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He dressed in his plain clothes, because kneeling was easier in these than in armor. But when he arrived, he used no cushion.
He did not want comfort. He would find none here.
How do I begin? He thought. It had been a long time since he had prayed to any being since Asmodeus. He flirted with gods and their governances, all noncommittal, all half-hearted attempts to dress the bloody void that his past had left. But he always removed those dressings in the end. And now he was here, kneeling at his lover’s feet, a last-ditch effort to seal that wound for good.
Forgive me, he said, because that seemed an appropriate thing to say to a god. I don’t know how to do this.
He wasn’t sure why he expected a response. He realized then with a pang of irony that Gale had always been an incredible listener.
Lend me the strength to face this Evil, he began. Grant us protection in our mission. Deliver the people of Faerûn.
He paused here. He couldn’t pretend to see why he was calling upon the God of Ambition to deliver anyone when Gale left, seemingly, to avoid any responsibility of that. But perhaps there was some veil between the Outer Planes and his that he could not understand, a curtain of silk that god-swords could not pierce. “You will understand if you come with me,” he recalled Gale saying to him. “Come. Let us pluck stars from the skies as if they were figs. Let us make a home in the heavens. Everything is so small, here. You see it better from a distance.”
“Perhaps. But my eyes are going bad,” he laughed in turn. And then he kissed him, because he was there.
He ventured a glance upwards and found he couldn’t bear to look Gale in the eye, not even as stone. And so all he saw were sandals.
Did you know, he began again, because there was no use in being formal at this point. I used to pray to the stars not so long ago. I told you that, but I don’t know if you remember. I even named myself for them. But this I never told you: I was named for darkness, once, and so left it behind.
He paused again. A strange draft had picked up in the chamber, and one of the candles had flickered out. He wondered if he ought to relight it, but there was no point. He meant to douse them all in the end anyway.
I don’t know if you have the power after all, he continued, to lend me strength, or to protect our friends, or to deliver anyone. I know you did once. I cannot see it now. Would you smite me, then, for saying this? Would you kill me?
No answer. The chill hung about him, and he shivered.
I wish that you would, he said, and thus ended his prayer.
He unfolded his hands and studied them. They looked almost red in the candlelight, and he noticed his nails were long-overdue for a trim. He sent a rush of air through his nostrils, stood up, and then pinched the lights out with his fingers.
And then Daechir left the chamber.