[ Astarion is with him, slender fingers turning those cursed pages, until he isn’t. Until they’re both in an alley, gasping for air with punctured lungs. Gods above, he knows what that must be (when that must be). It’s different because Gale manufactured his end with his own wanting hands.
For Astarion to die so horribly, so alone, and find himself resurrected at the whims of another: There’s no reasoning for it. No higher purpose. It rankles, a bitter taste in his mouth. The gods care not for mortal woes. He knows that now.
Even with their tether snapped, Gale can’t imagine letting go of Astarion’s hand, kept safe in his grasp. He leans forward and lifts his other hand, hovering before he commits to the idea — the memory — that never left his head. His fingers thread through Astarion’s curls again, guiding him close enough that his forehead will tip into Gale’s shoulder, if he doesn’t resist the movement. It’s not quite holding. It’s not quite anything.
But he’s there, breath warm at Astarion’s ear. ]
That’s a low threshold to clear. [ In reference to this being the good part in comparison to…what? A prolongued, tortuous death? The shadow weave eroding your very essence? Gale avoids admitting to himself and Astarion both that it was absolutely good enough to be the place that he fled to on instinct. ]
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For Astarion to die so horribly, so alone, and find himself resurrected at the whims of another: There’s no reasoning for it. No higher purpose. It rankles, a bitter taste in his mouth. The gods care not for mortal woes. He knows that now.
Even with their tether snapped, Gale can’t imagine letting go of Astarion’s hand, kept safe in his grasp. He leans forward and lifts his other hand, hovering before he commits to the idea — the memory — that never left his head. His fingers thread through Astarion’s curls again, guiding him close enough that his forehead will tip into Gale’s shoulder, if he doesn’t resist the movement. It’s not quite holding. It’s not quite anything.
But he’s there, breath warm at Astarion’s ear. ]
That’s a low threshold to clear. [ In reference to this being the good part in comparison to…what? A prolongued, tortuous death? The shadow weave eroding your very essence? Gale avoids admitting to himself and Astarion both that it was absolutely good enough to be the place that he fled to on instinct. ]