This Was Originally A Much Longer Piece In Which Gale Fell For A Fellow Apprentice At The Blackstaff Academy And Mystra Took Their Magic - Tumblr Posts

Gale is four when he conjures the rabbits. He doesn't know much, but he knows he's in trouble. Otherwise, why would his mum be stuck in the doorway, staring at him with tears in her eyes? When Gale, too, cries, she rushes forward to scoop him up, resting him on her hip and cradling the back of his hand with a hand. He wails, snot and tears wetting the sleeve of her shoulder where he presses his face. When she says he's done nothing wrong he doesn't quite believe her—not until she presses her forehead to his and says "Oh, praise Mystra! My own son, gifted with the Art. Oh, praise Mystra indeed!"

Mystra. It is the first time Gale hears her name.

-

Gale is seven years old and he just wants to go home. Has for a while, now, but after service his mum caught the arm of Cleric Trumur and is now chatting away with him—likely about whichever of Gale's magical feats impressed her this week. Gale turns his attention back to the altar. In three years he’s become well-acquainted with this statue of Mystra. She stares down at him, a slight quirk in her smile, impatient, as if waiting for him to finish his prayer.

Gods, his knees are starting to hurt.

He bows his head until a girl clears her throat behind him. When he turns, she looks to be around his age with round eyes and long, dark hair that runs smoothly down her back. Her dress is pale lavender with the most exquisite embroidery work he’s ever seen—it must have cost her family a small fortune. Gale mutters an apology and scoots over to make room for her on the bench. She doesn't kneel, though, just drapes herself casually over the seat to look intently at him and tells him he's here a lot. Weird. He's never noticed her here before.

He shrugs. Says what his mom does—that prayer to Mystra keeps him in her good graces, and keep his magic flowing as liberally as it has been. "You're a wizard," she says, like she already knows.

Not just any wizard. Gale of Waterdeep. He tells her so.

She doesn't laugh at him like the others do. When he asks her for her name, she only smiles and tells him she's sure she'll see him again.

-

Gale is twelve when he receives his invitation to apprentice at Blackstaff Academy. The youngest ever. His mum helps him pack and makes him promise he'll Send her every day—she doesn't seem to care when Gale tells her he should conserve his magic for the training he'll be doing.

The Lord and Lady Mage of Waterdeep greet him in their office with their guest: a woman with long black hair and a purple dress that seems to shimmer with a hum of magic, silver-bright and illusory.

Gale falls to his knees so quickly he's sure he's bruised them.

"Mystra," he starts, "Lady of Might and Mistress of Magic—"

"That's hardly necessary," Mystra says, and even her voice crackles with magic. "Rise, Gale, and look upon me."

He does. Watches the planes of her face morph and shift under Gale's gaze until her features settle into bright, piercing eyes and soft pink lips. She's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

"Wuh," Gale manages, and the three others laugh.

It's right into business, then—reviewing his goals and expectations, outlining the building, and the whole time Mystra looks upon him proudly, like she knows him. Like she's been watching him.

Even as Gale's face burns with embarrassment, his chest warms with pride.

-

Gale is sixteen and he's going to become Mystra's Chosen any day now.

At least if everyone at the Academy is to be trusted. They're all talking about it, so it must be true. He'd even heard Lady Silverhand whispering about it—or, rather, his Clairvoyance spell had. It's the waiting that's the hard part.

He turns a corner in the library one evening to find Mystra betwixt the shelves, the brightness of her silhouette casting blue light on the spines of the books.

He kneels until she commands his rise.

It's been a few months since Gale's seen her. Too long, he thinks, his eyes following the long, pale line of her leg up to her thigh where the slit of her dress sits open to bare her hip. He looks away, then, because Mystra has proven keen on reading his thoughts before—and that is just the sort of thought he prefers to keep between him and the mage hand he casts beneath his bedsheets at night.

"Gale of Waterdeep," she says, and smiles her wise immortal smile. "There's something I'd like to talk to you about."

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