Thoughts on the thunder wizard again.
Genuinely, I find Gale's relationship with Mystra to be fascinating when you consider all its facets. Unhealthy, imbalanced, definitely poisonous, but also very, very intricate with a lot of blurred edges to it. One of those things where you're both like "wow, what the hell, that's horrible" but also "that makes perfect sense for their characters, and while I would NEVER, I know why they would, and why it happened."
You've got a wizard who doesn't know what real love is, who thinks he's finally being shown it by the person he adores most. His greatest fantasy, his most potent joy, his most heartfelt aspirations, and they were all offered to him.
And he wants to see what all she's hiding from him, because of course he does. She's the keeper of all things forbidden to him. The empire of Netheril reached magical heights that will never be touched again, and all that knowledge is beyond her curtain. She loves him, right? Surely, if he proves himself enough, she'll let him grasp that power he so desperately wants.
And not even in the power-hungry sense! All that magic Mystra's locked up was accessible during Mystryl's reign. Think of all the answers to theories about the universe that are back there. Every question of "can this be done, and what would it do" would be answered, if he could just bargain hard enough.
She loves him, right?
Surely, if he proves himself enough...
And then, on the other hand, Mystra. Once Midnight, her human personality has been subsumed by the goddess of magic and her duty to the Weave. She has a responsibility to magic, she IS magic.
Then along comes this mortal boy who knows how to handle her Weave. Who doesn't try to wrestle with and dominate, who sings to it. He handles it with such ease and grace—it's not just that he could be Chosen, but he deserves it. To put her Weave in the hands of someone so intrinsically in tune with it, who understands its potential with a wonder like no other. Few enough can handle the raw power that comes with being Chosen, but this one? This one is perfect.
And he adores you. And you adore him, like one would a beautiful butterfly that's landed on their finger. And he's willing to be devoted to you in all things, not out of transaction like most of your worshipers are, but out of love for you, your craft, your magic. You're so deeply and utterly charmed by him.
And it's not like Mystra hasn't walked this path before.
She gives him what he desires, because what he desires is her. And, in a different way, she desires him. She wants him to be her representation in the world. She indulges his adoration with her own presence, and takes indulgence herself in mortal comforts. He's never satisfied with her answers, but who could blame him? She keeps a whole world away from mortals, because she knows what such unfettered power might bring about (again).
And the wizarding prodigy's ambition is lit (again).
And the height of power is reached for (again).
And she stops him (again, again, again).
She does care for him. She doesn't want to see her little butterfly burn himself, and she doesn't want to be the one to ruin those wings.
But then he's not a butterfly. He's a mortal, wielding a weapon of murder, of her murder, and he's brought it to her doorstep because she told him "no." And he's cut himself on it, he doesn't know what it is, but it's hurt him—and it's only a fraction of the hurt it could do to her. How dare he want her help after threatening her?
(He didn't mean to.)
(He only wanted to help.)
(He only wanted. How human.)
She doesn't help him. If he wants to pursue Karsus' weaponry, it's his responsibility, his hubris, that led him to injuring himself on it. She's furious. She's hurt. She's cold.
(What fools these mortals be.)
But then, there's a greater threat to her. Something that could drown the Material in Karsus' failings. And that little boy, who nicked himself on the sword he lifted, still wants her help.
It's a fair trade, isn't it? She'll forgive him, let him into her domain again, if he accepts his punishment and goes into battle for her. He picked up a sword, it's appropriate that he learns to use it in her name, right?
If he was telling the truth, he wouldn't hesitate. If he really wanted to serve her with the Netherese Orb, he would jump at the opportunity to do so. He would have to give up a few petty things in the process, ("petty," she calls mortality, as if family and home mean nothing, as if friends and love are finite. Because to her, they do mean nothing. Because to her, they are finite.) but it isn’t atonement without sacrifice, is it?
It's the tactical move. She's not above hurting one man to save a nation. It's not even the first time she's done it.
(Dornal Silverhand sends his regards.)
If he loves her, he'd die for her, because she'd let him into her paradise. If he doesn't love her, he won't, and she was justified in removing him from her grace.
He doesn't love her. Not anymore.
Does he hate her enough to try to take his dues?
Ambition has always been man's greatest folly.
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The Sand on your Shores (1)
The first Herakles learnt about his competitor was when he stopped a shepherd in the hills.
“Have you heard of the lion killing travellers and livestock?” he inquired without much hope for an answer.
If a giant lion were hunting animals in the hills of Nemea, why would a man without even a sword hanging from his belt bring his sheep out to graze?
As expected, the shepherd didn’t even pale or look around fearfully, the confidence of one assured of his safety his shield. “Oh, you’re too late,” the man exclaimed cheerfully. “Percy the Riptide already killed the Nemean Lion.”
“Who can tell me where –” Herakles began before the words registered.
What?
“Who is Percy?” Herakles demanded.
He knew of all the greatest heroes of the age, had fought beside or against most of them, and no mortal with the moniker of Riptide had ever crossed his notice.
Cold suspicion crept in. His first quest to wipe the sins of kin slaying off his hands, and the task had already been accomplished by someone else?
“Do you know where I can find him?” Herakles changed tracks.
The shepherd shook his head. “He stayed here for only a day before leaving. Even though we offered to shower him with riches, he refused all but food and water.”
The awe and appreciation in the shepherd’s voice irked Herakles, but he suppressed the rage that refused to depart for longer than a single interval of the sundial.
Herakles offered a curt nod and walked towards the closest village in the distance.
Arriving at Cleonae did nothing for his simmering temper. Everywhere he walked, and even when he stubbornly sat down on the lip of the fountain at the centre of town, people insisted on discussing nothing but Percy Jackson, the Riptide.
Herakles huffed out a frustrated breath, ran a whetstone against his sword, and pretended he wasn’t sweltering inside his bronze armour.
He was Herakles! The greatest of all heroes, the son of Zeus, the hero of Thebes, the son in law of –
Needless to say, Herakles wouldn’t allow dismissal to prevent him from carrying out his tasks. So what if the armour hung heavy on his shoulders? He could partake of the water from the fountain at his back to quench his thirst. If he felt hungry, he had fruits and dried meat in his pack. If he felt sleepy, the verdant hills of Nemea would provide soft grass to cushion his head.
He didn’t require a mortal to offer him shelter.
He sucked in a harsh breath before finally forcing himself to pay attention to the conversation around him. If the baker in his sweet-smelling shop, the carpenter hammering away at a scaffold, the village leader pontificating at the corner, the priestess tending to the flame of Hestia, the children running across the dusty streets, and every person in sight insisted upon discussing Percy, Herakles would listen.
Herakles would learn.
And if he didn’t like what he heard, he’d take care of the threat.
He rapidly ran into the first hurdle (if one disregarded the absence of the other demigod, whose presence would have put a hasty end to the problems indeed).
No one could agree on what Percy, son of Jack looked like.
Some described him as a perfectly ordinary young man, if a little more charming and courageous than the baker’s son, and with an appetite to rival the village’s prized pig.
Others praised him as a son of the sea, with gills around his neck, scales across his shoulders, and webs connecting his digits. A little disorienting, but perfectly cordial once you’d poured ewers full of water over his head in offering.
And then there were the other reports.
A horror from the deepest crevices of the ocean, with ash-blonde hair that swayed in an unseen wind, dark eyes that consumed your thoughts and dreams and life until all you could do was cower in terror and hope they would pass you by, and crimson lips dripping with the blood of his victims. His footsteps cracked the ground, his passage wilted plants, and when the Nemean Lion scored a lucky hit, he bled golden ichor.
But everyone agreed on one thing – this Percy Jackson had arrived at Cleonae, killed the Nemean Lion, and walked out on his merry way, unconcerned about having deprived Herakles of an opportunity to fulfil Eurystheus’s command.
Herakles despised him. Him and his cloak made from the impenetrable fur of the Nemean Lion.
***
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Read on ao3.
This was written for the Temple of Apollo Reverse Big Bang, with the wonderful yagodnyizefir.
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