[ This is what Astarion wanted, Gale knows it. To have his attention — his ire, and then slip a dagger into that angry wound. There were boys like him at the academy, handsome and pompous, tugging his hair and tripping him up.

A flicker of surprise passes over his features, when Astarion steps into his space, sunlight haloing his silver hair. Another crashing wave splashes up his trousers, but he remains unmoved.

Only his hand rises between them, fingers splayed against Astarion’s chest on instinct. Poised to shove or shock him, if he shifts any closer. Despite the sun’s glow and fresh blood, his skin sends a chill up Gale’s arm. ]

Have you now? [ Perhaps from his cruel master or his dissatisfied citizens, before he was turned. Gale can only imagine how Astarion might have revelled in that fleeting power, given the way he delights in humiliating others and views so many as below him. Gale imagines the Gur hunter would have wanted to kill him even if he hadn’t revealed himself. ]

It seems to me you’re nothing at all. [ A charlatan, a monster, whatever he needs to be in a given moment. He flicks out his free hand, a nebulous gesture to illustrate his point. ]

You’re like an mirror image — an illusion. [ explained with the superiority of someone who thinks himself far cleverer than his interlocutor. ] You attract attention just fine. [ His fingers curl, knuckles pressing into Astarion’s flesh, light yet there. ] But nothing sticks.

[ The sun crowns above Astarion’s head, and Gale squints into it. ]