[ By not acknowledging Gale’ s promise, Astarion conveys that he knows the truth of it. A conditional, fragile thing. And Gale feels — more than he’d like, always. As though disappointing (hurting) Astarion and the others has begun to matter as much as Mystra’s forgiveness. Astarion spoke of a world where he did not die, yet their troupe survived long enough to reach the Gate. A glimmer of hope, despite how it churns his stomach. Impossible not to think of all Orin said, on the divergence of their lots, My father does not punish me for being as he taught me to be.

He can only observe the shifting of Astarion’s silver curls from this angle, but he does so, anyway. The bandages press against his tender skin, a strange comfort to one who once magicked away any hurt (until the orb showed him true pain, throbbing under his skin at this very moment). Humming in initial answer, Gale watches as a curl falls out of place. Can’t help but lower his hand to tuck it back behind Astarion’s pointed ear. What little he can do to assist, in his pathetic state.

He raises his arm again and looks askance. ]

Even in taking our form, she does not gain access to our interiority or memory. [ jaw setting, his course of action firming as he tilts his head. ] Something as simple as a code phrase might do.