wish such things were unheard of, people turning on the very hands that feed them. Your heart was certainly in the right place, wishing to aid those the temple had previously overlooked. I've not been unfortunate enough to experience true hunger— the traditional kind, at least— but I do know how difficult it can be to try and improve one's situation when plagued with doubt, with pain.
[He lets out a sigh of his own, lifting his glass and giving it another even swirl before he drinks.]
Even then, it seems you believed the best of mankind. What happened to the one who assaulted you?
[ Godfrey's taken on a mournful air as Gale gives his thoughts - but the air is sucked from the tent completely at that question.
In the heavy vacuum of silence left behind, Sir Godfrey sits, swallowing. ]
She was found to have made an intentional attempt on my life by the courts, whilst I lay in recovery. I could not intervene before she was hanged by the neck.
[ And intervene he would have; the assailant was a young woman known to him. He had no wish to see her put to death for a crime she had committed in desperation, not while he remained dedicated to helping her. He had walked himself through the alternatives he could have offered for weeks - had he only been able to attend.
Though, somewhere in Godfrey's chest, this story had never quite sat right. He had never been able to fathom how it had been that multiple days had been lost; his fellow clergymen pointed their fingers at Vladimir and claimed that all had been handled at home, that the Temple had presumed him missing in the crucial hours after the assault had been discovered. And Vladimir would not speak of the incident at all. ]
Vladimir was furious with me. [ Godfrey's gaze has drifted down to his shoes, one ankle crossed over the other, as he murmurs. ] He was a stern man for all of our time together, but never had I seen him angry, either before or since. He told me, the bastards will eat you alive, and you'll think nothing of anyone who loved you. Only to be sorry for the way you'll stick in their damned teeth.
[ Another quiet moment passes.
Something shifts across Godfrey's face. A subtle furrowing of his brow and a slow-dawning regret as he wishes he could pull back that anecdote - the fear that he's compromised the careful image of Vladimir that Godfrey's curated, one of the few which exists.
Godfrey takes his glass and drains the rest of the wine from it and, in a woozy moment, decides to prove his late husband's frustrations right; he untucks his shirt and, carefully, lifts a bit of its cover from his waistband.
Beneath it is a criss-crossing mess of pink scarring, the remains of a savage assault. Repeated, rapid intrusions, clustered to the lower-right of his firm abdomen. A bloody remainder.
[He had not expected a happy end to that tale, and yet the answer he was almost certain he would receive still hangs heavy in the air between them. Godfrey tells him much, but there are things he leaves unspoken, as well— had he not been in recovery, Gale is certain he would have done everything within his power to see the woman's life spared. It was simply who he was.
The tale is a grim one. He frowns slightly as Godfrey recounts Vlad's words to him, his brow furrowing further still.]
I imagine he was furious because he was terrified.
[Coming so close to losing the person you loved... such things were enough to push people to do or say things they wouldn't normally.
His gaze moves downwards as Godfrey shifts, and it takes him a moment or two longer than it should to realize what it is that his companion is doing, thanks to the wine. The scar is a stark contrast against the rest of his skin, and yet despite the solemnity of the moment, Gale feels his heart rise into his throat and his mouth go suddenly dry as he finds his gaze taking in other details, as well— the plane of Godfrey's stomach, the hard-won muscle.
He swallows hard, averts his gaze, and quickly drains the last of the contents of his glass.]
It must have been a very close thing, that injury. I'm glad you lived to tell the tale.
[Gods above, the way he was feeling in this moment was wildly inappropriate.]
Edited (I literally forgot the most important line) 2024-05-18 03:37 (UTC)
Yes, [ Godfrey tugs the bottom edge of his shirt back over his firm stomach, ] just so.
[ If Godfrey is aware of the sudden flash of colour in Gale's ears, he doesn't show it. He clears the tension from his throat and rests his other hand on his stomach, rolling the wine in the bottom of his glass. Feels its thin weight rock between hand and palm as he stares through the tent walls.
Softly; ]
I never did learn just what happened.
[ The uncertainty, though frightening, was a better avenue of conversation to travel than others which branched from this event; the fighting, or the cold guilt. Feeling the life leak out of him in that locked, silent office. ]
My fellow clergymen told me that Vladimir had handled everything. And he would not speak on it.
[ Not while he could, anyway, and Godfrey had thought the day would not come.
Perhaps he had died. He'd never know now, and had spent some years convincing himself that the uncertainty perched in the back of his head didn't bother him.
The subject matter sufficiently disturbing for a change in focus, Godfrey's eyes return to the tent. He glances up at Gale and sees his glass empty. ]
Ah. [ Godfrey shifts, wrapping a gentle hand around the neck of their bottle. ] Another, perhaps?
[He finds himself immensely grateful for the offer of wine, not only because of his empty glass, but because the shift in topic, however slight, might help him to feel slightly less at odds with himself— a momentary thought that he immediately feels guilty for allowing to pass through his mind at all. It had been important to him to encourage Godfrey to share, it still was, but he has not, perhaps, been entirely honest about why that might be, with Godfrey or with himself.
He leans forward to hold out his glass, balancing himself against the ground with one hand.]
Ah, yes— please, though I hope you will join me for another, as well.
[The space between them had already been small, narrow, and leaning forward brings them inordinately close to one another in a way that is bordering on terribly distracting. Gale finds himself keenly aware of the fact that this is the first time Godfrey has ever physically joined him in his tent, but he's certainly thought about what might happen if he did on more than one occasion.
Gods above, he is certainly going to find himself in one of the nine hells for thinking such things of a still-grieving widower— devoted to the church, at that. Gale has never considered himself to be particularly hedonistic, but when comparing himself to Godfrey, he feels downright sinful.]
[ He would, however, likely keep himself at two glasses for the rest of his visit. Not that that's anything to discount; Godfrey has kept his one-glass limit strict through their travels. Nothing has motivated him to bend this rule prior to this evening.
What has changed? Godfrey can't say. Not precisely; that is to say, he cannot give a singular, satisfying explanation. The closest his own thoughts come is to say that everything has. There is little about this evening they're sharing that isn't unorthodox for him, at least slightly. He's yet to intrude on the quarters of any of his new companions in this manner, lounging so casually in their private corners of their campsites. He has shared things which only few people know - stories he's been reticent to tell even in Baldur's Gate. Stranger still, he feels at ease about it.
One more paltry glass of table wine in the company of a friend who is trying for him seems, perhaps, an innocent enough diversion to add to the pile.
He sets his own down as Gale works his way nearer, just a little unsteady on the rocky ground. Godfrey's hand comes to his. Strong, rough fingers cradle the hand around his glass gingerly, just enough to hold him steady as he extends. They don't move as Gale steadies, and Godfrey pours more dark wine. He pours him a respectable glass - something vague in him dictates this line, between "respectable" and some shadowy alternative. Not too heavy, lest he be pressured to drink more than he might have; not too stingy, lest he think Godfrey thinks him some sort of sot who needs mediating. The glass is perfectly respectable when Godfrey pulls away; just tiptoeing to half-full.
Godfrey finishes his own glass and pours himself just a little less. ]
Gale had been about to offer a witty but warm response when he feels Godfrey's hand coming to steady his own, causing him to suddenly draw a blank where he had previously been full to the brim with far more thoughts than even he knew what to do with.
It's such a small thing. Insignificant to most, likely, but tonight, in this space, after so very long without experiencing any human touch aside from any that coincided with recent mending of wounds—
It feels like something.
Surely he's overthinking it. Surely, he is allowing the dim light and the cheap table wine to go to his head, but the strong, warm touch of Godfrey's hand is still enough to convince Gale to shift so that they're now seated alongside one another, rather than across.]
You're welcome to stay all night, if you wish.
[It comes so easily that he doesn't even consider the implications of it, and he flusters just a touch as he revises.]
That is— you're always welcome, as far as I'm concerned. My thanks.
[He lifts his glass, giving a tip of his head before drinking deep.
Very deep.
Gods, didn't he used to be good at this sort of thing? He swears he was.]
[ Shivering warmth floods the back of his neck, runs down his spine as he hears the low ease in Gale's voice.
Ridiculous. Pathetic, his desperation. That it would drive him to resort to crawling into accidental innuendo for warmth - and, indeed, to assign warmth where there likely wasn't any. A blind worm seeking moisture by the tip of his nose. He ought to be ashamed of himself. Certainly he would pray for his Lord's guidance tomorrow morning - but it isn't shame he feels thrilling in the bottom of his chest.
Something else. A queer giddiness. A tiny exhilaration. Small wings beating against the inside of him, too small to fill him completely but yet unmistakable. The wine and the thin and fleeting notion that it might have been meant precisely how Godfrey had first thought conspire to make something impossible, irresistible. He'd not even imagined such a thing in years. There is no way for Godfrey to thank Gale for what currently stirs in him, the tiny wings lightening his shoulders and the stone he's carried in his chest, yet he feels he must.
Instead, he releases a soft breath as Gale course corrects. Of course. It couldn't take what he had given him, though, selfish as it may be to hold it. He would lock it deep within himself. It would stay there until his body would rot and break its aroma to the world. Until then, he would lock it in a box. He would inhale it for the rest of his days. ]
I ought impose upon your hospitality more often, my friend.
[ If there is some mirrored implication in Godfrey's words, he doesn't let on that he realizes it. He takes a polite drink of his glass as Gale dives into his, lets the alcohol sit on his tongue, swallows.
More grape, but pleasantly so. ]
I think I have rather handily defeated my own purpose in being here. [ He's smiling, gently, as he says it. ] I wish not to dwell on unpleasantness while I take your time. Perhaps I ought tell a happier tale.
[ He would lend the floor to Gale, but he seems uninterested in himself as a subject of conversation, and Godfrey feels indebted to appease him after all of that sorrowing he's just done. ]
[That smile of his— always warm and full of reassurance, and Gale finds himself wondering if, perhaps, he had not been so far off the mark after all. It would be so, so easy to imagine such things after so many long months sequestered away from the world, so much time spent keenly aware of the fact that any given day could not only be his last, but was more likely to be than not. That last part, he supposes, hasn't changed much in the least.
Perhaps it's the wine bolstering his courage, or the fact that there's so little left to lose. What do any of them really have left to hold onto, at this point?
Certainly not pride. He's had his fill of that, personally.]
Oh, I do wish you would.
[... wait.]
'Impose' more often, I mean, though it is certainly no imposition at all. The story would be more than welcome, of course. I am certain I would enjoy any tale you had to tell.
[ ... well. There's a certain warmth and familiarity in Gale's tone for a moment that not even Godfrey can ignore, the low implication of something more just beneath his words ringing too clearly for Godfrey to plug his ears to.
He can't be surprised, though. Not after seeing personally how quickly he started into his glass. It's likely the wine talking; Godfrey can feel it himself, the way the alcohol begins to blur the lines between the two of them, the way it flourishes in his chest. He was at risk of the very same thing - precisely why he must remain cognizant of it. It was hardly fair to ascribe something personal to Gale's burgeoning inebriation, and less fair to hold it against him.
Godfrey sits and smiles amiably, but keeps his back straight and his hips beneath him. He does not return to his earlier posture, lounging back on the piled cushions. It felt improper now, in ways that Godfrey could not elaborate upon. He watches the shimmering, ruby heart of his glass, and he delves. ]
I have shown you sadness tonight, but that is not all that my life has been. [ It likely went without saying, but it was a reminder that Godfrey himself could do with. There were many sadnesses, but just as much laughter, and a litter of stories he could use to prove it. ] I remember once-- Iltha was quite angry at me.
[ She seemed his safest bet. Vladimir felt inexorably couched in that same sadness he was trying to escape, though he had his share that always brought a smile to his face - and, strangely, it feels impolite to conjure him back into the conversation. He takes a deep sip. ]
She had... I believe, said some disparaging things to her schoolteacher. She became angry that I had not taken her side in the matter and confined her to her room. [ Even had she been, as Iltha's assessment went, lacking in intelligence and not worth listening to, it would not do to have her saying so. ] I had assumed the matter would cool in the evening, but I suppose that I underestimated her.
[ There's a distance in his eyes now, a warm fondness in the curve of his lips. ]
I said good-night to her, as I often did. She was scrunched into her bed, you know, looking sullen still. And she began-- [ Something ripples in him, a sensible chuckle he tries to suppress, ] She began to point out other things in the room and address them. Good-night book, good-night chair, good-night hairbrush. I love you, comb. I'd spent my time watching over the children with the church, but I'd no clue they were capable of that sort of... I suppose, passive-aggression.
[He laughs warmly, shaking his head before taking another pull from his glass, more measured this time. The tale reminds him of how he'd responded to his mother when she'd initially refused to allow him to get a cat.]
It's quite remarkable, how long children can hold onto grudges. It would seem your girl is especially clever, if she's able to make such a savage point so young.
[He lets out a chuckle of his own; it's good to hear Godfrey laugh, to laugh together, given all they've endured these past weeks.]
She's going to grow up to be a force to be reckoned with, I've no doubt. I'd quite like to meet her someday, if the opportunity ever presents itself. If my hunch is correct, she's likely to have quite a knack for debate.
[Even through stories alone, he can recognize a kindred spirit.]
Godfrey stills, then, brow knotting tight as he considers how he could begin to approach putting her into a tidy little sentence. ]
She's frightfully serious. [ A twinge of amusement ripples the seriousness in Godfrey's own face as he considers it, seems to mirror the attitude for himself for a moment. ] Quite severe and pensive. And she is the sort of child, I suppose, who expects that everyone will take her as seriously as she takes herself. And - you know, this is unfortunate, because all of that on a girl so small...
[ Well. You try keeping your face straight as a three-year-old girl seriously tells your husband that you told her not to say anything if you have nothing nice to say regarding dinner. The pensive silences only serve to enhance the comedy of situations, and the grave frowns are impossible to take seriously in those babyfat cheeks.
But there is something that twinges in him as Gale expresses a want to meet her. The sensation that he has opened a door into his life, and instead of stepping back from it, Gale has walked inside. It's a breathless sort of hope, intoxicating and fragile. Something he wants to grab, but fears would be crushed in his grip. ]
I would like that.
[ The fluttering in his chest lightens his voice, and his palm grows a little too warm around his glass. He takes a breath. ]
As would she, I think. I suspect you would get along well.
I can only imagine that when others find it difficult to take her quite so seriously, she's not entirely pleased.
[His smile pulls easily to one side as he imagines, briefly, how such a scene might play out, and the idea alone is terribly familiar. He probably wasn't quite so severe as Iltha sounds to be when he was a child, but he had taken himself quite seriously in his own right and set grand expectations for himself that he expected everyone to be onboard with. Unfortunately for him, they weren't always.
For the briefest of moments, he has the self-awareness to look just the slightest bit shy about what he'd implied, and feels something in him lift at that lightness in Godfrey's voice as he lowers his glass.]
You think so? I promise, I'd not tell any embarrassing stories regarding your time with us on the road— of course, I suppose I'm being rather presumptuous about it all, aren't I?
[Inviting himself into Godfrey's life like that. It was some streak of fortune that had brought them all together, granted them the opportunity to aid one another in this unfortunate venture, but he has found himself rather hoping that when it all comes to an end... maybe they needn't all go their separate ways.
He sighs a bit, though his easy smile remains.]
All the more reason to make it through this, yes? Perhaps making those sorts of plans will be just the push we need.
[ A light note of concern in his voice accompanies this response; much had transpired over the course of their travels together, but he hadn't thought there had been much embarrassment to be had.
More accurately, perhaps, he hadn't thought there had been much embarrassment to be had that Gale was aware of. This evening is suddenly full of incidents Godfrey would deem an embarrassment - but ones which, if Godfrey had any say in the matter, would remain carefully concealed secrets from Gale. There was no need to inflict the loneliness yawning at his own feet; the humiliating, exhilarating pressure beginning to build in him as Gale insinuates himself closer and closer to his heart, conspiring with the low tones he had just earlier written off. No one needed such a thing foisted upon them, but particularly not Gale, particularly not tonight. He'd only wanted to extend some kindness to him. He hardly deserved for Godfrey to twist something so good into anything else.
And such, Godfrey begins to act almost as soon as he feels it, his lips pressing for an uncomfortable moment. The tightline before him is delicate; head off the problem at the pass before Gale becomes aware of his discomfort and assumes himself at fault. Godfrey hauls his thoughts back and attempts to corral himself with a quiet breath.
He also, with a hesitance he tries to make casual, pulls the leg closest to Gale up just a little, bending his knee to a shallow peak. ]
Indeed so. I would like very much to see all of you, after our travels conclude - but...
[ He clears his throat, abruptly, his voice softened when he continues; ]
I would be... very glad, if this were not the last night we spend together like this.
[While Gale doesn't think anything of Godfrey's shift in posture, that new softness in his voice causes him to still, his breath catching in his throat as he's midway through another sip of his wine, holding it for a moment too long before he exhales.
Maybe it wasn't so foolish for him to read into Godfrey's actions. Perhaps he wasn't entirely out of line, after all?
There was really only one way to say for sure. He lowers his glass, setting it down atop a nearby stack of books that also has some unfurled parchment spread atop it, the closest thing he has to a table inside the tent itself. He turns his gaze to the larger man directly, his eyes soft with both fondness and a faint questioning.]
I, ah— well. If I hadn't already made that apparent, I would be very glad, as well.
[He clears his own throat, one side of his mouth quirking upwards again for a moment before he proceeds, cautious.]
I would like to keep in touch with everyone, but— I would like to see you, especially. When I say you're always welcome, I do mean... there's truly no one who's company I'd like more.
[Carefully, so carefully, he brings his hand to lightly rest against Godfrey's wrist.]
[ There is obvious gravity at his side, suddenly; the priesthood had given him a canny sense for revelations close to the surface of a conversation. Godfrey is taking a drink from his glass when it makes him abruptly aware of the silence in the room, as Gale sets his own cup down and turns to face him fully.
Godfrey turns to him, wine glass in hand, in the weighty sliver of silence which precedes. Their conversations hadn't exactly been perpetually light in nature, but this is a gravity he's not yet felt from Gale; not quite the anticipatory and impossible weight that news of the orb bore, but something heavy, something enduring, lingering still in the air. Something which must surely have all of Godfrey's attention, and all of Godfrey's attention it shall have.
It begins to fall into place around him as Gale speaks, and he becomes aware of the look in his eyes - the soft, longing fondness. That same distant and foolish part of him conspires to lock that away, too - to press it into his mind until nothing could take the memory of being seen through those eyes. The notion that he may not need to steal it like some sort of starving animal dawns on him slowly, becomes a sunrise less and less avoidable as Gale continues, voice low and brimming with softness.
For him.
Godfrey swallows his wine, and exhales. He stares in unguarded surprise, his clear cerulean eyes darting between Gale's face and his hand, tender and carefully placed at his wrist. As though the dream might be broken and scattered if he looked away. Time stretches between the two of them. ]
Ah-- oh.
[ His throat tightens, and a sudden and terrible awareness of himself hurries through him. Without looking away, Godfrey's hand drops out of Gale's sight, hurriedly trying to find satisfactory purchase for his own glass. He places it on the rocky edge of a flat stone and the glass topples, and the remains of his glass soaks dark into the earth - this draws his attention from Gale with a thin, displeased noise, as he looks to ensure that none of the cushions have been ruined.
He looks back to Gale, tight with self-consciousness. He's still there, somehow.
Hurriedly, Godfrey looks down to Gale's hand, warm against his wrist. Unavoidable. He takes it in both of his own. ]
I- I hope that-- [ His throat conspires to choke him. He looks to Gale's hand in his own, brushes his thumb over his smooth knuckles, and tries to center himself. ] You have honoured me. I hope that you will forgive my... lack of grace. And that you have not mistaken it for reticence. I did not--
[ A slight tightening of his broad hands around Gale's. ]
[For a moment, Gale thinks his interest might be ill-received, even as Godfrey sets his glass aside and spills its contents— prestidigitation will manage that easily enough later on— and he prepares to steel himself for rejection, to apologize for assuming too much, for misreading.
To anyone who wasn't well-acquainted with either of them, Gale's remark might have been innocuous enough, but the wizard knows better. Neither he nor Godfrey are the sort to do anything by halves, nor are they the sort to engage in such things without considering the long-term implications. They had both loved and lost, in their own ways. Godfrey was a widower with a young child, Gale was a man who knew what he wanted from his future, should he live long enough to have one.
It isn't until Godfrey closes both hands around his own that he feels himself let out a breath of relief, the thundering of his heartbeat in his own ears receding as he gives a more earnest smile.]
If I'm to forgive you for any lack of grace, then I should hope you could forgive me for the same. I'm— a touch out of practice, as it turns out.
[He hasn't expressed his feelings to another mortal in more years than he can remember. For so long, it was only Mystra. The charming, mischievous scholar he'd been in his youth was a distant memory, at times.]
Truth be told, I thought the same. That— there was not enough left of me to offer, in fact.
[They could still die before they reach the end, and he remains on borrowed time, but he has all sorts of reasons to fight for a future now. Godfrey, he's come to realize in recent weeks, is one of them.]
[ Typically, the second standard he sets for himself, and the irony which comes with it, occur to him casually. Some idle thought, a passing realization. Some notion folded into another's words, hidden until he unwraps and thinks on it. Very rarely has the sight of his own standards against his standards for another confronted him so.
He can see the sentiment Gale expresses so clearly; the sense of diminishment. That a person leaves slivers of themselves in others as their lives touch against the lives of others, pieces which could not be restored or retrieved. It's a feeling Godfrey has often existed alongside; it often felt as though he could feel the broken edges of the pieces he'd lost of himself. The pieces he'd entrusted to his husband. They'd been buried with him.
Godfrey had just been running his fingers along those edges, as it turns out, as Gale expresses the very same sensation. His thoughts immediately recoil against the idea he had just spent so many years fostering, disbelieving the very ragged seams he had just been contemplating. It all suddenly seemed ludicrous; that the man before him, storied and intelligent and kind and careful, could have been diminished by anything.
But this was not a train of thought Godfrey would follow; not now, blighting into a world after that breathless admission. And nor was it a point he would argue with words - Godfrey knew that debate would not be what disproves this thinking to him. Godfrey brings his hand to his lips and presses into it a kiss, exhaling slow and warm across the back of his hand.
Willing that uncomfortable pressure, still building steadily, to settle one last time before he slips his hand from Gale's and relaxes his posture to offer to him his strong, broad chest, his smile touching his eyes in the soft light. ]
[Gale is by no means a small man, but he still remains absolutely dwarfed by Godfrey as he pushes himself to his knees and moves forward, eagerly leaning in to take advantage of the shift in position. It doesn't take much, given that they're already in close quarters, and he invites himself to reach out and thread dexterous fingers through the paladin's soft, champagne-pale hair, letting out a shuddering breath as he does so, having gone far, far too long without the touch of another, even in friendship.
He tips his head for a kiss, lips soft and parted as he seeks out Godfrey's own. His curiosity peeks through even in this; it is an opportunity to learn him, taste him, and he pulls himself flush against the offered chest as his free hand comes to rest against the larger man's upper arm, kneeling between his thighs. Only when he leans into Godfrey himself does he feel the press of his arousal against his own thigh, and he stills for only a moment before he lets out a laugh, warm and bright and enough for him to break that searching kiss as he drops his head.]
Oh, thank the gods, I hardly wanted to be the only one.
[They were far enough now from any somber conversation that it no longer felt inappropriate, and even less so with another glass of wine in him and the warm plane of Godfrey's broad chest beneath his own.]
[ It isn't what he intended to invite, but it's hardly unwelcome.
Godfrey sighs hard against his lips, as though setting down some great weight, and now lets himself fall back into the pillows. Both of his hands occupy themselves immediately as Gale's lips part against his, running down the gentle slope of his back, fingers wringing the embroidered waist of his bedclothes until the bottom seam slips high enough to expose his back.
It isn't a conscious effort to undress him - were Godfrey made aware of it, a temporary embarrassment might break through the moment, pull him to something more proper and principled than the man currently relishing in the warmth of his skin, mapping the muscle of his lower back with his palm. It is raw need coursing him; his body reaching out for the thing his rational mind would deny him, instinct driving his hand to run his fingertips just beneath the band of his waist to claim the warmth there, pulling him to wind his calf gently against the inside of Gale's -- and to pull his voice from him, surprised and hitching against Gale's parted lips as he presses against him.
Hot pressure pulls his cock tight for a moment, a strong throb he is only half-aware that Gale can certainly feel, and the fever breaks. Gale's breath is not on his tongue, and the soft press of his lips is gone. Godfrey's eyes flutter, and that respectable part of him regains control again as he sees his hand down the length of Gale's back - his fingers having wandered just a little too far below the waist. His hand recoils.
His next breath might have been an apology, but for Gale's own breathless, laughing confession. Flushed and panting, a rough hah pulled from him in response. Disbelieving. He hardly even needs to see it. Knowing that he had not been the only one concealing himself is enough to send a hot thrill through his body, and he brings his fingers to his hair, gently combing long strands from his ear to sigh hotly against it, to kiss its tender edge before whispering to him; ]
I had feared that it would drive me to cut the evening short.
[ Instead, he begins to think, it's only made it longer. ]
[The moment he begins to feel Godfrey's hand retreat from below his waist, he moves his hand downwards to catch the paladin's wrist and guide his touch back to where it had been, encouraging those curious fingertips to explore beneath the band at his waist if they see fit, his own breathless laughter subsiding.
The press of lips and heated breath against his air send a shudder running through him, and he catches his lower lip against his teeth to just barely stifle what would have most certainly been an embarrassingly wanton groan. It was almost ludicrous, how quickly he found himself aroused in this man's presence— more than once now, by his own admission— and the throb of Godfrey's own arousal against his leg only fuels his own, that familiar pressure building as he ceases his efforts in trying to will it away.
Godfrey's fingers in his hair and his voice against the shell of his ear only serve to stoke the embers, and his own fingers curl as they remain woven through the paladin's hair, turning his head to steal a kiss from the corner of his mouth, making a very slight but deliberate shift so that his thigh pulls against the larger man's clothed cock, the press of it enough to have Gale already straining against his trousers.]
That would have been a terrible, terrible shame. I would hate to think of you taking yet another burden upon yourself to bear.
[ Poor Godfrey does not have the same luxury of choice that Gale has; his entire body seems to pull tense as Gale pulls his leg against his stiff cock, hands pulling tight into fists, his legs squeezing inward.
He releases the handful he's grabbed of Gale's hair and waits for the waves of throbbing heat to subside. It has been some years since his husband died, this is true; what Gale may be starting to put together is that sex with others is not the only thing Godfrey has sacrificed. Though he's not completely abstained, his restraint extends to matters of self-pleasure as well, besides in cases where it would be impossible for Iltha to apparate at his door in need of something. That needed only happen once for him to take extra precaution.
If Iltha appears here, there's far bigger problems to worry about, but that hadn't made him much more forgiving; he had simply traded Iltha for any of the strangers he'd taken up travel with, for their strange schedules that never seemed to allow for sleep at a regular hour. This was amenable until recently. They certainly had those bigger problems and more to concern themselves with. He'd not felt the need to hide in his tent, holding his breath and watching the entry as he ran his oiled hand up and down the length of his hard dick until just recently; he could normally think himself out of such predicaments. This evening - well.
Outrunning the heat in his belly had been uncertain already. It was certainly impossible now. And his restraint has been diminished such that he's not sure it would actually satisfy.
Godfrey's nose scrubs into his stubbled jaw, hips flexing again against his firm thigh with a hitching sigh. Gale's words come to him on a delay, and the mention of that other burden goes straight to his dick again, the notion that this had been something hiding behind the evening - that this was just the sort of thing Gale would have imagined in secret, had he left.
His eyes roll and slip shut as he feels, in a burst of warmth, his hips relax, the subtle rub against his leg. His other hand gingerly tugs the waistband of his trousers around the curve of his ass. ]
Please-- [ Please what, Godfrey? He can't answer that, because to answer would be to think on it, and he's trying to make himself last. ]
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In this respect, he has done them a disservice. This is something that has always perched at the edge of his awareness; always there, but simple enough to avoid. All Godfrey truly needed to do was to remind himself of the simple fact that none of them could know him - that they all had things more important and pertinent to know than the silver-and-gold knight who had just blundered into their lives. They did not need to know him. He could know them, and surely, that would be enough.
This was before the first of them had tried to return the favour by knowing Godfrey as Godfrey had come to know them. Gale, attentive and careful, looking to absorb anything of Godfrey, sits before him. Ready and eager for anything that he might give.
And yet, his tongue guides the conversation in circles. He does not seek an ear nor a shoulder tonight, and he asks not that Godfrey remain sturdy and strong where he cannot. These things are simple; his own strength can stand in for others, and he can listen, and he can take in their tragedies, and he can hope that they weigh a little less on them for how they now weigh on Godfrey himself. Gale asks something else of him entirely. Godfrey hardly knows where to begin. And, indeed, where the others have slowly done him the honour of giving Godfrey pieces of themselves, Godfrey finds himself retreating, clutching those shards in his hands.
Why, Godfrey? He could not say. It was not as though Gale was an untrustworthy friend - and yet he hesitates. Even in the face of his kindness, he hesitates.
Sir Godfrey had sworn an oath. ]
You are kind to say so.
[ This small concession, first. He does not agree, and Godfrey does not hide this. He lifts his glass to his lips and takes a long, thoughtful sip, the bell-curve of its belly glinting in the low light. It hangs loose in his fingers when he finds his thirst satisfied, leaning casually against the inner edge of of his leg. ]
But it was me who lacked pragmatism. I think it will not surprise you to hear that my leadership was a touch... idealistic. I did not always keep in the forefront of my thoughts the well-being of the Temple.
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[His smile quirks to one side as he drinks deep from his glass, a simple pleasure that he finds himself incredibly grateful for in these trying times. For all of his experiences, all of his talents, all of his elegant taste, it was the simple moments he always found the most comfort in.]
I would go so far as to say that there are times when your leadership is still a touch idealistic, but given that what we face has the potential to lead to disastrously poor choices under tremendous pressure, but the optimist in me rather appreciates the standing reminder to be considerate of the consequences of our actions.
[Gale is rather pragmatic when he needs to be, but he does still like to hope for the best while preparing for the worst.]
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Suns himself in this small approval, as he recounts a time when not even his own household fully appreciated his efforts.
Godfrey glances away then. The lingering smile fades as he delves deeper. ]
I like to think that my time in the clergy taught me a thing or two. [ Perhaps more accurate; he likes to hope. ] My heart was well-placed and did not falter, but... well. I prioritized what it told me over what my rational mind did.
[ Here, his gaze gets trepidatious and shy; he glances toward Gale for a thin moment, gauging his reaction in slim seconds before looking away again, allowing the buzz of the night outside to take the moment again. ]
The temple had many... implicit, shall we say, initiatives to help the underprivileged. [ His gaze distances as he rolls the glass in his hand, feeling its weight slosh precariously in its glass belly. ] We offered direct help to the children and the newly born, and that was well. We sheltered travelers and adventurers, for they often proved lucrative prospects and particularly helpful hands. But never the parents of those children. There was an air that we ought not take responsibility for them, that their problems lie with themselves where their children were blameless, that the church ought keep funding our other initiatives instead. It all appeared, to me, rather... self-serving.
[ And the hesitation is no trepidation regarding blasphemy - the Morninglord uses His clergy first and foremost to revise the old traditions, that Lathander may be improved continuously as His priests use Him for their own betterment. Criticism and debate of scripture and its use is, always, a healthy part of any good Lathanderian worship. ]
It was my assessment that a man cannot be expected to improve himself when he knew not where his next meal came from, or when he had no cover from the sun or the rain. And it also was my assessment that our scripture demanded we pull those around us in our wake, tow them toward a tomorrow ever brighter. That this was our divine duty. I followed this call. I became the Temple's Dawnlord, and I fought to keep its doors open to the poor and the destitute.
[ He exhales, slowly, through his nose. His shoulders fall, and his brow tightens a little. The note of the statement swings downward instead of upward. ]
They closed when I was stabbed.
[ He takes another drink. ]
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[Gale's brow furrows as he echoes the paladin, having watched his expression carefully as he told his tale, that exhale alone a great indicator of a turning point to come. He grimaces, his own smile having faded, and he shakes his head as he lowers his glass, eyebrows knit together in disapproval— not of Godfrey, but of those who would take advantage of his ideals.]
I wish such things were unheard of, people turning on the very hands that feed them. Your heart was certainly in the right place, wishing to aid those the temple had previously overlooked. I've not been unfortunate enough to experience true hunger— the traditional kind, at least— but I do know how difficult it can be to try and improve one's situation when plagued with doubt, with pain.
[He lets out a sigh of his own, lifting his glass and giving it another even swirl before he drinks.]
Even then, it seems you believed the best of mankind. What happened to the one who assaulted you?
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In the heavy vacuum of silence left behind, Sir Godfrey sits, swallowing. ]
She was found to have made an intentional attempt on my life by the courts, whilst I lay in recovery. I could not intervene before she was hanged by the neck.
[ And intervene he would have; the assailant was a young woman known to him. He had no wish to see her put to death for a crime she had committed in desperation, not while he remained dedicated to helping her. He had walked himself through the alternatives he could have offered for weeks - had he only been able to attend.
Though, somewhere in Godfrey's chest, this story had never quite sat right. He had never been able to fathom how it had been that multiple days had been lost; his fellow clergymen pointed their fingers at Vladimir and claimed that all had been handled at home, that the Temple had presumed him missing in the crucial hours after the assault had been discovered. And Vladimir would not speak of the incident at all. ]
Vladimir was furious with me. [ Godfrey's gaze has drifted down to his shoes, one ankle crossed over the other, as he murmurs. ] He was a stern man for all of our time together, but never had I seen him angry, either before or since. He told me, the bastards will eat you alive, and you'll think nothing of anyone who loved you. Only to be sorry for the way you'll stick in their damned teeth.
[ Another quiet moment passes.
Something shifts across Godfrey's face. A subtle furrowing of his brow and a slow-dawning regret as he wishes he could pull back that anecdote - the fear that he's compromised the careful image of Vladimir that Godfrey's curated, one of the few which exists.
Godfrey takes his glass and drains the rest of the wine from it and, in a woozy moment, decides to prove his late husband's frustrations right; he untucks his shirt and, carefully, lifts a bit of its cover from his waistband.
Beneath it is a criss-crossing mess of pink scarring, the remains of a savage assault. Repeated, rapid intrusions, clustered to the lower-right of his firm abdomen. A bloody remainder.
Unhealed by priestly magic. ]
It was quite a shock to him, I think.
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The tale is a grim one. He frowns slightly as Godfrey recounts Vlad's words to him, his brow furrowing further still.]
I imagine he was furious because he was terrified.
[Coming so close to losing the person you loved... such things were enough to push people to do or say things they wouldn't normally.
His gaze moves downwards as Godfrey shifts, and it takes him a moment or two longer than it should to realize what it is that his companion is doing, thanks to the wine. The scar is a stark contrast against the rest of his skin, and yet despite the solemnity of the moment, Gale feels his heart rise into his throat and his mouth go suddenly dry as he finds his gaze taking in other details, as well— the plane of Godfrey's stomach, the hard-won muscle.
He swallows hard, averts his gaze, and quickly drains the last of the contents of his glass.]
It must have been a very close thing, that injury. I'm glad you lived to tell the tale.
[Gods above, the way he was feeling in this moment was wildly inappropriate.]
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[ If Godfrey is aware of the sudden flash of colour in Gale's ears, he doesn't show it. He clears the tension from his throat and rests his other hand on his stomach, rolling the wine in the bottom of his glass. Feels its thin weight rock between hand and palm as he stares through the tent walls.
Softly; ]
I never did learn just what happened.
[ The uncertainty, though frightening, was a better avenue of conversation to travel than others which branched from this event; the fighting, or the cold guilt. Feeling the life leak out of him in that locked, silent office. ]
My fellow clergymen told me that Vladimir had handled everything. And he would not speak on it.
[ Not while he could, anyway, and Godfrey had thought the day would not come.
Perhaps he had died. He'd never know now, and had spent some years convincing himself that the uncertainty perched in the back of his head didn't bother him.
The subject matter sufficiently disturbing for a change in focus, Godfrey's eyes return to the tent. He glances up at Gale and sees his glass empty. ]
Ah. [ Godfrey shifts, wrapping a gentle hand around the neck of their bottle. ] Another, perhaps?
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He leans forward to hold out his glass, balancing himself against the ground with one hand.]
Ah, yes— please, though I hope you will join me for another, as well.
[The space between them had already been small, narrow, and leaning forward brings them inordinately close to one another in a way that is bordering on terribly distracting. Gale finds himself keenly aware of the fact that this is the first time Godfrey has ever physically joined him in his tent, but he's certainly thought about what might happen if he did on more than one occasion.
Gods above, he is certainly going to find himself in one of the nine hells for thinking such things of a still-grieving widower— devoted to the church, at that. Gale has never considered himself to be particularly hedonistic, but when comparing himself to Godfrey, he feels downright sinful.]
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[ He would, however, likely keep himself at two glasses for the rest of his visit. Not that that's anything to discount; Godfrey has kept his one-glass limit strict through their travels. Nothing has motivated him to bend this rule prior to this evening.
What has changed? Godfrey can't say. Not precisely; that is to say, he cannot give a singular, satisfying explanation. The closest his own thoughts come is to say that everything has. There is little about this evening they're sharing that isn't unorthodox for him, at least slightly. He's yet to intrude on the quarters of any of his new companions in this manner, lounging so casually in their private corners of their campsites. He has shared things which only few people know - stories he's been reticent to tell even in Baldur's Gate. Stranger still, he feels at ease about it.
One more paltry glass of table wine in the company of a friend who is trying for him seems, perhaps, an innocent enough diversion to add to the pile.
He sets his own down as Gale works his way nearer, just a little unsteady on the rocky ground. Godfrey's hand comes to his. Strong, rough fingers cradle the hand around his glass gingerly, just enough to hold him steady as he extends. They don't move as Gale steadies, and Godfrey pours more dark wine. He pours him a respectable glass - something vague in him dictates this line, between "respectable" and some shadowy alternative. Not too heavy, lest he be pressured to drink more than he might have; not too stingy, lest he think Godfrey thinks him some sort of sot who needs mediating. The glass is perfectly respectable when Godfrey pulls away; just tiptoeing to half-full.
Godfrey finishes his own glass and pours himself just a little less. ]
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Gale had been about to offer a witty but warm response when he feels Godfrey's hand coming to steady his own, causing him to suddenly draw a blank where he had previously been full to the brim with far more thoughts than even he knew what to do with.
It's such a small thing. Insignificant to most, likely, but tonight, in this space, after so very long without experiencing any human touch aside from any that coincided with recent mending of wounds—
It feels like something.
Surely he's overthinking it. Surely, he is allowing the dim light and the cheap table wine to go to his head, but the strong, warm touch of Godfrey's hand is still enough to convince Gale to shift so that they're now seated alongside one another, rather than across.]
You're welcome to stay all night, if you wish.
[It comes so easily that he doesn't even consider the implications of it, and he flusters just a touch as he revises.]
That is— you're always welcome, as far as I'm concerned. My thanks.
[He lifts his glass, giving a tip of his head before drinking deep.
Very deep.
Gods, didn't he used to be good at this sort of thing? He swears he was.]
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Ridiculous. Pathetic, his desperation. That it would drive him to resort to crawling into accidental innuendo for warmth - and, indeed, to assign warmth where there likely wasn't any. A blind worm seeking moisture by the tip of his nose. He ought to be ashamed of himself. Certainly he would pray for his Lord's guidance tomorrow morning - but it isn't shame he feels thrilling in the bottom of his chest.
Something else. A queer giddiness. A tiny exhilaration. Small wings beating against the inside of him, too small to fill him completely but yet unmistakable. The wine and the thin and fleeting notion that it might have been meant precisely how Godfrey had first thought conspire to make something impossible, irresistible. He'd not even imagined such a thing in years. There is no way for Godfrey to thank Gale for what currently stirs in him, the tiny wings lightening his shoulders and the stone he's carried in his chest, yet he feels he must.
Instead, he releases a soft breath as Gale course corrects. Of course. It couldn't take what he had given him, though, selfish as it may be to hold it. He would lock it deep within himself. It would stay there until his body would rot and break its aroma to the world. Until then, he would lock it in a box. He would inhale it for the rest of his days. ]
I ought impose upon your hospitality more often, my friend.
[ If there is some mirrored implication in Godfrey's words, he doesn't let on that he realizes it. He takes a polite drink of his glass as Gale dives into his, lets the alcohol sit on his tongue, swallows.
More grape, but pleasantly so. ]
I think I have rather handily defeated my own purpose in being here. [ He's smiling, gently, as he says it. ] I wish not to dwell on unpleasantness while I take your time. Perhaps I ought tell a happier tale.
[ He would lend the floor to Gale, but he seems uninterested in himself as a subject of conversation, and Godfrey feels indebted to appease him after all of that sorrowing he's just done. ]
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Perhaps it's the wine bolstering his courage, or the fact that there's so little left to lose. What do any of them really have left to hold onto, at this point?
Certainly not pride. He's had his fill of that, personally.]
Oh, I do wish you would.
[... wait.]
'Impose' more often, I mean, though it is certainly no imposition at all. The story would be more than welcome, of course. I am certain I would enjoy any tale you had to tell.
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He can't be surprised, though. Not after seeing personally how quickly he started into his glass. It's likely the wine talking; Godfrey can feel it himself, the way the alcohol begins to blur the lines between the two of them, the way it flourishes in his chest. He was at risk of the very same thing - precisely why he must remain cognizant of it. It was hardly fair to ascribe something personal to Gale's burgeoning inebriation, and less fair to hold it against him.
Godfrey sits and smiles amiably, but keeps his back straight and his hips beneath him. He does not return to his earlier posture, lounging back on the piled cushions. It felt improper now, in ways that Godfrey could not elaborate upon. He watches the shimmering, ruby heart of his glass, and he delves. ]
I have shown you sadness tonight, but that is not all that my life has been. [ It likely went without saying, but it was a reminder that Godfrey himself could do with. There were many sadnesses, but just as much laughter, and a litter of stories he could use to prove it. ] I remember once-- Iltha was quite angry at me.
[ She seemed his safest bet. Vladimir felt inexorably couched in that same sadness he was trying to escape, though he had his share that always brought a smile to his face - and, strangely, it feels impolite to conjure him back into the conversation. He takes a deep sip. ]
She had... I believe, said some disparaging things to her schoolteacher. She became angry that I had not taken her side in the matter and confined her to her room. [ Even had she been, as Iltha's assessment went, lacking in intelligence and not worth listening to, it would not do to have her saying so. ] I had assumed the matter would cool in the evening, but I suppose that I underestimated her.
[ There's a distance in his eyes now, a warm fondness in the curve of his lips. ]
I said good-night to her, as I often did. She was scrunched into her bed, you know, looking sullen still. And she began-- [ Something ripples in him, a sensible chuckle he tries to suppress, ] She began to point out other things in the room and address them. Good-night book, good-night chair, good-night hairbrush. I love you, comb. I'd spent my time watching over the children with the church, but I'd no clue they were capable of that sort of... I suppose, passive-aggression.
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It's quite remarkable, how long children can hold onto grudges. It would seem your girl is especially clever, if she's able to make such a savage point so young.
[He lets out a chuckle of his own; it's good to hear Godfrey laugh, to laugh together, given all they've endured these past weeks.]
She's going to grow up to be a force to be reckoned with, I've no doubt. I'd quite like to meet her someday, if the opportunity ever presents itself. If my hunch is correct, she's likely to have quite a knack for debate.
[Even through stories alone, he can recognize a kindred spirit.]
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[ ... how does one describe Iltha Horngaard?
Godfrey stills, then, brow knotting tight as he considers how he could begin to approach putting her into a tidy little sentence. ]
She's frightfully serious. [ A twinge of amusement ripples the seriousness in Godfrey's own face as he considers it, seems to mirror the attitude for himself for a moment. ] Quite severe and pensive. And she is the sort of child, I suppose, who expects that everyone will take her as seriously as she takes herself. And - you know, this is unfortunate, because all of that on a girl so small...
[ Well. You try keeping your face straight as a three-year-old girl seriously tells your husband that you told her not to say anything if you have nothing nice to say regarding dinner. The pensive silences only serve to enhance the comedy of situations, and the grave frowns are impossible to take seriously in those babyfat cheeks.
But there is something that twinges in him as Gale expresses a want to meet her. The sensation that he has opened a door into his life, and instead of stepping back from it, Gale has walked inside. It's a breathless sort of hope, intoxicating and fragile. Something he wants to grab, but fears would be crushed in his grip. ]
I would like that.
[ The fluttering in his chest lightens his voice, and his palm grows a little too warm around his glass. He takes a breath. ]
As would she, I think. I suspect you would get along well.
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[His smile pulls easily to one side as he imagines, briefly, how such a scene might play out, and the idea alone is terribly familiar. He probably wasn't quite so severe as Iltha sounds to be when he was a child, but he had taken himself quite seriously in his own right and set grand expectations for himself that he expected everyone to be onboard with. Unfortunately for him, they weren't always.
For the briefest of moments, he has the self-awareness to look just the slightest bit shy about what he'd implied, and feels something in him lift at that lightness in Godfrey's voice as he lowers his glass.]
You think so? I promise, I'd not tell any embarrassing stories regarding your time with us on the road— of course, I suppose I'm being rather presumptuous about it all, aren't I?
[Inviting himself into Godfrey's life like that. It was some streak of fortune that had brought them all together, granted them the opportunity to aid one another in this unfortunate venture, but he has found himself rather hoping that when it all comes to an end... maybe they needn't all go their separate ways.
He sighs a bit, though his easy smile remains.]
All the more reason to make it through this, yes? Perhaps making those sorts of plans will be just the push we need.
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[ A light note of concern in his voice accompanies this response; much had transpired over the course of their travels together, but he hadn't thought there had been much embarrassment to be had.
More accurately, perhaps, he hadn't thought there had been much embarrassment to be had that Gale was aware of. This evening is suddenly full of incidents Godfrey would deem an embarrassment - but ones which, if Godfrey had any say in the matter, would remain carefully concealed secrets from Gale. There was no need to inflict the loneliness yawning at his own feet; the humiliating, exhilarating pressure beginning to build in him as Gale insinuates himself closer and closer to his heart, conspiring with the low tones he had just earlier written off. No one needed such a thing foisted upon them, but particularly not Gale, particularly not tonight. He'd only wanted to extend some kindness to him. He hardly deserved for Godfrey to twist something so good into anything else.
And such, Godfrey begins to act almost as soon as he feels it, his lips pressing for an uncomfortable moment. The tightline before him is delicate; head off the problem at the pass before Gale becomes aware of his discomfort and assumes himself at fault. Godfrey hauls his thoughts back and attempts to corral himself with a quiet breath.
He also, with a hesitance he tries to make casual, pulls the leg closest to Gale up just a little, bending his knee to a shallow peak. ]
Indeed so. I would like very much to see all of you, after our travels conclude - but...
[ He clears his throat, abruptly, his voice softened when he continues; ]
I would be... very glad, if this were not the last night we spend together like this.
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Maybe it wasn't so foolish for him to read into Godfrey's actions. Perhaps he wasn't entirely out of line, after all?
There was really only one way to say for sure. He lowers his glass, setting it down atop a nearby stack of books that also has some unfurled parchment spread atop it, the closest thing he has to a table inside the tent itself. He turns his gaze to the larger man directly, his eyes soft with both fondness and a faint questioning.]
I, ah— well. If I hadn't already made that apparent, I would be very glad, as well.
[He clears his own throat, one side of his mouth quirking upwards again for a moment before he proceeds, cautious.]
I would like to keep in touch with everyone, but— I would like to see you, especially. When I say you're always welcome, I do mean... there's truly no one who's company I'd like more.
[Carefully, so carefully, he brings his hand to lightly rest against Godfrey's wrist.]
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Godfrey turns to him, wine glass in hand, in the weighty sliver of silence which precedes. Their conversations hadn't exactly been perpetually light in nature, but this is a gravity he's not yet felt from Gale; not quite the anticipatory and impossible weight that news of the orb bore, but something heavy, something enduring, lingering still in the air. Something which must surely have all of Godfrey's attention, and all of Godfrey's attention it shall have.
It begins to fall into place around him as Gale speaks, and he becomes aware of the look in his eyes - the soft, longing fondness. That same distant and foolish part of him conspires to lock that away, too - to press it into his mind until nothing could take the memory of being seen through those eyes. The notion that he may not need to steal it like some sort of starving animal dawns on him slowly, becomes a sunrise less and less avoidable as Gale continues, voice low and brimming with softness.
For him.
Godfrey swallows his wine, and exhales. He stares in unguarded surprise, his clear cerulean eyes darting between Gale's face and his hand, tender and carefully placed at his wrist. As though the dream might be broken and scattered if he looked away. Time stretches between the two of them. ]
Ah-- oh.
[ His throat tightens, and a sudden and terrible awareness of himself hurries through him. Without looking away, Godfrey's hand drops out of Gale's sight, hurriedly trying to find satisfactory purchase for his own glass. He places it on the rocky edge of a flat stone and the glass topples, and the remains of his glass soaks dark into the earth - this draws his attention from Gale with a thin, displeased noise, as he looks to ensure that none of the cushions have been ruined.
He looks back to Gale, tight with self-consciousness. He's still there, somehow.
Hurriedly, Godfrey looks down to Gale's hand, warm against his wrist. Unavoidable. He takes it in both of his own. ]
I- I hope that-- [ His throat conspires to choke him. He looks to Gale's hand in his own, brushes his thumb over his smooth knuckles, and tries to center himself. ] You have honoured me. I hope that you will forgive my... lack of grace. And that you have not mistaken it for reticence. I did not--
[ A slight tightening of his broad hands around Gale's. ]
I did not think this could happen again.
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To anyone who wasn't well-acquainted with either of them, Gale's remark might have been innocuous enough, but the wizard knows better. Neither he nor Godfrey are the sort to do anything by halves, nor are they the sort to engage in such things without considering the long-term implications. They had both loved and lost, in their own ways. Godfrey was a widower with a young child, Gale was a man who knew what he wanted from his future, should he live long enough to have one.
It isn't until Godfrey closes both hands around his own that he feels himself let out a breath of relief, the thundering of his heartbeat in his own ears receding as he gives a more earnest smile.]
If I'm to forgive you for any lack of grace, then I should hope you could forgive me for the same. I'm— a touch out of practice, as it turns out.
[He hasn't expressed his feelings to another mortal in more years than he can remember. For so long, it was only Mystra. The charming, mischievous scholar he'd been in his youth was a distant memory, at times.]
Truth be told, I thought the same. That— there was not enough left of me to offer, in fact.
[They could still die before they reach the end, and he remains on borrowed time, but he has all sorts of reasons to fight for a future now. Godfrey, he's come to realize in recent weeks, is one of them.]
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He can see the sentiment Gale expresses so clearly; the sense of diminishment. That a person leaves slivers of themselves in others as their lives touch against the lives of others, pieces which could not be restored or retrieved. It's a feeling Godfrey has often existed alongside; it often felt as though he could feel the broken edges of the pieces he'd lost of himself. The pieces he'd entrusted to his husband. They'd been buried with him.
Godfrey had just been running his fingers along those edges, as it turns out, as Gale expresses the very same sensation. His thoughts immediately recoil against the idea he had just spent so many years fostering, disbelieving the very ragged seams he had just been contemplating. It all suddenly seemed ludicrous; that the man before him, storied and intelligent and kind and careful, could have been diminished by anything.
But this was not a train of thought Godfrey would follow; not now, blighting into a world after that breathless admission. And nor was it a point he would argue with words - Godfrey knew that debate would not be what disproves this thinking to him. Godfrey brings his hand to his lips and presses into it a kiss, exhaling slow and warm across the back of his hand.
Willing that uncomfortable pressure, still building steadily, to settle one last time before he slips his hand from Gale's and relaxes his posture to offer to him his strong, broad chest, his smile touching his eyes in the soft light. ]
Come.
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He tips his head for a kiss, lips soft and parted as he seeks out Godfrey's own. His curiosity peeks through even in this; it is an opportunity to learn him, taste him, and he pulls himself flush against the offered chest as his free hand comes to rest against the larger man's upper arm, kneeling between his thighs. Only when he leans into Godfrey himself does he feel the press of his arousal against his own thigh, and he stills for only a moment before he lets out a laugh, warm and bright and enough for him to break that searching kiss as he drops his head.]
Oh, thank the gods, I hardly wanted to be the only one.
[They were far enough now from any somber conversation that it no longer felt inappropriate, and even less so with another glass of wine in him and the warm plane of Godfrey's broad chest beneath his own.]
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Godfrey sighs hard against his lips, as though setting down some great weight, and now lets himself fall back into the pillows. Both of his hands occupy themselves immediately as Gale's lips part against his, running down the gentle slope of his back, fingers wringing the embroidered waist of his bedclothes until the bottom seam slips high enough to expose his back.
It isn't a conscious effort to undress him - were Godfrey made aware of it, a temporary embarrassment might break through the moment, pull him to something more proper and principled than the man currently relishing in the warmth of his skin, mapping the muscle of his lower back with his palm. It is raw need coursing him; his body reaching out for the thing his rational mind would deny him, instinct driving his hand to run his fingertips just beneath the band of his waist to claim the warmth there, pulling him to wind his calf gently against the inside of Gale's -- and to pull his voice from him, surprised and hitching against Gale's parted lips as he presses against him.
Hot pressure pulls his cock tight for a moment, a strong throb he is only half-aware that Gale can certainly feel, and the fever breaks. Gale's breath is not on his tongue, and the soft press of his lips is gone. Godfrey's eyes flutter, and that respectable part of him regains control again as he sees his hand down the length of Gale's back - his fingers having wandered just a little too far below the waist. His hand recoils.
His next breath might have been an apology, but for Gale's own breathless, laughing confession. Flushed and panting, a rough hah pulled from him in response. Disbelieving. He hardly even needs to see it. Knowing that he had not been the only one concealing himself is enough to send a hot thrill through his body, and he brings his fingers to his hair, gently combing long strands from his ear to sigh hotly against it, to kiss its tender edge before whispering to him; ]
I had feared that it would drive me to cut the evening short.
[ Instead, he begins to think, it's only made it longer. ]
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The press of lips and heated breath against his air send a shudder running through him, and he catches his lower lip against his teeth to just barely stifle what would have most certainly been an embarrassingly wanton groan. It was almost ludicrous, how quickly he found himself aroused in this man's presence— more than once now, by his own admission— and the throb of Godfrey's own arousal against his leg only fuels his own, that familiar pressure building as he ceases his efforts in trying to will it away.
Godfrey's fingers in his hair and his voice against the shell of his ear only serve to stoke the embers, and his own fingers curl as they remain woven through the paladin's hair, turning his head to steal a kiss from the corner of his mouth, making a very slight but deliberate shift so that his thigh pulls against the larger man's clothed cock, the press of it enough to have Gale already straining against his trousers.]
That would have been a terrible, terrible shame. I would hate to think of you taking yet another burden upon yourself to bear.
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[ Poor Godfrey does not have the same luxury of choice that Gale has; his entire body seems to pull tense as Gale pulls his leg against his stiff cock, hands pulling tight into fists, his legs squeezing inward.
He releases the handful he's grabbed of Gale's hair and waits for the waves of throbbing heat to subside. It has been some years since his husband died, this is true; what Gale may be starting to put together is that sex with others is not the only thing Godfrey has sacrificed. Though he's not completely abstained, his restraint extends to matters of self-pleasure as well, besides in cases where it would be impossible for Iltha to apparate at his door in need of something. That needed only happen once for him to take extra precaution.
If Iltha appears here, there's far bigger problems to worry about, but that hadn't made him much more forgiving; he had simply traded Iltha for any of the strangers he'd taken up travel with, for their strange schedules that never seemed to allow for sleep at a regular hour. This was amenable until recently. They certainly had those bigger problems and more to concern themselves with. He'd not felt the need to hide in his tent, holding his breath and watching the entry as he ran his oiled hand up and down the length of his hard dick until just recently; he could normally think himself out of such predicaments. This evening - well.
Outrunning the heat in his belly had been uncertain already. It was certainly impossible now. And his restraint has been diminished such that he's not sure it would actually satisfy.
Godfrey's nose scrubs into his stubbled jaw, hips flexing again against his firm thigh with a hitching sigh. Gale's words come to him on a delay, and the mention of that other burden goes straight to his dick again, the notion that this had been something hiding behind the evening - that this was just the sort of thing Gale would have imagined in secret, had he left.
His eyes roll and slip shut as he feels, in a burst of warmth, his hips relax, the subtle rub against his leg. His other hand gingerly tugs the waistband of his trousers around the curve of his ass. ]
Please-- [ Please what, Godfrey? He can't answer that, because to answer would be to think on it, and he's trying to make himself last. ]
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will i win and finally get a tag out
you did it!
have a fat titty godfrey to celebrate, on the house
thank you I love him
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