[ Gale has no retort for the mockery of his ongoing heartbreak, expression hardening. He rises to his feet, torn between throttling Astarion and leaving him to nip at nothing. ]

Of course it was. [ snapped back, offended that Astarion would ask even in cruel jest. There’s no denying his love, his devotion. His obvious ache for her sends a quaver through his voice: ] Mystra was — she is everything. [ All magic and all creation, the dwindling fire in his veins, the last gasp of hope in his heart. She will never forgive him, but perhaps she’ll look upon him again before the orb overtakes him.

With a rattling breath, he looks askance. Astarion is correct about one thing; he’s had too much wine. This bickering has no end, and yet Gale holds his ground, toeing off his shoes and bending over to roll his trousers to his calves.

Astarion’s words call him upright once more, as if yanked by a string. ]

[ sputtering, ] That’s not — she’s allowed to do as she wishes. [ First or fifth, he should be lucky to have her at all. Her kindness in the matter of his condition is already beyond what he deserves. His hands clench into fists at his sides. ]

My issue lies squarely with you, Astarion. [ steady now, even as the cold water bites at his ankles. Sobering. Clarity shines in his too wide eyes. A low accusation rumbles in his throat. ] You mean to use her.

[ For blood, for protection. It matters not. Are you so different? asks the voice of his goddess. He could be, he thinks, if he could muster the courage to confide in her, in someone, in anyone who might forgive him. ]

If no-one else sees you for what you are, know that I do.