Unleash Me

Chapter Three

In the deep dark of the Shadowlands, where the skies of Faerûn had not been borne witness to by mortal eyes for over a century, a resplendant aurora of dark teal and brilliant amethyst glittered and danced before an ocean of silver stars that stretched into infinity.

Far below the celestial theater, lying in the soft swathes of meadow grass turned dusty silver from the starlight above, Gale lay on his back in silence as he stared upwards.

A gentle zephyr played through the grass that cocooned him, tossing the softly shining blades into a murmuration of tranquility, and, feeling now the fatigue of the day hitting him with full force, he allowed himself to be lulled into a drowsy quiet.

As the aurora-infused starlight shone down upon him, he stared up at the scintillating mithril pinpoints as they slowly spun, wondering not for the first time if that was the true nature of the heavens — a sea of silver-white brilliance that was covered by night.

Once, he would have done anything to know the truth of that wondering. Once, he would have done whatever it took for Mystra to see fit to ascend him to such godhood.

But not anymore.

Because now, the truth of the heavens didn’t much matter. It could be a sea of divinity that shone of crystalline gold and that swelled with holy music as its very breath — it still would not matter.

Withers’ words had stayed in his mind since they had been spoken, and what had initially only conjured confusion was now ringing itself clear and true in the cloistered depths of his heart.

She doth possess an unforseen power, young wizard. One that I have not oft borne witness to in mine many long years.

It had taken a while, percolating in the hidden whorls of his brain, but he thought now that he might understand a tithe of the skeleton's message, even as cloaked in the effluence of crypticness as it had been.

He had taken the length of the day to consider what the skeleton felt that her power actually was, and it was only when he had gone through the annals of his interactions with her that he had arrived at the only solution that could have been reached.

Because she didn’t have some rare magical prowess or arcane knowledge that Withers would not have often seen before. As much as Gale stood in awe of her talents — of which were substantial—, they were not talents that could withhold the destruction of the Netherese orb alone. She was a force unto herself, certainly — he could not love a woman as intensely as he did her if she were anything less — but she was not so powerful as to be able to reach into his chest and diffuse the orb with a touch.

And yet?

Gale knew, should she bid it, that the power of the orb would be hers to command. Not to wield, not to harness, but to choose. She could choose its fate. His fate. All she would have to do was tell him, and her will would be done.

A potential, yes. But a potential does not itself alone determine fate.

On that count, Withers had been entirely correct. What power did a weapon have, regardless of its destructive potential, if it were not chosen to be used? The most devastating of armaments was worth nothing of what it promised if it was left gathering dust on a shelf. So it could be argued, then, that its true power came not from itself, but from the choice to use it.

And she had made it clear, up until the very moment that found him now, that she would choose not to use it. He could scarcely fathom why she would choose such restraint, could not reasonably justify how making such a choice would benefit her or their cause — were it not for the final words that the skeleton had spoken before he had disappeared into the darkness that morning.