Chapter Text
Gale rubs a gentle thumb against the corner of the page he’s staring sightlessly at. He’s too distracted to read, but the weight of the book against his lap and the gentle murmur of its pages beneath his fingers is comforting. Wyll and Karlach had invited him to join them when they headed out earlier to scout the area, but Gale had wanted some time to himself to…process.
He’s felt out-of-sorts ever since the celebration at the camp. Well, more out-of-sorts than he has since he woke up aboard the nautiloid with an ilithid tadpole in his head. Which was already decidedly out-of-sorts. And since Tav had taken Astarion along with her, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart, and Halsin is finishing up some business at the Grove, now is the perfect time for him to try to put some of those sorts back into something possibly resembling order.
It’s all Astarion’s fault.
Well, maybe not entirely his fault, if Gale is being honest with himself. Some of the fault lays with the unbelievably terrible wine they’d been supplied with. And some of it lays with Tav and the way her caramel skin had shone in the firelight and her gentle expression and the longing Gale feels for her, thrumming in his chest like some extension of the netherese magic that taints his blood.
It’s not any a fairer thought than laying the blame at Astarion’s feet. But Gale thinks he has a right to be unfair. It’s not as though life has been fair to him.
But no…Gale is nothing if not self-reflective and, truly, the fault is his own. It was his own jealousy that had driven him to drink the better part of a bottle of that terrible wine. It was his own self-pity that had left him sulking in the cool darkness of the woods. It was his own foolishness that had made baring his vulnerability to a vampire spawn seem like a good idea.
And the worst thing about it is that Gale had sort of expected Astarion to use that vulnerability against him, but he hasn’t. Ever since Gale had told him about the orb, he’s been…understanding. Almost disturbingly so. Maybe it’s not fair of Gale to be surprised by that - as cruel as the vampire can be, he’s never actually given Gale a reason to believe he would twist that particular knife.
It’s just…Gale doesn’t want to like him. The way they are now - sort of begrudging allies - suits him perfectly fine. The way their relationship seems to be…evolving, is making Gale’s feelings complicated.
The rustle of someone moving nearby startles Gale out of his musings. He glances up, gently closing the book in his lap and setting it aside as he stands and moves towards the entrance of his tent. He’s done enough wallowing for one day. Wyll and Karlach are back much earlier than expected, which means they probably found something interesting. It’ll be a far better distraction than sitting and staring blankly at his book.
“You’re back rather sooner than expected,” Gale says, as he steps out to greet them. “I thought -“
The words die on his tongue.
The man crouching in front of his tent, his hands deep in Gale’s travelling chest, looks up at him like a frightened rabbit.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, voice gruff with shock.
For a moment, all Gale can do is stare. “Who are you?” he manages, without any of his usual eloquence.
In answer, the man springs to his feet and belts Gale soundly across the face.
The fight is, in the end, embarrassingly short-lived. Had it only been the one opponent, Gale would certainly have been the victor, but there’s apparently a whole group of low-lifes who have been rummaging through their stuff while Gale was distracted. He turns two of them into a satisfying crisp with a fireball, and kills another with a witch bolt, but the rest of the group quickly overwhelm him.
It smarts perhaps more than it should. Before the tadpole, he could have taken them all out with one well-aimed fireball and still have plenty of magic to spare.
Now, he’s out of spells, bruised and aching, his arms bound roughly behind him as he kneels on the grass in front of his tent. The apparent leader of the group is standing over him, a frown drawing severe lines across his face.
“I really would recommend letting me go,” Gale says, for the third time. “The group I’m travelling with are due back any second and they’ll be able to deal with you quite handily.”
“So you’ve said,” the leader drawls. “But looks to me like you’ll be alone for a while yet. And if they’re all as useless as you, I don’t think we’ll need to worry.”
Gale bristles. “I’ll have you know I’m a wizard of some renown! I might not be at my best at the moment, but I assure you, if -“
He’s cut off by a sharp cuff to the head. He rocks with the force of it, but manages to stay on his knees, blinking hard against the sudden fuzz trying to consume his vision.
“Shut up,” the leader says, mildly.
Gale squints up at him. He’s a big guy, for a human. He’s staring at Gale with an odd, contemplative look.
“I really do think -“
“Don’t you ever stop talking?” the leader snarls. A leather-clad hand grips Gale’s chin with bruising force.
“Well I -“
A thumb pushes into Gale’s mouth. It tastes disgusting, the grime of whatever the leader of a group of thieves and murderers gets up to coating the leather of the gloves. There’s a tang of iron that Gale is quite concerned might be blood and the bitter taste of mud and ash.
“I’ll rephrase, shall I? Shut the f*ck up.”
Gale bites down automatically. The leather softens most of the sting. In retaliation, the leader presses his thumb down hard against Gale’s tongue, pinning it to the bottom of his mouth. The muscle moves against it automatically. Drool wells at the corners of Gale’s lips.
“Hmm,” the leader hums. “You do have a…busy tongue. Perhaps we can keep you quiet if we put your mouth to better use?”
A cold frisson of fear tingles up Gale’s back. The thumb in his mouth retreats, but only to smear his own spit across the meat of his bottom lip. The look on the leader’s face is suddenly less contemplative and more hungry. Nearby, some of the men shift, sensing the abrupt change in mood.
Never let it be said that Gale is obtuse. He understands the meaning behind those words, that look perfectly well. His stomach grows suddenly hollow. His mouth goes dry.
“No,” he croaks, all of his eloquence lost beneath the tide of panic crashing through him. “My friends -“
“I think we have plenty of time before your friends return,” the leader sneers. He glances over his shoulder at where his men are still moving through the camp, tossing belongings about haphazardly in their search for anything valuable. “What do you say boys? A good haul and a bit of fun?”
The ringing in Gale’s ears drowns out their replies, but he senses the answer is yes. Yes boss, we’d like a bit of fun at the expense of the pathetic little wizard who can’t even muster up a proper fireball. The leader grins down at him.
Gale feels small. It’s not a sensation he’s unfamiliar with. He’d often felt small in Mystra’s presence. He’d felt small during that year of wretched isolation, when he’d locked himself away with no-one but Tara for company. He’d felt small when that Mindflayer had inserted its tadpole into his brain.
And, yet, it still rocks him to his core. That sensation of looking up at someone bigger and more powerful than him. Facing the threat of the blade and knowing there is nothing he can do to prevent it slicing through his flesh.
“Please don’t do this,” he whispers, a pathetic last-ditch attempt to change the course of his rickety boat as it hurtles over the rapids.
The grin on the leader’s face widens. His thumb presses against Gale’s lip hard enough to hurt. His other hand moves to the laces of his trousers. Gale can see the bulge of his erection starting to fill beneath the rough material.
The orb in his chest pulses painfully as Gale’s heart kicks up a gear, pounding along together in terrified synchronicity. Gale’s head swims. A strange, cold numbness creeps over him.
The man above him fishes his co*ck out of the opening of his trousers. “Open your mouth, sweetheart,” he purrs. “We’ll make good use of it.”
⁂
Gale’s chest hurts. The netherese magic scorches through his blood. Every painful beat of his heart forces it along through his body, until it feels like every scrap of energy left in him is working to contain it.
Earlier, Gale had considered unleashing it. Or, perhaps, unleashing is the wrong word, seeing as he has about as much control over it as he does over what’s happening to his body right now, but, not containing it, perhaps. When they had first breached him, painfully - oh so painfully - he’d thought he might not have had a choice. The magic had surged so strongly that Gale had been sick with it. For a moment, it had been all he could think about, all he could feel.
But, somehow, he’d reigned it back. He has no idea how far away Wyll and Karlach are. No idea when Tav and the others are set to return. If he lets his thinly-veiled control of the magic go, there’s no telling who will be caught in the cross-fire.
But it’s hard. Gale trembles with it - or maybe that’s the pain, or the shame, or perhaps just the chill of the air against his bare, sticky skin. He’s naked and wet and aching in parts of him that he’s never felt so keenly before. Never known he could feel like this. The man above him is hot and heavy in his mouth. His bound wrists are slick and numb.
The tattoo is glowing. Gale can see it even behind his closed eyelids. They’d been interested in it - of course they had - and it’s been poked and prodded, scratched, cut, bruised, as much as any other part of his body. Someone had rubbed their co*ck along it, at one point, and left a sticky residue smeared across his skin. Gale can feel it like a brand.
The hand in his hair is tight enough that strands have come painfully away from his head. The rigid flesh in his mouth is bruising his throat. Spit is running in disgusting rivulets down his neck, mingling with other fluids that Gale would rather not think about.
“That’s it,” the man above him growls. “Take it - take -”
He cuts off with a grunt and a low, pained-sounding moan. His co*ck jerks in Gale’s mouth and Gale braces for the release.
It doesn’t come.
The hand in his hair pulls so hard that Gale whimpers, then abruptly releases. The man jerks harshly out of his mouth. There’s a rough exhalation, then a thump. Gale’s eyes flash open automatically. The guy who’d been raping him just seconds before is now lying on his back, his hard co*ck still jutting out of his trousers, the shaft of an arrow buried deep in his chest.
Gale stares. His eyes burn. Around him, people are shouting. There’s a clash of metal on metal. The wet, awful sound of flesh parting beneath a blade. Gale’s vision throbs. He can feel his own pulse in his head, pounding against his skull. He can feel the tadpole wriggling.
Someone touches him and Gale flinches. There’s a low murmur - words - beating against his eardrums, but the roar of his own blood drowns them out. There’s a slash of cool metal, freeing his hands. The orb pulses sickeningly and for a wild, terrifying moment, Gale is sure this is it. He lurches forward, away from the touch. His hands hit the ground with a satisfying solidity. Grass pushes between his fingers.
He retches once. Twice. Vomit surges up his throat in an unstoppable wave, burning hot against his ruined flesh. His body heaves. He ejects bile and sem*n, his spine bending, his body bucking humiliatingly.
“Gale,” a voice says, close to his ear. He wants to jerk away, but he isn’t in control of his body. Something heavy falls across his back, soft and warm and…it’s a cape, Gale thinks, distantly, someone’s cape draped over him.
He spits heavily onto the grass, then sits back on his heels. Trembling hands grasp at the material of the cape, keeping it from slipping off as he shifts positions. It’s awkward. The fabric is bunched up weirdly. It does nothing to cover his nakedness. His shame.
Someone’s hands brush against him, but they don’t touch him again - not really. The cape shifts, the material falling around his body in a way that actually covers him. Gale grips the edges of the cape, trembling.
“It’s okay, darling,” that smooth voice says, “we’re here.”
There’s only one person who calls him darling. Gale feels the last of the tension leave him as he sinks into relieved numbness. They’re here. They came to save him.
He sways. Pitches up against a hard body. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him up. He lets his head drop, until it rests in the hollow of Astarion’s throat. He feels the thrum of Astarion’s voice, but he can’t register the words.
The orb pulses, sending shattering waves of pain through his chest. Gale’s vision blurs, darkness creeping in at the edges. A hand smooths over his hair.
“Rest, darling,” Astarion croons. “We have you.”
⁂
He wakes some nebulous time later. His body aches in a way that’s impossible to describe. The orb is still pulsing, a sick, violating pain. It feels almost like it’s unmade him. Like he’s an odd collection of parts - like those severed limbs they sometimes find, poor souls torn apart and scattered like flotsam across the earth - disjointed and ugly.
The ground is firm underneath him. His lower back aches. Gale tries to shift to a more comfortable position, but agony sears through him at that minor movement and he goes still, rigid beneath the pain.
A hand touches his cheek, right over where he knows his veins are darkest, snaking beneath his eye. Gale flinches, and the touch lifts.
“Gale?”
It isn’t the rich, smooth voice he remembers. It’s soft and feminine. Gale’s heart throbs at the sound of it.
“Tav?”
“Oh Gods.” Her voice is tremulous. Pained in a way that hurts Gale to hear. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re awake.”
Her hand is back, cupping his cheek, her cool thumb resting beneath his eye. Gale’s throat is so dry. For once in his life, his words seem to have deserted him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and isn’t even sure what he’s apologising for. For being beaten, maybe. For being violated. Made filthy and small and disgusting. She shouldn’t be touching him. Tav is too good, too pure, to be touching something like him.
“Don’t,” she sounds like she’s about to cry. Gale feels the answering prickle of tears in his own eyes. “Don’t apologise.”
Another sorry is on the tip of his tongue, but he manages to swallow it back. His throat hurts.
Gale blinks. Then blinks again at the sudden blurriness of his vision. Above him the dark material of his tent ripples slightly with an outside breeze.
He’s in his tent, then. That’s…good. He doesn’t know why, but he’d half expected to wake still on the ground, lying amongst his own filth and blood. Which is foolish. Of course his companions wouldn’t have left him there, an ugly smear besmirching the camp. Of course they carried him inside and lay him on his bedroll and covered him in a warm, soft blanket.
Gale burns with shame. He’s still naked and sticky under his coverings. With a shaking hand he wipes at his mouth. He can feel dried fluid flaking on his neck.
“Here.” Suddenly Tav is leaning over him, her fingers light against his cheek, turning his face towards her. “Drink this.”
The potion bottle touches his bottom lip. Something spasms deep in Gale’s chest. His stomach lurches and he jerks away from Tav, pushing himself up despite the tearing agony of the motion. The orb pulses.
Tav backs away quickly.
“I’m sorry,” she says, still holding the potion out like a shield between them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”
“It’s okay,” Gale rasps. How humiliating, to be so clearly and undeniably broken. To be so affected by such a small thing. “It’s not you.”
His arm shakes beneath him. He tries to sit up a little straighter and only sort of manages it. His chest aches. He rubs at the tender spot of his tattoo, trying to ease some of the pain, trying to force the magic back into submission. The drying fluid on his skin is sticky beneath his palm.
Gale closes his eyes and swallows back a painful rush of bile.
“Is it hurting you?” Tav asks, her voice hushed.
“A little,” Gale admits. As always, he finds it difficult to lie to her. “But don’t worry. I don’t think I’m in danger of imminent…explosion right now.”
“That’s not what I -“
“I know,” Gale cuts her off. He finds he can’t look at her. Can’t look at her soft face and her gentle eyes. “I’m fine.” He manages a weak smile. “Trust me.”
She’s silent for a moment, then, “At least take the potion. Please?”
“If you’re sure you can spare it.”
“Of course I can,” she protests, sounding upset in a way that makes Gale’s aching chest clench. “Gale, you’re worth more than a potion.”
Abruptly, Gale wants to be alone. He keeps his eyes on the crumpled blanket covering his lap. Tav’s hand touches his, pressing the potion into his fingers. Gale breathes deep as he uncorks it, then downs the potion with a quick gulp.
Familiar warmth tingles through him. Some of the pain eases and a hollow sort of relief steals in to take its place. He feels himself relax a little. His arm shakes again as more of his weight slumps against it.
“Do you need another one?”
Gale shifts, assessing himself. He still feels tender in places he doesn’t particularly want to think about. His chest is still pulsing unhappily. But he doesn’t think he needs to waste another potion on it. It’s nothing a little rest won’t fix.
“No,” he says, still unable to meet Tav’s eyes. “Thank you, though. I think I - I just need to rest.”
There’s a moment of painful silence. Then Tav shifts to her feet with a soft sigh. “Okay, Gale, I’ll leave you be. But we’re all here if you need us.”
Gale nods, although the last thing he wants to do right now is face any of the others. He listens to Tav’s footsteps retreat, then, once he’s alone, he lets himself sink back against his bedroll with a muted groan. He just needs a moment to collect himself. Then he’ll be alright.
He lies in the darkness of his tent until the noise of the camp fades to nothing. He doesn’t sleep, although exhaustion weighs heavy on his limbs. When he closes his eyes, he can see the glow of his tattoo behind his lids, taste the foul invasion of those men on his tongue, feel the invasive hands touching, grabbing.
So he stares at the rippling canvas above him and tries not to think. He wants to wash, but he can’t bear the thought of leaving his tent and having to face the others. Not knowing that they’d seen him like that, filthy and debased. It’s…the word seems inadequate for the breadth of his shame, but it’s embarrassing. He’s too old and accomplished to have been beaten so easily. The fact that they know he’d been overwhelmed by a group of thugs, held down, hurt in such an intimate way - it makes his throat close up.
Eventually, though, the sensation of sweat drying sticky on his skin, and the itch of dried fluids on his neck and between his legs, drives him out of his bedroll. The heavy canvas of his tent keeps out the worst of the chill, but he still shivers at the brush of cool night air against his naked skin. He can’t bear to look at himself - he doesn’t want to see the marks they’d left on him - so he keeps his eyes resolutely ahead as he fumbles for a robe.
He’s going to dirty it, but there’s not much he can do about it now. He picks up the first one he finds and slides it over his shoulders, fumbling each fist into the sleeves with unusual difficulty. He wraps it tight around himself and ties it clumsily. Then he moves to the entrance of his tent.
The camp is dark and quiet. The others seem to have retired for the night and the campfire is out, just smoking embers left. Gale shivers again as he slips his shoes on, grabs his makeshift soap, and heads out across the grass.
In the starlight, blood shines black on the ground. Gale’s eyes are drawn to it automatically. It’s still wet and ugly, dark swathes splattered across the earth and, he realises with disgust, his tent. Maybe some of the dried fluid on his skin is blood - not all of it his own.
There are no bodies, at least. Someone must have cleared them away. Gale has no idea if his group had left anyone alive. He hopes not.
There’s a stream just a little way out from camp. It feels miles away right now and Gale hesitates. The night is thick around him. If he goes all the way down to the stream, he’ll be out of sight. It’s close enough that the others could hear him if he yelled, but the soft babble of the river might drown him out. And he might not have a chance to yell.
He takes a shaky breath. How foolish to be afraid of something that just a day earlier would have given him no fear at all. How…infantilising, to feel he can go nowhere without his campmates' company.
He can steel his nerves. He can make a short walk down to the stream to wash the filth from him.
He pads across the grass, keeping his eyes away from the blood. His own footsteps are loud in the quiet. He can hear the thrum of his pulse in his head. At the edge of the camp, he hesitates again. It’s only a small path winding down towards the river below them. It won’t take more than a few moments to traverse, but it will take him out of sight of the others.
He shivers.
The crack of a twig breaking. Gale jumps, adrenaline rushing through him so violently that his vision blackens. His breath catches hard in his chest. One arm comes up automatically, braced against the threat.
It’s a figure, moving along the path towards him with deliberate steps. Gale’s vision blurs as he strains to make them out - is it one of the men who’d attacked him? There’s blood on the figure’s clothes, a predatory sway to the way he walks.
Gale’s mouth opens around a yell, but all that comes out is a pathetic croak. He can’t breathe. His chest is crushed flat with panic.
“I know I’m a breath-taking sight,” says a familiar voice, “but unlike me, I do believe you require oxygen to live.”
It’s Astarion. It’s just Astarion. Gale tries to will his chest to move. Tries to force air back into his straining lungs.
“Breathe,” Astarion orders, and for some reason it is that that has Gale’s chest hitching with a stuttered breath.
Gods. He’s having a panic attack in front of Astarion. The only person he wishes to be here less right now, is Tav.
“I’m -“ he sucks in another hard breath, “- fine. I’m fine.”
Astarion doesn’t point out the ridiculousness of that statement. He just looks at Gale with an odd expression. There’s blood smeared across his cheek. His lips are wet. Gale wonders suddenly, if he’d bitten any of the men who’d attacked him. If they’d tasted bad.
“Well, I won't contradict you, but you should probably practice that line a little if you want anyone to believe you.”
Gale shrugs. He doubts there’s enough practice in the world to make anyone believe it.
Astarion gives him another odd look, then glances at the little path leading down to the river. “Were you sneaking off to drown yourself?”
“No,” Gale mutters. His grip on the soap tightens a little. “Although if this particular conversation goes on much longer, I might consider it.”
Astarion lets out a surprised little laugh. “I’ll come with you,” he says. “I would hate to miss out on the entertainment if you change your mind. And, besides, I found a rather feisty boar earlier and admittedly made a bit of a mess.”
There’s very little Gale wants less than to have to undress in front of Astarion - to have to wash blood and sem*n from his body with the elf right there, able to see his shame. But one thing he wants less, is having to go down to the river alone.
There could be worse companions than Astarion, he supposes. Sure, the man can be cruel, thoughtless, judgemental, but in a way, that’s better than pity or concern. And Astarion has been growing on him - like a fungus - during their travels together. Particularly since that odd, vulnerable night when Gale had shared his experience with the orb with him.
“As long as you do so quietly,” Gale aquiesces.
“Darling, you won’t even know I’m there.”
Astarion keeps his word as they head down the winding path towards the river, moving in silence. Even his footsteps are so quiet they’re impossible to hear over the shuffle of Gale’s own. Gale is limping a little, as much as he tries not to, still sore between his legs in a way that makes him feel queasy. If Astarion notices, he doesn’t comment on it.
They come upon the river quickly. Gale glances at Astarion, but the vampire doesn’t look back at him. Instead, he simply bends to start unlacing his boots. Gale swallows hard, then crouches, moving stiffly with pain, setting his soap aside on a little rocky outcrop, before slipping his own shoes off.
There’s a splash. Gale looks up automatically to find that Astarion is already wading into the river. He’s still wearing his shirt, although it quickly soaks through and clings to him like a second skin. Gale’s stomach does something odd and fluttery. Something that he decidedly is not going to examine right now.
His hands find the ties of his robe but…well, if Astarion is going to get in fully clothed, Gale doesn’t want to be naked if he can avoid it. The robe is dirty anyway, and it’ll dry.
Instead, he grabs his soap and wades into the water.
It’s cold enough to make his belly jump and goosebumps break out across his skin, but it’s such a relief to be in the cool, clean water that Gale barely notices. He wades deeper, feeling the pebbles along the bank give way to softer silt between his toes. Then he ducks down, feeling the water soak into his robe and lap at his chin.
He sighs and lets his body float a little in the water. The cold stings his still not fully-healed wounds, but it feels good. His robe drags against him, heavy with water, and Gale slides the ties loose so it no longer sticks to his front. Keeping his back to Astarion, he rubs the soap over his skin, cleaning off the dried fluid. He keeps his eyes on the bank of the river as he does. He no more wants to see himself now, than he had before.
“I am impressed, you know.”
Gale jumps. It’s not that he’d forgotten Astarion was there, but his voice still startles him.
He doesn’t turn. “Impressed with what?” he asks, voice hushed, although no one but Astarion is close enough to hear him regardless. “My stirring performance as a damsel in distress?”
“No, and please don’t refer to yourself as stirring ever again.”
Gale quirks a bitter smile. Not that Astarion can see it. He wants to turn and look at him, but he doesn’t want the vampire to be able to look back.
“I’m impressed that you didn’t blow us all back to Avernus.”
As if woken by the reminder, the orb in Gale’s chest throbs. He presses a hand over it. Were it so simple that physical pressure could keep it under control, he thinks, wistfully. It had been an unbearable strain to try to keep it leashed as those men had abused him. At least, at the start. At some point, Gale had gone numb and his body had felt far away and even the agonising pulsing of the orb had quietened.
“It is certainly…volatile. I tried my best to keep it contained but I must admit, I’m not confident that it was entirely my doing.”
“Hmm, but you could have let go? Or do you have no control over it at all?”
Gale doesn’t particularly want to discuss the orb right now. But there are worse things to discuss, he supposes.
“I could have chosen not to try to control it,” he admits. Then, quietly, almost without the permission of his brain, “Do you think I shouldn’t have?”
Astarion makes a noise of surprise. “Are you asking me whether I think you should have detonated a bomb that would have killed us all?”
Said like that, it does sound foolish. But in the moment - and in the heavy shame afterwards - Gale can’t pretend it wasn’t an attractive prospect. To go boom. To be so utterly and thoroughly obliterated that no one would even know what had happened to him. To save him the pain of living on with it and the humiliation of everyone else living through it too.
He doesn’t know if it would have blown, even if he had let his control completely drop. It’s not as if there’s a pin to pull. Still, he doesn’t think it would have been too hard to do.
“Pride is one thing,” Astarion says, softly. “Survival is another. You’ll find there are a lot of terrible things you can live through.”
There’s a slosh of water moving. Gale’s throat tightens and his chest jumps. Astarion is leaving him here, alone and half-naked and vulnerable. He’s leaving -
Except, when Gale spins around, his movement slowed by the heavy drag of his robe, Astarion isn’t leaving. He’s close behind Gale, his red eyes dark and intense in the dim light. Gale jerks backwards automatically, a surprised yelp strangling in his throat.
Astarion co*cks his head, regarding Gale with an expression he can’t read. “If you want to off yourself, I’d only ask that you do it somewhere it won’t also off me.” A pale hand breaks the surface of the water, reaching up to gently brush a damp strand of hair away from Gale’s face. “And if you would like my opinion, I think it would be a terrible waste.”
Gale’s heart throws itself against his ribs. His throat feels suddenly terribly dry, aching in a familiar, ugly way. He wonders if Astarion can hear the rush of his blood. If he thinks it's because Gale is scared.
Is it because he’s scared?
Even Gale can’t tell.
