[ It hadn’t occurred to him, in his infinite wisdom, that Astarion thought of it — of him, conjuring images of how a stone might suit his hair or complexion. Even more considered than he realised. Gale mirrors his smile, a lopsided tug at the corner of his mouth. ]

Well. [ The apple of his throat bobs. ] It’s really quite lovely. [ Too soft, too sincere. ] I don’t think I realised how heavy it’d become, if such a thing makes sense.

[ When he first left his tower, he already couldn’t feel Her spectral hand at his back any longer. Hardly caught a whisper of Her in the Weave while in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, but for when he served Her dutifully and destroyed the necromancer’s sigil. To remove Her token shouldn’t have felt monumental, with that absence and his heavenly mandate in mind, and yet — it had been a release of a kind, so much of the love he had for her held safe in the fine metal, proof that he was Chosen once, if never beloved in return. ]

— that is to say, [ ahem. ] we should return to why I called for you.

[ A long look. Appreciative, above all. That Astarion came. That he contributed to the outcome Gale has the privilege of sharing with hushed excitement. ]

I remembered. [ Wait. Rotating a finger backwards, rolling on the the wrist. Hands ahead of his words. ] Or perhaps I went back. [ He blinks twice. Reversing the motion, mouth pursing. ] Forward? [ Grip catching in the vee of his jumper, thumbing over the thin scar when he’d normally soothe the mark of the orb, ever aching. A slight shake of his head. ]

In any case, [ Reaching out, then, fingertips grazing Astarion’s sleeve. ] I’ve made it to Baldur’s Gate with you.