Astarion—

[ Halted as he edges closer, placing his hand on the arm of the chair, unsure how to move forward. His expression has cracked open, any attempt at academic neutrality or genial support forgotten. The helplessness that’s defined him all week threatens to resurface as he watches Astarion’s elegant hands skitter and twist when they should be — featherlight. Dexterous.

He reaches, then, touch light then firm at Astarion’s knee, imagining his hand still there beneath it. ]

Astarion, you must know, I — I could not think beyond Moonrise until you asked it of me. [ He shakes his head, destabilising the image of the same dark co rider that carries him to his present ruin. ] Until you gave me something to look forward to. [ Astarion with him, Astarion in Waterdeep, a reprieve from the loneliness that has shadowed him since boyhood. ]

To hope for. [ Always easier, isn’t it, to live for another than for oneself. They say that certain wounds can’t heal without the aid of another, don’t they? ] Any capacity you have for ugliness must be viewed in tandem with that — a capacity for beauty.

[ Gale thinks of it in different terms: The tension between that which makes one worthy and unworthy. In the end, it means the same thing. ]